January 13, 2024

Another year without you, Dad. It’s still hard to imagine.

You would have been 71 today.
I carried your memory to Bear Peak.
I wore your balaclava for the first time.
For too long, I kept it carefully wrapped in a drawer.
It smelled like you — hints of Old Spice on the neckline.
But like all things, the aroma faded with the years.
And it didn’t seem right to keep it packed away.
It was your favorite piece of winter gear.
It deserves new adventures.

The temperature was 15 below zero this morning.
Winds gusting to 20 mph. 
Much, much colder than you would have typically tolerated.
I remember how you hated the cold. 
But you’d embrace it for your mountains. 
Remember the day it was zero degrees at Red Pine Lake?
You were frightened about your hands. 
I could tell, even though you didn’t complain.
Beat had extra hand warmers in his backpack.
Your hands finally warmed and your eyes softened. 
The gratitude I felt in that moment still warms my heart.

Today I sat at the ledge where Beat and I were married.
I remembered the softness of your eyes on that warm September day.
The way your grin spread across your entire face.
A countenance of unadulterated joy.
I saw your joy again at Canyonlands in April,
And the last time I saw you, surrounded by your family in June.
Just a week before you died.
Unadulterated joy is how I will always remember you.
I’m grateful. 

Minutes later, scrambling down from the ledge, my foot caught on a rock.
My body tipped forward. 
My face floated in disorienting space.
The trail was a long way below.
My pulse jumped to my throat.
I gasped.
I was falling.
Is this how you felt?
I wondered.
Even then, in my most vulnerable, helpless moment, the question articulated itself clearly.
Is this how you felt?
And, why on your birthday?
Why did I have to fall on your birthday?
It wasn’t fair.
But I had a long way to fall and a good amount of time to make a decision.
I positioned myself, turning my face and body to one side.
My shoulder hit first, and this was okay.
My head hit next, right temple on a boulder, and this was a shock.
Then I slid, almost gently, over boulders slicked with hoarfrost and snow.
The slide muffled the blow.
My body clattered to the trail below. 
I lay in surprise. I was okay.
Or mostly okay. My trekking poles and their pogies had been thrown somewhere far away.
I was wearing no gloves.
My hands, I thought, I must protect my hands. 
My head was spinning and I thought I might vomit has I sat up to find the mittens in my backpack’s side pocket.
My pulse quickened to an intolerable pace as I strained to pull mittens over my rapidly numbing hands.
Why do I always hurt myself when I go to a mountain to see you?
Is this the old hurt rising to the surface of my heart?
Is this the old hurt begging to be felt somewhere else? Anywhere else?

My head was throbbing.
And I needed to rest and pull myself together.
I crawled to the east side of the summit, where the wind wasn’t as bad. 
A beautiful inversion hung over Boulder.
There was hot tea in my backpack. I was grateful.
I could sit for a long while as the wind howled around me.
It was 10 below and I didn’t feel cold.
Your balaclava held me like a warm embrace. 
I gulped the tea. I cried and cried.

Dad in front of Dromedary Peak, Wasatch Mountains. January 12, 2016.

Another year without you.
And still, all of life in front of me.