I lost a friend recently. Fall is when I miss him most. We saw each other daily in summer, but less than I would have liked. We always spent more time together as the cottonwood leaves began to dapple in gold, the fireweed peaks in cottony-white puffs carried on the winds of change, and the lead-gray sky washed us both in cold rain.
It's never easy to bid farewell to those close to us, particularly after sharing so many years and surviving some pretty harrowing experiences together. You'd never know it from him, though. He was the quiet, stoic type, especially about his athletic feats and acts of heroism.
He had rust-colored hair, glacial-blue eyes, and a build like a brick house, but he never used his size or muscle to intimidate others. A true gentle giant, he preferred to use his physical talents for chipping in, being part of the team, helping others less able-bodied than himself.
The love of the outdoors is where we bonded, probably because there we both were most at peace with the world. Journeying together by dog sled, we traveled hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles a year through the backcountry. Even as the winter weather arrived and the landscape became draped in a thick white cloak, his enthusiasm never seemed to falter or fade. His spirit always howled, "Let's head out to where we belong."
Superior judgment
No matter how cold or tired I felt, no matter how impossibly steep the mountains we climbed were, no matter how impossibly dark the night seemed when we camped out miles from civilization, he never complained. We both were in our element.
If anything, he seemed to only get more motivated, digging deeper with himself. It was impressive to watch him haul a heavy load, his muscles rippling, his hot breath coming out in thick puffs of steam.
His prowess in the outdoors far surpassed mine and on more than one occasion he saved my life. Several times he led us through a ground blizzard in which I'd lost my bearings in the featureless white. Another time he read thin ice and suggested a safer path, but full of hubris I went forward, breaking through and nearly freezing to death.
He never said "I told you so," and I never questioned his judgment again.
Time is a predator that stalks us all, though, and in the last two years he became frail, struggling each morning with a harsh stiffness in his joints. He seemed content to spend most of the day sleeping, lazing about the house, or relaxing in a warm spot of sun on the front porch. I never faulted him for it. He lived a simple life, but simple isn't easy by any means, and the years of hard work exploring the harsh landscapes had taken a toll on his body.
Such sorrow
In his final days, I had to do almost everything for him, providing him care as though he were my own family, and in retrospect he was. I even carried him to relive himself when necessary. Heavy in my arms, he always seemed more embarrassed by this than I was, and always settled back into bed without resistance or saying a word.
During this time, the blood in my own heart felt thick from sorrow, my forehead became kneaded in a permanent frown, and I worried each passing day.
Then came the end. I was at his side, doing what I could to comfort him, telling him unabashedly how much he had meant to me. He heard some of the words I hope, but by the look in his eyes in those final moments, it was clear he was already far away and now traveling alone.
In the following weeks, I lost the desire to go through the motions of everyday life, things like being cordial at work, making small talk -- the minutiae of meaningless interactions that make up the bulk of our days away from the people and things we care most about.
I am in a place beyond sadness and grieve the only way I know how. I step outside to my kennel with an armful of harnesses and my kennel of dogs erupts into an excited cacophony that keeps me from hearing the silence in my heart.
There's a hole in my life where my friend use to be and a gap in the team where he, my lead dog, Cyder, used to be. I miss him and know the trails ahead will be lonelier without him.
Joseph Robertia is a freelance writer living in Kasilof with his wife, Colleen, and daughter Lynx, where they operate Rogues Gallery Kennel and have run several mid-distance sled dog races, including Colleen running the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and Yukon Quest.