The mountains are calling and I must go

 A friend of mine recently turned me on to Ken Burns's documentary series about the national parks (it's great). The first episode talks a lot about John Muir (whose quote is the title of this post), and how he viewed the wildness of nature not so much as evidence of god, but rather as an actual church through which the divine is manifested. I'm not a religious person, but I really relate to that idea - that my spiritual connection with the world feels the strongest when I'm out in nature.

Maybe that's why after Emma died, my instinct was to spread her ashes from the top of a tall mountain. Rather than attend Rosh haShana services, I chose that day to celebrate her by climbing a mountain - in my blog post about it, I said it would "certainly be a more meaningful, spiritual experience than sitting in a synagogue with strangers." 

It's what compels me to keep going back every year.  

Technically, the yahrtzeit ritual involves the lighting of a candle on the anniversary of a person's death. But lighting candles is child's play. Anyone can do it. The greater commitment is to honor someone through a difficult but life-affirming act - doing something hard, something that is sometimes uncomfortable, that requires you to dig deep within yourself. And doing it out in nature gives it that spiritual element - that connection with the divine, whatever that may be.

That's what yesterday felt like. 

It was a spectacularly beautiful day. Clear air (a welcome respite from the wildfire haze), with the kind of blue sky that you only see in Colorado in the fall. We arrived at the trailhead in the dark and started walking, and after about thirty minutes the sun started to come up. The light peeking up over the mountains was magical.

Parts of the walk were not easy. It's not a long climb in terms of distance - only 2.5 miles - but in that short space is 2100 vertical feet of elevation.. There were sections that were insanely steep without many switchbacks to level out the effort. We moved through those sections slowly but deliberately, less concerned with our pace than with simply enjoying the hike and our conversation. 

But then there were sections that were flatter, or that involved some bouldering or walking along an extremely narrow ridgeline. It kept things interesting. 

Yikes.

The views at the top were amazing. 

Leadville off in the distance

We reached the summit at about 9:30, having made pretty good time even with a number of stops to eat or pee or rest. After drinking my Arnold Palmer (I always carry a bottle to drink at the top), I sat on the edge of the ridge to perform my ritual of reading the names and saying the Kaddish. I had 78 names on my list, including Leonard Cohen, who was added at Greg's request. 

I had forgotten to print out the Kaddish but I had cell signal at the summit, so I pulled it up on my phone. 

Christin surreptitiously snapped a picture. 

We sat and talked about Emma for a while. Christin asked me what she was like, and I talked about how she was funny and sweet and kind. How she faced her recovery after her accident with such strength and determination. How much we all loved her. As always, it made me cry. 

But then I dried my eyes and marveled at the view and the gorgeous weather and at how great we both felt. We talked about how we are happiest and most connected to life when we are outside and moving our bodies, and how lucky we are to live where we live.

The walk down was mellow and fun. We chatted with fellow climbers, petted some dogs, said hi to some little kids. 

Driving back to town for our post-hike meal of nachos and beer, the fall colors that we couldn't admire during our nighttime drive to the trailhead were in full view. We kept slowing down or stopping to take pictures. 

Mother Nature shows off.

The world is such a beautiful place. I wish Emma could have lived to continue to experience it. 

But I'm doing what little I can to honor her by experiencing it for her.