The Old Man at Elephant Rock State Park

2020 was an epidemic year. It was the year the biggest argument of our twenty-five-year marriage erupted. Like a volcano, my wife's frustrated and angry scream sent shock waves that knocked me off my feet. At that moment, I knew something had broken.

We buried the issue by pretending it was an ordinary argument and focused on the viral threat plaguing our world. We had essential jobs, so we weren't trapped inside the house together. Life continued through COVID-19, and so did our anger. We slept on the bed seams, talked very little, and wondered if this was it. Would 2020 destroy our world and marriage?

It didn't. We persevered, refusing to let 2020 break us. However, like our world, our marriage wasn't the same. In 2021, I started a personal healing journey by solo camping on Fridays after work to visit all 92 state parks.

My first destination was Elephant Rock State Park. I used the time to think, sing, weep, laugh, and meditate. I looked out my car windows at God's beautiful creation and prayed that he'd recreate our marriage and make it beautiful again.

Little did I know that my prayers for our marriage would be answered in a unique way through an encounter with a person I have never met at a place I have never been.

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The parking lot was bigger than I imagined and packed. While searching for a spot, I was surprised at all the activity. I assumed state parks would be secluded and mostly unused. I saw dozens of remote-controlled toy trucks climbing a small hill of exposed granite boulders, mothers pushing baby strollers, and day hikers gearing up. There was even a food truck selling shaved ice. I bought one – root beer flavor.

Elephant Rock State Park attracted more tourists than outdoorsmen. Its many asphalt trails boasted of its handicap accessibility and ease of hiking. Since I'm a card carrying member of couch potatoes, I relished my upcoming hike on the blacktop sidewalks.

The sidewalks meandered around the main attractions 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 some boulders. That is where I met the old man.

I don't recall his name. He had to be over eighty but had no trouble walking the trails. He used a cane and wore an Air Force baseball cap.

He had served four years; however, the Air Force stationed him in a desert, and he never forgave them for that, so he opted not to sign on again and returned to civilian life. He told me he lived a few hours east and that he and his family come here yearly.

On this day, he was with his adult children and grandkids. I could see them trailing us, but they let us talk alone.

"I pushed her in a wheelchair when she got sick," the old man said.

I noticed she wasn't with them.

"Did that for a couple of years." He looked down to the sidewalk the entire time he talked.

"So, you all really like this place," I stated the obvious.

"We do."

I had my iPhone out recording video of the more scenic spots. I used those videos to help me recall what happened next.

We strolled up to a waist-high rock wall. At the bottom of our cliff, a breathtaking lake lay still and reflected the trees like a mirror. The old man stood beside me.

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

I couldn't believe what he divulged to me—a stranger. They weren't here to hike. They were here to visit her. I glanced over, afraid he would be emotional, which would make me feel awkward since I'm not comfortable around people who get emotional. But he was smiling.

"This is her anniversary."

I can't remember what anniversary. I suppose it had to be her death or their wedding. I believe he told me how long ago she passed, but I stopped recording before we got to that part of the conversation.

I couldn't help but think of my marriage. Could we be as close as these two were? Will one of us spread the other's ashes over a special place? Then, return year after year to visit?

Our conversation lasted a half hour, which was a significant amount of time for me to talk with a stranger. I'm not the guy who converses in the grocery store over a watermelon with someone I've never met, but something was different today, and I'm glad it was different.

The old man proved that two people can have a happy marriage. He didn't give me marriage advice, but I gleaned some lessons from what I saw. They had a common interest – Elephant Rock. They were close to their kids and grandkids. They spent time doing things together. They were happy together.

My wife and I weren't spending much time together at that time. After all, I was solo camping, for goodness sake. The kids had moved out, and we found we had nothing in common. And neither one of us could say we were happy together.

I left the park and went straight home. On the five-hour drive, I thought of ways to fix our marriage: to make it more like the old man's. But I kept running into the same problem: I was still angry at her. Her scream echoed repeatedly in my mind. That marriage-ending scream angered me. We were just arguing. Why did it escalate to that level?

Ultimately, I had to let go of the question and the anger. Somewhere on a back highway between home and Elephant Rock, I was given the ability to forgive her, and me. It wasn't an instant realization, but a gradual understanding that holding onto the anger was only hurting us more. I had to let go of the past and focus on rebuilding our future together.

Today, we have the kind of marriage the old man had. We've created common interests. We've intentionally remained close to our adult kids and grandkids. We seek out things to do with each other. I can honestly say now that we are happy being together.

The old man has likely passed by now. I like to imagine his family spreading his ashes over the same wall into the same lake and that the couple has finally been reunited at their favorite place: Elephant Rock State Park.