My Father's Ashes

My dad never knew about Donna. Although I had already made tentative plans to go full-time at work as Donna, his death just before New Year's in December 1998 came shortly before I came out to my family. And although his death certainly didn't make me do what I've done, I have learned that death, considering our own mortality, and questioning our very reason for being here can be profoundly affecting experiences.

Shortly after the 1-year anniversary of my dad's death the world celebrated the new millennium. I needed to find an appropriate way to celebrate this huge milestone in history, and decided that a very personal, private tribute to my dad would provide at least some level of spiritual satisfaction for me.

It's funny....but the more difficult the journey, the more satisfaction we feel at having made it. That kind of sums up this journey I'm on, as well....

-- Journal Entry

As the new century dawned, it seemed just like any other day. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but for some reason I thought things might feel different. I mean, the first day of the new millennium had always seemed like such a huge milestone in the history of mankind. It always seemed to be so far off in the future, but yet, here it was. I remember lying in bed as a child, trying to do the math to calculate just how old I’d be in the year 2000. Would I be married? Would I have children yet? What kind of job would I be doing? It took me months to get used to writing a new year on things, just think how long is would take to get used to writing a new century.

I planned to celebrate the significance of this historic day by doing something symbolic and meaningful for my dad. I planned a relaxing and spiritual drive to Northern Arizona to scatter some of his ashes into the Grand Canyon, giving him the ultimate of eternal resting places.

At mid-morning, the weather in Scottsdale was mostly sunny and cool. Unfortunately, the weather north of Phoenix, heading up into the rocky mountains towards Flagstaff, was very unpleasant and dangerous. It was cold. It was blustery. And, it was snowing.

For some odd reason, I viewed this obstacle as a personal test of my resolve to perform this task for my father on this special day that marked the new millennium. It was as if he had personally asked me to do this for him, although I think that, if he were alive he would have taken one look at the weather and rescheduled the trip to another day when the weather was more accommodating. After all, the Canyon wasn’t going anywhere. For some reason, though, I had already stubbornly made up my mind. It had to be today.

The drive from Scottsdale to the Grand Canyon is about 220 miles, starting at the desert floor that is the Valley of the Sun, upwards through the cool mountains around Flagstaff. It was a drive I had done many times before as tour guide to friends and family who came to visit us in our desert haven, and most days it took me four and a half hours to navigate.

As I headed north into the mountains, the skies ahead loomed dark and ominous. Flashing signs by the side of the road indicated that slick roads were ahead, and advised drivers to take an alternate route. I began to see cars in the other lane, heading south, that were covered in snow. Soon, it started snowing a little. Before I knew it, I was engulfed by a blizzard.

I had lived in upstate New York for 15 years, and had become a fairly capable winter driver. Most of my winter driving was done on roads serviced by plows and salt trucks that were used to such inclemency. The highway through the mountains of Arizona had become an icy glaze, and there wasn’t a salt-truck in sight.

Those of us foolhardy enough to challenge the howling mountain snows crawled along at 30 miles an hour. Some cars had pulled to the side of the highway in hopes that things would let up. Others were not so fortunate, skidding off the highway before coming to rest at some crazy angle, or upside down, in the center median. At one point, I waited for over an hour as snow accumulated on bumper-to-bumper traffic that waited on the mountain highway for a jackknifed semi to be removed so that traffic could pass.

I considered turning back at least a dozen times, my grip on the steering wheel so tight that I couldn’t unclench my fingers. My eyes strained from trying to keep my eyes on the road through the howling snows that cloaked everything in a swirling white fog. The muscles in my neck and shoulders were stiff and sore. But for some reason, I felt confident that my dad wanted me to do this. As I drove, I spoke to him, asking that if he were watching to please watch over me. Whether out of faith or folly, I would not turn back.

I pulled into the park as the late afternoon sun was beginning to set. The view across the canyon was as amazing as I had ever seen, dark skies above punctuated by holes where beams of sunlight drilled through the gloom onto the white canopy of fresh snow that covered the magnificent red rocks below. Dark clouds raced across the sky almost as if they were looking for the small outbreaks of blue that tried to peek through the shroud, trying to plug the holes before they had a chance to grow. I paused only briefly to appreciate the magnificence of the panorama. I had other reasons for being there.

I reached into the simple but elegant urn that I used to store his ashes, and scooped out a small cupful. I sat there, looking at the speckled gray dust, marveling at the seeming uselessness of it all. I knew that these ashes weren’t my father. The essence that had been my dad had long since vacated this world, leaving behind only an empty husk that we call a body. Still, the symbolic act of bringing his ashes to this place on this day helped me find comfort, and helped me remember my dad. It felt almost as if we had taken this trip together.

I held a short vigil before pouring the cupful of ashes off the ledge and down into the canyon. I watched as they sprinkled and sparkled, floating on the swirling winds almost as if they were flying with unseen wings. I understood why my dad would want to spend his eternity there, and felt a sense of peace and accomplishment that I could do that for him. He would have been proud of me.

I wiped the tears from my eyes before getting back into the car for the long ride home.