Montana
Spreading Rob's ashes at one of our favorite places.
I spent the summer waiting.
I was waiting to sign my book deal. I was waiting to receive a deluge of legal paperwork from my lawyer. I was waiting until the weather was hot enough to justify a beach day or shit enough to justify being a hermit in my apartment, scrolling Pinterest, accidentally starting Twitter drama, and reading enough fic on Ao3 to make me feel adequately head empty.
Mostly, I was waiting to go to Montana.
Whenever someone would ask me if I had any exciting summer plans, I’d explain that I was spending my summer in the city, except for August.
“Where are you going?”
“Montana.”
That response threw people for a loop. I guess I don’t look like someone who would go out of my way to visit Montana, let alone like someone who has been there a few times already.
“Wow, Montana? What’s there?”
“I’m going to spread some of Rob’s ashes at Glacier National Park.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It was in his will. We’re going to one of his favorite lakes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“That must be hard.”
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
I mean, nothing is “okay.” But I was honored to be tasked with fulfilling Rob’s final wishes. That sentiment alone kept my head on straight.
His family and I didn’t stay in Montana very long—three days, in and out. I texted Rob’s mom on the plane, a few minutes away from landing in Kalispell, Montana, making plans about where we should all eat when I landed. I wanted to go to this Vietnamese place Rob and I went to when we visited Glacier in 2017 and 2018. I looked up every Vietnamese restaurant in the area on Google Maps (there were three or four of them), examining the interior and exteriors provided by reviewers, varying in photo quality and general helpfulness, until I pinpointed the right one: strip mall location, the orientation of the tables, the dark red paint, the sparse wall decor, a Little Ceasars next door. Yup, this was the place.
I was looking forward to having the same massive bowl of pho Rob and I had years prior, the idea of this nostalgic act centering me as I loaded my bags into my in-laws’ car. But by the time we arrived, they had just closed for lunch and wouldn’t reopen for another few hours. It’s almost embarrassing how upset I was.
Maybe this was the rude awakening I needed for this trip: Trying to recreate the past is futile. The past is dead and gone. The person you explored Montana with—its plains, mountains, rivers, cities, towns, and cherry stands—is dead and gone too. This trip is for him, but it’s not a trip with him.
Carry on.
Before Rob, I only knew three things about Montana: It was a red state, people called it “Big Sky Country,” and back in the early 2000s there was this Nickelodeon show called Caitlin’s Way about a tough girl from Philly who ends up living with relatives on a ranch in Montana after getting arrested. I had no interest in visiting the state otherwise.
That changed the moment Rob and I first drove up the west side of Flathead Lake, southeast of Glacier. I caught glimpses of the shimmering blue water on one side and a slew of cherry stands on the other. Rob and I bought a bag of cherries and left them in the car, munching on them as we went along. I fell in love, and my love only grew when we hiked through Glacier, drove through the National Bison Range, visited record shops in Missoula, slept in a weird motel in Red Lodge, and met eccentric men in West Glacier bars. One bar had Cash Cab on, and this guy started sneering about New York City. Rob and I said, “Hey, we’re from New York City.” The man gave us a skeptical once over, and before we knew it, we were chatting for hours about Montana, New York, politics, nature, and life in general. He was a Trump-voting libertarian who valued environmental protections above all else, America’s ideological contradictions on full display right in front of us.
Montana isn’t some dreamland. The roads are lined with little white crosses at crash sites, the beauty surrounding the Blackfeet Indian Reservation contrasts sharply with the abject poverty that plagues its residents, and the state has a bit of a neo-Nazi problem.
Whether it was beauty or horror, we appreciated Montana for what it was, and we always had something special to take back home with us. Of course Rob would want some of his ashes spread there: He left a piece of himself there every time. Why not add some permanence?
His family and I stayed at a massive lodge on the east side of Glacier, one with sprawling grounds, incredible mountain views, and shit cell service. Rob and I stayed at the same lodge during a previous trip, and it was the perfect respite after a long backpacking trip in the park’s backcountry. There was a Mexican restaurant across the train tracks with cheap margaritas, which made it easier to accept that the food was kind of mid.
That first evening, Rob’s little sister and I went there together, and I was comforted to see that the no-frills wood-paneled interior was unchanged. The only difference was that the menu was a lot more sleek, a lot more minimalist, and a lot more expensive. Inflation takes no prisoners, I suppose. The food was a little better this time, at least.
I had a huckleberry margarita (that’s Montana for you). His sister ordered a non-alcoholic beer. We held up our drinks in a toast.
“To Rob,” I said, looking skyward. I always give Rob a nod when I have a drink. It’s a habit now.
His sister, a quiet woman of few words, looked up too and added, “I think about you every day, Rob.”
It took everything in me not to start sobbing in the complimentary chips and salsa.
The journey to Two Medicine Lake the following afternoon was a short one. Rob made sure of this for the sake of his aging parents; if they weren’t a factor, I’m sure he would have stuck to his original plan: having his ashes spread over Gunsight Pass, a trail in Glacier National Park that we explored during a multi-night backpacking excursion back in 2018.
These plans were brought up offhandedly now and then after Rob was first diagnosed with cancer in 2019. He was calm as he laid out his wishes. It was like telling me what he wanted for breakfast, not something as morbid as what to do with his ashes whenever cancer finally won.
Back then, my primary concern was how tough it would be to do that hike all over again. It didn’t seem real, Rob dying. Not yet. It was just the worst-case scenario.
I suppose he was a little less deluded about this than I was.
Two Medicine Lake might have been his second choice, but it was a good one. Rob and I took a boat across this lake once after backpacking the Dawson/Pitamakan Pass loop trail. It was a strenuous trip, and I practically kissed the dock that signaled the hike’s end. This lake represented accomplishment and pushing my boundaries. It represented Rob encouraging me even when I was on the verge of having a breakdown mid-hike. Soon, it would represent one of his final resting places.
His family and I arrived at the Two Medicine Lake parking lot and walked to the lake’s shore. I found a trail leading us to a spot further up the lake, appropriately named Paradise Point—a bit on the nose, but whatever. Rob would have snickered about it.
My park permit indicated we could spread the ashes as long as they weren’t too close to the trail or directly in a body of water. So I found a thicket of lush greenery to perform the ash spreading, not at all minding the tall grass, the sharp sticks, or the biting bugs. It was the right spot; I could feel it.
Rob’s mom had been cradling a toke bag holding Rob’s urn since I saw her at the airport the day before. “I don’t want him out of my sight,” she explained. It wasn’t until we were all gathered in this thicket that she took the urn out of her bag and unsealed it.
I suggested that Rob’s mom go first, then his dad, then his sister, and then me, and that we offer silent thoughts, prayers, etc.
This was the first time I’d ever really handled Rob’s ashes. Before this, the closest I got was handling a little baggie of his ashes that I had the funeral home set aside from my third of his ashes, purely for use in jewelry. When I took that first handful, my head went blank. I knew logically that this was Rob, but it was hard to believe it. I didn’t want to.
I was methodical in my placement, murmuring to myself, thoughts of “I love you I love you I miss you I hate this I’m going to be okay we’re going to be okay if I’m lucky we’ll have a kid someday I fucking hate this and I miss you and this isn’t fair I love you I love you” as I scattered. I felt his family’s eyes on me. At times, I felt a little silly about seeing my handiwork, ashes peppering green plants white and gray. It felt a little inartful.
I stared at my hands when I finished. Chalky white palms stared back at me.
I wasn’t about to wipe Rob away on my clothes, so I went to the lake and dipped my hands in the water, saying a silent something to him while I gazed up at the mountain towering over us. This spot was beautiful, and it was a beautiful day. But I hoped it would rain later. Rob wanted his ashes to be a part of the lake, and I imagined a storm saturating the leaves and the earth and envisioned currents of water shepherding Rob to the place he really wanted to be.
A red rock caught my eye. It was dark red, and I associate red with Rob now, in a way. His beard was red. It felt like a wink.
On the hike back, I looked under my fingernails and saw flecks of white ash still embedded in the thin, fleshy bits that a little dip in the lake couldn’t get rid of. I left them there.
Hours later, something strange happened at the lodge. I was heading out to dinner (that Mexican restaurant, again) when I heard a familiar voice crooning over the speakers. It was Jessica Pratt, a contemporary folk artist Rob introduced me to nearly a decade prior. This lodge in Montana had been playing almost exclusively oldies—I’m talking “Age of Aquarius” type shit—so Pratt felt entirely out of left field. I was shocked. I turned to a guy at the front desk and asked, “Hey, whose playlist is this?”
The man smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s just some playlist on shuffle.”
Another wink.
When we returned to the lodge, I hung out front. As the evening approached, the eastward skies turned a greenish gray. Every few minutes, a new group of people would stand around with their hands on their hips, looking up.
“This is tornado weather where I’m from.”
“Is it going to rain?”
“The sunset looks amazing out back.”
This last comment made me wander back into the lodge, ordering a cocktail from the bar (huckleberry, again) before heading for the deck.
Half of the sky to the northwest was orange and pink as the sun slid behind the mountains. To the left, lightning strikes burst through dark blue clouds. I, along with several others, watched, drinks in hand, as the storm descended upon the lodge, bringing a short streak of hail before drenching us with rain. I made my way back inside, but not before taking some solace in the fact that my wish had come true. I could see it in my mind: The saturated leaves, the currents of water carrying the ashes, flowing, flowing, flowing.
Rob became part of the lake, where he wanted to be all along.
I am absolutely speechless reading this. What a beautiful story and tribute. I love how Rob is always surprising you with songs.
I picked up my father’s ashes yesterday. Last night, I was starting to plan out the sentimental spots I wanted to place him. Then I read this. Just heartbreakingly beautiful and so cathartic. You and Rob had something truly special, and I appreciate you sharing this.