Pike’s Peak or Bust: Fly Away

The five of us, Sam driving, Kim and Natalie in the back seat, me riding shotgun, and Paul in a coffee can on my lap, began our climb to the top of Pike’s Peak to spread his ashes. I couldn’t help but think of other times my son sat on my lap, squirming to be set free, riveted to a book I read, or dozing to my off-key rendition of lullabies, spirituals, and folk tunes. He used to require dozens of songs and would awaken as soon as I stood up to put him down. I never minded, though, for I treasured the smell of his light, reddish hair.

I pulled open the plastic lid to see if any of that scent remained, but there were only chunks of bone, a fine dust, and shards of the shrapnel that killed him. I closed it quickly, for I didn’t want to remember him that way and the only smell I got was a faint whiff of Folger’s French Roast.

We four mourners, our hair all dyed red in tribute, were silent on that drive to the mountain, in part, I suppose, because we were paying our respects, but mostly because we could barely be heard over the trumpet blast of Sam’s inadequate muffler, the swoosh of his warped drum brakes, and the licks of his rusting fenders.

As we began to seriously climb, responding to the mood of the occasion, as well as the soaring alpine scenery, Natalie added some vocals in the form of a hymn she had learned on my lap.

She sang in her soprano, (you might want to listen as you read) “Some glad morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away.”

Kim added a husky alto and Sam, an uncertain tenor. I joined in a bass and looked out the side window so they couldn’t see the tears welling in my eyes.

“To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.”

I remember singing the song to Paul, and Natalie, hoping they’d remember it for my funeral, not I at their’s.

“I’ll fly away, oh Glory, I’ll fly away.”

Sam’s muffler roared as the grade got steeper. He swung to the left and his bald tires tracked far too close to the gravely edge of a precipice; the first of many on that road, most without guardrails.

“When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.”

My deep voice may have slipped to soprano as Sam, influenced by the exuberance of the song, took a switchback on two wheels.

“When the shadows of this life have gone, I’ll fly away.”

We four all got louder to match the noise of the car, the depth of our feeling, and the shrill of my fear.

“Like a bird from prison bars has flown, I’ll fly away.”

The hardest part was refraining from yelling at Sam to slow down or watch that curve at the same time as I let out the buoyant words of the hymn.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory. I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.”

I didn’t want to ruin the mood of the moment with my apprehension, as my mother had when my father and I were filled with awe at the Grand Canyon…

“I’ll be glad and happy when we meet, I’ll fly away.”

…but I visualized the car flying away off the edge of a cliff, we four red heads continuing to belt it out as the vehicle soared into the blue, paused for a moment like that coyote in the cartoon, and plummeted a thousand feet into a remote ravine.

“No more cold iron shackles on my feet, I’ll fly away.”

The crash and the pain at the end, I imagined, would be transitory, but the fall would seem to take forever.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory. I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.”

We’d feel the strain on our seatbelts first. Our scarlet heads would touch the ceiling. The car would pitch forward and then yaw to my side, due to my great weight. I would be suspended over the open window, right arm dangling into the void, left hand clutching at Paul’s coffee can, but he would be unable to clutch back. Sam would lean over to my side, Kim’s mouth would be stopped by my headrest, and thin Natalie would tumble up to me and curl once more on my lap with Paul. We would be a family once again as we somersaulted into the abyss.

“Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away.”

I know death by falling was what I imagined for myself as I drove reluctantly across the country, seeking an appropriate bridge to fling myself off of. But it was a meaningful death I had anticipated, and it never seemed this real.

“To a land where joys will never end, I’ll fly away.”

I never felt as foolish as I did going up that mountain, skidding on the edge of life, coming face-to-face with my naïve fantasies.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory. I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.”

I never felt so keen to slip the surly bonds of my fear and reach out, and grasp the hand of God.