Going Places

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It was early Friday morning. For the last two hours, K had busied herself doing the last minute things a young woman does before a trip. I half-way listened to her preparations as the sounds echoed down the hallways to my bedroom on the other side of the house.

I had awakened at the ungodly hour of 4:00 am, gotten dressed and opened the plantation shutters to a crescent moonlit backyard. The backyard sprinklers had started their cycle and I watched mesmerized, wondering if I should fix a cup a coffee to stimulate a proper brain stem response.

No, she needs to do this on her own. A father's advice isn't needed this morning. Even so, I opened the double doors to my bedroom to let her know I was available for emergencies, and then promptly flopped back onto my welcoming, king-size, pillow-top bed for a semi-conscious, one-eye dad sleep.

It was suddenly quiet. I looked over at the alarm clock and saw that it was getting close to her departure. I gathered up what I could of my brain and sauntered over to her side of the house.

She was looking into her bathroom mirror, ensuring everything was where it should be. K looked great and I told her so. She beamed and hugged me. "Thank you, Dad".

It was a hug needed by both of us. Though she was the one taking the trip, we were both making journeys that day. Within fifteen minutes, she was on her way. With a quick kiss, a hug and an "I love you, Dad. See you later", she was gone. Godspeed, K.

It was close to lunch time when I checked the Sidekick for emails. There was one from K. She had arrived and was enjoying lunch in a nice restaurant on a mountain top. I had to smile. She was having a good time.

She closed with, "And, thanks for everything. Love, K".

I knew what she meant. And she knew what it meant to me, as a father, to hear that.

In future years, she will be a mother. From a distant city, she will hear the same words from her daughter and feel her face flush. She'll share the precious moment with me just as I shared it with my mother.

K's message was important not only to me, but to my Mom as well. My Mom now knows the love she gave to me was passed on to K and K will pass it on to her family.

Just thinking about that makes me smile.

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Trailhead

May 20, 2005

Lees Ferry was the second leg of my "Celebration of Life" Tour. I was here to fish and remember how I once was (in a wheelchair) and how I am now (walking). I was also here to bury the past and to do so, I'd have to smell the river.

It's a cold, clean smell of high mountain water. I first experienced it many years ago on the second morning of a Colorado River rafting trip.

In that early morning hour, I squatted next to the riverbank with a cup of camp coffee and watched the water push time away. There was a feeling of intimacy with the river that morning. The same one I've shared with the ocean since I was a little boy.

I became a part of the ocean when I was five or six years old at Buckroe Beach. I'd squat at the line just before the waves broke for shore, feeling them pull me along, asking me to join them. I’d close my eyes and listen to the waves crash against the shore before tumbling with them onto the beach.

With the cup of coffee in my hand, I squatted in the cold Colorado and swirled my hand in its waters. The crisp, slightly earthy scent of the water tickled my nose and made the coffee taste even better. I looked down into the water and wondered how I'd find its secrets. I closed my eyes and listened, wondering if I could find its strength, too.

As I cocked my head to the rapids upriver, the sounds of lapping waters at my feet changed to a gentle, distant roar. I stared upriver for awhile, sipped my coffee and took in this wondrous feeling. I smiled when the answer came to me.

I was here for this moment and I was to remember all of this. That was the river's strength and secrets - I was to remember this morning and the following mornings of this trip. I didn't understand the significance of these moments until years later. You see, these cool, clean memories kept me alive when I was in my wheelchair.

I tried, but I couldn't remember the river as I once did. I couldn't smell it as I fished from its banks in my red "I don't care" chair. It wasn't there in the early morning wind or the stillness of the afternoon. It wasn't on the trout I released back into its waters. When the Canyon wren warbled its song, I couldn't understand why I ever liked its melody.

It was this love for the water and the memories of good times past that beckoned me to a nearby 1880's homestead. At the end of its land was the Paria Canyon Trail head and a good view of the Paria River. A river guide said I'd find what I needed there.

I slowly walked the field of cracked earth to the edge of the property and sat atop a ridge of wet sand. I butt-rumped the sand and was cascaded to the river's edge.

The river guide was right. It came to me as I bent down next to the Paria River and watched its chocolate water move to the Colorado a mile downstream. The smell was cold and clean and it brought back good memories.

I sat on a nearby rock and watched the chocolate waters rush by.

I smiled as the Canyon wren sang its song. It's how I remembered it.

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