Harold Carr

Harold Carr

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Thu, 16 Oct 2003

Grieving in North Canyon

Life standing still but my heart is still beating, my chest breathing, my thoughts thinking. I'm not thinking them, they're thinking me.

After three days of crying, seeing mutual friends and family it came to me that Craig would be laughing, saying "what, your boss gave you the week off to grieve and you're sitting around crying - get outdoors!"

So today I'm hiking North Canyon alone, no one else could go. North Canyon has mostly been my solo trail - never came here with Craig.

Lots of leaves on the ground and a few still waiting in the branches. I suppose the falling leaves are telling me dying is beautiful. Or that life is short, remembering long.

So far I haven't cried today. But it's there waiting - waiting for the slightest shift.

This morning my gear was all packed and ready to go - still together from the last hike Craig and I didn't do.

Now walking up the trail, breathing deeper, starting to sweat, removing layers - I know I'm alive. With that life I'll try to live gracefully and graciously with my living friends - with a lighter touch but keep an edge to cut corners.

Poetry, for me, has sometimes been a game - a game of survival - to which I now return with no embellishments - just the facts - and the facts, at this moment, are cold.

It's the dying season making the trail soft with leaves.

In a way I hope heaven or hell or some imaginary beyond is true so I can hike with Craig again. But I'm not counting on it. I'll staying with the earth, the rivers and the living. I'm not expecting an angel to save me. Instead I'll stick to the trails - walking while remembering Kerouac's words, "don't forget your tenderness."

It wasn't supposed to work this way. We were going to stand in streams in hip waders when we couldn't walk anymore.

I've discovered something: it's very hard to cry and hike UP a trail at the same time.

On top, the mule's ears dried, curled and rustling in the slight breeze. The mountain mahogany blossomed long ago, the shrub oak leaves still green. As always, the lake and the islands steady on the horizon.

Quiet now, here alone on the ridge, looking out, over, into our place. For the moment, calm in the mountains where we like to be.

He really was my best friend but I don't think I knew it - it just happened.

I'm writing them down so my thoughts won't sting - wasp weaving in the wind.

Quiet now, lucky he was here - gone but not forgotten. Someday me too - we too.

Always wanting and willing to see what was around the next bend.

Now that he's nothing, there's nothing that separates us now.

Not that I worry about danger, but something about being outdoors with Craig made you feel safe.

Each day outdoors build a bridge between us. Craig was my link and I don't want to lose it. Take up the slack - take up the slack.

I've discovered something else - it's dangerous going downhill and crying.

I feel like calling him up and saying, "do you know what it felt like to learn you were dead!" Far worse than you hiding ahead on the trail then jumping out - stopping my heart.

There's a lot of lyrics we won't hear quite the same way anymore.

For awhile I'm calm - kind of forgetting. Then it comes back to me but it feels like a mistake - like I heard something wrong - I must have misunderstood.

You know, it really is a fine fall day. Still hiking in shorts and tshirt east of the island.

He didn't pass away - HE DIED. He wouldn't dress it up. He'd say, "I'm dead" with a chuckle and glint in his eye.

Later, at Adam's Canyon Falls, the stream going over the edge, separating into thousands of distinct drops, then merging back into the clear cold pool.

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Harold Carr

Harold Carr