For six days after my father鈥檚 accident, helicopters made daily sweeps over Snow Dome. They documented aerial views of a three-foot by four-foot break in the cornice on the upper chutes of the face where Daddy had last been seen. But the team couldn鈥檛 land the helicopter or attempt a ground rescue. The week-long storm system that had blown in had rendered the terrain too volatile. Avalanche danger was at its peak. The snow was uneven, the footing too loose.

On April 9, nearly a week after my father鈥檚 fall, the park wardens and Royal Canadian Mounted Police decided the area was finally secure enough for a rescue attempt. A team of four men and two dogs was dispatched, aiming to focus on the slopes that fanned down the east face of Snow Dome and spread out at its base.

The rescue attempt was recorded on video. The grainy footage captures huge snow-covered massifs thrust jaggedly against a clear, cloudless sky. 鈥淲e鈥檙e, uh, beginning a search on Slipstream for the missing climber,鈥� the narrator鈥檚 voice says in a genial Canadian lilt, panning to the rescue team with their dogs and their sleds.

As the camera spans up to the mountain and targeted search area, it captures a giant snow slide down a face of Snow Dome.

鈥淲ell, uh,鈥� the voice trails off in awe. 鈥淎, uh, a slide just came off the top there and down to the fan of the area where we鈥檇 be searching.鈥�

The voice can be heard negotiating with his team. After a quick deliberation, he speaks to the camera again.

鈥淭he decision has been made. There鈥檚 just too much objective danger, the possibility of ice coming down.鈥�

Empty-handed, the team packed up and evacuated the area.

Just minutes after they retreated by helicopter, a monster avalanche crashed down, wiping out the exact location where they鈥檇 been standing moments before. Had the group remained a moment longer, they would have been swept away in the rush of ice and snow.

On May 2, 1989, Corporal R.B. Rauckman of the RCMP sent my mother an official letter analyzing the events surrounding my father鈥檚 fall. He detailed how Daddy likely fell about 300 feet before striking the face of the mountain. From there, he would have continued down for another 1,800 feet before hitting the snow slope that fans out into an area of approximately 160,000 square feet. That my father had been hung up on the face was highly unlikely, the report stated. It was believed he had been swept over the edge and, possibly, into a crevasse. If the goal was to locate my father鈥檚 body, this did not bode well.

鈥淐onsiderable snowfall has filled the crevasses with a conservative estimate of 30 feet of snow,鈥� Corporal Rauckman wrote, adding, 鈥淚 should note that if he in fact did fall into a crevasse, chances of recovery may be impossible.鈥�

Due to continued inclement weather conditions caused by rising spring temperatures in the days and weeks that followed, the search and rescue team was unsuccessful in locating either my father鈥檚 body or his equipment.

鈥淲e have suspended our search due to the extreme hazard of avalanches in the area,鈥� Rauckman wrote. 鈥淲e, however, will be making regular checks of the area,鈥� he assured, promising that if any sign of my father鈥檚 location was observed, recovery attempts would be made.

Daddy was never found.

And so, for over two decades, nothing came of nothing. Not a glove, not a ski, not an echo.

IN THE EARLY SUMMER of that same year, before my mother had finalized the sale of 63 Harding Road, the two of us were cleaning up after dinner one evening. She was at the sink washing dishes, and the smell of lemon-scented Joy saturated the kitchen. Mommy had been particularly quiet today, didn鈥檛 feel up to playing afternoon dominoes or coloring with me before dinner. There was a deep sadness I saw in her, a hurt I ached to heal. Being silly, I thought, would cheer her.

Improvising, I pushed a counter stool up to the wall where the plastic kitchen telephone hung, climbed up to reach the receiver, and, feigning a call to Heaven, spoke into the mouthpiece with authority. 鈥淗ello God, I鈥檇 like to speak to my Daddy, please,鈥� I said, glancing sideways at Mom with a grin.

I had my doubts about God. In spite of attending Sunday School regularly, Heaven didn鈥檛 exist for me, not when I couldn鈥檛 reach out and touch it, not when I couldn鈥檛 go there myself. Besides, if God were real, I reasoned, he wouldn鈥檛 have taken my father away. When I picked up the phone that lonely evening in June, I knew all I鈥檇 hear was the dial tone on the other end. I simply thought I could make my mother laugh.

Instead, she turned to face the sink and, gripping the sides of the basin for support, began to sob. I stood paralyzed on the stool, phone to ear and dial tone droning, watching my mother heave. I鈥檇 never seen her like this before. She couldn鈥檛 stop. 鈥淏ill, oh Bill…鈥� she kept saying.

I clamored off the stool and went to her. Taking her by a rubber-gloved hand, I led her around the corner to the chair propped against the dining room wall, an extra seat for when company came to dinner. The chair was among my favorite spots in our house. Its cushion was coarse and woolen and itched the backs of my legs, but it creaked in a familiar way, in a way that made me feel safe.

I sat my mother down, crawled into her lap, and threw my arms around her neck. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry, Mommy-wee,鈥� I whispered, petting her hair and nestling my chin in the soft muscle above her scapula. 鈥淧lease don鈥檛 cry.鈥�

As I held her tighter, my eyes fell on the electrical outlet along the dining room baseboard. It was the outlet into which, not long鈥攑erhaps just months鈥攂efore, I had attempted to plug my mother鈥檚 car keys in an innocent game of pretend driver. It was there, seconds before I became a little blonde ball of electricity, that my father rounded the corner and caught me mid-air. With a hasty swipe he grabbed me by my right forearm and shook me roughly.

鈥淒o you want to die?!鈥� he screamed, inches from my face, his eyebrows arched in a mixture of fury and fear. 鈥淒o you want to know what it feels like to be e-lec-tro-cuted?鈥�

I had no idea what 鈥渆-lec-tro-cuted鈥� meant, but in that moment, I thought it might be a preferable alternative to this, to being the object of my father鈥檚 wrath.

Rocking back and forth in my creaky, itchy thinking chair that summer evening, Mom and I sat cradling each other in the shadows. I gazed at the outlet and wondered what death felt like. I wondered if it hurt.

AT FIVE, I COULDN’T imagine what had happened to my father up there on Slipstream. It was a story I regurgitated to friends on the playground at school, but one I could neither prove nor understand. I couldn鈥檛 fathom the enormity of the mountains that took him hold, couldn鈥檛 grasp the idea of 鈥渃ornice鈥� or 鈥渃revasse.鈥� When I heard grownups using those terms, I drew a blank. It was an impossible reality.

I imagined my father a kind of one-dimensional character like the cartoons I watched on Saturday mornings, plummeting slowly backwards in half-time, enveloped in a silent whiteness. There was no sound of body on ice, no struggle, no final image of a lifeless man that my five-year-old brain could conjure up. In my mind, his body never came to rest. In my mind, there was no imaginable end.

I KNEW MY FATHER would come back to me one day. He had to. Without a body, there was no finality. All we had was the official report filled with vague details of the incident. The argument, the storm, the disappearance. That was all we had. But words on paper mean little when you need sinew and substance, and death to a child is nothing but a great vanishing act. As far as I was concerned, my father was not dead.

After Daddy鈥檚 fall, I found myself wondering what his last thoughts were, what he last said. I knew he loved me, the proof was there. It was in the red cowgirl boots he brought me back from a business trip to Texas, in the lullabies he wrote for me and strummed out on his guitar, in our plate-licking ritual after the Sunday morning waffles we鈥檇 douse in maple syrup. But I needed more. I needed to know even then that I, too, had been a priority, that my father鈥檚 love for me was on equal footing with his passion for climbing.

It was in those months that I鈥檇 fall asleep at night imagining his last thought was of me. I would drift off comforted by the echo of his voice calling out my name, 鈥淟aurel鈥� resounding off the mountain walls as he descended further and further into the void.

When the reports from Canada were completed and filed away, we were told that the case would remain open for 99 years. At the time, I was about to celebrate my sixth birthday. I calculated the sum. It meant that Daddy had until my 105th birthday to make his way back. I didn鈥檛 know where I鈥檇 be when I was 105, couldn鈥檛 imagine what it would be like to be that old. All I knew was that I鈥檇 have to be patient.

Excerpted from the forthcoming memoir, Spindrift, by Laurel Holland, a Brooklyn-based writer and former actor. Contribute to the project’s (live until Thursday, July 12) or follow Holland’s progress on her blog, .

The post The Spindrift Diaries: The Memoir of a Climber’s Daughter, Part 3 appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

With little more than a pair of running shoes and a tube of lipstick in my carry-on, I flew home in August 2008 to help my mother empty out my grandmother鈥檚 house. Granny, Mom鈥檚 mom, had succumbed to a fraught battle with non-smoking-related lung cancer in 2004. In the four years since, Granny鈥檚 house on Washington Street鈥攖he mint-green stuccoed haven where Mom and I had first taken refuge when we moved west, the same house where I鈥檇 spent a year between high school and college caring for Granny during rounds of chemo and experimental drug therapy鈥攈ad sat untouched. It was a mess. Every corner was filled, every closet jammed. Fifty years of junk and sentimental treasure poured from its seams. Mom and I would make My Brother鈥檚 Keeper jokes, giggling darkly at how you could enter the place and never emerge. In truth, though, I knew it mortified her, the thought of being buried under all that emotional baggage. It was time to let go. And so I came home.

For nearly two weeks we rummaged through Washington Street. We began in the boiler room and fanned upward, floor by floor, sifting through tokens of fond memories and sweeter times long since reduced to dusty, decomposing matter. There were garish souvenirs from trips abroad and incomplete collections of crystal stemware, stacks of sheet music and stamp collections, dolls with missing appendages, army medals. By sheer virtue of the fact that seemingly nothing had ever been thrown away, everything was endowed with worth. Mom and I see-sawed between what to keep and what to trash. Ours was a complicated system of hoarding and purging.

One afternoon I decided to attack my grandmother鈥檚 attic. My relationship to the attic had always been a complicated one. As a child, I loved climbing the creaky stairs to search for dress-up clothes and fodder for make-believe. But it was scary up there; you practically needed a map to navigate your way through. There were ceiling-high metal file cabinets, rolling racks of dresses, framed old-fashioned photographs of people I knew were ghosts. It was not a place to visit after dark.

The door to the attic mysteriously locked from the outside. Local lore had it that the family who owned the house before my grandparents had a sociopathic son whom they鈥檇 lock upstairs when he misbehaved. When Mom and I first moved to Walla Walla, I remember sneaking up to the attic after school one afternoon and leaving the door open. My grandfather came along, and, not realizing where I was, shut the door and locked me inside. After the incident, I always left a sign for passersby: 鈥淟aurel is up here.鈥�

That Saturday in late August 2008, I made my way up once again, reminding my mother where I鈥檇 be and wondering what, this time, I would find.

It was a hot afternoon and there was no air conditioning or fan, so I headed for the far corner near the window, hoping for a slight breeze. I weaved past a stroller, a pile of mismatched shoes, a wooden ski. I nearly tripped over my red Radio Flyer wagon and thought of the time I鈥檇 declared at seven years old that I was running away to become an Indian princess. My wagon and I made it as far as Pioneer Park four blocks away when I ran out of string cheese and courage and turned to make my way home.

At the window I strained to unlatch the rusty lock. Years of neglect had swollen it shut. As I struggled to prop open the frame, I caught sight of a box buried beneath a stack of textbooks and dusty drapes. It was labeled 鈥淲RH MISC.鈥� I went to the box and removed the detritus. Plumes of fairy dust bloomed upward as I lifted the lid and peered inside. It was a stash of my father鈥檚 keepsakes that had remained quietly tucked away and forgotten since our move in August 1989.

The box was a coffer of lost time. It contained my father鈥檚 childhood collection of Indianhead coins, the student ID from his sophomore year at Colby, a stack of half-filled stenographers鈥� notepads with illegible geological charts and indices. I removed each item gingerly, fingered every article. I thought of the hands through which they had passed, speculated the possibility that his were the last to touch this fold, that page. In that moment it was as if we were reaching out from opposite ends of the void, Daddy and I. We were grazing fingertips.

As I burrowed deeper past an assortment of geodes, a box of slides, and a pile of correspondence bound by two yellowed rubber bands, I came across a tan pebbled leather journal with my father鈥檚 initials engraved on the front plate. I ran my thumb over the monogram and put the leather to my nose, inhaling its age and musk. Carefully, I turned open the cover and examined its contents.

Before me were the entries Daddy had scrawled during his trip to Canada in the spring of 1989.

IT’S EASY TO QUESTION the sanity of mountain men. Surely no one in his right mind could look up at a mountain and say unironically, 鈥淵es, I think I鈥檒l attempt death today.鈥� But for a climber, treading so close to the possibility of dying forces a man to act with his all. In those moments, balanced precariously on the edge, a man discovers the kind of person he truly is. Being that close to death, you might as well be touching God.

Mountaineering is not a hobby, it鈥檚 a religion, a way of life, a game to see how far you can go without killing yourself. To a climber, the overwhelming thrill is worth the incredible risk because, in the end, the greater the danger, the more it means to be alive.

I’VE NEVER HAD AS much clarity about my father鈥檚 obsession with climbing or his reasons for returning to Canada in 1989 as I began to have that summer afternoon sprawled on the floor of my grandmother鈥檚 attic. Until now, I鈥檇 never known the exact details of the trip, how he and Chris functioned as a team, the way their physical abilities measured up and the effect it had on my father鈥檚 psyche. As I poured over the journal entries, the rough sketch of events I鈥檇 had in my head for so long began to flesh out, and the picture began to fill.

On Easter Sunday of 1989, my father and Chris departed Boston for Calgary. The next day they rented a car and drove to Canmore, where my father鈥檚 good Austrian friend owned and operated The Haus Alpenrose, a popular climbing lodge he鈥檇 opened in the 1970s. When Daddy and Chris arrived at The Alpenrose Monday night, they socialized, ate dinner, and excitedly charted out their climbing schedule for the week.

From the way it looked in the journal, my father and Chris had planned a serious ice climb every other day, giving themselves a day of rest in between. With two full weeks in the Icefields, this gave them some latitude in the event weather was inclement for a day or two. Based on the itinerary before me, only the first week seemed to have been plotted with some degree of certainty. Ultimately, the daily climbs would progress in duration and difficulty, and the week would culminate with Slipstream.

During the first week together, Chris and my father struggled to negotiate their stride as a team. In spite of the strenuous physical and mental training they had undergone prior to the trip, my father constantly fell behind, was tired and worn. In the journal he continually mentioned how Chris climbed faster and was more agile on the ice. The morning they set out for Whiteman Falls鈥攁 two-pitch face known for its nasty overhangs and hollow, brittle ice鈥攖hey encountered heavy snow during their ski to the base of the Falls. But the long ski in was an energy drain for my father, and I could read the frustration in the fervent slant of his writing. Here he was, fatigued already, and they hadn鈥檛 even begun to climb.

When they arrived at the Falls, Chris led the first pitch. My father tried to lead up the crux but got spooked by the steepness halfway up and retreated. Chris led the rest of the way through. Though Daddy鈥檚 commentary was minimal, I could tell he was embarrassed.

鈥淚 felt very bad,鈥� he wrote, 鈥渂ut Chris didn鈥檛 make a big deal out of it. The climb was beautiful and in spite of my faux pas, we did it in good time and style,鈥� adding, 鈥淢y head is not into steep ice after laying off for 1 1/2 months.鈥�

Two days later following a tranquil afternoon telemark skiing in Banff, the two headed to Polar Circus, a watershed located along the west face of Cirrus Mountain to the east of the Icefields Parkway. A far longer route than Whiteman Falls, Polar Circus features about nine total pitches that ascend 2,300 vertical feet, 1,600 of which are sheer waterfall ice. Due to its southern exposure, the ice on Polar Circus is prone to melt from the heat of the direct afternoon sun, causing it to crackle and pop. This renders the route both unpleasant and dangerous to climb once the sun is fully overhead. Because they鈥檇 had a few sunny days, my father and Chris wanted to be off the summit before the sun hit.

They began at 7:00 that morning, passing the lower ice with a traverse on snow. At the first sign of steepness, they geared up, and while Daddy was seconding behind Chris鈥� lead, two Banff climbers caught up to them. Chris and Daddy got into an unspoken race with the Canadians and beat them to the top. 鈥淲e burned up,鈥� my father wrote. 鈥淚 was very tired.鈥�

The two teams debated over who should continue up first. 鈥淏ecause we were third-classing,鈥� my father wrote, 鈥渢he Canadians agreed鈥攖hough somewhat disgruntledly鈥攖o let us pass through.鈥� And so Chris and my father proceeded up the pitch.

At the time I discovered these journal entries in 2008, I was unfamiliar with most of the technical terminology my father used to describe his climbs. Because I didn鈥檛 know what 鈥渢hird-classing鈥� was, I pulled my iPhone from my back pocket and Googled 鈥渢hird-classing climbing terminology.鈥�

This was the first result that Google yielded:
“Class 3 – n./adj. AKA Third Class. Denotes scrambling involving the use of the hands as well as the feet, but where a rope is not needed. More commonly used to describe climbing without a rope, especially when the climbers have [one].”

Perplexed, I re-read the definition, sure I鈥檇 misread it or had somehow selected the wrong link. I hadn鈥檛. I refreshed my Google search and perused other sites that yielded results. They all said the same thing. To 鈥渢hird class鈥� is to solo.

I looked out the window at the breezeless summer afternoon suddenly wishing I had a glass of water. I couldn鈥檛 understand what the hell the two of them were doing climbing without ropes. To me, the whole point of having a partner was to be connected to him, especially on a route that seemed so precarious. I didn鈥檛 get it. I went back to my phone and Googled 鈥渟olo climbing benefits.鈥�

What came up was an explanation of how soloing鈥攏amely climbing without a rope, without a partner, without protection, or some combination therein鈥攊s both the purest and most dangerous type of climbing. It explained how climbers opt to solo because it allows them to be in control of everything, and that as a direct result of the extreme risks involved, it allows a climber to push human limitations and satisfy a need for thrill and excitement. Soloing helps a climber better understand himself, the website explained, and tells him just how far he can go.

Swallowing hard, I looked down at the journal in my lap. For years I鈥檇 searched for answers like this鈥攊n photos, in stories, in letters. What made Daddy climb? I鈥檇 wondered. Why did he love it so much? And, I鈥檇 secretly feared, had he loved it more than me? Now here I was 19 years later, and I wasn鈥檛 sure I wanted to understand. That it all鈥攁 life, a love, a fatherless childhood鈥攂oiled down to adrenaline and ego made my mouth dry.

But then again, I thought, at least I knew where the story was going. I picked up the journal and read on.

The two men soloed鈥攔opeless鈥攗p the first four technical pitches of Polar Circus as Chris led them higher along the frozen falls. On the middle of the third pitch, a chunk of ice came loose under his crampons and fell onto Daddy below. Because he was tired and his leg muscles were cramping badly, he angrily shouted at Chris to stop. Chris called down and asked if he wanted a belay. 鈥淣o,鈥� my father yelled up. 鈥淛ust stop so I can avoid getting knocked off the ice!鈥� (鈥淩eally,鈥� Daddy confessed parenthetically, 鈥淚 wanted a rest.鈥�)

When they arrived at the top of the tier mid-way through the climb, they stopped to take a break and eat. After resting they continued on. There was no mention of roping up. Daddy led the first of the two middle pitches and finally began acclimatizing to the steep ice. 鈥淚 was coming into it after all, even in my near exhausted state,鈥� he wrote. I thought about what my uncle Tom had once said to me, about how there are those who fight and those who flow. My father was fighting so hard.

They finished the climb at 11:15 a.m. My father wandered up to the snow bowl above to collect his thoughts and reflect on the climb. He hadn鈥檛 been particularly challenged by the grade of the ice鈥斺�渘one of the pitches gave you a real airy feeling, and the difficulty was no more than grade four鈥濃�攂ut he and Chris were climbing well and working out their differences. 鈥淐hris is obviously fitter than I,鈥� he wrote with a bitter twinge, 鈥渂ut I am coming around mentally as well as physically and am finding my own pace.鈥� It was clear his competitive spirit was irked by his physical limitations. It broke my heart to imagine my father like this, hindered but forcing himself through the hindrance, as if he had something to prove.

Their climb two days later up Weeping Pillar defused a lot of the frustration my father had experienced in the preceding days. The Pillar is a classic route that features six pitches ranging in steepness from grade four to grade six. It is considered by some to be one of the best ice climbs in the Canadian Rockies.

That day, my father and Chris finally settled into a groove. The weather was cloudy and cool, providing them with perfect climbing conditions. Though the ice was gnarly in places, the steepness was thrilling. Daddy grew stronger with each pitch, and by the time the climb was over, he and Chris had finally synced rhythms.

鈥淭otal adrenaline rush! Chris was jazzed, too,鈥� he scribbled, adding, 鈥淲e鈥檙e an excellent team when we are both climbing well.鈥�

He went on, describing the exhilarating final pitch.

鈥淎 straight shot up a groove with good but technical ice. Many observers from below. We rapped the rock raps鈥攊ncredible free hanging for 165 degrees off the top!鈥�

I didn鈥檛 know what 鈥渇ree hanging鈥� meant, but my mind conjured a man in the likeness of Tarzan gripping a dizzying overhang with one hand and victoriously fist-pumping the air with the other. I knew he was sorry to see it end.

On the way back to the car, they saw that their spectators had left them notes of admiration in the snow: 鈥淭otally awesome!鈥� and, 鈥淗ey dudes, all right,鈥� and then, 鈥淲ill you give me a lesson?鈥� Buzzed from the climb, my father wanted to return to the hostel where they鈥檇 stayed two nights before. A group of European climbers were lodging there, and he wanted to go back and brag about what he described as one of the most intense experiences of his life. So, under the pretext of having left extra gear behind, he and Chris drove down for a night of celebration.

At the hostel they encountered the men who had watched them from the base of Weeping Pillar. The group communed over beers and burgers, swapped climbing stories, and talked about their plans for the coming days. At the mention of Snow Dome, two Canadian climbers piped up and excitedly spoke of their recent adventures on the eastern face. 鈥淭hey gave us info on Slipstream that will prove useful,鈥� Daddy wrote.

Hoping for more but fearing what came next, I turned the page. It was a blank.

Excerpted from the forthcoming memoir, Spindrift, by Laurel Holland, a Brooklyn-based writer and former actor. Contribute to the project’s (live until Thursday, July 12) or follow Holland’s progress on her blog, .

The post The Spindrift Diaries: The Memoir of a Climber’s Daughter, Part 2 appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Saturday mornings on Harding Road were usually spent watching cartoons while Mom baked cookies and caught up on household chores. Daddy, when he wasn鈥檛 out climbing, lounged in his royal blue bathrobe, reading the paper and smoking his pipe. Mid-morning, Mom and I would run errands around town鈥攖o the dry cleaners, the grocery store, the gardening center. If I was good, she鈥檇 let me have a pack of bubble gum, or, on extra special occasions, take me shopping for a doll or a new dress.

But not today, not this Saturday. Today was my father鈥檚 service. Today would be spent in church.

It had been four days since we鈥檇 received news of the accident and the day before Daddy was supposed to come home. Family had been dispatched, friends had driven up. This was not the shape of the Saturdays I knew.

I鈥檇 slept fitfully the night before. In the weeks before he鈥檇 left for Canada, my father began reading to me at bedtime but hadn鈥檛 finished the story. The violent tale of Buck and the Alaskan sled dogs haunted me and had crept into my dreams. That night, I鈥檇 dreamt a pack of wolves had skulked through the cornfields and into the forest behind our house. In droves they came, surrounding the perimeter of our property and crouching in wait at the forest鈥檚 edge. They had come to take me away.

When I woke that morning, I went to my window and stood at the sill looking furtively from the edge of our driveway to the small cluster of trees that lined the adjacent property across the street. The nightmare felt so real, I was sure I鈥檇 catch a glimpse of a pair of green eyes glowing up at me from the shadows.

I was still peering out when I noticed a ray of sunlight catch hold of the tear-shaped crystal prism that hung by a pink satin ribbon from the lock of my window. It cast a small rainbow patch on the floor. I stepped on the patch, and the colors transferred to my skin. I felt the slight warmth of the sunshine on my foot and was comforted. There was magic, I knew, in rainbows.

After breakfast my mother helped me pick out what to wear. From my closet she pulled the three new dresses we鈥檇 purchased less than a week before, the dresses we鈥檇 bought in preparation for Daddy鈥檚 homecoming. She laid them out on my bed. I glanced at the one I鈥檇 planned to wear to the airport, the white one with the bright floral print and big sash.

鈥淭his one,鈥� I said picking up a corduroy dress in red and purple paisley that lay furthest from it on the bed. 鈥淚 want to wear this one.鈥�

When we were loaded into the car and backing out of the driveway, Mommy looked over at me and tucked a blonde wisp behind my ear.

鈥淟aurelee,鈥� she said softly.

I slipped my hand into hers and turned toward the window. I was keeping an eye out for wolves.

DURING OUR FIRST WINTER on Harding Road, my uncle Tom, his wife Mary Onie, and their sons, Peter and Andrew, drove up from New Jersey to spend the weekend with us and go skiing. The boys, older than me by two and four years respectively, were the brothers I didn鈥檛 have. They were a source of endless fascination. They always had toys I鈥檇 never seen or heard of, showed me cool new tricks they鈥檇 learned at Boy Scouts, were fonts of information that I, as a girl and an only child, just wasn鈥檛 privy to. When the three of us came together, our collective energy could tear the house down.

On the day we鈥檇 planned to go skiing, we all rose early to breakfast and dress. Harding Road only had two full bathrooms and there were now seven people crowding the little cape-style house. If we hoped to beat the traffic and get a few good runs in before lunch, time was of the essence.

After we鈥檇 eaten, the adults dressed the kids first before pulling themselves together. In hopes we鈥檇 expel some of our excess morning energy, we were sent outside to play. A thick snow the night before had blanketed the yard. It was a perfect morning for making snowmen and forts.

Peter and I were in the mudroom slipping on our boots when Andrew tore in excitedly. 鈥淲hy don鈥檛 we go into the forest?鈥� he suggested. 鈥淚鈥檓 pretty sure there鈥檚 a frozen pond in there. Let鈥檚 go check it out!鈥�

My heart sank. I wasn鈥檛 allowed to go past the edge of our property and into the woods behind our house without an adult. I also wasn鈥檛 eager to dissent, particularly given my current company. I wanted the boys to know I was brave. But I knew the rules.

鈥淚鈥檓 not supposed to go in there,鈥� I said, looking anxiously from one boy to the other.

鈥淣o, Mom said we could!鈥� Andrew exclaimed. 鈥淚 just went upstairs and asked!鈥�

This changed everything. If Mary Onie had said yes to the boys, then I could go, too, I reasoned. But I figured it was best not to check with my own parents. They might say no, and then I鈥檇 get left behind. Besides, the boys knew plenty about nature. They knew how to follow breadcrumbs.

We marched into the forest among the birch and spruce trees. Ravens perched on high out-of-reach branches cawed at us from above. I tossed snow in Peter鈥檚 face and squealed when he shoved a handful of it down my back. Even through my Gortex boots, I could feel my woolen socks absorbing the wet snow. But a little cold didn鈥檛 bother me. I was having too much fun. And I could still wiggle my toes.

Singing and laughing and getting wetter still, deeper in we trekked, following Andrew鈥檚 lead. Peter found a frozen stream and shuffle-skated over the ice, letting the bank鈥檚 slight incline catch him when he slipped. The three of us made a furious game of this, of getting up and falling down.

That morning we lost ourselves in play, the boys and I. We figured we鈥檇 hear the adults calling out to us when they finished packing sandwiches and loading the car with our skis. We had no idea how far into the forest we鈥檇 gone.

I had just plopped backwards into a drift to make a snow angel when I heard my father calling my name. As I propped up on my elbows, he appeared in the clearing followed by Tom, Mary Onie, and Mommy.

As it turned out, lines of communication had been crossed. Mary Onie had not, in fact, given Andrew鈥攐r any of us鈥攖he green light to go into the forest. Now, having found us covered in snow so far from home, the four of them were furious.

鈥淕od DAMMIT!鈥� my father bellowed, the boom of his voice cutting through our laughter and freezing our play mid-air. 鈥淵ou know you鈥檙e not allowed back in here, Laurel!鈥� he said as he angrily trudged toward us in the snow.

鈥淏-but Andrew鈥斺�� I sputtered to explain.

鈥淪huttup,鈥� he snarled and tossed me over his shoulder like a lopsided sack of rice.

I was shocked. My father never said that to me. I looked to my mother for consolation but found none.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to hear another word from you,鈥� he growled, turning to follow our snow tracks out of the woods as I fought in protest.

When we finally returned to the house, we were all sopping wet. The boys and I were instructed to remove our coats and sweaters and socks, then sit at the breakfast table and keep quiet until everything had tumble-dried.

For over an hour the three of us sat, a sullen, sorry lot. My father leaned against the Formica counter in his long underwear, arms crossed and eyes on fire, waiting while the drier completed its cycle.

As he glared at me from across the kitchen, I gnawed the inside of my cheek in guilt. I knew it wasn鈥檛 just that he was disappointed in me for breaking the rules. My father had been terrified that I鈥檇 gone missing.

AS MOURNERS GATHERED IN the pews of First Parish Church, the Hollands and Mommy and I prayed together with Reverend Shearman in the small vestibule at the front of the sanctuary. I recognized the room well. Several months before I had played an angel in the Christmas Eve pageant, and the vestibule had served as a makeshift holding room for the cast.

The pair of wings I鈥檇 been given to wear were lopsided from years of pageant use, and one wouldn鈥檛 stay up properly. Moments before the angels were to go on, my Sunday school teacher caught sight of the drooping wire and gauze trailing behind me and took me aside to hurriedly pin up my limp wing. But she couldn鈥檛 see in the dim backstage light. The cue came and the other angels made their entrance. Realizing how far behind them I was, she gave up and hustled me to the door. The wing fell off entirely.

鈥淲ell, one鈥檒l have to do!鈥� she said in a stage whisper, nudging me out before the parishioners. When I finally made my entrance, I could see my parents beaming from the front pew.

Now, as Reverend Shearman held open the vestibule door for us, I was more self-conscious than I鈥檇 felt without my wing. Knowing the congregation鈥檚 eyes were on me made me giggle nervously. I put a hand over my mouth to hide my strange laugh as we made our way to our seats.

There were bouquets of lilies arranged tastefully about the church. A single framed black and white photograph of my father was propped up on the piano near the altar. Peter sat next to me in the pew, crying like I鈥檇 never seen a boy cry before. My mother had given me a white linen hanky before the service. I pulled it from the pocket of my dress and handed it to him. I felt sick to my stomach, but there were no tears to cry.

I watched Bob Gerber, my father鈥檚 boss, climb the pulpit to deliver his eulogy. He spoke of Daddy as a loyal and devoted employee, as a sincere and honest man, as the right hand he felt he had lost forever. Then Bob turned and addressed me. He told me I was the most important person in the entire church, then explained he found a poem that Daddy had led him to, one that he felt was left to give to me. It was Robert Frost鈥檚 “The Last Word of a Bluebird, as told to a Child.”

As I went out, a Crow
In a low voice said, 鈥極h,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Laurel (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the northern lights bright
And made the ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-bye,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,聽聽 聽
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with her ax 鈥�
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing.鈥�

I liked the poem. It reminded me of the time Peter and Andrew and I had been lost in the forest. It gave me hope Daddy would come looking for me again one day, that my tracks would help him find his way his way home.

Excerpted from the forthcoming memoir, Spindrift, by Laurel Holland, a Brooklyn-based writer and former actor. Contribute to the project’s (live until Thursday, July 12) or follow Holland’s progress on her blog, .

The post The Spindrift Diaries: The Memoir of a Climber’s Daughter, Part 1 appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.