Before her lay a rolling carpet of white snow dotted with stunted trees and exposed black knobs of rock, all bathed in a soft pink hue. Tears sprang to her eyes as she drank in the breathtaking beauty. A soft breeze ruffled the wispy hairs at her temples and tickled her cheeks while her heart rolled to and fro as if caught in the tide. She felt the ache of Pete’s absence while her love for him glowed from deep within her.
Even though it hurts, I know this is the right thing to do. I know that you’re proud of me.
The route began a steady but straightforward climb up one of the ridges and she dedicated her muscles to the task. Each ski slid forward then stopped, arrested by the climbing skins; each arm swung a pole forward and tapped into the snow. Swing, tap. Slide, stop. Swing, tap. Slide, stop. Her lungs drew in cold, alpine air. In, out.
Mark had offered to accompany her. He said Aaron and a few other friends could come too, describing the trip as one big sendoff. He promised noisemakers and party hats and a flask of Jameson and cake to share at the summit. But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want noise or company. She needed to do this alone, though she couldn’t articulate why.
Several hours into the climb the sun had warmed the air and washed the mountain with bright light shining off the creamy snow. She removed her second-to-last layer and unzipped her ski pants’ side zippers all the way to catch the breeze blowing softly from the southwest. A pair of camp jays landed on a nearby baby fir tree, their greedy cries breaking the stillness. After nibbling on a handful of trail mix, she set off again. The trail steepened, forcing her to ascend in a series of switchbacks that exposed her line of tracks below emerging out of the forest and wiggling over each rise and valley. From this elevation the forest seemed so small and far away. It was hard to believe that she had come so far solely under her own power.
This was one reason she loved backcountry skiing. Pushing through the challenge meant that every inch of progress was hers to claim.
Ahead, the white dome of Mt. Adams and the conical summit of Mt. Hood rose above the foothills. At the top of a rise, she stopped to take in the 180-degree vista, her breaths panting and her heart thumping fast into her ears. She checked her watch: 9:30 a.m. The year before, even with the additional time to hike the first section, she and Pete had stood on the crater rim by 10:00—a five-hour ascent. Today, after a winter spent hibernating in her grief, she knew she wasn’t in good enough shape to accomplish such a feat.
Recently, she had started riding her bike to campus, and it had become her ritual, almost like medicine. When she felt stronger and the snow melted, there would be trails to explore. Trails she would have experienced with Pete.
The ascent seemed to go on and on, the undulating rises giving way to more rises instead of the gradual ease that signaled the summit approach. What if she got too tired? What if she couldn’t reach the summit at all and had to turn back without completing her goal? A sob escaped her lips. She leaned on her poles and closed her eyes. I can’t do this, she thought.
Hot pulses of sadness broke over her like waves, threatening to pull her under. Her body quivered and she gasped for breath as the sobs took control. She felt powerless and small against the pain that crashed into her and forced her down. She cried and howled until she had nothing left, and slowly, as if she had been in a raging river that emptied to a gentle glide, she came back to herself. She sensed her focus widening again so that she could feel the breeze and smell the wet, earthy scent of the mountain.
She pushed on again, the sun heating her back, and the views opened up even more. Memories of Pete flooded through her. She remembered the two of them visiting Quinn in San Francisco together for his birthday. Because it was Pete’s first visit, they visited all the crazy tourist sites: riding the cable car, visiting Ghirardelli’s chocolate factory, strolling the waterfront, driving across the Golden Gate Bridge. They had joined Quinn at the bar for a raucous evening with a hundred of his best friends and had stumbled back to his apartment feeling buzzed and aroused. They had made love on the futon in the guest room, too much in a rush to fold it down into a bed.
Cassidy closed her eyes and felt his warm skin against hers, his gentle touch caressing her shoulders, her hips. She remembered the first time they had made love in her room, her desire like a firecracker. But she remembered their fights, too: like the time she had surprised him with plane tickets to Hawaii. When she saw how his face fell, she knew she had made a mistake. “It’s too much,” he’d said, his face an odd expression. “We should plan something like this together.” Cassidy realized that he had been too proud to accept what he saw as a lavish gift. He wanted to help pay for it, even though at the time she knew he couldn’t. “What good is this money if I don’t enjoy it?” she had asked, tears building behind her eyes. She hardly ever tapped into her inheritance, reserving it for emergencies or for investments like buying the house and her retirement fund. But it was her money and she could do
