Don't Fall Apart on me Tonight

I was trudging through the grassy meadowland as the sun began to set. Golden light filtered through scattered clouds, as bright beams of light transformed themselves into white sparkles on the lake, and danced across the surface. The water, which had been a beautiful blue when we arrived an hour earlier, began to turn as black as tar as night inched closer. My steps were slow and calculated, as to not break my ankle on a shadow or a hole or a rock; but the very best of my attention was transfixed by the lake. I watched constellations of sparkles appear and wavy abstract reflections spread from bank to bank. It looked like a universe, a kind of galaxy brought in close from somewhere far away, like a beautiful inky sleep peppered in dazzling dreams. A glittering world brought to life through the passage of time, and unstoppable darkness. 

We decided to camp near the lake for the night, our last night in the backcountry. And I was glad for it; because although I’d never been there before, for a reason I cannot explain to you now, the place felt like home. The sight of the lake, Lightning Lake it's so aptly named, felt like returning to a place that I already belonged to. I suppose that’s the magic of all the blank spots stretching across maps, the wild open lands and the curving mountain ranges that stretch across the earth like a crooked and severed spine, they feel completely beyond you and exactly a part of you; both unknown and familiar all at once.

I lifted my hand to my face as I walked, and used the sleeve of my jacket to wipe my eyes then nose, both felt heavy with tears and snot. They were big ugly tears that fell from my face in silence, tears that I couldn’t wipe away no matter how much I tried.   You know those heavy sad tears, don’t you? The special ones you cry for those you love or the loves you lose, and the loneliness that’s left behind in their absence. Emotion that has purpose, and tears that are resilient.  I’d learned on this trip that the range of human emotion can be my greatest teacher, that if I trudge into the heart of what it means to be human, willing and unafraid, then yes, I will feel the intricacies of pain; I will also know the vast bright skies of love, and the wonderment that hangs somewhere between. 

Wonderment was hanging in the air at Lightning Lake. And stillness, a penetrating stillness that gave way to a presence of being that felt as tender as a blessing. I tried desperately to take that presence in as I walked, to soothe myself by embodying it, by becoming it. I let stillness rise and fall in my body as breath moves beneath my breast. I breathed in the mess of electric beauty exploding in the horizon to the west, orange and yellow and pink, all streaking across the sky like finger marks left down the middle of a foggy mirror. I breathed in again, the cool shadows of darkness that gradually took hold of the mountain in the east, dissolving the sharp steepled peaks into ashen, dull edges. 

It’s amazing that regardless of how big and looming and breathtaking a mountain is, it still turns to ash in the evening light, and disappears altogether into the blackness of night.
I know plenty of people who are scared of the wilderness, especially the pitch black night. There’s an uncertainty they feel about the darkness, the way the mountains and trees and beautiful vistas disappear; it unmoors them. I don’t feel that way, but I understand it. Nature shows us our deepest humanity - our flaws, our gifts, our mortality- and sometimes there is mercy and sunshine offered in those moments, and sometimes there isn't, sometimes there’s only the darkness.  If I’ve learned and relearned and relearned and relearned one thing in all the days and months I’ve spent on the tops of mountains, trudging through the tall switch grasses of remote meadowlands, and floating in the bone chilling water of alpine lakes, it’s how absolutely frightening it can be to see the truth, to see one’s self in remarkable clarity. And it’s impossible to look away.

So much of this trip was a practice of not looking away, even when the reflection I saw was daunting,  even when my joints felt like they were bucking under the weight of it. 

The memories are heavy, and yet, I wanted to carry them all. I wanted to remember them, not with my mind, but with my bones and my soul. I wanted to fall apart in the arms of these mountains, so that I could return again and again to be put back together. I wanted to be that stillness that tingled my skin as I walked through the meadow. I wanted the sun to send simmering constellations of white sparkles across my teary eyes, like it did across the lake, and cast wavy abstract reflections through the tears that dropped from my chin. I wanted a whole world to be brought to life by my own darkness.  So I opened myself up to those mountains, to the lake, to the setting sun; and like I would the soft skin of a lover, I let everything into me. 

Meanwhile, the other people I was with, my eleven human travel companions, congregated on a nearby hill, in what was quickly becoming the last patch of sun. They sat in a circle. I saw them in the distance, silhouetted by sunlight, heads like a string of black pearls.

I was taking this trip with a motley crew. There were twelve humans, myself included; a mix of men and women, old and young, the adventurous to the still scared of the dark. There were also seventeen horses; a mix of female and male, riding horses and pack horses, old and young, all of whom were absolute professionals. And one suave yet burly caramel colored pony , who went by the name of Macho, enough said. 

We turned the horses loose before we set up camp for the night. We hung a small bell from each of their necks so we could find them the next morning when it was time to saddle up and head onward.  A chorus of bells filled the meadow as the horses freely grazed. Jingle- jingle- jingle. They’d bury their star spotted noses into the grass. Jingle - jingle- jingle. They’d quickly jerk their heads sideways and pull upward, ripping at stiff blades of grass. Each bite sent their coarse manes flipping through the air in a beautiful wave-like gesture. Jingle-jingle-jingle.

Shit, I thought, looking towards the people, I’m late.

I took a deep breath, rubbed my sleeve across my eyes one more time, then gently blew my nose into it. I had many things on my mind,  but keeping clean was not one of them. I know it’s hard to imagine, but you really do lose track of how dirty you are out in the mountains; to be sure, you're putrid, but you don’t know it.

  I stuffed my dirt crusted hands and snotty sleeves back in my pockets and wandered towards the string of pearls. I walked a half circle around the group, then sat next to Zack. I glanced around at the myriad of faces, a chain of eyes and mouths all linked together by a mix of emotions. Some faces belonged to people who had been strangers two weeks ago, but now felt like friends; some faces were dearly familiar and beloved; others’ falling somewhere between or beyond. Then there was the face that was not there, the two eyes and mouth that was missing. This was the hardest one to see, the one that was gone. The face that was everywhere and nowhere. 

Loss is sticky and gooey and irrational, it’s quicksand. The moment someone you love dies, you begin to see them everywhere; literally. Strangers on the street, hobos on the corner, grocery store clerks, customer service representatives; everyone suddenly has the face of the love you lost,  their smile, their eyes, their laugh. It’s heartbreaking and comforting. But as time passes, loss gives way to longing, and you stop seeing them in the face of strangers. And the moment arrives where all you can see is their absence. 

I think PeeBee was the first to break the silence and speak. She asked us all to think back on this huge journey, this pilgrimage, we were approaching the end of. Her voice grabbed my attention, it was resonate and wise and sweet all at once.

She had shoulder length straw color hair, that was hidden under a fleece beanie. It was getting dark now, and the temperature dropped quickly. Her purple puffy was zipped all the way up to her chin, which made her glowing tan face look even more golden. Her skin was dusted with freckles and fine lines that only enhanced her beauty and competence. She looked like a person who had been told all her life that she was an old soul. She had an ancestral air about her. 

PeeBee rolled back slightly in her weathered camp chair, her eyes moving from face to face as she asked us to consider what we would like to take from the backcountry to the front country. What would we bring from the wilderness back to our daily lives in civilization?

I closed my eyes and, like a fisherman at sea, I cast my net into the ocean of the past. Thoughts, feelings, ideas, memories, began to stream through. I searched in the depths of my memory, looking for something light enough to bring to the surface and neutral enough to share with others. 

I thought of the laughter, the bellowing joy, that sometimes followed deep bouts of sorrow. 

I thought of the ethereal horses, my horse in particular.

One afternoon Knocker abruptly flung his weight forward to his front legs, then lifted both of his back legs and forcefully kicked them back as hard as he could. He nearly flung me off his back, and only narrowly missed his target, Macho’s face. It makes me laugh to think of it even now.

I thought of holding the ashes of my friend's body in my hands, his weight and warmth. I remembered letting him go into a wild gust of wind.

I thought of understandings, misunderstandings, arguments, disagreements, and the range of emotions I’d succumb to; the sleepless nights I’d spent crying into Zack’s arm. And the seething anger that burned through my guts as it bubbled up within me. 

I shot my eyes open. I was the first to speak, I think; but I can’t be sure. “Compassions,” I said gently. 

“It’s easy to make things about you, other people's feelings I mean.” I continued, “ It’s almost compulsive to want to say the right thing, to try to make someone happy when they are sad, to make things better. Sometimes I try to make other people feel better, but deep down what I really think I’m doing is trying to make myself feel better and more comfortable. It’s so hard to see someone hurting. But I’m learning that compassion isn’t about having control over myself or anyone else, that compassion isn’t about changing the way someone experiences the world or lessening someone's pain. I think maybe deep compassion is just letting go. Letting go of control. Letting go of trying making things better or worrying you’re making them worse, and instead just being with what is happening, whatever is being felt or shared.”

I pause to wipe my nose with that same crusty shirt sleeve. I took a deep breath. “Yeah. So, um, deeper compassion is what I hope to take with me.”

I swallowed hard, and said nothing more. It was silent for a long breath, save for the distant sound of bells, and the rustle of grass as people adjusted their posture, perhaps preparing themselves to speak. I don’t know.

In the silence I noticed the darkness and looked up, the sky was pitch black and scattered with stars.

The sky was silent. The air was still. The sun was set and gone, the last colors of light had finally disappeared from the earth. 

It was over. It was all over; forever. And yet, so much was only beginning. 

By: Erin Cookston

As always, I love to hear from you. Please email comments to erin@erincookston.com.