Tacoma

October 2024

Because we lived in Oregon together for years and it's where I live again now, I’ve grown accustomed to facing memories of Kara mandatorily. But choosing to journey to the places where faint echoes of joy might emanate from a parallel universe where she’s still with me, is a different ball of wax entirely. And an act I’ve intentionally steered away from, until very recently.

Tacoma along with Olympia became “our cities” when we moved off-grid in rural Washington. Those were the places we would regularly go for food, drink, shows, proximal outdoor adventures, and random staycations. 

I attend a specific travel writers conference annually, and this year it was being held in Tacoma. They were also offering a pre-conference media trip that would showcase several cultural highlights and outdoor amenities in the region. It would be an opportunity to visit some beloved places for the first time since the loss but be able to do so with colleagues and friends. Which I thought would be a good way to go about it. Besides, I semi-accidentally did something quasi-similar in Alaska a few months prior, and that went surprisingly well.

Life has taught me that there will never be a perfect time. More than likely, I’ll never feel like it’s the right time either. But if something has been hanging out in the back of my mind for more than a minute, threatening to be acted upon, initiated, or accomplished, it’s almost assuredly high time. So I registered for the conference and signed up for the media trip.

There were two places in particular that I was sure would move the needle on my emotional Richter scale. Starting with the Northwest Trek Wildlife Park. It’s a place we had an annual pass to but had been all but scrubbed from my mind in the almost three years since my last visit. Pleasantly, there would be no pain associated with this outing. My colleagues and I took a Keeper Adventure Tour which was wonderful and kept us thoroughly engrossed. With only the occasional spell of memory-induced unfocused eyes to deal with.

That evening, however, we would overnight at the Paradise Inn on Mt Rainier. I knew that staying in that place, on that mountain, would produce a much larger emotional seismic shift. Mt. Rainier took up a significant portion of the sky from where we lived. And being our backyard mountain, it’s where we enjoyed countless explorations. It’s the first place we went the day after we unloaded the boxes at our home in the woods. For almost four years, I examined and memorized the volcano's contours from every angle, near and far. I was grateful to have such an embodiment of nature’s capacity to inspire more emotions and ponderings than can be named, looming everpresent.

Knowing what I was in for, and in a way, what I needed to do, I decided long in advance that I would commune with Rainier in some way during our stay there. And with conditions that evening and the next morning being end-of-summer perfect, I decided to rise before dawn, ascend the Skyline Trail, and engage in a sunrise grief ritual with my love and my mountain. 

I awakened two minutes before my alarm, dressed in layers, waited for there to be just enough ambient light to begin hiking, then got underway. I pushed open the front doors and immediately traded the sleepy warmth of the lodge for the alerted chill of sub-alpine air. Beyond the structure, a sliver of moon and a pre-dawn glow worked in concert to render a striking silhouette of a peculiar set of trees that varied noticeably in size, appearance, and overall impression. They stood together side by side and away from the rest of the forest as if to see me off. I paused to assess them and got chills.

I continued hiking up the trail, lost in a million thoughts, though all were amorphous. Then, as I have had a fortunate propensity for over the years, I found myself in one of Mother Nature’s more sacred places, at the most opportune of times. I reached the top of an incline, rounded a corner, and beheld the entire mountain as the first rays of light kissed her summit, then washed her glaciers aglow. I erupted into tears induced by an amalgam of distilled sorrow, humble gratitude, and transcendent natural beauty. How human hearts are able to expand in the name of contending with such things, I’ll never know.

I settled and composed slowly. While taking it all in to the degree that mortal eyes are capable, I suddenly remembered that row of trees that escorted me out before sunrise. And a cascading epiphany began to form from those previously shapeless thoughts. The forest surrounding me wasn’t comprised of just one species or assemblage of picture-perfect trees. In that way, the memories in my mind are similar. She and I planted numerous remembrances on this mountain together, now joined by the saplings I happily sowed during the last few days. This place is home to a vast array of flora. Could it not then also be home to more types of memories and emotions than the ones I wish to cling to? Or perhaps more accurately, avoid? The same can be said for the city we loved so much.

Whether it’s trees standing on a mountain or memories strewn across the timeline of eternity, they are all critical components in the composition of my favorite forests and this one precious life. It’s okay that some pain resides on Rainier’s glaciated slopes and in the broad streets of downtown Tacoma. It’s also okay to come back to these places again to do new and old things, with old and new friends.

When the press trip concluded, we were given “swag bags” of Tacoma-themed keepsakes and got checked into the Hotel Murano where the conference was to begin the next day. It’s also where Kara and I regularly stayed when we took weekend getaways to Tacoma. After settling into my room, I inspected the contents of the bag, which included a hiking guidebook. But not just any book. This one was authored by a friend and mentor of mine who has roughly 1,001 titles to his credit. And this one in particular, “Urban Trails Tacoma” was the book that Kara and I used to explore in and around the city. A book that was lost to the same fire that claimed her and everything else. If ever there was a green light telling me that it was okay to explore our “home” again, this was it.

A dear friend and colleague of mine who was also in attendance had procured a suite with enough room to entertain her customary conference wine soirees. On the second day of the conference, she hosted a get-together after the day’s formalities and before dinner. I initially thought nothing of the fact that it was on the 25th floor. However, as I stepped out of the elevator, I noticed that it was the Patron Club Level. This was familiar. Then I walked into my friend’s suite and immediately remembered why. The wrap-around room with a view of downtown and Mt. Rainier, is where Kara and I spent Christmas Eve of 2019. 

If ever there was a sign that she would be with me whenever I came back to explore our “home” again, that was it. In that moment I could not have been more happy to be surrounded by friends and looking out over a city that Kara and I loved. A city, it turns out, I still love. Tacoma.