12 Years Ago
On October 6th, 1993, 12 years ago today, my friend, Gary Lawson, was killed by a train.
He doesn’t haunt me as much as he used to. Time heals all wounds, as the old adage goes. We’ve both moved on, perhaps found our peace with the harsh realities of life and death. Still, as I prepare for my 8th ascent of Mount Washington with a new crew, I miss him terribly.
He, my brother and I were the first crew of us to make the 1st ascent up the “rock pile”. Then, as on Sunday, weather permitting, we shall be climbing up the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail. I will never forget that trip. We young turks, fresh from a full season of hiking various 4000-footers, cut the hiking time in half and summitted in a mere 2 hours, all the while battling 50mph winds gusting to 80mph (so spaketh the weather instruments at the summit). It was exciting and refreshing and we were on top of the world, at least our little part of it.
Over time we had drifted apart. He and my brother remained strong friends; I guess I was the one who drifted away. Still, as our 10 year high school reunion approached, I was looking forward to hooking up again. Through my brother, I had learned that Gary had become a poet of some local renown. He had a book published and was seeing someone. His life, which had been quite difficult in parts, was looking quite whole.
I got the phone call from my friend Chris. He got the phone call from Vickie, a mutual friend of ours from high school, who had seen his obituary in the newspaper. I will never forget the effect Chris’s words had on me. It was like a dream. Time stood still for a second or two as the realization of what he had just said took root.
I went to the wake. I couldn’t go to the funeral. The wake was difficult enough. They buried him with a Bible that I had given him as a present a few years before. We had both been looking for God at the time and had found Him in different forms.
I only started visiting his grave two years ago, on the 10th anniversary of his death. I don’t like graves. I like cemeteries, in the sense of the history that they record. But, I don’t like graves. Back then, full of the smartassery of youth, I would tell people to just put me in a Hefty bag and leave me by the curb when my time came. Now, visiting his grave brings me a sense of peace, mixed with sadness and longing as well, of course, but the peace is there. The graves are for the living. Tied as we are to the three dimensional world we move in, we need a focal point, a location, a special place to move to and discover or reflect.
I climb mountains because that is where I find God in nature. His canvas stretches before me and my soul weeps with joy. I have stood on the rocky pinnacles and have seen and felt the wind and cloud wrap themselves around me and I rejoice with the life of it all.
Today, I will go to the cemetery to remember the life of an old friend. I will reflect on mortality and my soul will weep with the inevitability of it all. And yet, perhaps, as I cast my prayers into the autumnal breezes, on that sacred plot of land, I will not be alone. And I will rejoice with the life of it all.