Ritual for Mike in the Red Buttes Wilderness

         After Mike died, I thought immediately that I wanted to swim in a mountain lake, but until recently weather and circumstances prevented that swim. Then my son, Ela, came down from Washington state to visit and hiked with me to a small lake in the Red Buttes Wilderness Area, a favorite destination during his childhood and one of my favorite places in the world, a lake that will remain nameless here to help preserve its pristine nature and the solitude that is more and more rare there.

          From the beginning of the trail, where phlox massed the shady forest floor with deep pink blossoms,

All photos by Ela Lamblin

to the meadows of paintbrush, lomatium, penstemon, Oregon sunshine, and many other flowers, the wildflowers were as rich and vibrant as they had been the year before, when Mike and I  hiked this trail. This time I counted fifty-four different kinds of wildflowers. The weather was perfect for hiking, and the views—snowy Mt. Shasta rising over the dark green forests of the Seiad Valley, sections of fire-blackened trunks rising through green undergrowth in a striped pattern with still-green forests, the stony red peaks of the Red Buttes—were stunning.

          After walking for two and a half hours, we climbed over the rocks just before the lake itself.

Bear grass and azaleas with the lake, center, in the distance.

Then it lay before us, small and round, deep blue, lined on one side with pastel-red rocks and on the other with white-blooming azaleas, interspersed with plumes of bear grass, in thick green shrubs under the looming red cliff of Kangaroo Mountain. 

          I swam with my head above water so I could breathe the azalea-perfumed air and keep the mountain in sight. The cold blue water was the balm I was wanting. I swam around and around and around. Then I swam close to shore and asked Ela to meet me on the far side of the lake with my towel and the vial of Mike's ashes.

Swimming. The ritual was under the tree just to the right of center in photo.

          Sitting with Ela on the red rocks above the lake, under a large Jeffrey pine tree, I began this ritual with one of the poems I had written after Mike died, called "Cut." It ends with these words:

                    And oh, my heart, my heart

                    sliced open with grief's keen edge

                    on what altar can I lay you down?

                    Where find cure for such cruel cut?

As I looked at the lake and mountains in front of me, I realized that there was the altar on which I had laid my heart, that the hike, the swim, the presence of such beauty, and the companionship of my son were the cure for such grief. With that thought I thanked Mike for all he had given me in our life together, blessed his presence in this place, and released his ashes into the air towards the lake. 

          Ela said a few words to and on behalf of Mike, expressing regret that he hadn't known him better (as so many of my friends have said) and speaking about his strength of character and good nature. Then Ela tossed the last fine-dust ashes into the air.

          We hiked back at a faster pace. Mt. Shasta shimmered on the horizon. My body felt fresh and alive from the swim and the walking. My spirit was calmed by the ritual. I was at peace.