Grief is a wholly unattractive subject. No one wants to read about it, or even think much about it, until they are in its throes. It’s like getting a flat tire on a highway at night. You rummage through your glovebox in the darkness, desperate for your driver’s manual, or a roadside assistance brochure. You need information. You need a plan. You need your car back on the road. Until then, why read a manual?
The vet that came by the house to euthanize our old dog Roscoe was gentle and quiet. Her manner was priest-like. Few words were spoken. Roscoe lay asleep in the dappled light beneath his favorite tree. After he passed, my wife and I sobbed ourselves dry into the thick fur around his neck, then helped ease his thirteen year old body onto a stretcher. The vet covered him with a clean white sheet, and tucked a rolled up towel under his head for a pillow. We carried Roscoe together, like pall bearers, and put him in the back of her SUV, then wept again at the sight of that car driving away. Thirteen years of companionship and adventure, affection and routine - a lifetime - had come to an end, like a dream we were not ready to wake from.
The vet left us a little booklet called When Your Pet Dies, A Guide to Mourning, Remembering, and Healing. The cover has a photo collage of all kinds of pets. I figured the information in it would be generic, yet I was anxious to read it, in case it contained something useful that I didn’t already think I knew, or that maybe I had missed during the months of preparation I'd had after learning about the paralysis that would eventually take our dog's life. At the heart of the book was a simple, provocative claim; that in order to lessen the power of pain and sadness, we should move toward it, engage it, incorporate it into our life’s story, rather than fleeing or suppressing it. We should “sit with” grief, because it has things to teach us, and in any case, it will not be ignored. This felt true to me and the thought quickly took root. I would commit to this path. But with one exception. I knew I needed to walk with grief, rather than sit with it.
As it happens, everything on the trail to Herman lake reminds me of my dog. The little streams a dog could drink from. Rocks and roots that need careful navigating. Footbridges across bogs that my dog would avoid in favor of trudging through the muck below. Intermittent snow fields he would dive into and roll around in. I had chosen a trail familiar to Roscoe. This hike was going to be a sort of memorial.
At the top of this steep gulch sits an alpine lake that we’d visited several times, one of Colorado's many icy tarns that delight human eyes with their stark beauty and provide canine companions a welcome plunge. But today I would travel up beyond the lake, to a peak on the Continental Divide that I’d long had my eye on, Pettingell Peak, a rocky indistinct lump from the south, or a menacing beauty from the north. It’s not technically challenging from the approach I am taking, but at 13,553’ the views from its summit are unmatched. And for someone enchanted by rugged isolation, the utter lack of maintained trails on Pettingell makes the climb extra appealing.
I understand solo alpine trekking is a tough sell to the world at large, but for me, the journey up a lonesome mountain serves a dual purpose. It provides a backdrop for a journey inward. There is no one to talk to except yourself. You can go as deep inside as you dare. And outwardly, in the realm of flesh and bone and rock, there are enough challenges to keep you on your toes, so to speak. The boundaries between these parallel journeys becomes fluid, and much is revealed in the liminal space between them. I can’t speak for others, but this is why I do it.
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| North face of Pettingell Peak |
At the summit there is a little rock shelter just big enough for one or two people to hunker down out of the wind. These structures seem to be on every peak in Colorado, no matter how homely or insignificant the mountain. I settle in to rest for a few moments. The air is thin and the sun feels close, despite the 40 degree temperature.
I’m startled by a vigorous flapping sound. I look up to see another solo climber has joined me. The sound is coming from the ear flaps on his hat. I hadn’t seen him coming, and am momentarily annoyed that I no longer have the mountain to myself. Yet I know chances are good that if you meet another person on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, you’re going to have a lot in common. We try to chat but he can’t hear for the flapping. I gesture for him to join me in the rock shelter out of the wind. And so it is that within moments the climber named Mike and I are swapping tales of high country adventures. What endears me to him is his admission that he hikes alone because no one can stand how slow he is, and that he is slow because he’s distracted by beauty. “I just get lost in it. And I take a lot of pictures.” I ask if he’s a photographer. “No, I just take pictures,” he says. I like that Mike knows the difference. After a few minutes I leave him to his reverie. Everyone who bothers to wander alone deserves some time to themselves on top of a mountain.
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| Roscoe on the Continental Divide at Berthoud Pass |
From time to time, randomly, I get a little pang of sorrow for my dog. It comes out of nowhere, or is triggered by something beneath the threshold of my awareness. But there it is. And when it happens, I stop what I’m doing and put my hand on my heart. It has no specific meaning, or it didn’t at first. It just feels appropriate, like I need a gesture. I think of all the times that Roscoe would jump on me, leaving dirty paw prints on my chest. Dogs have few ways of expressing their exuberance. Most of these involve their tongue, or jumping, yet these are the behaviors humans work hard to suppress. I was always a little lenient with the jumping. We each have our blind spots. I decide I’m putting a paw print on my heart with my hand. That’s what the gesture will mean. It may or may not make sense, but it’s a thing to do. And when you’re grieving, you need things to do.
We had plenty of warning about Roscoe’s demise. The slow march of paralysis in his hind quarters, brought on by a spinal disorder, had a known progression of symptoms, plateaus and setbacks. We would adjust to them little by little. We picked up Roscoe when he fell. We moved our bedroom into my art studio on the main level of the house so he wouldn’t have to climb stairs. I altered my social activities outside the home so I could look after him more vigilantly. We even put boots on his hind feet so he wouldn’t injure them when they began to drag. When neighbors saw us out walking together they would invariably comment on his cute boots. They were cute. And so the incremental adjustments went, until the day Roscoe could no longer stand up from a sitting or lying position.
The trip down the mountain is uneventful, as it should be. Descending on these old knees presents the usual challenges, and as always, gravity works harder to help me than I want. At the last pitch above the lake I relax beside a stream to have a sandwich. Columbine cling to the rocks all around me and moss grows vigorously beside the stream. The wind whips little clouds of spray up from the water and I enjoy the unlikely humidity of this micro climate. A few feet away in any direction it is unforgivingly arid. Below me I see a dozen brightly attired day hikers spread out on the boulders around the lake. Most don’t have backpacks. These are the folks you see hiking in gym shoes with just a plastic water bottle in one hand. Overconfident midwesterners, I always think. They do not go beyond the lake.
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| Herman Lake from Pettingell Peak |
Back at the water’s edge where the trail picks up, I run into a steady stream of hikers still coming up the trail despite the lateness of the day. The sky is intermittently cloudy, with no real intent of storming, and yet it’s reassuring to descend back below treeline. The forest offers a comfort which is palpable, maybe even ancestral, I imagine. Around a switchback in dense trees a little red retriever-ish dog bounds up the trail ahead of her human. She sniffs my hand but moves on quickly, determined to get somewhere. What kind of dog is this? I ask the human. “A Toller Duck Dog,” she says. “From Nova Scotia. Everyone thinks she’s an Irish Setter, but they aren’t related at all.” The lady, older than me and kind of matronly, is thrilled by the uniqueness of her dog. All dog people are, even when over-breeding makes that uniqueness questionable.
“Do you have a dog?” She asks. “Well up until two days ago I did.” I manage to get this out in a matter-of-fact way, but suddenly feel I’m on shakier ground than I was up on the boulder field. “Oh my goodness, you’re heartbroken,” The lady says. Not, “You must be heartbroken,” like I might have expected, but, “You are heartbroken.” As if it is an observable fact. The lady then asks if she can give me a hug. I should have seen this whole thing coming. Should have known not to start the dog conversation, but it’s too late. I nod yes, and immediately come unglued in the arms of this total stranger, in the middle of a trail, on the side of a mountain. My tears falls onto her blue fleece jacket and I watch them sink into the fabric and disappear. I hope she doesn't notice. Hikers pass by, excusing themselves politely as they step around us. Overwhelmed with self-consciousness, I struggle to pull myself together, but the lady cautions me to not worry about what others think. “This is your time to grieve,” she says, as if I might need to be told. I begin to suspect she may be a therapist or counselor. She has all the right language, but I don’t ask. Her Toller Duck Dog has curled up beneath a tree nearby to wait out this inexplicable delay. Little spots of sunlight jump all around her where she lays.
A voice in my head urges me to “man up” and move on. This voice has been with me my whole life, but it is not mine. It was put in my head to do the bidding of others. Even as a kid, the idea of manliness I grew up with seemed ridiculous to me, but I dared not laugh openly about it. I didn’t trust the whole practice. It was a contrivance. A made up thing that involved posturing and pretense. I pictured cowboys and firemen and soldiers. Something that might require tools or a costume. I wasn’t headed toward being any of those things. I cried plenty as a child, which led to the usual bullying and “poundings,” at school, and then to still more crying. But it never made me question my “manhood.” That was other people’s preoccupation.
I thank the lady for her compassion and her time, and she seems equally grateful to have helped. I smooth out my shirt, adjust the straps on my pack, and resume my trek. Just ahead of me I see a young couple who have stepped off the trail, waiting for whatever crisis intervention they had stumbled upon to play out. I nod hello to them, as if everything is okay. No big deal. They eye me curiously. Wordlessly. I imagine they are hoping that whatever had me so shook up won’t happen to them.
The book about grieving has a lot to say about the solace of memory. I’ve had my share of friends and relatives die over the years, and at each funeral the eulogy winds around to the idea that the dead can live on in our memories. I used to feel like this was a hollow condolence. A poetic notion that felt good during a funeral, and was meant to ward off despair in a ceremonial sort of way, but was a crummy consolation for a missing loved one. I now feel that the present may simply be the engine of memory. The present is fleeting and chaotic, and needs recollection to give it context. Each moment that passes is comprehensible only as a direct function of remembrance. And so this is now where Roscoe will live - not in some imaginary spot in the vicinity of my heart, but in the active, living tissue of my memory, which helps me make sense of things.
I never did get that woman’s name. It wouldn’t have mattered, but I’d like to thank her again. I recognize what happened as a moment of grace. A blessing. It was unexpected, and the circumstance was altogether strange, not to mention awkward, but it was a blessing nonetheless.
Ahead of me the trail bends into a grove of aspen that seems to glow from within. I hear the rush of cars on the highway and realize I’m nearing the trailhead. The other world I belong to beckons me back. At the car I unfold the map I’d had with me but never consulted. It is marked up with routes for other off-trail hikes that I’ve drawn on it, not for navigational purposes, but as a reminder of where I’ve been. Pettingell peak can now be inked in. Poring over the map, I realize there are almost no trails in this whole part of the state I haven’t walked with my dogs. Memories live in all these places, like ghosts that only I can see. I vow to nurture each one as best I can. This is the work that grieving requires. A commitment to memories, and a heart big enough that the important sorrows will always be at home. I’m only starting to walk with this new grief, and just like with walking, there is effort. But after thirteen years of exploring the world together, I imagine that Roscoe pretty much knows his way around these parts, so maybe I can let him lead for a while. I’m not even sure what that means. It’s simply a thought I like, because I feel like maybe he’s nearby, but off-leash, and up ahead just a little ways.
