Hiking up Roxy Ann’s dirt trail in search of a friend dead three years now. But Cleve never trudged up. He pedaled his mountain bike with the sole intent of RACING down, skirting between young trees and digging into the corners, all the while daring himself to lay off the brake handle.
He and I differ in that. I love climbing, lost in the struggle, the pain. And I fear the decent, imagining every danger, and seeing only one possible destination.
At the top I am greeted by a rocky terrace and a view of the valley. Barely out of breath, hardly strained, I sip coffee and remember my last visit to this spot: standing beside Cleve’s sons, Walker and Gavin, assisting them in the spreading of ashes; my own son present then.
Today I get memories and view out over the edge.