The Courage to Keep Going

My previous blog was written in deep anticipatory grief, an hour before our appointment to say good-bye to Ajax on Thursday, May 7. The past two weeks I have oscillated between feeling completely wrecked, exhausted, angry, emotional, but also in brief moments, oddly hopeful.

Rainbow Bridge Day. We could see he'd had enough. As hard as it was to say good-bye, it was time to take on his pain ourselves. — Rainbow Bridge Day. We could see he’d had enough. As hard as it was to say good-bye, it was time to take on his pain ourselves.

Ajax helped me build a scaffolding of Mountaineering support: CHS-1 and CHS-2 hike leads. Birding trips. And the past two days, completing my first backpacking overnight – without him — through the Backpacking Building Blocks (B3) course the Foothills Branch of the Mountaineers offers.

I was terrified. How could I do something I anticipated he would do with me once I got a few under my belt? How would I hold myself together for two days when I have yet to get through a few hours – much less an entire night – without crying? What would it be like to grieve around people I scarcely know but would spend at least 30 hours with?

Before the Trail

As I prepared for the backpacking trip, I knew my biggest weakness was food storage. Fortunately, the Mountaineers has a Gear Library that offers bear canister rentals, so I decided rather than buying one, I’d test it out ahead of time. They are heavy, especially loaded with food. I decided to forgo the fuel, stove, bowl, lid, spork, and dehydrated meal, so I could test the value of the bear canister and take my binoculars as a special treat.

I perform a little memorial ritual to Ajax on each of my outings to commemorate what he's given me. — I perform a little memorial ritual to Ajax on each of my outings to commemorate what he’s given me.

The morning of the trip I repacked my bag from start to finish – twice – and ended up going with my 50L pack instead of the 65L. I trusted the comfort of the pack I’ve been wearing for the past 9 months. Why mess with something that is working?

And as I drove on the gravel Mountain Loop Highway toward the Goat Lake and Elliott Creek trailhead, I prayed I wouldn’t get lost. I rubbed Ajax’s collar and the four stones in my jacket pocket – one with “Courage” on it, a heart, rainbow stripes, and my memorial stone with “Ajax Ever Ready” – and prayed I could hold myself together over the next two days.

Trail Lessons

As five of us hiked, we came across piles of fallen trees. I found myself eager to drop my pack and help the leader scout the best way through. Several participants handed me their pack if they weren’t sure of their footing.

The leader and I helped with double-carries up the steepest section so one of our participants could reach the lake.

I performed stewardship as we walked, removing branches and sticks to make it easier for those in my group and future hikers to get past. A few minutes of stewardship from each hiker on the trail could make a meaningful dent in the region’s widespread destruction.

At a particularly challenging section, the leader headed one way and I went another, eventually locating the rough footpath we needed. How rewarding to find that climbing instinct not only intact but strong. At one point I even double-carried over 65 pounds, one pack on my back and the other person’s on my front.

Backpacking togs in front of a massive old-growth cedar that wowed my socks off.

I haven’t done that since my climbing days over 20 years ago. And yet when we reached camp, I felt ready to explore a trail along the lake, even going out solo after dinner and again in the morning to bird before we left. The emotional wreckage of the past two weeks seems to fade away when I’m in my element, in nature, on the trail.

American Dipper

Thursday night, I left the group chatting to do a private memorial for Ajax at the lake and then at the waterfall. A gentle soul in Tama’s Life Tribe class offered me a Hawaiian prayer Wednesday night that I started to think over the past two days: “I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you,” while stroking the stones or holding his collar near my heart.

Peaceful beauty of a cloud-covered Goat Lake with beautiful snowcaps in the background.

The first time I said it aloud late Thursday, an American dipper – a bird that loves raging streams, and which I’ve only seen a time or two per year – flew up over the river and out over the lake. Instantly, my heart leapt. Ajax! You’re here! I miss you, puppadup!

Ajax Pace

Continuing the embedded Ajax moments, Friday on the descent, I found I either wanted to be out in front or way behind. In front, I could set my own pace, stretch my legs, or saunter.

I'm haunted by this image of him in his blue collar and leash, out in front or beside me, or, if we're utterly by myself, the freedom of letting him off leash. — I’m haunted by this image of him in his blue collar and leash, out in front or beside me, or, if we’re utterly by myself, the freedom of letting him off leash.

And if I was in the back of the group, I found myself mimicking him: going forward, then turning around and racing back then turning again. Covering twice the distance. It was remarkably cathartic to travel at “our” pace and not the 1 mph of the other hikers. I confirmed I’m ready to backpack with an overnight pack at 2+ mph but until this trip, I only hoped. Now I know.

Still Moving Forward

As we neared the parking lot, I realized my next challenge will be to try a solo backpack, his stones and collar my faithful companions. I can do as I please, explore all I want, arrive early, leave early if I choose – grief can come and go, and I remain alive.

I’m still on the long and winding road of grief. I petted a dog named Si, a labradoodle alone with his female companion, and when she used the word “Touch” instead of come – my training word for Ajax, as well – I lost it. I saw a cloud on the drive home that reminded me of him lying in the grass, nose between his paws, and I welled up with tears. I imagine the journey will take quite a while, but the mountains, birds, and nature remind me I’m still moving forward.

A tender moment at the falls at Goat Lake where an American dipper flew by as though to let me know Ajax will always be close by.

I can help others while I’m grieving. I can show strength and tenderness at the same time. I can notice symbolic moments in nature like the American dipper or majestic old-growth cedars that took my breath away. And I now see that living my life to the fullest and continuing forward without Ajax is not betrayal, but the greatest gift he’s given me: the courage to keep going.

Thrive Clues