This morning, I climbed a mountain for you, Mom.
This morning, I climbed a mountain for you, Mom.
Ok, we can squabble about what qualifies a mountain later, but Beacon Rock feels like a damn mountain to someone like me. Despite my mother’s love of hiking and the outdoors, the bug never seeped into my system the way it did for her. She adored being outside and the feeling of freedom it provided her; she loved wildflowers and blue skies and wayward adventures and crisp PNW air.
I look at the same trails she loved and see allergies, sore knees and my asthma inhaler. It’s not that I don’t love nature and being outside, it’s that my body was truly not built for it. I sneeze at every plant, I wheeze at every mile marker. I can’t easily handle longer treks and need frequent stops, something that doesn’t endear me to potential hiking partners. And when an allergy attack hits, even with emergency Benedryl, I’m stuck waiting for it to kick in before I can continue. I’ve largely given up on being as prolific a hiker as my mother and given in to distant admiration.
This morning - on what would have been her 63rd birthday - I chose to toss my body’s natural disclaimers in the dirt and climb a god damn mountain.
My mom loved Beacon Rock and it’s held a special significance to our family since her passing. My dad and I spread the remainder of her ashes along the Columbia at Beacon Rock State Park, and I go once a year to check in on her. It feels like an appropriate place to mourn her and to cherish her, full of lush evergreens and slapping waves, peaceful and savage at the same time. Every visit, I stare up at that enormous rock and wonder why she loved it so much - there’s no freaking way climbing to the top would be enjoyable, right?
When I woke up at 5:45am - naturally, which is absolutely absurd for me - I realized that it was time to try. With heavy eyes, I shoved the dog in the car and booked it down 14 East, windows down to soak in the chilly morning air. We arrived right after the sun had risen over the Columbia and I’ll be honest - I let the dog out and just sat at the edge of Beacon Rock for 15 minutes, wondering why in the world I had decided this was a good idea. The most exercise I get is 15 minutes on the elliptical once a month and squatting during photoshoots. I had left my inhaler at home and forgotten to take extra Benedryl. My sneakers hadn’t been worn in 3 months and I’d just realized why - they had holes in the heels. No rational human in my situation would say, “Yeah, you know what? This is gonna be dope, let’s do it.”
Roxie popped her head up from behind a fallen tree and stared at me for a moment. Her eyes seemed to shout at me, “Lady, you’re taking forever to get moving. Can we please go?”
As I started climbing - and I do mean climbing, this bitch of a rock is STEEP - it took a while for me to acclimate. I was focusing on my breathing, my feet, my heart rate, worrying I’d kiel over in the woods and bash my head on a rock. The air felt harsh in my lungs at first, a foreign visitor I needed to expel. Then I started muttering; “Mom, why the hell am I on this stupid rock? Why did you even do this crap, it’s freaking horrible?! Why did I think this was a good idea? I must have been out of my mind when I woke up this morning…”
Dogs have a weird way of sensing a moment or a mood, and Roxie - despite her aloofness - is no exception. I had been chatting with the ghost of my dead mom, like an utter psychopath on a public hiking trail, and hadn’t stopped for a second to soak anything in. As I was about to turn another corner, Roxie sat at the edge of the railing and started to whine. In that instant, I finally glanced up and saw it.
I get it now. I get why she came here. I get why she loved this place. I get why she wanted to be out here, why she felt free here.
I started to sob and Roxie immediately licked away my tears. I just sat, staring down at the spot I’d helped lay my mom to rest, in peaceful silence. It’s truly the most tranquil I’ve felt in a very, very long time.
When I finally made it to the top, there was that instant hit of triumphant adrenaline, followed by a profoundly emotional ache. I’d made it. Like, I had actually climbed to the top. I hadn’t passed out, I hadn’t fallen and bashed my brains in, I hadn’t died. I’d completed this bizarre ritual that I had created for myself and it was finally over. The moment that I’d built up in my mind for almost 8 years had ended and now all I felt was emptiness.
If you’ve lost someone close to your heart, I bet you’ve had these types of internal sacraments. You keep a box of unopened letters you were never able to read. Or you have piles of unfinished art projects that you can’t bear to throw out. Or maybe you still house the broken car they owned, swearing up and down they’d eventually get to fixing. These rites are only holy to one and over the years, they can feel more like a burden than a blessing. At first, amidst the chaos of death, they’re a piece of private service to the deceased. Now, if you’re anything like me, they feel more like a ghost holding a gun to your head.
My mom never wanted us to build a shrine to her, to worship her with lavish reverence. And while I followed through on many of her wishes, I think I built a shrine to her in my own mind. These odd practices, like clinging to her abandoned quilt tops or wanting to follow in her literal footsteps, have been manufactured into colossal mental monuments. Now, as they’re being torn down, it feels like I’m losing a part of her.
The emptiness I felt at the top of Beacon Rock was a piece of my mother’s shrine finally beginning to crumble. And as I slowly hiked back down, I realized how important it is that I let it collapse. These rituals may have helped me retain control over the years, but that control is utterly fictitious. As they crumble, so do I, and in those moments I finally get a chance to see her more clearly. When I let the last vestiges of control over my grief fall, the picture of my mom becomes sharper.
I saw her today in a way I haven’t in a long, long time. I felt her there, climbing up Beacon Rock with her dorky backpack and hand-knit hat, drenching her soul with the smell of evergreens and the sounds of birds above her head. It was such an intense moment of relief to finally see her, just her, without the haze of my own grief blocking my view.
As Roxie and I hopped in the car, peeling off to grab a milkshake at 9:30am, I took a long look at Beacon Rock in my rearview. It feels so fitting to let my mom live here, among the forest and fog, her joy piercing through everyone’s footsteps as they climb. While I’m leaving her ashes deep within the soil, the picture of her I’m driving away with is finally in focus.
This morning, I climbed a mountain for you, mom, and I ended up conquering something a lot larger than Beacon Rock. Not bad for a Wednesday.
