An Alternate Route

In many years of hiking in the Colorado mountains, I have often encountered physical and emotional challenges. These experiences have raised questions for me: Why do some people and not others find strength to survive? Why do luck and coincidence influence events so capriciously?

Five years ago similar questions nagged at me as I set out sadly on a memorial hike with a close friend. With us we carried the ashes of a dear young man whose life had ended too early. My friend's 23-year-old son, who was like a son to me as well, had taken his own life, stunning everyone and leaving shock and guilt to taint the fond memories he left behind.

One month after the in-town service, slowly emerging from a dulling cloud of grief, we planned to retrace the route taken with this boy one year before. He had hiked then with zest, welcoming the cool Colorado mountains after the humidity and heat of a recent student trip to South America. He urged our little party across snowfields and through challenging river crossings. We scrambled up the sheer trail in our quest to attain the high ridge with its splendid view in both directions. At the end of that day, exhausted yet exhilarated, we three had exchanged fatigued hugs, anticipating future hikes and years of vigorous life ahead. We three seemed to resonate in happiness at that time; how was anyone to know that his charm and wry wit masked the worries that would eventually kill him?

This somber day started out with a challenge well before the trailhead. We found a gate across the road, which meant four additional miles of walking and more distance than we could handle. Our fragile endurance wavered and courted discouragement. And then the first coincidence entered. Earlier that day, by pure chance and in a morning haze of sadness, we had forgotten to leave our bicycles in town. Remarkably, the bikes had accompanied us on top of our car. Once we recognized this, we were able to use them to go around the gate and pedal easily to the trailhead. Disbelieving but appreciative, we did so.

At the trailhead we became aware of the reason for the locked gate: ahead of us lay a tangle of fallen trees resembling a carelessly dropped heap of wooden matches. This jumble, resulting from a monstrous blowdown some months before, had made the trail dangerous and impassable. I dropped my pack in discouragement and slumped against one of the horizontal trunks. Our task weighed heavily; this setback brought me to the edge of tears. Must we abandon our mission? When a forest ranger appeared unexpectedly at that disheartened point, both of us drew back, fearing that we would let slip our illicit goal. He meant, however, only to share the useful information that there was an alternate path to the ridge, which he'd be glad to show us. I refused at first to accept this second valuable coincidence, and I worried that his presence would impede us. But after escorting us for a few minutes, he lengthened his pace and moved ahead to search the area for illegal behavior and campfires. Before leaving he commented, "Just last week I found a group burying the ashes of their father. I should have cited them, but I let it go. I can understand why they would want to entrust him to this beautiful place."

Several hours of increasingly difficult hiking brought us, breathless, to the ridge and its spectacular surroundings. In the high isolation, the barrier of time between this trip and the last one seemed to lessen a little; I could almost imagine that my friend's son was still alive, again sharing this place with us. He would again play the comedian, humoring us with verbal cleverness, and we would again delight in his fine ideals and future prospects. At this elevation, everything felt scoured and cleansed; sadness eased.

I drew exhilaration from the stunning ruggedness of the rocky crags surrounding the small, shining lake far below, the cold breeze, the unbroken blue sky. The harsh harmony of life at this elevation laid itself out, suiting the task we had come to perform. We unpacked the heavy urn and sat down to reflect, allowing the pain and loss of the past weeks to mingle with the purity and raw beauty of this location.

My own thoughts focused on the spareness of this place and the connectedness of life and death, substance and spirit, at work in the processes around me. Through many lifetimes, the crags had weathered, cracked, and broken into the dust that blew to the lake below. The lake had played its own role in this cycle, as its contents had risen and fallen in many forms, becoming the rain and snow that refilled it. And plants drew life from inanimate soil and water, forming a bridge to food and shelter for the animal world. These thoughts lightened my burden. Somehow it diluted my pain to be in the bleak, immediate presence of tremendous natural forces that, in their own way, controlled life and death. This presence was what I had come here to experience.

My friend and I shared a few moments of silence before carefully opening the urn. Taking turns, we shook the ashes into the wind and watched as they joined the life in process around us. Lifted and tossed by the currents on this high ridge, they spread, flew, and disappeared. With unanticipated elation, we laughed and cried at this victorious, triumphant release. What joy in entrusting these final remains to nature's slow, wise, continuing course! How generous we were to share something so beloved! Life opened itself to us with a profound intensity that took in and transformed sorrow.

After some time on the ridge, we shouldered our now lighter packs and started the return trip in silence. Much later, by the side of a snow-fed river, I lost my footing and fell, painfully twisting my ankle. My foot swelled up rapidly, and I could not walk. It would soon become dark, and my friend could neither carry nor support me. How could we find the help we needed? Worried, I felt my high ridge composure slipping away.

When several hikers approached, I hoped for some relief from the pain that was making me wince at each movement. I asked them to seek help for me in town, but surprisingly, instead of responding immediately, they drew away and conferred energetically. Returning, they offered the astounding news that they would to handle the situation themselves; all were experienced hikers trained in wilderness rescue techniques.

My friend and I could only assent weakly.

My rescuers worked quickly and with obvious know-how, fashioning a kind of chair from scavenged branches and straps from their packs. Even through my physical and emotional distress, I faintly recognized these hikers as yet another coincidence in that day's amazing chain of events, as they took turns carrying or supporting me over the remaining two miles to the trailhead.

I remain baffled by the events of that day. What if help had not been provided at each point where my mission was faltering? That trip to the ridge, vulnerable but ultimately successful, brought the peace and resolution that eased the emptiness of coming months and years. Who or what had made that happen? How can I say thank you?