A Quiet Funeral
A short story.
The dark gray Jeep labored up the rocky trail under leaden Colorado skies that almost
matched the vehicle’s color. The road was rough, and the driver’s average speed was only three miles per hour. Inside, the driver, a man of about thirty years of age, and an older woman in her 70s. The road was so torturous that the man glanced occasionally at his passenger to see how she was handling the jostling. The woman stared to the front, seemingly without seeing.
The man was a member of the local Jeep club, whose members spent weekends
wandering the backroads and trails throughout the nearby mountains. A friend had put the woman in touch with the club with a special request.
“Sorry for the rough ride,” the man offered.
“It’s fine. I came up here with him many years ago, and it was rough then. It hasn’t
improved with age.”
A few snowflakes blew past the windshield, and the man cast his eyes upward,
concerned about the lowering weather. They were almost six miles into the mountains, and this was no place to be trapped in a snowstorm.
Through the trees ahead and below, a small horseshoe-shaped lake glistened at the base of a mountain. The rocky dirt road meandered through the pines and cedars and eventually curved to within a quarter-mile of the lake’s northern shoreline before resuming its climb towards the pass, still five miles ahead and three thousand feet above. Where the road was closest to the lake, the man pulled the Jeep to the side and shut off the engine.
“The trail down to the lake isn’t too bad, but are you sure you’re up for this? The wind’s picking up and it’s uphill all the way back.”
The woman glanced at the man and said, “I made a promise, and I’ll keep it. I walk a
couple of miles a day. I can handle this.”
“Okay, ma’am. Zip up and let’s go. We can’t dally with this weather moving in.”
They got out of the car and stretched. The woman opened the rear door on her side and retrieved a small cardboard box.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she said. He wished she looked ready.
The trail down to the lake was rocky, but in decent shape, and they made good progress as they worked their way down to the shoreline. The man broke the silence, as much to satisfy his curiosity as to distract the woman from her thoughts.
“What was he like?”
She hesitated a moment as if trying to decide how to describe her husband. “He was a
good man, loved me, loved his mountains just as much, and I sometimes he think loved his dogs most of all.”
“You all must miss him.”
“Every day since he died last Fall. This is my first chance to fulfill his wish, and I almost waited too late. The dogs passed six months after he did.” She motioned with the box. “They’re here with him.”
The man fell silent as they made their way the last few hundred yards to the shoreline. In the basin, the wind swirled and the snowfall rate was increasing.
“Well, ma’am. Pick your spot.”
“They’re all pretty, this will do just fine.”
She stood for a few moments with her eyes closed, whether praying or not the man
couldn’t tell. A few tears appeared on her cheeks, which she wiped away. She fumbled with the box, finally opening it and extracting a plastic bag filled with ashes. Handing the box to the man, she twisted open the tie wrap, knelt, and poured the ashes next to a large rock to protect them from the wind.
Standing, she retrieved the box, stuffed the plastic bag within, and looked around one
last time.
“He loved it here.” A pause, then “We can go.”
The sound of the Jeep’s motor faded as the two made their laborious way back to the valley below. At the lake’s edge, the snowfall increased in intensity and the wind stirred and scattered the ashes into the rough grass that lined the shore. The sun had already fallen behind the ridge to the west and night was overtaking the lake.
A figure materialized out of the darkness, a man of indeterminate age, almost flickering, changing from old to young to old. Next to him, a large black dog appeared, followed by a smaller blond one. Above, breaks in the overcast occasionally allowed a bit of moonlight to touch them, giving him and the dogs an almost translucent quality.
“Well, guys,” the man said, squatting down by the dogs, “the adventure begins.” The
dogs danced around the man, tails wagging furiously. “We have a lot of exploring to do. I’m glad you’re with me.”
The man and the dogs started up the trail to the road and the mountain pass ahead. The overcast solidified, the moonlight was again banished, and the man and dogs faded into the storm.
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Note: Jeepers may recognize the setting for this story, Hermit Pass in the Sangre de Christo Mountains west of Westcliffe, Colorado. Horseshoe Lake sits at the foot of Hermit Peak (13,311’), with Eureka Lake occupying a bench just above it on the northern flank of Eureka Mountain (13,507’). The road is indeed rocky and rough, with an average speed of three miles-per-hour. It has deteriorated over the years and, as my character points out, it hasn’t improved with age. A high-lift 4-wd vehicle and a healthy back are essential.
