I believe deeply that landforms have memories. I think a lot of us who spend time in alpine environments hold that belief: It’s just something that you know when you’re high on a rock face or deep in a sea of snow and ice. I often think we’re not cognizant enough of this when we are out there leaving parts of ourselves in the mountains – our laughter, our insecurities, our tired smiles, our tears. This piece is about a time when three women went to deliberately leave a memory on a landform and what it meant to share that space.
In 2020 I lost my mom to a quick and hard battle with cancer. It took me two years to want to do anything with her ashes, but when I decided I was ready to do something the choice of where to scatter them was simple: I’d scatter half on Mount Olympus and half in the Salish Sea. My mom had moved to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington when I was young and I used to spend days waiting for the clouds to part so I could see the range from her home in Port Townsend. You can’t see Mount Olympus from the north end of the peninsula, however. The mountain is deep within the range - it takes a 19 mile hike, a glacier crossing, and a moderate snow climb to even see the summit block.
My mom was not married when she died and did not have a support system in Washington with the exception of me and my sister. When she was in hospice I remember long nights of delusional thinking while I watched her slip further and further away. I had convinced myself that “at some point an adult is going to show up and take care of everything.” Then she stopped breathing and I realized that at 29 I was the adult that needed to show up. I had to talk to the coroner, pick out an urn, clean out her house, sort through her secrets, and I had to figure out what to do when someone dies without a will (a symptom of my mom’s own delusional thinking).
I think so many of us who spend time in the mountains have an independent streak that is central to our identity. Covid’s Delta variant peaked right after my mom’s death and the in-person contact I craved from my community wasn’t available. Instead of taking what I could get, I toughened up and isolated myself even more: I stopped returning calls from friends, I retreated into my head and into the desert of the eastern Sierra, I stopped eating, and I ran until my bones hurt.
When I finally decided to make a plan to scatter the ashes, I had a major obstacle to face that had nothing to do with the terrain I needed to tackle. Grief had tricked me into doubting why anyone would want to spend time with me, let alone travel 42 miles and over 7,000 feet with climbing gear. Of course there was no evidence to support my hypothesis that I would forever be alone in tough times - I had a great group of friends ready to jump into the backcountry at a moment’s notice. However, when it came to doing something so vulnerable – something I needed support with – I couldn’t fathom that anyone would show up.
It felt like climbing was a sacred space for the good times, for flow states, for alpenglow, for snacks and rope shenanigans…not for grief. Eventually I found the courage to ask two close friends and climbing partners who also had deep ties to the Pacific Northwest to join me. Leanne and Erin met me with nothing but support and excitement, of course. We refreshed our crevasse rescue skills in a Bozeman backyard, rearranged our work schedules, got supplies for glacier margaritas, and drove to Seattle to get ready for four days in the backcountry.
Arne Naess, ecophilosopher and integral part of the “deep ecology” movement wrote: “It’s the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. Here’s where things grow.” The side of Mount Olympus is hugged by the Blue Glacier, the heart of the peninsula and the lifeblood of an ecosystem. Silt from the glacier cascades through Glacier Creek, descending nearly 6,000 feet until it flows into the Hoh River.
Once on the valley floor, the river meanders through one of the largest temperate rainforests in North America. Coastal Douglas Fir, Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock adorned with blankets of lichen stand tall through saturated soils. Eventually the river makes its way to the coast where sediment from the glacier provides nutrients for phytoplankton - essential for the health of marine food webs that support salmon and the Southern Resident Orcas, among other characters of the Salish Sea and the Olympic Coast. For thousands of years the trees of the Hoh Rainforest have borne witness to this exchange between the mountain, the forests, and the sea.
But for the first ten miles of our journey we trudged through ankle deep mud and an onslaught of rain that lasted all night. Self-doubt swam through the pool of water around my tent and crept into my sleeping bag. Why did I drag these ladies out here? They were both in nursing school and working in hospitals. They had demanding schedules and had rearranged things just to make it. Leanne had just gotten off of a night shift and slept in the car for hours. How was she even functioning? After a cold and sleepless night for all of us, the rain stopped. Another ten miles and 7,000 feet later we found ourselves relatively dry, tired and setting up camp on a rocky outcrop on Snow Dome. We had a beautiful view of the summit block and the valley we had come from. We made our plan for the morning and laughed about the day’s inevitable mishaps while we watched the moonrise over the peak.
Right Photo: The author preparing to spread her Mom's ashes.
I found where I wanted to scatter my mom’s ashes at sunrise and when the morning came it was perfect: There was no wind - just clear skies, soft morning light, and three friends sitting in sleeping bags and making coffee. I got ready to go have a moment to myself with my mom on the glacier, but when I made eye contact with Leanne and Erin I started sobbing. As I fumbled around with my mom’s ashes in my hand, I think they thought I was struggling with the thought of parting with her. I hope when they read this it feels good to learn that that wasn’t what was going on: I was definitely ready to let my mom go, I just wasn’t ready to accept that these two women were up there with me. I wrote a letter to my mom on the back of the USGS topo map I had with me, scattered her ashes, and walked away. It was simple and sweet, just like sharing coffee with Leanne and Erin had been that morning.
When we first crossed the Blue Glacier we were all giggles, but on the way back there was a different energy. I felt like I could feel the glacier sighing. I wondered what it knew, what it was holding onto in the deep parts of itself where it had scraped the soil for thousands of years, what it had lost and was losing in the face of changing climate.
I resonate with the thought that the sides of the mountain are more important than the summit, that the glaciers and snowfields of these wild ranges give life to the ecosystems below. However, this trip made me think about what we cultivate at the center of our lives that gives life to our side quests. I had a story in my head that told me that no one would show up for something so personal, but years of sharing ropes and stories with women have helped me to believe that that story just isn’t true. I have a hope for our community that we can help one another cultivate connection and that we can all work to build spaces where women are free to show up as a resource for one another.
To quote Joanna Macy, another deep ecologist: “Walk boldly through your life with an open, broken heart.” I would add that you don't have to walk it alone: There are women out there who want to walk alongside you
