Yahrtzeit

At first, a thing you did becomes a thing you did again. And then it becomes a thing you do. It's a Thing.

For the first anniversary of Emma's death, I had some of her ashes and thought it would be fitting to spread them from the top of a mountain. I found the hard climb, and the little ceremony I did at the summit, to be life affirming and emotional and moving and cathartic.

The next year, without even realizing it until it was upon me, I needed to do it again. I hadn't planned it, I hadn't even thought about it that much, I had been sick for over a month. But deep down, I felt like it had to be done, so I did it.

And then it became a Thing. A thing that I would do every year, with its own rituals and requirements.

Christin does it with me every year. We do a different fourteener every year. I wear my green Boston Red Sox hat every year, because Emma was a Sox fan.

Without fail, I cry at the summit every year.

This year we decided to do Grays and Torreys, two peaks that are part of the Continental Divide. They are next to each other but have enough of an elevation drop (at least 300 feet) between them that they are officially classified as different peaks. I don't know who makes up the cabal that decided that 300 feet was the standard, but there you have it.

Because we knew it would be a long day, we decided to stay up in Georgetown for the night so that we could get an early start. We were up at 4:15, out the door by 4:50, and on the trail at 5:30, well before sunrise. Christin is the gear queen, so we were well kitted-out with headlamps, but we could have made our way by the light of the stars and the glowing waning gibbous moon.

Moonglow at 6:15 a.m.

The trail is immediately difficult. The first half hour or so is always hard, because you're getting your muscles and your lungs and your heart warmed up. Plus the trailhead is over 11,000 feet, so you're already at altitude from the very beginning.

On the early part of the trail. You can see the two peaks (Grays on the left, Torreys on the right) with the saddle connecting them.

At first, it's a steady, if not particularly steep, uphill climb. Some of it is on an relatively easy dirt path, but much of it is loose rocks that require care and caution to avoid slipping and falling. Then it gets steep and stays that way, all the way up to the summit.

And it's hard. Man, is it hard. People in these parts like to talk about certain 14ers being "easy." Grays and Torreys are on that list. But for me, there's nothing easy about it. Climbing steep mountains is hard. Altitude is always hard. It forces me to be focused and determined and disciplined as I keep putting one foot in front of the other to make it to the top.

On the steeper stuff, I work in intervals of 100 steps - 100 steps, then I can stop and take a breather as my body works to make new red blood cells. When my breathing gets a little easier and my heart isn't pounding as hard, I say, "ok, let's go," to myself, and I start another round of 100 steps.

Along the way, we say hello to people and their dogs, admire the views, have some water, have a snack, take a picture or two.

The view back, looking at the long gulch we just hiked 

You count steps, you count switchbacks (only 5 more ... only 4 more....). I have an altimeter on my phone, so we counted that as well. "We're at 13,800 - only 400 vertical to go!"

And then we were at the summit of Grays. 

The summit of Grays. You can see from my mouth that I'm trying (unsuccessfully) to stop cryiing.

True to form, we got to the top and I started to cry. I continued to cry as we took our pictures. 

I think about Emma a lot as I hike. What she was like, what she would be like now. What she might be doing. Who she would be. She's there helping me through the steps and the breaths and the exertion. At the top, I get to let it out. 

Then I have to calm down and collect myself, because there is work to be done. There is another peak to climb. I don't know where I will find the reserves to do it. My legs are exhausted and shaking. 

The view of the saddle and Torreys from the summit of Grays.

But there is no way forward except forward, so off we go. Down the saddle, up another steep, steep peak. Even Christin, who has a much easier time with altitude than I do, is struggling. When we get to the low part of the saddle and then have to start ascending again, I can almost hear my muscles say, "bitch, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" It seems impossible.

Fifty steps. Stop to breathe and stretch my lower back. Remember why I'm doing this. "OK, let's go. We're almost there." Fifty steps...

And then we're there. We always get there. It's what happens when you keep going.

Torreys summit

What a gorgeous view

wow

where we've been, and where we're returning

And then it's time to head back. The descent is always welcome, but by the end of the day, it's as grueling as the ascent was. The unstable, slippery rocks are even more unstable and slippery going down, especially when your legs are toast, you're tired and hungry, and you're engaging every muscle in your core and thighs to maintain your balance and pace. 

Then it starts to hail. Because of course it does.

Christin, being the gear queen, simply shrugs and takes a rain jacket and rain pants out of her pack. I, on the other hand, am thankful that I thought to buy a $2 plastic poncho at the Family Dollar the previous night.

 And then we're done. We're exhausted and sore and shaking and our feet hurt. I feel like I couldn't hike another 10 feet if you held a gun to my head. But we did it. Eight and a half miles, 9 hours, two peaks, sandwiches, Kind bars, pop tarts, water, and a large can of Arizona iced tea.

One of the things I thought about as I hiked was the nature of memory, as it pertains to those we have lost. The truth is, most people die and after a generation or so (or less), they fade into history. We're not famous. The events of all our lives - triumphs, losses, love, pain, tragedy - all of those things that are so huge and elemental and overwhelming while we are alive - are often buried with us.

Rituals help. Birthdays, anniversaries, memorials, regular trips to a cemetery. In Judaism, it's the yahrtzeiht - the annual recitation of the mourner's kaddish on the anniversary of a person's death.

The rituals keep a person with us. The memory endures.

I'm not one for prayer, but this thing - this annual climb in Emma's honor on or near the anniversary of her death (which is today) - is an even more powerful substitute for me. It's not just words, or just a feeling. It's an act that requires every ounce of energy, endurance, strength, determination, and concentration I have. And because she is with me for all of it, it's all of my love as well.

This is Emma's yahrtzeit.