Hiking Mom up the Mountain
I apologize up front for withholding the name of the wilderness and lake in the following story, but I have a thing about drawing attention to places I love. Once people get wind of a beautiful spot they tend to love it to death.
This past September I returned to the wilderness where I lived years ago and spread Mom’s ashes around the meadows and lake she and I had hiked into when she was 55.
Mom had never hiked into an alpine lake before so this would be a monumental accomplishment. I decided to take her to my favorite lake but was oblivious to how challenging the hike would be for Mom. The lake lies 4 1/2 miles up a steep trail, and the last quarter mile is a tough bushwhack up a rocky slope. Not only had Mom never backpacked before but she was acclimated to western New York's 700' elevation, not an alpine lake's 7,200’ elevation.
Dogbane in its fall splendor.
But Mom did great on the hike to the middle meadow where we set up camp. Our tent was nestled in a basin of sheer granite ridges and steep wooded slopes. Mom couldn’t get over how different the terrain was from where she lived. At dinner she asked how far we had to hike the next day, and when she had to crane her neck 45 degrees upwards to see our final destination, Mom wept. I hoped our night’s rest would ease her worry.
The next morning with refreshed energy we hiked to the upper meadow - the halfway point between camp and the lake. We rested on a big slab of rock that had fallen off the mountain eons ago and Mom asked where the lake was. When I pointed to the ledge above the waterfall that cascaded down the cliff in front of us Mom wept again. Oh man! I thought. What was I thinking?
I stumbled all over myself philosophizing about how the goal just got in the way of the journey and there was no reason in hell we had to make it to the lake. I turned to stuff our food into my pack so we could head back down. When I spun around to help Mom with her pack, she was halfway across the meadow setting a determined course for the cliff. I caught up to her and she sputtered that she’d be damned if she didn’t make it to the lake!
When we reached the steep slope, Mom grabbed onto the branches of snowberry bushes and huckleberry oak and heaved herself up. I was impressed by her agility as she picked her way through the talus and deadfall. Luckily we were both suckers for wildflowers and soon were oohing and aahing at the yellow buckwheat, pearly everlasting, and purple asters. Before we knew it, we had reached the ledge.
Mom wept once more when we plopped down beside the waterfall . She had made it! She was overcome with emotion. I swam in the lake while Mom stared like a baby at the peaks and high alpine meadows, glimmering waterfalls, last vestiges of snow, and mountain hemlock groves. It was a world unlike anything she had ever experienced.
I dried off and sat beside her and we polished off the rest of our food. With plenty of sunlight left, we pulled ourselves away from the beauty and found a less precipitous route down. Mom’s legs were so wobbly by then that she had to walk behind me with both of her hands on my shoulders for support. She giggled the entire way back to camp - giggles fueled by joy and adrenaline, mixed with a bit of fear.
The next morning with refreshed energy we hiked to the upper meadow - the halfway point between camp and the lake. We rested on a big slab of rock that had fallen off the mountain eons ago and Mom asked where the lake was. When I pointed to the ledge above the waterfall that cascaded down the cliff in front of us Mom wept again. Oh man! I thought. What was I thinking?
I stumbled all over myself philosophizing about how the goal just got in the way of the journey and there was no reason in hell we had to make it to the lake. I turned to stuff our food into my pack so we could head back down. When I spun around to help Mom with her pack, she was halfway across the meadow setting a determined course for the cliff. I caught up to her and she sputtered that she’d be damned if she didn’t make it to the lake!
When we reached the steep slope, Mom grabbed onto the branches of snowberry bushes and huckleberry oak and heaved herself up. I was impressed by her agility as she picked her way through the talus and deadfall. Luckily we were both suckers for wildflowers and soon were oohing and aahing at the yellow buckwheat, pearly everlasting, and purple asters. Before we knew it, we had reached the ledge.
Mom wept once more when we plopped down beside the waterfall . She had made it! She was overcome with emotion. I swam in the lake while Mom stared like a baby at the peaks and high alpine meadows, glimmering waterfalls, last vestiges of snow, and mountain hemlock groves. It was a world unlike anything she had ever experienced.
I dried off and sat beside her and we polished off the rest of our food. With plenty of sunlight left, we pulled ourselves away from the beauty and found a less precipitous route down. Mom’s legs were so wobbly by then that she had to walk behind me with both of her hands on my shoulders for support. She giggled the entire way back to camp - giggles fueled by joy and adrenaline, mixed with a bit of fear.
The middle meadow.
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Nicola and Lily on the trail.
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This September as I carried Mom’s ashes up the trail, I remembered our hike vividly. What a precious video clip to have stored in my mind.
I asked my friend, Nicola, to accompany me. She and I had shared some history in those meadows. Nicola’s daughter, Naomi, died in her early twenties from leukemia and while Nicola and her family buried Naomi at sea off the shores of Hawaii, I hiked into the meadows and held my own ritual in Naomi’s honor. And when my stepfather died I chose not to go to his memorial. Instead I asked Nicola to snowshoe into the lower meadow with me so I could bid farewell to the disturbing history he and I had shared.
Nicola and I set up our camp in the same meadow where Mom and I had camped. Nicola got a migraine and had crawled into her sleeping bag, so I walked out alone into the meadow with Mom’s ashes in hand. I had no plan, just a need to connect with Mom. Granite cliffs cloaked in smokey mist from distant wildfires rose up out of the meadow to the west. Jagged peaks incised the sky to the north. And to the east, fir- and pine-covered slopes wove around high alpine meadows. Calm flowed into me like a river flows into a valley. I loved this place.
I asked my friend, Nicola, to accompany me. She and I had shared some history in those meadows. Nicola’s daughter, Naomi, died in her early twenties from leukemia and while Nicola and her family buried Naomi at sea off the shores of Hawaii, I hiked into the meadows and held my own ritual in Naomi’s honor. And when my stepfather died I chose not to go to his memorial. Instead I asked Nicola to snowshoe into the lower meadow with me so I could bid farewell to the disturbing history he and I had shared.
Nicola and I set up our camp in the same meadow where Mom and I had camped. Nicola got a migraine and had crawled into her sleeping bag, so I walked out alone into the meadow with Mom’s ashes in hand. I had no plan, just a need to connect with Mom. Granite cliffs cloaked in smokey mist from distant wildfires rose up out of the meadow to the west. Jagged peaks incised the sky to the north. And to the east, fir- and pine-covered slopes wove around high alpine meadows. Calm flowed into me like a river flows into a valley. I loved this place.
Lily and me in front of Mom's round trees.
As the sky burnished into reds and purples I heard Mom’s voice complaining all you have in the West is pointy trees! My eyes settled on a grove of cottonwoods. Ah hah! I knew what to do! No pointy trees for you! I thought. I found you some round trees.
And so I began. I talked to Mom and wept as I clambered around the base of the cottonwoods and scattered the tiny bits of her body onto the leaf-covered meadow soil. She would become a tree, the grass, brilliant wildflowers. She would experience crazy sunsets, windy snowstorms, and lush springs. Animals would walk past her and birds would alight. It felt perfect.
The next morning, Nicola had recovered so we hiked to the upper meadow - that same meadow where Mom had wept when she saw the waterfall. That same meadow where Mom resolved she’d be damned not to get to the lake.
Nicola and I cried as we tossed handfuls of Mom’s ashes into the light breeze and watched them fall into the golden sedges beside the tiny meandering meadow stream. We called out to Mom wishing her joy.
We ate our lunch on the same slab of rock Mom and I had eaten on thirty-two years earlier. And just as Mom had done, Nicola asked where the lake was. I pointed to the rocky ledge thinking how much steeper the route looked now, and wondered how Mom had gathered up the gumption to climb it. And just as I had done with Mom, I told Nicola I didn’t need to go further. I was happy to have gotten Mom that far. But Nicola wanted to try, so up we went.
Nicola and I cried as we tossed handfuls of Mom’s ashes into the light breeze and watched them fall into the golden sedges beside the tiny meandering meadow stream. We called out to Mom wishing her joy.
We ate our lunch on the same slab of rock Mom and I had eaten on thirty-two years earlier. And just as Mom had done, Nicola asked where the lake was. I pointed to the rocky ledge thinking how much steeper the route looked now, and wondered how Mom had gathered up the gumption to climb it. And just as I had done with Mom, I told Nicola I didn’t need to go further. I was happy to have gotten Mom that far. But Nicola wanted to try, so up we went.
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When we reached the lake, I was overcome with the same feelings that had drawn me to it in the past. Such a raw, tiny gem nestled in a hard-to-reach place. I sprinkled Mom amongst the sedges and wooly sunflowers at the edge of the lake then fertilized a baby mountain hemlock tree with the tiny bit of her I had left in my pack. |
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I hiked down feeling content. I know Mom wasn’t in her ashes - she was long gone - but rituals are meant to help us connect and remember. Somehow mixing Mom’s bones with the soil of a place so dear to me brings me closer to her. She will now become part of the seasons in that high mountain basin. My ashes will be spread there someday, so Mom and I will mingle again in time. I have saved some of Mom’s ashes to spread in a few of my secret mountain refuges here in Montana. And I’m pretty sure I’ll keep a small stash in my writing room on my Mom altar, tucked safely in the pottery vase that her father made. 
Thank you Nicola!
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