A Dragonfly Showed Me the Way

When did watching a tiny dragonfly dart across my path prompt me to start saying, “Hello there, Kris”? It seems so natural for this greeting to tumble from my lips as I observe these neon streaks of purple. Maybe when is not as important as why I linked these wonderful encounters to my son. Stranger things have happened since my Army Ranger son was killed on the first night of Operation Enduring Freedom.

Logically, it may be as simple as needing a trigger to elicit a smile and connect with a memory of my son. But I am not alone in this ritual. Talking with other mothers who have lost their children in war, I learned that hummingbirds, hawks in flight, or an unexpected breeze through the trees have become suggestions of a child’s spirit living on in our universe. These mothers and I share a common bond, seeking special comfort by embracing these symbols. It’s a phenomenon we do not flaunt but hold close to our hearts, fearing our encounters will evaporate if misunderstood.

Maybe I chose the dragonfly to memorialize my last outing with Kris at Peace Valley Nature Center. I noticed these acrobatic insects floating around his legs as he tenderly stepped around the pond, watching his niece catch toads in the pungent black mud.

Perhaps I chose the dragonfly because of the way it moves. Seeing it fly effortlessly through the air reminds me of how Kris could move through the woods without making a sound. He could lie absolutely motionless, achieving his goal to be invisible in plain sight. In the next moment, he would jump up and run up a steep incline past his Ranger buddies, smiling at their attempts to keep up. My adopted symbol seems like a perfect fit for him.

No explanation will satisfy the skeptics, but I believe one of these hovering wonders helped me find what I had been desperately seeking on a mountain in the middle of the Rocky Mountain wilderness. But I should start at the end of one trip where this journey begins.

Kris would have been pleased with our fulfillment of his last request. We returned his ashes to Upper Holland Lake, located atop a mountain near Missoula, Montana, the summer after he died. Trekking up the seven-mile, two thousand foot ascension was no easy task, either mentally or physically; however, as soon as I got off the mountain, I wanted to go back to the lake.

There were good excuses to go again. Kris’ Rangers buddies were deployed to Afghanistan and could not help us do as Kris requested. For those who did make it to the lake, we came away with a deep sense of accomplishment and a desire to repeat the trek. A plan started to formulate: why didn’t we do this hike every year, on his birthday? It was a great excuse to set aside time to renew our friendships.

Living in my Pollyanna world, I believed everyone in the original group held the same commitment. But time eroded the enthusiasm and legitimate excuses got in the way. The Rangers were deployed again at the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom. For many, changes in employment rightfully took precedence over attending a mountaintop reunion. An empty hollow feeling replaced my obsession as the faithful mass dwindled to a mere handful.

On top of all the excuses, forest fires burned across Idaho and Montana that year. The expedition seemed doomed. While driving to the airport, the owner of the motel where we were slated to stay called with bad news. “The trails to Upper Holland Lake were just closed by the Forest Service. Looks like you’d be wasting your time coming out here this year.” My zeal finally burned out. I felt weary, bruised and just wanted to go home, curl up under a blanket, and hide from the world.

I started talking to myself as I drove back from the Philadelphia airport: “It’s just too much to ask of his friends to go back every year. All of them have young lives to fill up with their own memories.” A few miles later I thought, “Kris’ spirit was telling me that someone would have died on that year’s trek.” “It just wasn’t meant to be,” I decided.

My bravado spoke up as I neared Doylestown: “Okay, if I can’t talk anyone else into going next year, I’ll go up by myself. I could fly out, rent a car, and find my way up there again for at least one night.” My common sense luckily returned as I parked the car in the garage. “What are you, crazy, Ruth? Alone on a mountain with grizzly bears and mountain lions? You’re a bigger fool than I originally thought!”

While all my demonic voices continued to debate, I knew one thing for certain: I had to go back to Upper Holland Lake. I needed to see if my son’s ashes were still visible in the water. My priority became finding a safe way to do this without becoming a feature on the six o’clock news: “Grandmother disappears without a trace on solo hike. What was she thinking? Details after these messages.”

Harvey, my life partner, had organized the original trip for our friends and family. Almost afraid he would say no, I tentatively approached him to arrange another one. Miracle of miracles, he even agreed to come and spend two nights sleeping on the hard ground and eating weird freeze-dried backpacking meals. Preparations were easier because we had our equipment and knew what to expect. I had nothing to prove this time and no responsibility for anyone else.

We opted to ride horses up the mountain instead of hiking, walking back down on foot. I planned to burn everything I didn’t need, including my dirty clothes, in the final campfire—anything to help gravity get me down in one piece.

When I started having doubts about the second attempt, Erik and Traci, who came the first year, insisted, “We’re going, so you have to come. It just won’t be the same if you’re not there.” Then Luke, our original guide and my son’s best friend, phoned to say he had taken time off from his job to be at the lake. His girlfriend Emily planned to join us the second night to round out our small group of six.

We were to rendezvous at eight in the morning by the horse corral to load the pack animals with all the heavy gear, making all our backpacks lighter. Eight was a distant memory as nine o’clock arrived on my wristwatch and our friends were nowhere in sight.

Listening to the horses munching their breakfast of sweet-smelling grain, I said to Harvey, “Maybe they had car trouble, or missed their plane. What do you think? If they don’t come, do you want to stay up there for the three days or ride back down with the wrangler after a few hours?”

“They’re just late as usual. And even if they don’t make it, we’ll be fine.”

“Harvey, you have the trail map in your pocket, don’t you?”

“Yes, right here.”

Then the wrangler announced, “We should probably get started so the horses can be off the trail by noon.”

“Okay.” Now the real task was at hand: getting myself on the animal without too much embarrassment. A beautiful chestnut horse named Jessica became my unfortunate victim. I think I heard her groan as I swung onto the saddle. Of course, Harvey had absolutely no trouble climbing aboard Burt, the mule, or maybe I was just too preoccupied to notice otherwise. Our wrangler, Justin, showed no outward signs of laughter as the two of us East Coast gringos sat in our saddles ready to go. Maybe he didn’t snicker because he just loved being in Montana getting paid for what he liked to do: hunt, fish, and ride.

The animals dutifully followed the lead horse around the paddock and we entered a magnificent cathedral of enormous Ponderosa pines, softly illuminated by shafts of golden sunlight. The remnants of the cool morning mist kissed our faces as we humbly rode along the well-trodden trail.

A few minutes into the ride, I chanted to myself, “Become one with your horse, one with your saddle.” Unfortunately my horse was not listening to my efforts to get comfortable. Her unique personality reared its ugly head at the first downward section of the trail when she unexpectedly broke into a full gallop. I bounced helplessly along, grabbing at anything that looked like a handle. My horse must have known how gravity worked and planned to use it to shorten her workday. After that first four-legged burst of energy, I vowed not to become a sprawling heap of grandmother on the dusty trail. I firmly held the reins taut and prayed she’d remembered what that signal meant.

Harvey’s mule seemed to have one speed only, steady plod. Burt was a nine-year veteran and knew every rock, incline, turn, and where the grass snacks grew. I’m sure he followed his exact hoof marks from the previous day. A mule may not have a flashy mystique, but next time I go up the mountain, I want to ride Burt.

Both Harvey and I felt pretty good physically at the end of the two-hour ride, especially when we caught sight of the lake. I had finally made it back after a two-year struggle.

I knew the drill. The horse had to travel half way around the lake before our ride was officially over. Then I could get to the rock and find Kris. Justin dismounted first and came to assist me. However, I discovered that my ankles were no longer operational, because every tendon had been painfully strained in the awkward stirrups, so a graceful dismount wasn’t in the cards. It felt like an eternity climbing down off the horse that I swear was two feet taller than the one I mounted at the bottom of the trail. I finally extracted my left foot and with what remained of my dignity, I limped away to sit down before I broke something useful. Finally my legs responded to some gentle flexing, just in time to answer the call of my full bladder. Justin pointed to the path leading to the outhouse we had nicknamed “Saint John” on our last trip. I hobbled off, hoping I’d make it in time without bringing more humiliation upon myself. After all I only had one change of underwear with me.

When I returned to the hitching rail, Justin had readjusted all the animals and was ready to return. We said our good-byes and told him to be on the lookout for our friends.

“Say hello from us if you pass them on the trail.”

“No problem, I have another ride up here tomorrow so I’ll check up on you.” Somehow knowing he’d be back made me feel better.

Harvey and I deposited our gear at the big camping site clearing and started the short walk around the lake. We were lucky: no one was camping on the huge granite rock outcropping that majestically cascades into the lake. The two of us reverently climbed down the coral colored slop towards the water’s edge. I thought confidently that my eyes would recognize the exact spot where we all stood two years ago, releasing Kris’ ashes into the lake, but instead, I became confused.

“Oh, no. Is this the rock or was it that one?” It all looked so different. I saw no gray ashes on the slanted rocks reaching down into the clear water before me. I searched my memory for some small clue to help me find where we poured the ashes, but nothing matched. My legs gave way and I found myself sitting close enough to touch the water.

A couple of my inner voices started to sort out my disappointment. “The winter snows must have washed them all away. What did you really expect to find after two years, Ruth?”

“You can’t let this ruin a visit to the lake Kris loved.”

“Okay, I hear you. Silence, all of you.” Finally, a quiet moment. “What would Kris be thinking if he were sitting here?” I took a breath and focused on seeing my surroundings as Kris would have.

I slowly began to sense the stillness of the deep water. My eyes gathered the light reflecting from the submerged logs wearing their furry summer coats of bright emerald moss. I searched deeper, imagining silver trout hiding among the black shadows of the boulders firmly residing on the lake bottom. My thoughts emerged from the watery depths to behold sparkles of light dancing on the lake surface, orchestrated by a playful wind. The sharp cry of a soaring osprey commanded my attention and I obeyed, looking up to witness a robin’s egg blue sky almost too huge to comprehend. The faithful pine trees, standing guard season after season around this precious gem, filled the air with the scent of Christmas. My shoulders felt the warmth of the noonday sun. A perfect day overwhelmed me, one Kris would have relished.

I finally had the courage to ask out loud, “Do you think Kris’ ashes are still in the lake or somewhere down stream?”

Harvey softly responded, “Good question. Maybe a little bit of both.” More moments passed as I resigned myself to the fact that there were no visible signs of my son. And that was okay.

“We should probably go set up camp and get some firewood collected.”

Harvey agreed then added, “I could use some lunch. We’ll come back later.”

Sipping our soup, we heard thunder over the mountain. “Looks like a storm. We should get our stuff into the tent after we eat.” A mixture of hail and rain fell from the dark clouds pouring over the ridge, forcing us to retreat into a tiny two-man tent. Since I could not move without bumping into gear or Harvey, it did not take long for my brain to automatically shut down and drift asleep. The pounding pellets on the thin tent fabric made me hallucinate that our friends’ voices were yelling to let them in out of the rain. But I awoke from my dream as the quiet of our camp returned after the storm. We emerged from our damp cocoon to stoke the campfire. I wondered if our friends were on their way yet, and, if they were, I hoped they hadn’t gotten soaked in the rain.

Near the end of the afternoon, Harvey heard voices across the lake. A few minutes later three exhausted climbers, Luke, Erik and Traci arrived at our campsite. It was a relief to have them around the campfire with us.

After a warm dinner of soup and bagels, Traci handed me an envelope containing two pictures. “This is from JC. He had a wedding to attend this week but wanted to share this with you.”

Luke continued the story, “J.C. visited the lake in early spring, said he stopped at the trailhead to say a little prayer for Kris before he hiked out, took some pictures and started for home. When he picked up the photos he was amazed to see this rainbow over the lake. He didn’t remember seeing it that day, or for that matter, a cloud in the sky that could have caused it. But when the film was developed, there it was in all its glory.”

I stared at the photos. The rainbow started in the middle of the lake where J.C., Luke, and Andy, my son’s good friends swam out and sank the deerskin pipe bag with all the items Kris needed for his afterlife. The rainbow makes a full arch over the dark blue water ending where we sprinkled his ashes.

Goose bumps descended on my arms as someone said. “Kris must have been playing his famous trick invisible in plain sight on J.C. that morning.” Every one of us knew exactly what that meant and decided it was time to walk around the lake and visit Kris’ rock.

As we walked past the cold small fire ring at the crest, I remarked, “Somehow it just didn’t seem right to camp out here, even though we had discussed the possibility of it. I guess this rock became a sacred place for all of us. I can’t see it disturbed with all the activities a campsite entails.”

I noticed that as we got closer to the water’s edge on the rock, our talking tapered off into silence. The evening breeze swirled gently over us as we sat listening to the calm enveloping us. Soon the cold invaded our sore muscles and bones, and we decided to return to the fire and our sleeping bags for our first night’s rest.

The next morning, Luke walked down the seven-mile trail to meet Emily arriving back at camp at mid-afternoon. Since it was Kris’ thirty-first birthday, we wanted to remember him together and enjoy the place he gave us as a gift. We all returned to the rock, found comfortable spots, and absorbed the reflected mountain scenery. This time I sat down closer to the water’s edge, where the last rock on the point parallels the water.

Luke and Erik did some trout fishing or to more precise; practice their casting skills, because there were no volunteers from the water depths to become our dinner. I wanted to take in every detail and commit it to memory this time; each splash, every color, every sound, even the silence.

I noticed an abundance of dragonflies floating nearby in a ballet of iridescent purple. One began to hover near me. “Hello there, Kris” tumbled from my thoughts, and I smiled. As my eyes tried to keep pace with its erratic flight, I noticed it repeatedly tapping the same spot in the water just a foot to the right of me. I didn’t think much of it until I focused on the rocky steps two feet below the surface of the water. My heart started to pound. There were Kris’ ashes.

Too awestruck to speak, I tossed a small rock into the water, halfway hoping a cloud of dust would rise up from the rock ledge. Then I dropped a second pebble. “Well, that’s not working. Who will help me confirm what I think this is?”

I stood up abruptly and nervously motioned for Traci to join me. “Traci, what do you think? Is that Kris?”

She replied, “I thought you said you didn’t see any trace.”

“I know, but I think I wasn’t ready to see them until now.”

“I think you're right, Ruth. This looks like what I remember seeing.”

Gradually the rest of the group joined us. We all concluded that we had found the spot where Kris’ ashes returned to the earth. Now the bits and pieces of my memory came together and I saw clearly the day we said our farewells two years ago.

I like to think Kris was playing his famous “invisible in plain sight” trick one last time on his mother, finally relenting with the help of an adamant dragonfly. He allowed me to complete my search and celebrate again what a gift I had in him. On this trip, I was reminded again to live in the moment, just as Kris had done.
Around the campfire that night smoking our cigars in honor of Kris, Luke suggested, “We should visit the rock one more time on our way down the trail.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

The next morning after breakfast we packed our gear and walked one more time down the reddish brown rock ledges to the water. Luke handed us pieces of the two cigars left over from the previous night’s smoke and said, “I’m going to say a little prayer and give tribute to Kris’ spirit.”

“What a great idea,” I said, touched. “Thanks for thinking of it, Luke.”

In full view of Kris, each of us slowly twisted the cigars, releasing the tobacco in our own special way into the lake. The small brown leaves floated for a moment on the calm smooth surface just above Kris. Soon the flotilla of tiny brown sails caught the morning breeze, hurrying to catch up with the swirling sparkles already at play in the center of the lake. I saw dragonflies joyfully dancing on the sapphire water and silently thanked my son.

Copyright Ruth Stonesifer [Home] [Site Map]