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Show My dad spends two hours looking for him, following his footprints, worrying that he tried to go fishing and has been pulled into the Alatna. But fishing was not what Jerry had in mind. Jerry's boot tracks lead north and west of their tents, meandering for close to fifty yard, until they stop near the river. By following his trail, my father finds his brother curled up like a baby in a thicket of willows some yards from the river. Jerry has been careful to lie down next to the willows rather than on them, sharing the ground, choosing a place. Sometime in the night he had reached into his dry bag, to the very bottom, and put on his "going home" clothes, the clean shirt and pants meant for the plane ride back. Earlier in the evening, he could not zip his tent. Now he had laced his own boots. (Clothes clean, no sign of a fall or struggle, he is holding a small branch in his hand, holding it like you might a walking stick. My dad who must serve simultaneously as brother, oarsman, and priest blesses the land and loads the boat. In this story, the heroes do not live to see another day. I know my father well enough to know that such an ending is unacceptable. Jerry was diagnosed with Parkinson's in 1995. The following August the Sinor Family Backpack was in Mt. Zirkel. It was the first backpack since Jerry's diagnosis and the first since my divorce. Loss, it seems, is democratic. That we would both carry on with our lives was never a question. His illness and my failed marriage did not even warrant conversation. No one said anything to either of us. We hiked, fished, and ate as we always had. Around the campfire we talked about 250 |
