Chasing the Dawn

The cabin alarm buzzed gratingly, burrowing its way into my subconscious and roused me from the depths of slumber. I had been dreaming of holding you in my arms, feeling the warmth of your body against mine as we danced together on a gravel road, “Cheek to Cheek” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong playing from our van speakers.

I rolled over in the full-size bed to shut off the alarm. The alarm read, “5:00 AM”. Sighing sleepily, I sat up and rubbed away the gunky evidence of my rest that had built up in the corners of my eyes. I stood up and switched on the generic standing lamp that had probably been bought at the nearest Walmart over in Bloomington. It bathed my cabin room in a yellow light, chasing away the predawn darkness that clung to the wooden corners of my room.

I started up the coffee maker, a simple machine that consisted merely of the pot, dripper and tank. I filled the dripper with a filter and some coffee grounds I had acquired at the Kroger just off of Highway 46 as we had left from our home in Bloomington. I turned the machine on and it hummed to life as it heated the water to a boiling fervor.

Taking out an old cast iron skillet from one of our packs, I sat it on the burner of the gas stove to warm up the skillet. The Airbnb I rented for us came fully furnished, but this skillet has been on all of our adventures over the past fifteen years. I remember buying it for my first foray with the Outdoor Activities club at Indiana University. The group had decided to take a camping trip to Brown County State Park in Nashville and I needed some supplies for cooking dinner and breakfast. So I splurged and bought a Lodge cast iron skillet, knowing if I took care of it, it would last me a lifetime and so it has. Seemingly two lifetimes even.

The road was dark and winding along the hilly countryside that was commonplace across the southern reaches of Indiana. Contrary to the beliefs of those who resided in the central and northern regions and never had the sense to explore their state, Indiana was not all flat. Here in the southern region, often referred to as the Upland South, towering hills, winding rivers and babbling brooks was the face that nature took.

We made our way through Nashville and up to the main entrance of the park. I showed my seasonal pass and the man at the gate waved us through. We drove up the main road making our way to the lookout next to the Abe Martin Lodge. I remembered making this same trip nearly eighteen years ago, except it had been by foot and with a group of other college students who were still yawning and shaking off the effects of slumber. 

You had been in that group, that was how we met. You had also been a freshman at IU studying graphic design while I was studying business. I can still remember the sherpa blanket you had wrapped around your body as we climbed the hill. Your blonde hair was still a mass of hair that could only be achieved by a night spent in a sleeping bag, but the rest of us had not looked any better. In those days, social media and Instagram were nonexistent, rendering the need of a perfect picture moot. We did not have a care in the world how we looked, merely that we reached the top.

You and I drove up the hill till we reached the lodge. I parked the truck and unloaded you from the passenger seat and walked us over to the lookout. I checked my phone, “6:00 AM”.

“It will be very soon,” I whispered to you, feeling your weight in my arms. I reflected on our life together. You and I had sat next to each other on the wooden benches at the lookout as we waited for the sunrise. We struck up conversation and the chemistry between us reacted with passion. We watched the dawn creep over the horizon and marveled at the glorious sun rays, illuminating the tops of the orange and yellow trees. Our group of new friends made a pact to visit as many parks as we could together, to witness the rising run. We had laughed and began referring to ourselves as dawn chasers, similar to how those who traveled looking for storms referred to themselves as storm chasers.

I remember our first date, just you and I. We had made a trip to Clifty Falls to watch the sun peak over the Ohio River. We had awoken that morning to find a black bear had made its way across the Kentucky border and had made a midnight snack out of our supplies. It was stressful at that moment, but we had a good laugh on our way back to the college that afternoon.

After we graduated, we had a small wedding at this same lookout, a wooden stage and cross erected to serve as the altar. Then we hit the road in our van, just you and I. We traveled the states together, chasing the dawn from coast to coast. We witnessed the sunrise at the Grand Canyon. We watched the sunrise in the Badlands. We sat in rocking chairs overlooking the Smoky Mountains, marveling at how the mountain haze scattered the rays of sun.

I thought back to our trip thirteen years ago to Hawaii to witness the sunrise at Haleakala. The rays of light, illuminating the mountain side were a sight to behold. I remember, your smile fading as you collapsed in my arms. The ambulance made it to the summit as quick as it could, the entire while, you were limp in my arms. Later at the hospital, they found the mass on your brain and declared it to be the early stages of Glioblastoma Multiforme, brain cancer.

We moved to Indianapolis, sold the van and bought the used Silverado instead and settled into an apartment just outside of the city limits. Our money was funneled into treatments, but despite the medication, the cancer attacked voraciously. Before I knew it, my partner, my best friend, my fellow dawn chaser, was gone.

I did not travel, I hardly left the apartment after your death. Our old dawn chasing friends attempted to get me out, to alleviate my pain. The sunrise though was too painful to witness. This moment, sitting here with you on this wooden bench, is the first time I have spent more than a few minutes in nature in nearly half a year.

The sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the yellow and orange world of the forest below us. The crisp, fall air carried the smell of earth, fungus and leaf rot on it. A spicy, musky smell, but one you loved. The orange and yellow hues of sunlight, highlighted by blues and purples reached my eyes and made the fall mist sparkle like a swarm of stars on the fall wind.

Cold tears stung my eyes, as I stood up and walked over the rocky wall at the edge of the outlook, opened the lid on your urn and pulled out a pendant from my pocket. I took a moment and filled the pendant with a small amount of your ash, so I could always keep a small part of you with me. I tied the small vessel I held you in, around my neck. Then, I scattered the rest of you upon the wind. Your ash danced on the wind and whipped about me like a tornado as if you were holding me in your arms, one last time before taking flight on the wind.

I am not afraid to admit that I bawled, there on the side of the hill, at the lookout where everything started fifteen years ago. You, me and the rest of our merry band of dawn chasers. Now, I stand here at the lookout, gripping the pendent that held all that was left of you, and cried. I released the pent up anger and sorrow that had been bottled within me since your death. I wailed and unleashed my pain onto the wind.

I sat on a bench, tears blurring my vision and screams of anguish stinging my throat. I choked on my screams, realizing I had never fully mourned the loss of the love of my life. I had never fully mourned you. So I mourned. I mourned as I should have all those years ago, as the early light of dawn burst over the horizon in its array of colors. I mourned until all of my tears were spent.

Half an hour passed before I could summon the strength to stand and make my way back to the truck. I placed your urn in the passenger seat, loaded myself up with you dancing about my neck like an amulet of protection, always looking after me. The engine turned over and roared to life. I took one last look at the place where it all began, and where it all ended. Here, where we had chased the dawn together for one last time.