“This is the spot.” Standing on a plateau I discovered off the trail and at the bottom of a steep and jagged natural staircase, I looked out at the impeccable view from 4,000 feet above. On such a crystal clear day, I could see the now-tiny Kancamagus Highway, the full range of the White Mountains, and Canada on the horizon. I felt in my body that this was the perfect place to spread my dad’s ashes.
New Hampshire was Dad’s favorite summer vacation spot. It was an odd choice for a guy who was neither outdoorsy nor particularly physically active, but it was close enough to drive to (he wouldn’t fly) and offered many activities to keep us kids busy.
It also boasted enough landmarks to keep Dad- a self-proclaimed “history buff”- happy, even if that required hiking in jorts and high-top sneakers (it was the 90s).
After he got sick, we attempted to bring him back for one final family trip, but he just couldn’t last that long. Having died three weeks shy of our reservation date, he accompanied us on the trip encased in the American flag scattering tube provided by the funeral home. We tried to hit a few of his favorite landmarks, but the mid-spring snow and ice that still covered the ground made that impossible.
We found ourselves unsure of what to do with his remains. He was adamant his whole life about being cremated, but beyond that he left no explicit instructions. We brainstormed a bit, I did a little research, but ultimately it just wasn’t time yet. The easiest thing to do was keep him and wait until inspiration struck.
The following summer my husband and I took the kids back up north for some family time before my maternity leave for my younger daughter ended. Reminiscing about the vacations I took as a kid, I had it in my mind to keep an eye out for a good scattering spot. And I found it. But we were about to move to Peru, so it would have to wait a bit longer.
Last month, I was back on the tramway up the mountain to find The Spot, four samplings of Dad’s ashes in baby food jars in my backpack. My closest family members and a smattering of random tourists in tow, I ventured down each trail offshoot until I found the same overlook I had mentally designated as the perfect scattering place.
Wearing the American flag tee I otherwise would have gifted to Dad on this day- his birthday- I felt the hot sun on my bare arms and face as my brother, mother, older daughter, and I each opened a jar and released his ashes into the silent air. It was only then that I remembered my intention to first test the direction of the wind with a handful of dirt, but it was too late. Particles of Dad wafted back at all of us, a final palpable gesture of goodbye.
Slightly stunned, we dusted ourselves off and I began to play a few songs that reminded me of him. We hugged, we cried, we spread some of the wildflower seeds from the sachets we had given out at his celebration of life. My husband played bouncer with tourists at the trailhead while I stood on that plateau in my grief bubble.
Eventually alone, I stared up at the strikingly blue sky and had a private conversation with Dad. I asked him to visit me, in whatever form I would know was him. When I finally rejoined my family waiting on the rocks above, it felt as if I was walking out of a trance.
We also spread some of his ashes at the lake in the state park below and on the paver we had engraved in Dad’s name at the Old Man of the Mountain Memorial site. We had lunch at a local brewery, took pictures of his reunited grandchildren (two of whom he never got to meet), and toasted beers in his honor before grabbing a few cones at the scoop shop across the street. The mood by then was light and we all felt wrapped in love and peace. Everything was as he would have wanted it.
There is a significance in goodbye rituals, whether they are religious, cultural, or familial. They help with the acceptance of loss, the processing of emotions, the creation of meaning, and a sense of control, which is important when facing the reality of something that seems unimaginable and may not make any sense.
For me, the physical act of releasing my dad’s ashes was what I needed to both honor my grief, which will always be with me, and to set free his physical form, which I needed to let go of. In the absence of a burial site, we created a special place of memory that can be part of future traditions, in a way that we can be sure he will never be forgotten.
