We rolled into the parking lot, obeying the 15 mile per hour limit, and my excitement begins to increase seeing the scattered people looking up on the ridge, with binoculars and spotting scopes in hand.  Just as my mind begins to wonder what the other tourists are looking at, coming from the passenger seat to my right I hear, “I need to ask you to do me a favor.”  With an air of hesitation in light of the mystery and surprise of this favor, gratitude overtakes me, reveling in the fact that I get to help a friend out with an endeavor which is deeply important to her.

 

Easily finding an open spot to park, we ignore the binocular and spotting scope laden crowd, and head in the opposite direction – behind the lodge, through the trees, and into the employee housing area, where there are numerous tiny, adorable rustic cabins.  While my compatriot explains that she did attempt this operation already this season, since she arrived at Glacier National Park, the details shared in regards to the location she was seeking were skewed from the facts. Both pairs of eyes squinting through framed prescription lenses, we meander. My heart is pumping with anticipation, not just for the impending success, but for the oddness and emotional aspect of it all. My compatriot is being brave, and following her heart, regardless of what a friend, or stranger, may think of it all.  Fortunately, being from the same tribe of those that have suffered from grief, I understand. Moreover, I feel proud that she entrusted me to be a part of her healing.

 

Cabin ‘C10’ comes into our view, and immediately, our pace slows, and our eyes dart from left to right. Noticing the two women sitting on the picnic table just outside our target, and smack dab in the middle of this circle of cabins, I mumble, “we should probably say hi to these people and explain what we are doing.” My compatriot either does not hear me or is far too transfixed on the mark to care, slurring a, “what?” back to me. Her head and body do not turn, but rather continue straight, barely noticing there are any other living souls in her vicinity.

 

Adding a slight detour to my path, I veer right and confront the strangers. “Hey guys…sorry to barge in on you, but we are on a bit of a weird mission. Actually, weird is not the right word…a unique mission.”

 

One party’s interest is piqued, chirping back before I finish my sentence, “what is the weird mission?”

 

“I’ll let Naomi explain,” I blurt in response, lacking the empathy in the moment, realizing a mere second later that she may have prefered if I explained.

 

Simply, and to the point, Naomi relays the mission to the two strangers, eyes towards the ground, and some fidgeting with whatever was in reach.  “A friend of mine died a year ago, and he used to work here, at Glacier. He said that this was his favorite place. He lived right here at this cabin, cabin ‘C10’. I worked with him at Acadia National Park. I came to work at Glacier for him. I just wanted to get a photo in front of his cabin.”

 

Awestruck, the one woman who was clearly more engaged, perked up even more, eyebrows raised, standing up, as if to wrap Naomi up in her arms, with tender care. Instead, she announced, “‘C10’ is my cabin! If you give me a minute, I’ll clean up a bit, and you can come inside!”

 

Jaw dropped, and eyebrows raised behind her spectacles, my compatriot instantly gets that smile that we all love to see on her face, cheeks bursting outward, and just a slight giggle expelling from her throat. “Oh my goodness! This is amazing,” she states without realizing she said the words out loud, turning towards the cabin in disbelief.  Standing back, a bit behind her, I reach for the strength to calm my fluttering heart, and keep the weeping wall from igniting. Shaking myself back, I focus on my role.

 

“Want me to get the picture of you in front of the cabin while we are waiting?”

 

Naomi turns back towards me quickly, just to hand me her phone. Having already been staring at the cabin, surely experience strong emotions and an unforgettable moment, we were on the same page for the photographs, without even conversing. Her back towards me, and hands in pockets, she continued to stare. The thoughts, feelings, longings, aches and joys surging through her heart at that time are unknown to me. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to capture a still of this moment, to remind her of all that she felt and saw as she was gazing at the cabin. To remind her of her friend, Finch.

 

Connection to a loved one, in the closest way one could get to after he has passed away, is what I imagine would be the strongest feeling in that moment. He used to live here. He loved this place more than anywhere else. They met working at another National Park. It was her first ever National Park she worked at. She fell in love with that park, and the lifestyle. She is now here, at his place. She is here, at his National Park. A piece of his heart will always be right here – within the walls of this cabin, amongst these trees, on the crumbling rock faces of the peaks surrounding, and flowing through the waters of the many glacial lakes and rivers.  Moreover, he is in the hearts of all those he touched while here.

 

Invited inside, Naomi follows the current resident into her room, attempting to uncover any traces of Finch.  The current resident explains that inside her roommates cupboard is a bunch of quotes. “Finch loved quotes!” Naomi retorts with zeal.

 

“Crap, the cupboard is locked.” We all sigh, wishing for even more magic out of this rendez vous.

 

Walking back outside of cabin ‘C10’ my compatriot asks for one more favor of this sweet sympathetic resident we surprised. “Finch’s ex-girlfriend told me to find Mitch, because they were close friends, and he still works here, supposedly,” she said calmly with no expectations.

 

“Oh really? Mitch lives right across here. Let me go get him!”

 

Only seconds later, just on the other side of the picnic table and, “hammock city,” we are already amidst another deep layer of this mission.  The self-less current resident, knocks a few times, then swings open the door. A pause then, “Mitch! Wake up and put some pants on! There is someone outside here that you need to meet!”

 

Now a group of five, with four of us not personally knowing Finch, we enjoy some giggles as anticipation beings to bubble within our circle, awaiting pantsless Mitch to stumble outside.  Opening the screen door to see an ensemble of three people who he knows and works with, and two strangers, his endearing smile and bare feet emerge and complete our circle.  Scruffy long beard, messy hair held back with a map pattern headband, a maroon t-shirt with some outdoorsy writing on it, glasses, and shorts (no he did not come out pantless), I immediately feel comfortable with him. He looks like a dirtbag, world backpacking, tramper who works seasonal jobs and loves life. He is.

 

“Hey, I am Naomi, and I am friends with Finch,” was all she said.

 

All she had to do was say her friend’s name, and everything came into focus for Mitch. Overwhelmed with emotion, Mitch’s right hand drew up to his chest, directly over his heart. Mouth gaping open, eyebrows raised, slightly upward in the middle above his nose, and leaning a tad backwards, he gasped with an inhale. “Oh my gosh, you knew Finch?”

 

“Yeah, I am here at Glacier because of him. I work over at East Glacier. I met him at Acadia.”

 

This is the moment. The moment that you cannot capture in a photo. It is a moment that is so raw, real, heartbreaking, honest, and universal, that it is the most simple statement I have ever heard to explain grief.  These words, and Mitch saying them, to my dear friend Naomi, outside that cabin, amongst those trees, surrounded by towering peaks, and rushing teal glacial waters, will forever stay in my memory.

 

“I miss his voice.”

 

Typing these words on my DELL laptop, at the picnic table of my campsite at Bowman Lake, my nose begins to twitch and my heart feels light. I miss his voice. I miss HER voice! I miss HIS voice! It is so overwhelmingly true. It is so simple, yet so powerful. One’s voice is unique. Hearing a loved one’s voice is beautiful, and comforting. Even hearing a perfect stranger’s voice can be astonishingly touching, in a few situations. For example, if you have been through-hiking or tramping, and have not come across another person in a day or more. Or, another less-common experience, when you spend over a week with the same people, but are unable to speak to another, until the 10th day (Vipassana Meditation Course).  Those times when we speak on the phone with our best friend, and it has been a month, or even a year, since the last  conversation. Or when you are separated from your partner, due to travel, or work, and you have your first phone conversation in a few days, or a week.

 

One’s voice is special. It is unique. It is a cherished gift.

 

Our night continued with spotting Grizzly Bear through a Park Ranger’s spotting scope, and watching four Moose play and bathe in a small lake. Driving away from this beautiful and unforgettable section of the park, we watched the sunset from the road, inside the truck, and I shared with my compatriot the part of the evening that stood out to me the most.

 

“Yeah, I call his cell phone every once and awhile to hear his voice,” Naomi shared, a little sullenly.

 

Sharing the one fact that supports my appreciation of the moment and the statement of the evening, “I have one voicemail from my mom that I listen to often.”

 

I miss her voice. I miss picking up the phone, and clicking the photograph of her on my speed dial, with the label, “mom cell.”  I miss the near guarantee to hear, “hey Booboo,” in a matter of seconds after pressing that button. I miss the voice messages with run downs of everyday life. I miss hearing her reactions to all the crazy adventures I go on, and daunting decisions I make. I miss every embarrassing thing she would say. I miss talking to her about coming to visit me. I miss her asking me about my career and my love life.

 

There are even some things that I will never get to hear her beautiful voice say. The finality of it all, guaranteed to never get to hear her unique and special voice say these things breaks my heart. The pain is deep and strong enough to bring tears to my eyes in this current moment, with only the thought of what is not to come.

 

“When can I come visit you at Kirkwood?”

“How is Dan?”

“How is your website going?”

“Tell me about your new job this season.”

“What are you going to talk about in your next speech?”

“How is writing your book going?”

 

There are countless more that I do not even feel comfortable sharing in these medium.

 

Most of all, I miss hearing, “I love you Booboo.” What I wouldn’t give to hear those words again, straight from her lips, whispered into my ear while in her arms, or over the phone across multiple countries and oceans.  Thank goodness I have that voice message.

 

***Note: some names, locations and titles are modified for the subjects’ privacy.