Scenic Ashes

We erupted with a Mount Vesuvius-sized argument of hate and anger, the worst in our twenty-five-year marriage. Her scream shattered me like a rock hitting a windshield. My response only spread the cracks further.

It happened during the epidemic in 2020. Our marriage shut down like unessential restaurants, clothing stores, and churches. We had no announcement from the president, but we knew only the essentials of our marriage would remain open. 

I hoped a few weeks would pass, and then all would return to normal. However, like our world, the shutdown lasted longer than I could have imagined. We wore masks, believing they would prevent the spread of distance and apathy. Unfortunately, the masks only reminded us of the "virus" seeking to kill our relationship, and we had no vaccine. The hopelessness deepened, and I feared our marriage would never return to pre-epidemic times.

We trudged through surviving 2020. Sometimes, we would lower our masks until an outbreak caused us to put them back on again. It became the new normal.

Miraculously, the marriage-killing virus didn't get us. However, like our world, it wasn't the same. In 2021, I started solo camping in hopes that solitude would provide a personal healing environment. I began with Elephant Rock State Park, five hours away. I used the time to think, sing, weep, laugh, and meditate. I marveled at God's beautiful creation when I entered the Mark Twain Forest. I prayed that he'd heal my marriage and make it beautiful again.

Little did I know my prayers would be answered by a "chance" encounter with an old man.

I pulled into a large parking lot, searching for a spot. I ended up parking near the highway, far from the park entrance. I assumed state parks would be secluded and barely used, but instead, there were dozens of remote-controlled trucks climbing a small hill of exposed granite boulders, mothers pushing babies in strollers, and tons of day hikers. The food truck selling shaved ice destroyed any preconceived idea of a rustic retreat. I bought one – root beer flavor. When in Rome. Besides, there is no need to hike on a sugar-free stomach.

Elephant Rock State Park attracts more tourists than outdoorsmen. Its asphalt trails boast handicap accessibility and easy hiking. Since I'm a card-carrying member of anything easy, I relished hiking on the blacktop sidewalks.

The sidewalks slithered around granite boulders like a snake through a rock garden. Over a hundred elephant-sized granite boulders spread out haphazardly, like marbles thrown by a kid. I took pictures, read plaques, and climbed boulders. That is where I met the old man.

I'll call him Frank. He had to be over eighty but had no trouble walking the trails using a cane. He wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and an Air Force cap. He began the conversation by telling of his four years in the Force, which he never forgave for stationing him in the desert. After one term, he returned to civilian life and had a family. His family found Elephant Rock State Park and loved it so much that they returned annually for decades. He looked around with a smile, "There's just something special about this place."

His kids and grandkids trailed us, giving us space to talk alone. I got the impression Frank talked with strangers often.

"I pushed her in a wheelchair when she got sick."

I looked around but didn't see her with the family.

"Did that for two years." Frank looked down while talking.

"So, you really like this place," I said in a pathetic attempt to converse with a stranger—something way outside my comfort zone.

We strolled up to a waist-high rock wall atop a cliff overlooking a breathtaking lake. The still water reflected trees like a mirror, and autumn leaves floated like sailboats in a harbor.

"We spread my wife's ashes here. Right over this wall. Her favorite spot."

I couldn't believe what I heard. I added two plus two and realized Frank's family didn't come here to hike. They came to visit her. I glanced over at the old man, afraid he would be emotional. I'm not comfortable around emotions, but he wasn't. He was smiling.

"This is our anniversary."

He mentioned how long they had been married. I know it was north of fifty, but I forgot the exact amount. His gaze never left the lake, and his smile never left his face. He appeared happy and content. 

My marriage came to mind. Could we ever be this close? Will one of us spread the other's ashes? Then, return year after year to visit?

Our conversation lasted a half hour, a significant amount of time for me. I'm pretty sure it set a personal record. We parted. Frank remained on the trails, but I told my wife I'd be back by five, so I had to leave. 

I thought about Frank and his wife. He didn't give me marital advice in words, but he showed me some keys to a successful marriage: having common interests, staying close to family, and serving each other. 

My marriage lacked these keys. The kids had moved out, and we found we had nothing in common. We didn't spend time together, and we had no intention of serving each other. 

The truth is, I was still angry. My wife's scream continued to echo in my mind. Why did it escalate to that level? So what if we disagreed with each other? There had to be something else—something I didn't see.

Ultimately, I needed to let go of the questions and my anger. I forgave us somewhere on a back highway between home and Elephant Rock. I discovered I needed to forgive several more times, but gradually, our marriage began to heal as we let go of the past and focused on rebuilding our future.

I think about Frank from time to time and wonder if he's still alive. I would love to thank him, but it's not likely we'll ever run into each other again. If he has passed, I know his family stood along the rock wall and spread his ashes over the lake below, reuniting the loving couple forever.