by Amy Waeschle
For Cassidy: Thank you for believing in me
The tears tumbled down and she had to look away. Anger and pain gripped her, threatened to pull her under. She sat with it, knowing that she needed to feel it, to let it in so that she could give it its place on her journey. She tried to think of Pete, jumping around the living room in excitement, holding his book, his eyes wild with joy. They would pore over the pages together, with him reading passages aloud to her, unable to resist reading them again now that they were polished. Now that they were real.
Cassidy checked her watch. Almost time, she thought as her nervous stomach completed a nauseating roll. After the doors closed, Cassidy walked to the front of the room. In the row of seats facing the stage, familiar faces stared back: Emily, Mark, Tara, Aaron, and Pete’s parents holding hands, their weathered faces tight with grief, but their eyes bright as she took her seat next to them. Tim squeezed her hand.
A thirtyish woman with shoulder-length brown hair and glasses stepped up to the podium. “Good evening,” she said. “My name is Willa Tate, the editor of Nearing Death, Twelve Close Calls from Extreme Athletes.” She paused, and clicked a small remote at a projector mounted on the ceiling. The cover of the book appeared on the screen behind her. She talked about how the idea for the book came to her after reading Pete’s avalanche survival story and described Pete’s effervescent energy for the project. The crowd laughed at the story about Pete yelping his trademark “Great Scott!” upon acceptance of his proposal.
“And now, I’d like to introduce Dr. Cassidy Kincaid,” Willa said, smiling at Cassidy.
Cassidy’s stomach dropped to her knees. It seemed to take her a great deal of effort to get to her feet. Finally, she felt the ground under her and climbed the steps to the stage. Willa retreated, allowing Cassidy to face the audience.
All eyes watched her. Her hands trembled and she fought a rising tide of panic. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.
She tried to feel Pete’s joy, tried to conjure the pride she felt for his accomplishment, but the crushing sadness did something to her mind, wiping it clean of everything she had prepared, and she wondered what she had been thinking, planning this. I can’t do this! she thought.
Her eyes met Emily’s, then Mark’s. And she remembered that she had to do this. She wanted to do this. For Pete.
She took a slow breath and let it out. “Good evening,” she said, her voice sounding weak. She reached for the glass of water on the podium, ignoring her trembling hand.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. She took another breath. “It means a lot to me, and it would have meant a lot to Pete,” she finished carefully. She bit her lip to hold herself together. She imagined Pete in her place, his intelligent eyes full of appreciation, his voice cracking as tears of pride filled his eyes. This is my dream, he would say. Thank you for being a part of it.
The audience, muted by the dimmed lights, did not stir, and she wondered briefly if she had slipped into some kind of alternate reality, where the people were just cardboard cutouts set up for her to practice. She had practiced in her living room, over and over again in an attempt to get through her speech without crying. But she had failed and was surely headed for disaster.
She read from the prepared card in her hand. “As most of you know, Pete and I, along with our friends Mark and Tara, were caught in an avalanche last winter. For some people, that would have ended their enthusiasm for backcountry skiing, or risk-taking.” She paused. “Not Pete.” She took another sip of water. “The experience of being buried alive changed him, but not in the way you might expect.” You’re doing fine, a voice inside her head told her. Then she took a slow, measured breath to remove herself from the moment in order to get past this next phrase because it brought her to an image of the crash site along that stretch of San Francisco highway. The idea that Pete didn’t know he was approaching the end of his life that night, didn’t understand that his choice to be there would end in tragedy threatened to push her off the deep end. “He became obsessed with understanding what happens to us when we get that close to death.”
Cassidy inhaled a deep breath, her mouth moving ahead while her mind caught up. “This obsession led him to reach out to other athletes who had experienced similar incidents: big wave surfers, rock climbers, divers, polar explorers, extreme skiers, base jumpers, and white-water kayakers. These conversations, plus many hours of research, led to the project that became Nearing Death.”
Cassidy clicked the remote, and a new slide of a giant wave popped onto the screen. She opened Pete’s book to the first selected passage and began reading, her voice stronger now that they were in Pete’s world and not her own. Pete’s beautifully chosen words leapt from the page, his curiosity for the surfer’s experience so earnest and clear, the sharpness of the narrative striking the air like the peal of a bell.
She read two more passages, one from the white water kayaking chapter, and the other from the sailing chapter. Again, the audience seemed to make no sound, no movement, until she was finished and closed her presentation with the words she knew would be hardest to say:
“Pete believed that experiencing life, even to its fullest and most dangerous, made us more alive, more present. Made life worth living. The athletes presented here believe that taking risks is necessary in order be fully alive. Even . . . ” Her voice broke. “Even if it means paying the ultimate price.” She clenched her jaw until the surge of emotion passed. “But Pete also loved with abandon. He never held back, and this I think was . . . ”—her breath caught again, and she paused, breathing in slowly, letting it out—“his greatest gift,” she managed as a tear trickled down her cheek. “It is my hope that you will all honor Pete with this idea: to love with abandon, explore with gusto, to push your limits so that you may love and live fully.”
She pushed the remote, and the final slide popped onto the screen, showing Pete at the top of the climb the day of the avalanche. He was looking over his shoulder at her, a wide, satisfied grin on his face. Mt. Baker’s snowy backcountry rose up in the background. He wore his light blue ski coat with the black T-neck thermal layer beneath. Cassidy remembered the frizzling energy he possessed that day and the way he had kissed her, his cold lips smacking hers with such enthusiasm she laughed.
Her eyes filled with tears. She saw people dabbing their eyes, holding hands. Sally and Tim resembled tiny brown shells, hollowed out by their grief, but Tim gave her a grim smile, and nodded.
“Thank you,” Cassidy said, stepping from the podium as applause filled the space around her.
Twenty-Six
Mount St. Helens, Washington
May 10, 2017
Cassidy pulled her truck into the Sno-Park lot at 4:45 am. The full moon cast long shadows across the open space, illuminating the handful of other cars parked against the snowbank. Her engine ticked as it cooled, and Cassidy sat for a moment, sipping the last of her coffee. Finally, she slid on her ski pants and coat and exited, her sneakers crunching over the crusty snow and gravel. She lowered the tailgate and reached for her large Tupperware bin containing her ski gear. Her breath fogged in little puffs in front of her vision as she slid her feet into the cold boots. She tightened the buckles, blowing on her chapped hands in between, then tucked in her layers and grabbed her ski poles from the back. After slipping on her gloves, she hoisted her daypack and grabbed her skis.
Due to the heavy snowpack, snow still covered the trail, allowing her to step into her skis at the sign-in box. The lack of recent storms meant that she didn’t have to break trail, so she slid along in the established tracks, the snow icy and hard beneath her skis. The previous year, she and Pete had been forced to hike through dirty, slushy muck in their ski boots for over an hour, carrying their skis on their packs.
She had stopped dreaming about Pete as much, but she wasn’t sure this meant progress. He hovered in her thoughts all the time, as did her sadness. She thought of Pete leading the way and could almost hear his skis sliding, his pole
tip jabbing at the hard snow. In his honor, she had packed peanut butter cookies, a smoked salmon sandwich, and several tangerines—the favorites he used to pack for her—though she wasn’t sure she would feel like eating.
All week she had been turning this idea over in her mind, sometimes avoiding it by working too much, sometimes crying about it because it hurt too much. She had thought she might go in March, when the skiing was better and she had a break in her projects, but the weather had been rainy and she had lost her nerve.
The effort of gliding through the trees and the moon’s ghostly presence focused her mind and warmed her core. Soon she was stashing her coat and switching her mittens for a pair of lightweight liners. The water from her camelback tasted deliciously cold after riding in her truck all night. After another half hour of gliding, pushing, her legs finding their rhythm, she broke out of the forest.
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 whatever she wanted with it. Pete had apologized but the trip was spoiled and she had returned the tickets. They had fought about Christmas, too. Last year she had begged to take a trip instead of splitting up to be with their families. As an alternative, Pete invited her to travel home with him, but his presumption that she would enjoy spending a week with his family—no matter how lovely they were—had hurt her feelings.
She switchbacked up a broad slope that tapered gently to a wide-open plateau. A gust cooled her sweaty brow as she paused to take in the view to the north. Mount Rainer’s glaciers shone in the sunlight, a majestic mound above the green and brown of the foothills below; Glacier Peak, looking almost purple, rose above the haze to the northeast. Mount St. Helens’ crater edge was still several hundred yards away, so she pushed on, her breaths in time with her fatigued legs and shoulders. The view into the crater and valley of devastation to the north opened slowly.
And then she stood on the edge, looking down into the cavern carved out by the 1980 explosion, the east and west ridges of the crater tapering down to the debris field and the deep blue of Spirit Lake.
After removing her skis, she slid her backpack from her shoulders and set it in the sun-softened snow. Using it as a chair, she took a moment to take everything in. Her legs ached and she was thirsty and sweaty. After a while, the chilled breeze had cooled her skin and she dug out her layers from her backpack. The small bag containing Pete’s ashes rolled around in the bottom and she paused before reaching for it. The weight of it had surprised her at first, but holding it now, here, brought on the pull of sadness once again, and she crumpled onto her pack with Pete’s ashes in her lap. How can I do this? How can I let you go?
She knew she should eat something, but her anxious stomach churned at the thought of food. A nervous, cramp-like sensation wiggled like a giant worm inside her as she stood and approached the crater, careful of the invisible cornices. The true summit lay a half mile away along the crater ridge, but she didn’t have the energy to get there. Inside the crater, plumes of steam erupted from the cindery dome like the breath from a sleeping dragon.
A soft breeze whistled past her ears and disappeared beneath the crater rim, c
arrying the scent of the forest and the melting snow into the valley. You will be free here, she thought, hugging the bag as she broke down. Tears blurred her vision, burning her lids as they escaped.
You will be a part of the mountain and the air and the rivers fed by the snow. And I will come back. I will come back to be with you again, to remember your arms around me and your hand in mine and your smile.
A sob escaped her lips as the pain throbbed in her heart. She closed her eyes as it rattled through her. She felt fragile and weak, breakable. Her arms shook with the effort of holding the bag, and she knew it was time, knew it was time to set him free but she couldn’t, she couldn’t do this thing. She fell to her knees in the soft snow and wept.
There must be some kind of sign, she thought through her pain. Something that tells me how to do this. She craved the sound of Pete’s soothing voice, the flash of his steadying gaze. But she knew that these things would not come, would never come.
Finally, after her tears subsided, she looked at the dark grey bag in her hands. With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the top. She stumbled to her feet and a gust of wind pressed against her body. When she rolled the sides of the bag down, the wind picked up a layer of the ashes and whisked it away, down into the crater. As more tears filled her eyes, she opened the bag further, tilting it into the wind. Another gust whistled past as she watched a grey stream of Pete’s ashes trail off into the sky and over the rim.
When it was over and the bag was empty, she sat and cried for a long time, the wind lifting the tears from her cheeks, and she thought of her tears finding those pieces of Pete drifting through the sky, mixing so that they could be together forever.
