White Butterfly

In my dream Marty told me.  She touched my face with her hands, she leaned over, kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you for loving me.  I was right about all of this, don’t ever be afraid.”

About two weeks after Marty passed in 2019 I had a dream.  I normally don’t remember dreams, this one I did because I woke up and the memory stuck. 

I remember the dream today.

Like any memory I’ve had, I’ve probably managed to edit and emphasize the dream to meet my own ideas.  It’s what we do, we revise, we edit, we embellish, we make our memories fit into our preconceived ideas. 

The most important parts, the words, the gestures, the end, I remember.  Those parts feel real even today.

In this dream I’m pushing Marty’s wheelchair across a forest trail.  It’s a well-maintained path, one of those crushed granite paths that allows for easy wheelchair travel, about 4 feet wide with grass or dirt on either side.  I could hear the small pieces of the trail being crushed and breaking under the hard rubber tires of the wheelchair, a crunching sound. 

To the right is a small creek, rushing to its end, noisily running over earth, rocks, and vegetation as it seeks lower ground and a place to spill.  To the left were trees and bushes and flowers, all volunteer, growing at different rates to different heights with no rhyme nor reason for where they planted themselves.

We moved across the path in silence, listening to the water, listening to the ravens talking to the other ravens, listening to the wind blow through the trees on our left.  The leaves danced to the tune of the wind, the water moved relentlessly across a path dug eons ago, a place for the water to run to its master.

We hadn’t walked far when I saw a spot to move off the trail and sit and listen to the sounds of life around us.  I told Marty what I was going to do, she just nodded.  We pulled off to the side and I stared at the brook, the clear water slowly moving downhill. 

I’m not sure what it is about the sound of running water, I just know it gives comfort.  We stopped and listened and watched the birds fly, the clouds billow and the water continue to erode the ground as it rushed and tumbled down the hill. 

I looked at Marty and she stood from her wheelchair and faced me.  Blew my mind. This was not the sick, broken Marty, this was the Marty I met in 1974, the Marty with long brown straight hair parted in the middle.  This was the Marty in too short cut offs and a white cotton blouse that moved slowly in the wind.

Marty turned to me; the wheelchair that had transported her for 14 years was gone.  She stood for a couple of beats and looked at me, her blue eyes clear, sharp, and knowing.  She reached up to me, put one hand on each side of my cheek and said, “Thank you for loving me so well”, she kissed my lips gently and whispered in my ear, “I was right, it’s just like I said.”

I looked at her, looked up and she was gone.  I watched standing beside that stream in silence.  I saw a small white butterfly flying away, up and around a mountain juniper and down the trail without me. 

That was all.  Truthfully, I’m not sure how much of this is the exact dream and how much of it is my own brain creating what I want to remember.  I just don’t know. 

I’ve struggled a bit to write this.  In some ways it feels a bit, well, weird.  I’m not into weird supernatural stuff.  Well maybe not.

When I was hiking in Colorado this past June with friends I was walking down a forest trail and what did I see, a white butterfly.  I followed the butterfly up the trail a short distance and out into a small white meadow with a stream of snow melt running downhill.  It was like my dream, and I left a little of
Marty in Rocky Mountain National Park. 

I told my kids and their kids this story and now when the grands see a white butterfly they see their grandmother.  And you know what, a white butterfly has taken up residence at daughter Erin’s house. 

My grands will never see another white butterfly and not think of their grandmother. 

It’s a good story and as far as I know, the dead level truth.

Black Canyon of the Gunnison is not out of Gunnison

When we went to bed the night after our trip to Arches it was about 75 degrees.  When we got out to load the truck the next morning, it was about 40 degrees and it was snowing in Colorado Springs.  The weather had changed and we were like a couple of young colts excited by the change.

Naw, not really, more like a couple of war horses stiff from the cold.

This was a long drive, a seven-hour driving day and we planned on breaking this up by going through the Black Canyons of the Gunnison just outside of Montrose Colorado.  Skip had been there a couple of times and I had seen his pictures and they were amazing.  Sometimes even good photographs don’t do the real thing justice.  Just like pictures of me, I’m too large and spectacular to be captured by a picture. 

And, just like me,  Black Canyon cannot be captured, it must be experienced.

It had lightly snowed just outside of Montrose as we drove to the canyon.  The fields were white with little tufts of grass peeking out.  The snow wasn’t going to stay because of the bright sun, but right now the light flakes clung to the pines and junipers as we went up a winding road to the top of the canyon.

The Black Canyon was formed by the running Gunnison River.  It boasts the highest vertical cliff in Colorado, 2700 feet from tip to toe.  The sides of the cliffs are rough, rocky and have a dark tint.  You go to some of the outlooks and look over the rail and you see the river, you hear the river, you see what the river has made over eons.  

We went to several turn outs where you could walk 100 yards, 200 yards, 300 yard or longer to an overlook protected by a small fence.  It was cold, breezy, snow was on the ground around us and covered the small trees and brush that amazingly grew on the side of the rocky cliffs. 

 

It was a one of a kind moment and once again, we left just a small bit of Marty.

It was another four hours to Colorado Springs, so we had to cut our visit short.  We hit the highway knowing there was more snow and mountain passes to be passed.  We saw snow, antelope, wool heavy sheep and the huge Blue Mesa Lake; it was beautiful and went on for miles as we drove along its edge.

When we made it to Wilkerson Pass, the last mountain pass we drove through, there was snow covering the surrounding pasture.  It was overcast, snow barely falling and 18 degrees.   

I have to say I am not a good rider, I’m a bit of an anxious rider.  Marty taught the kids more driving than I ever did.  Stuff is too close on the right side when you’re not driving.  Skip was driving and I was biting my tongue and hanging on to the “Oh Shit” handle exercising my will power by not saying, slow down or watch that car.

We did get to Colorado Springs to the house of two of Skip’s longtime friends, Bobby and Becky and son Blake.  They live a warm, animal loving life in a place that is exceptionally beautiful.  You really can see Pike’s Peak from their backyard.  They swear it never gets old.  I believe them.

Marty and I honeymooned in Colorado Springs in January of 1976.