The Act of Spreading Ashes

Technically, the law says it's illegal, but who cares. Honoring my father's last request is worth the risk. Just how I'm going to spread his ashes over Niagara Falls is fuzzy. Dad would say, "Just wing it. Life isn't planned, it's experienced."

My hometown of Buffalo is only twenty minutes from the Falls, so I'm far from being a tourist, but my instincts are telling me to dress like one. If a ranger gets a whiff of my intentions, he'll ban me from the park, ending all hopes of accomplishing my task.

Dressed in my "Dad Bod" t-shirt, blue jean cargo shorts, and an "I Love NY" baseball cap, I blended in like a banana smoothie and did what tourists do: lined up, asked questions, looked lost, took pictures, and purchased souvenirs.

The "Maid of the Mist" takes tourists to the base of the Falls, getting as close as possible. So close, tourists are provided with a poncho and sandals. The mist produced by the mammoth falls is impressive and will drench anyone who ventures out on the decks in a matter of seconds. At first, the top deck seemed best for my deed; there were fewer sailors, but then visions of sprinkling Dad's ashes on tourists below changed my mind.

The lower deck had more sailors: two flirting with college girls at the front of the ship, several near the gift shop in the rear, and one walking around the perimeter.

The plan I just contrived, the way Dad would, is to wait for the ship to pass the Falls. When everyone goes to that side, I'll go to the other and spread Dad's ashes before anyone notices. What could go wrong?

Well, a lot could go wrong. I pushed against the flow of people, and the sailor walking the perimeter helped point me in the right direction, "Not that way, sir. The Falls will be on the other side." He pointed to the correct side and blocked my path from the wrong side. I nodded and moved to the correct side.

After the helpful sailor moved on, I pushed through the crowd again and made it to the rails of the wrong side. I reached into my pocket and almost removed Dad's ashes when the flirting sailors caught my eye. They were looking at me suspiciously. I left the urn in my pocket, gripped the rails, and acted like I was going to hurl. The flirters quickly looked away and resumed flirting.

My nerves reached the breaking point, so I gave up on my hastily planned plan and meandered to the correct side of the ship, oohing and ahhing with the rest of the tourists.

The Cave of the Winds descends 175 feet into the Niagara Gorge, where a series of stairs and decks wind along the edge of the American Falls side of Niagara Falls. At one point, the deck is bombarded by water from the Falls, making it possible to say you were in Niagara Falls.

Another plan quickly hatched to stand at that point where the Falls bombards soaked tourists, stealthily remove Dad's ashes, and open the urn. The water should do the rest.

Walking patiently in line with all the other paying hikers, excitement began to rise. It was like the other adventures with Dad. The anticipation of doing something on the edge of acceptable, something that could get us kicked out, and possibly fined, something Dad loved to do, opened a floodgate of memories. He got such a kick out of playing the bad boy. I always thought it was because he was such a good boy in real life. He never broke company rules, did what mom asked, and never missed church. But once a year, he and I would go on a trip to do something forbidden. Not too forbidden, but just the right amount of forbidden.

Once, he took a rock from the Painted Desert, despite signs posted throughout the park stating that it was against the law to remove rocks and warning of fines if caught. He laughed like a school boy who just pulled a girl's ponytail.

We were still in the cave, not even close to mist, but my face was wet. Tears streamed down, unhindered, because I caught myself looking for Dad, to see his boyish excitement, his mischievous grin, his bad boy face. It hit hard knowing we'll never go on another adventure. I'll never see the joy in his eyes. I've lost my Dad – my best friend.

We exited the cave, moving in a single-file line along a well-packed trail. Sorrow dissipated like mist, replaced by increasing anticipation with each stair. The immersed deck stood only a few feet from me, filled with a family laughing while getting drenched. A ranger took their picture. My heart froze. A ranger taking pictures will definitely put a crimp in my plan.

I waited, hoping he'd move on. Fifteen minutes went by, and the rear of the tour group caught up to me. I had to join them. The ranger still hadn't moved. I gave up thinking this would be the place when the ranger began ascending the stairs.

A couple asked me to take their picture, and I obliged. They told me they'd take my picture, and I politely declined. I was the last person in line now, the couple just walked onto the next deck. I walked under the spur of the falls. The water showered on me. Tears mingled with the water. I clung tightly to Dad's urn and removed the lid. The urn filled with water. It was challenging to hang on to it, but I clinched tighter as I watched his ashes soak, then dissolve into the flow. I refused to look around. At this moment, the rangers could have cuffed me and dragged me to jail as far as I cared. Our last adventure was done. We did it again. I almost emptied the urn, but instead I decided not to dump out the water. I closed the lid and ascended the stairs.

A wave of joy overcame me. Dad was part of the falls, and now the falls were a part of him. I smiled like a boy who just pulled a girl's ponytail.