August 2012
When I first started working at the bakery, it was a weekend gig, where I'd come in, help shill the delectable breads and pastries and keep the place clean while shaking from the over-caffeinated coffee. My coworkers were cheery and nice (full disclosure, one was my sister, Chloe), but for the most part, I had trouble finding anyone to connect with on a deeper, let's-hang-out-after-work level. After I graduated college and began working at the bakery full-time, a new employee entered the roster. GW was tall, young looking for his age and held a captivating stare and friendly tone that connoted modest confidence and warmth, keeping an audience clinging on his every word. He was jovial, bright, carefree and easy to be around -- plus he excelled at dealing with harsh customers. Early on, I discovered he was from Montana ("where did you grow up" is usually one of the first questions I ask people) and I instantly decided that I needed a friend to tell me all about that wild, unfathomable place.
GW had lead a fascinating life -- the kind I grew to envy. Growing up in Bozeman, just outside of Yellowstone National Park, he'd spent much of his time hunting, hiking and exploring the wilds of the West -- even working for the Marlboro Ranch as a trail guide. ("It was kind of a weird, but great job," he'd reminisce. "Everyone there was so happy to be at the ranch, but because they'd smoked so many cigarettes, they often couldn't do the hikes, ya know? But we'd have that time allotted for the hike, so the trail guides would just go on it ourselves.")
We'd spend a lot of time after work hanging out. With a six-pack of Naragansett, a few cups of coffee and some National Parks maps to pour over, he'd tell me of trails and and adventures, books to read* and movies to watch while we listened to early-aughts alternative rock (boy, did he love The Darkness) in the apartment he shared with his lovely girlfriend Bobbie and their chatty Maine Coon cat, Costello (that cat had personality to spare).
Our friendship had grown swiftly and strongly, so even after I'd left the bakery and he began working a baking shift that ended at 2 am, we still made an effort to hang out once a week. But as his time working the late shift grew, he became tired, worn out -- he was less and less the bubbly fellow I'd known for the last few years. Bobbie had been attending nursing school in Boston (the reason they moved to the city in the first place), and as her schooling came to an end, they decided they were going to move back to Bozeman. I was upset to lose a friend, but tried to think on the bright side: Now I have someone to visit in Bozeman! We had, however, realized something that shocked both of us -- for all of our hiking talk, we'd never gone on a hike together. His departure loomed in the near future, roughly two weeks after my return from Glacier (a trip he'd helped me plan), so our organizing window was short. He'd done a long trip to the White Mountains and seemed enamored with the place, so we picked a crew and a mountain, and hashed out the logistics.
* * * *
And so, GW and I found ourselves bumping up 95 towards Portsmouth, NH in Eric's Jeep with our friend Mark in tow. The sky behind us was coral and indigo, but before us it was black and foreboding. As we crossed over into New Hampshire, the sky strobed, the air shuddered with thunder, and a wall of water washed over us. GW looked out the window wearily as ribbons of water distorted the view. We ran into our friend Daniel's Portsmouth residence where we determined that making our way to the Whites tonight would be treacherous and miserable, as anyone who's set up camp in a thunderstorm can attest. So we made plans to wake early on the morrow and drive up first thing. In the meantime, we made our way to a bar.
It was still overcast and foggy when we woke. We piled in to the cars to make our way to the Presidential Range, still groggy from a short night's sleep. Our throats were sore from the kind of loud conversation that occurs at bars, and our bellies were filled with our breakfast of mac & cheese with a side of baked beans (lord help us in the car). Initially, we'd planned on climbing the 5,712-foot Mt. Jefferson, but as the drive north took over two hours, we decided to cut 300 feet of elevation from our trip and go with the nearby Madison. Precipitation was looming in the 60% range, which as anyone who's climbed New Hampshire's Appalachia knows, means we were probably going to get wet. Our gloom hung over the car as we dreaded a rainy hike above tree line. But, as the foothills of the Whites began to rise above the tree line, the clouds broke and a blue sky beamed with delightful sunlight. We turned up the Creedence as we rolled up Route 16 under the watchful gaze of Mt. Washington and the other towering Presidential Mountains. With the windows down, we breathed in the air, thick with sweet summer humidity.
The hike was long and strenuous. The air was dense from last night's rain and the day's heat, and the forest canopy was deep and suffocating. Soon, we passed through the tree line and the air became breezy and unoppressive. The land looked moorish, rocky with little shrubs and grasses covering the mountainside. We looked out over the rolling, dramatic landscape as small puffy clouds danced over the ridge lines. Beyond us, the towering peaks of Adams and Washington rocketed into the sky. We breathed deep the mountain air and smiled widely. The forests below were jade and rich; no sounds of the human-filled world beneath permeated them.As we passed the AMC hut, GW and Eric spotted Star Lake and elected to go explore it while Mark, Daniel and I made our way towards the summit of Madison. The torturous thing about hiking a mountain above the tree line is that the peak always seems just within grasp, until you actually try to reach it swiftly. We tired ourselves scrambling over the car-sized boulders that make up the mountain's crown, but after some effort, we made it to the ridge that leads to the trail's terminus. Below, Mark and I could see GW, Eric and Daniel laboring to meet us, when Mark suggested that we race to the peak. I still felt energized so I took him up on this gamble, forgetting not only that Mark is a marathon runner (although not one who owns or would ever own a 26.2 bumper sticker; apparently you can run a marathon without telling everyone about it) but also that he is extremely competitive.
As we scurried across the ridge, using our hands almost as much as our feet to move, Mark began to take the lead. In an uncharacteristic flurry of aggression, I pushed myself to run harder, forgetting the perils of leaping from rock to rock without paying attention. Suddenly, my lungs jumped and my nose filled with the sensation that I had just been punched in the face -- I had lost balance. Before I could brace for impact, my shin was abruptly stopped by the hard edge of a granite slab and I careened over, clutching my leg. Mark continued on, not noticing that I had halted, and I looked down at my leg dreadfully. A broken shin at 5,300 feet would be a terrible way to end the hike, not to mention a shameful story to write. But, free of shame am I! Examining my leg, I found it only glossy with blood as opposed to perforated with leg bone. Delightful! I lightly limped over to Mark, who had since finished our race and was captivated by the view. The air was still, with only the sound of a distant breeze audible. The rest of our crew joined us and we stared over the precipice of the mountain to the eternity below and beyond, feeling the pull of vertigo every-so-sweetly inviting us to fall into the void of the mountains.Flycatchers danced around us as we enjoyed lunch. Wild blueberry bushes were abound with a fresh bounty, the air sweet with their scent, and we picked a handful to enjoy with our sandwiches. Large clouds glided gently over Washington as the glint of windshields caught the sun along the auto road.
I sat next to GW while we ate our sandwiches. He nudged me and pointed to my shin.
"Leg's bleedin', bro."
"Oh, yeah," I replied sheepishly. "The race...Mark beat me."
"Hell of a beating." He smiled slightly. We turned out attention back to the mountains.
After lunch, GW and I took a walk around the summit by ourselves, talking about the long move he had ahead of him. He was worn out on Boston. In addition to the weeks and months of long shifts and late nights, he'd had a stressful final week in the city: He'd come home just a few days before and found the hallway covered in blood. Nearby, he discovered a bat that Costello had removed from the living (how the bat managed to get into the apartment was a mystery). The thought of rabies entered GW's head immediately, and he rushed his cat and the departed bat to the MSPCA. The beginning of his meeting with the vet had been distressing. They would run tests on the bat for rabies, and if it came back positive, they would have to keep Costello isolated and under observation for several weeks. He began to fret about the move. He couldn't wait around for the observation, so he determined he would simply kidnap (catnap?) Costello and bring him to Montana, conducting his own isolated observation until the prognosis was clear. The next day, the tests came back negative, and he was free to take his cat home. Despite the positive prognosis, the event was as ominous as it was taxing."Jesus, GW," I said, at a loss for anything more substantial. "Well, I mean, I know it doesn't matter now, but if it had come down to it, you could have stayed with me, or I would have watched over him until you could come get him."
"Thanks," he said, staring out at the mountains. "But really, I don't think I'm going to come back to Mass. Not for a long time, anyway, ya know?" He looked tired now, but turned back to me and smiled briefly.
"Well I think you should," I jokingly protested. "But either way, I'll just have to come out and visit you."
"Yeah," he responded after a moment. "That'd be nice."
* * * *
We made our way back down the mountain after a while without incident. It was still bright out when we left, but we were all rather tired and determined to head back to Boston after dinner. In Conway, we stopped at a pizza place for some slices and a beer (can't recall the place, but the pizza was very good). We joked around a bit, recapping highlights from the day, but mostly sat quietly, preparing for the long ride home.
We parted ways with Daniel and made our way to 93 and back to Boston. Mark was heading back to Holliston with Eric for the night, so only GW and I needed to be dropped off. We got out of the car at GW's place, and I helped unload his gear. His dad was coming in to town the next day to help him prepare for the move, so he said he might not have time to see me again before he left. I told him that if he needed any help getting the gear in the truck, watching Costello, or drinking a beer, to let me know. He said he would, gave me a hug, and went on inside.
As the door closed behind him, I tried to think of something to shout, but he was gone before anything clever entered my head. Good enough, I thought. I'll see him before he leaves anyhow.
* * * *
The months have gone by and turned into years. I wrote him a few letters, called him on many occasions, and sent him a few photos of us I'd taken on that hike up Madison -- the only photos of us together -- but I never heard back. I called up friends at Clear Flour, asking if I had his address and phone number correct. I did. I asked if they'd had any contact with him. They had. I told them next time he called to tell him to give me a ring. A few days later, my friend and old co-worker Daisy told me that he'd called and asked them to tell me that "Whatever I left with Rory, let him know he can keep it." This perplexed me a great deal, as he'd not left anything with me. I left him another voice mail, but I never found out what he meant by it.
It's been almost a year since I reached out to him last. I deleted his phone number from my contacts to keep myself from calling him. Every so often, I'll see an old Clear Flour alumn and they'll ask if I've heard from him. They're always bemused to learn that I haven't, as he's kept up correspondence with them, but I tell them that's just the way these things go, neglecting to consider what any of it really means to me. I think sometimes about what I'd said or done to incur this odd silence, as regret and embarrassment are my favorite lens through which to view past deviations, but I can't find any singular moment that would lead to this.
So no longer can I consider these things. Instead, I must move on and take the advice of the author Edward Abbey from Desert Solitaire, the last book GW gave me:
"A venturesome minority will always be eager to set off on their own, and no obstacles should be placed in their path; let them take risks, for Godsake, let them get lost, sunburnt, stranded, drowned, and eaten by bears, buried alive under avalanches -- that is the right and privilege of any free American."
*He was the one who introduced me to the works of Edward Abbey, so I kind of owe him a lot.
All photos by Mark.
