What lies at the end

A bed, a rock, a bench where on a clear day, you can see forever

It was such a simple request from my “bestie,” Betsy, but my heart raced with a surge of anxiety. She needed to use the bathroom. Her tall bed reached nearly to my ribcage, and I was certain I couldn’t lift an adult from this angle — delts and lats, my problem muscles. I slid my right arm under her back as she moaned, anticipating the coming pain. She weakly gripped my left forearm as I worked her into a sitting position. I swung her legs around so they dangled off the edge of the bed, wrapped both arms around her torso, and hoisted her upward

I picked a bad angle. I should have held her from the back, but these are the things I think people learn over time — how to be a caregiver for someone you love. Betsy’s brain tumor gave no one enough time. Like all incurable cancers, it moved slowly until it suddenly moved very fast. One year ago — eight months after diagnosis — we were still hiking rocky trails in Eldorado Canyon. Two weeks ago, we walked nearly two miles to the pool. We lifted weights. Betsy went for a swim. Now we’re locked in an awkward slow dance, with Betsy unable to support her weight or move one of her legs, and I was holding on for dear life and trying not to topple over as we twirled toward the bathroom.

“Don’t drop me,” she mumbled with the inflection of a fearful child.

“I won’t drop you,” I assured her, although my flagging arm muscles gave me no guarantees.

“Don’t drop me,” she repeated. “It hurts when I fall.”

“I know it hurts. I won’t drop you.”

We maneuvered over the toilet. I helped her with her clothes. I turned to give her some privacy. She began to cry. Not because she was physically hurt, she assured me, but because her dignity was wounded. I assured her that she had no reason to feel shame, that she was strong and brave, stronger and braver than I could ever be. But life doesn’t give us a choice in the matter, does it? Life, like all incurable cancers, moves slowly until it accelerates to breakneck speeds. Either we hold on, or we let go.

My sisters on Circle All Peak.

I’d spent the 12 days that elapsed between our visits in Utah, visiting family, friends, several Uinta lakes, and a few Wasatch mountains. It was a whirlwind trip in itself, but for one morning and afternoon, time slowed down as I guided my sisters up Mount Raymond — the mountain that killed our father four years ago.

The only other time I’d been on this mountain since Dad died was in August 2023. It was a somewhat spontaneous decision that I wrote about here. After Dad died, I was certain I never wanted to return to Raymond. It was a mean, ugly mountain stooped beneath a jagged spine, full of peril and menace. But over the next two years of unwanted ruminating, I couldn’t let it go. I had to know the truth. What happened? Why did he fall? I had the evidence stored in Dad’s GPS watch, and I had a journalist’s drive to investigate.

What I found surprised me immensely. My discoveries weren’t the truth about what happened — that, sadly, is unknowable. But I found that for two years I had unknowingly carried a leaden anger — not for Mount Raymond, but for Dad. Why did he have to leave? Without him, I have no one in this world. This isn’t true, of course, but Dad had a way of making you feel like you were everything to him. He did this for all of the people he loved. And we, in turn, couldn’t help but believe he was everything to us.

My first visit to Raymond brought the peace of forgiveness I hadn’t realized I needed. It revealed that what happened was truly an accident. Dad made all of the correct decisions, and it still happened. It revealed that his fall wasn’t as violent as I’d imagined. He hit his head, tumbled 400 feet down a steep meadow filled with wildflowers, and landed on a lone boulder, where his friend Tom climbed down to await Search and Rescue. This spot — overlooking the whole of upper Big Cottonwood Canyon and many of his favorite peaks — would have been heaven to Dad. He was on top of the world before he left it, a grand finale few of us can claim. Mount Raymond was among his favorite summits, and I finally understood why. The scenery is unrelentingly beautiful from trailhead to peak, and the hike is challenging slog with a bit of spice sprinkled around the summit. Dad’s recipe for perfection.

Two years after my cathartic afternoon on Mount Raymond, my sisters were ready to gather their own insights from the mountain. The prospect was intimidating, because while I’m confident in their abilities, Raymond is (obviously) not without its dangers. The final half mile is technical, a class 2 and 3 scramble with brief sections of exposure near 10,000 feet. Lisa’s husband did not want her to go. Our mother was understandably leery. But the sisters were determined, and I hoped they’d find the peace that I experienced in 2023.

That trip was not planned. I was driving to the trailhead of a different mountain when I stopped at the local grocery store, a Smiths where my mother pushed me around in a shopping cart when I was 4 years old, for a sandwich. At the front of the store is a prominent floral display. In 2023, a bouquet of white flowers caught my eye, and I felt a sudden desire to honor Dad’s “final resting place.” And so I bought the flowers, pulled up the GPS track I’d saved on my Garmin, and turned toward Mount Raymond.

It seemed apropos to stop at the same store for flowers in 2025. And what should we see on arrival but a prominent display for a $9.99 “Best Dad Bouquet.” On the random date of June 27 … well after Father’s Day. It was another sign. And a bargain. Dad loved a bargain.

After an enjoyable diversion to Circle All Peak, where we chatted with a woman hiking with her mother and her 4-month-old son, we headed to Mill A Basin, the location of “Dad’s Rock.” This rock is where his GPS track indicated he stopped moving after a 400-foot-fall from the ridge. Tom, his regular hiking buddy of three decades, scrambled down the steep, loose slope to reach his friend, who he was certain — based on witnessing the initial fall — was dead. Tom pressed SOS on his friend’s SPOT device and waited. Tom covered his upper body with a jacket to deter flies, held his hand, and spoke softly to his deceased friend for the three hours it took for a helicopter team to arrive.

I often think of these excrutiating hours and the debt of gratitude I owe to Tom. And here, in this bright green basin bursting with early-season wildflowers, it feels as though the specters of this act of love remain. There’s a warmth to the alpine air and a quiet song on the breeze.

The visit to Dad’s Rock was heavy and emotional, and we still had all of the hardest parts of the hike ahead. I tried to remind my sisters that the summit is always optional, that this was not supposed to be an ordeal, that we could turn around any time. The day was hot and dry, even above 9,000 feet, and our water was running low. But the sisters both have what everyone in our family calls “The Homer Grit” and were determined to experience Dad’s final summit.

Gently, I pointed out the slab where Dad left the ridge. Then I scrambled up it from a less-than-confidence-inspiring angle and broke down on tears when I reached the spot. The sisters were justifiably tentative after my erratic behavior. But they found their own better-protected way up the rock and continued forward on the most technical climb either of them have tackled by a wide margin. Sara, who lives near sea level, was flagging after hours of exertion at altitude. Usually, such a scenario — my fairly inexperienced little sisters on a demonstrably deadly mountain — would drive my anxiety through the roof. But I felt calm and confident. I used to feel this way when hiking with my Dad, even on techincal terrain with dangerous exposure. Even though I logically knew he couldn’t protect me from mistakes or gravity, Dad’s presense had a way of helping me feel safe and secure. Here, it felt like we were all hiking with Dad.

And we made it! The summit of Mount Raymond, rising out of a jagged ridge of crumbling rock. Sara remarked that “Dad was a beast” and “I don’t understand him at all.” Lisa reminded me, “that’s where you got your love of the slog” and “I can see why this was one of his favorites.” I said, “He would have been so proud of you” and “If he’s seeing this, he’s mad he’s not here.”

Despite fatigue and limited water, the mood was jovial on the way down. I told my sisters about Dad’s habit of refraining from hydration for the final two hours of any hike on a hot day, so he could really savor that Slurpee he planned to buy at 7-Eleven at the bottom of Big Cottonwood Canyon. We resolved to do just that.

The following day was the ceremony for which I traveled to Utah in the first place — the meeting of family members at Dad’s bench. Last November, I contacted Draper City about donating a memorial bench within view of the mountain that was Dad’s indisputable favorite, Lone Peak. It was one of the daily “nice things I’m going to do for myself and anyone else” that I started checking off after the 2024 election. I often pass these sorts of benches on trails and sit on them in parks, and I always think about the person whose memory they honor. Placing one of these for my Dad had been a wish since he died.

Greg, who works for Draper City Parks and Rec, kindly offered to show me possible sites on the day before Thanksgiving. My sister Lisa offered to join. The first one we visited was a few hundred feet from Peakview Trailhead. And even though it was far from a clear day, I knew immediately that this was the place. It was all here — Lone Peak, Timpanogos, Box Elder Peak, the Oquirrhs, the Great Salt Lake, the whole of the Salt Lake Valley, and Antelope Island. The plan was set in motion, and after a long winter, the bench went up in late May.

Mom wanted to plan a ceremony with some of Dad’s siblings. It was a great idea. Since we spread his ashes in remote, hard-to-reach locations like Lone Peak’s summit, family members who didn’t want or couldn’t hike for hours had no place to visit him. A gathering at Dad’s bench could be the graveside service we couldn’t have after his funeral.

I visited the finished bench for the first time on the Summer Solstice, when my mom and I dropped by after dinner to watch the sun set. I captured a few photos when I went back to hike to Lone Peak Cirque on June 25.

This is the view to the northwest, with Corner Canyon, the Oquirrh Mountains and much of the Salt Lake Valley in the frame. On a clear(ish) day, you really can see forever!

Lone Peak is peeking out from the center background. Draper Ridge obstructs the view, but it’s there, which is about as good as it gets on city property.

Our ceremony was lovely, even though it was again 95 degrees and my neices, nephews, and “first cousins once removed” were eager to end this thing and get out of the hot, hot sun. I don’t really blame them. It was nice in November, and I hope to return many times.

When honoring someone who’s gone, you think about their legacy. My Dad, even while living a relatively quiet life and never seeking the spotlight, left an enormous impression that will likely echo through our family for generations. But even that will fade, and that’s the kind of thing I strive to come to terms with every day. What has meaning? When everything you know and love is gone, what remains?

Life goes on. Beauty and love go on. I take a great amount of comfort from this indisputable truth.

On July 1, Besty’s husband updated me about her Tuesday appointment with her doctors. The tumor has grown so fast, he said. There’s nothing else the doctors can do. Her time is no longer numbered in months or weeks, but days. If the end is merciful, it will be fewer days. I will try to go see her tomorrow, but for now, we wait … for what? For that sharp ache of love, for that echoing howl of grief. And I don’t want to drop you. I don’t want to drop you.