A Final Farewell

My two sons and I set off on a pilgrimage last weekend to my late husband's most sacred spot on this earth: Arapaho Ridge in the Troublesome area of the Routt National Forest, here in Colorado. 

This is where we had family backpacking trips when the boys were growing up. This is the land he fought to protect from motorized recreation that would erode habitat, terrorize wildlife, and desecrate silence. This is the place we chose as the resting place for his ashes.

It was NOT easy to get there. As we drove up I-70 on Friday evening to make our way to the hotel in Kremling where we were to spend the night, heavy rain west of the twin tunnels closed the east-bound lanes of the highway; fortunately, we were heading west. But the driving conditions were definitely treacherous. Then, at an early breakfast the next morning, my truckdriver son, Christopher, checked road conditions and found that our intended route to the forest was closed from mudslides caused by the overnight storm. We would have to make a much longer approach to our destination: thank goodness we learned this before we made an already long drive in what would have turned out to be the wrong direction.

Once we reached the turn-off to access National Forest land, we had at least a half hour of rattling along on a dirt road, and then a daunting climb on the VERY narrow, VERY steep, and VERY rutted road up to Arapaho Ridge. I don't think we could have made it in my little Honda Fit, or for that matter, in any vehicle whatsoever with me at the wheel. But Christopher ably managed the trek in his Ford F-150 truck.

And then we were there.

It was so still and peaceful and beautiful, the weather in the upper 50s, the sunshine bright, memories blurring our eyes with tears.

The sign prohibiting motorbikes, one of his environmentalist legacies, was still where he had placed it well over a decade ago!

We walked into a grove of evergreen trees, searching for the right spot, and we agreed on this one, beneath the sheltering branches of a welcoming tree.

Christopher, Gregory, and I held hands as we said a prayer of gratitude for our life with him, and for our continuing life with each other, and we cried, and it was all exactly as I think he would have wanted it to be. 

My boys, who sometimes balk at family photos, let me take this one, which made me realize how much they are no longer boys, but full-grown men. Looking at it, I'm overwhelmed by how much I love them, and how much Rich loved them, and how much they loved him.

I don't know where I want my ashes to be placed at the end of my days. There is no place I love the way he loved this one. I've never cared much about where what's left of me ends up; I just want to live on in the hearts of those who love me. But taking Rich's remains to his beloved mountains felt so right and so perfect.

My favorite picture from the morning is this one, of Christopher walking into the distance on the trail his father so loved, after we said our heartfelt final farewell.