Partly cloudy skies early then becoming cloudy with periods of rain late. Low 46F. W winds at 10 to 20 mph, decreasing to less than 5 mph. Chance of rain 70%..
Tonight
Partly cloudy skies early then becoming cloudy with periods of rain late. Low 46F. W winds at 10 to 20 mph, decreasing to less than 5 mph. Chance of rain 70%.
On Sept. 3, 2010, my mother, Ethel Pochocki, suffered a stroke and passed away three months later. Since then, I have tried to honor that day annually by doing something special. As an avid climber, I normally choose to climb nearby Mt. Adams, a long, gentle stroll up a 12,000 foot volcano in Washington. I also choose this place for, on the day of her stroke, I was at base camp at 9,000 feet on Mt. Adams when I had I suddenly bolted awake at 2 a.m. and a had a vision of my grandfather, Czeslaw Pochocki. It was so clear and vivid and confusing.
So I got up and prepared for the climb to the summit, but within minutes I had no energy, none of the usual joy and excitement of summit day. I slogged on, trying to ignore my inertia. At day break, just an hour from the summit, I collapsed from exhaustion and told my climbing partner to go ahead and I would wait. It just wasn’t my day. Later that evening, when we arrived back at the trailhead, back in the land of cell phone service, there were several messages from my brother saying it was urgent that I call right away. When I finally reached him, he shared the news that mom had suffered a severe stroke and things were not looking good. Suddenly the vision of my mom’s dad, the unexplainable heaviness in my heart as I climbed – it all made perfect sense.
This year I could not do Mt. Adams because the massive wildfire had closed down all climbing routes. Determined to still do something special, I chose nearby Dog Mountain, a nice little aerobic 3,000-foot climb with an expansive east/west view of the Columbia River Gorge. In spring, the upper slopes unveil the most dazzling display of wildflowers in all of the Pacific Northwest. But for this day, all I wanted was to be alone with my memories.
I learned the joys of the denial and reward system many years ago from my mother, so I stopped at the local Pine Street Bakery looking for just the right decadent pastry that would be the reward at the summit. But it couldn’t be anything ordinary. It needed to be something that would honor my mother’s reign as queen of domestic baking, so I searched carefully and there it was — an oversized Bread Pudding cake. She made the best bread pudding EVER.
With a strong thermos of coffee and my extra-special pastry, I drove to the trailhead and began the trek in peace and solitude. I was anxious to flush away the renewed grief of her passing. I had just returned from a short visit with siblings at her home in Maine. It was my first time back since her memorial and it was heartbreaking to be in her home without her presence.
As I ascended through the dark forest, I asked out loud for help to ease the pain of loss and memory. Soon I emerged into the warm open expanse of the upper slopes and stopped for a short break when a woman and her dog approached. It was her first time on this trail and wasn’t sure of the way to the summit. I showed her the way and headed up and left her behind to give us both privacy.
I love watching people’s jaw drop when they see the view of the Columbia for the first time from the summit. I congratulated her and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Charlotte, a proud new grandma from Kentucky visiting her son and newly arrived granddaughter in Portland. It had rained the day before so there only a tiny spot of dry land to sit so I invited her to share the space I had already claimed. As we began to visit, I explained my reasons for being up here today. Charlotte smiled and said, “I know — I lost my mother around the same time as you. It doesn’t get any easier, does it?”
I shared my coffee and bread pudding with Charlotte and we spoke of mothers and loss and angels at their passings.
The universe has a way of delivering gifts when you least expect it, but just at the right time. My intention for the day was to be alone and let the sadness wash over and through me and flush it away with a vigorous hike.
Perhaps Charlotte was an angel, an answer to my prayer, or maybe it was the angel of kindness that we all have from within that came forth and brought together a moment of healing.
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