Snow Lotus: Exploring the Eternal Moment

Farewells

Farewells By a knight of ghosts and shadows I summoned am to tourney. from TOM o' BEDLAM, Anonymous Three years in a row I left home for the summer. I had a job with the U.S. Forest Service in Idaho, battling wildfires.My specific position was in "helitack," as a member of a helicopter crew. Our missions included initial attack on fires, medevacs, search and rescue, reconnaissance (visual and infrared), slinging cargo, and the support and retrieval of smokejumpers. It's considered dangerous work, and we earned a lot of "H-pay," that is, a "hazard differential" akin to military combat pay. It was 25 percent of our base rate per hour, and was coveted almost as much as overtime. 163 Though I had a decade of fire experience when I arrived in Idaho, I was nervous . . . no, scared. Firegroundaviation was a different league, a ratcheting up of the stakes. Only a few years before, one of my predecessors on the crew had been decapitated by a tail rotor. He made one mistake that triggered a quick chain reaction of unstoppable events. In less than five seconds a helicopter was destroyed, a pilot was injured, and the helitack crew member was dead. On the day before I left for Idaho that first year, I walked down to Secret Lake at dusk and stood on the dock. In a spontaneous gesture of farewell I spread my arms as if to hug a friend, and held that position for several minutes. I listened to the ripples, inhaled the perfume of the bog, surveyed the forest horizon of birch, spruce, and pine. I took a mental time exposure, imprinting the milieu and attempting to freshly experience the familiar setting as if I had never been there. But I also conjured the memories of so many sweet and revelatory moments spent on Secret Lake. Our cabin is comfortableand soothing, but when I think of "home," I picture that spot on the rim of the bog. It's aportal to the numinous, a haven for the spirit. At sundown, sunrise, or midnight, the lake is a looking glass, awonderland where soul and water mingle with light. As I stood with my arms in the air, I realized it was possible I was there for the last time, that I might not return from Idaho. It wasn't likely I would be killed, but given the nature of the work, it was certainly possible. A lump rose in my throat. Never be here again? My perception intensified at the thought. I beckoned the impressions, consciously willing my sight to be keen, my hearing acute—burning that twilight moment into my brain. I felt my arms rise higher, and was suddenly electrified, tingling briefly with sheer, innocent affection for everything. I used to call that prayer. Next morning I embraced Pam amid tears, promising to be home before the leaves fell from the trees. I did not tell her of my farewellto Secret Lake, but during the i,4oo-mile drive I thought a great deal about them both, and when I ar164 The Snow Lotus rived at my duty station in Idaho I felt compelled to pen a farewell letter, just in case. It was strange and difficult to write from the perspective of a ghost, knowing the words would be read in anguish. What tone to take? Surely it was possible to be too lighthearted , yet there was no point in waxing lugubrious. About halfway through I almost gaveup, suddenly remembering the one letter I had received from the dead. Back in 1975 my close friend John Niemi had ventured on a moose hunting trip to Manitoba. He wrote me shortly after he arrived, and a couple days later he was accidentally shot to death by one ofhis companions. I received the letter just after his funeral, and clearly recall the wave of shock and desolation when I pulled the envelope from our mailbox and recognized the handwriting. I was so upset, I tossed it into the woodstove. But, I reasoned, John's had not been written as a farewell letter, and was therefore only depressing. Mine would be a purposeful attempt to help assuage grief. Itprobably wouldn't work well at first, but might be treasured later, as gloom and shock abated. Besides, I was a writer, so what the hell—had to squeeze in a final essay no matter what...