21. My Machu Picchu

Gripping the cliff wall, I pulled myself to standing. One good leg. One bad. Weight-bearing right. Useless left. Adrenalin surging. I needed a straight route up. To veer to the left or the right, to slip and fall, I might miss the mattress, only to meet the river. I needed handholds: cracks, crevices, knobs, notches, something–anything– to grab onto. Even a root, a bristle of plant would do. Dear wall, work with me. Groping blindly, I slid my fingers into a crack and held tight. Pushing up with the right leg, place-holding with the left, I began to climb. (100)