Out of the Woods.

“Can I call you back in 45 minutes?”

Those were the last words I spoke to my father — the evening of May 4th, 2018.

I had called him an hour before, wanting to catch up, to talk with him about the branding I was considering for a small side-business I had been dreaming of starting. I left a message for him to call me back when he was free, knowing that he was probably busy with customers at his organic juice bar. He was off living his dream with his own business.

When he returned my call, my hands were heavy with grocery bags filled with food to take on my first solo backpacking trip into the woods. I wasn’t able to talk right then. Can I call you back, I said.

Packing my bags for my hiking trip into the Pinchot State Forest brought me into an extreme focus-mode. It is one thing to share the burden of a backpack with another person; It’s another to go it alone. You’re responsible for everything you need to survive: Shelter, Food, First Aid, Water. My pack weight was a little over 33 lbs, the heaviest I’ve carried yet. Though, to be fair, some of the weight was in dog food. I decided to take my 13 lb dog into the forest with me.

I planned on writing about this trip in this blog. I thought about what I would write while I walked through scented hemlock and squished through late-spring mud.

So many noteable things happened:

1. I was covered in ticks, as was my dog. Thankfully none bit but it was a struggle the first day to keep them off of us.
2. I set up camp in my sports bra like the Amazon I am (mostly because of the ticks but also because I was hot AF)
3. I watched a bear saunter 400 feet away from me, through the woods, nose to the ground, as I ate my dinner.
4. I dreamt of someone dying. A figure. No one.

The morning after I camped, as I walked the 6 miles of trail on the loop that would lead back to my car and back to reality, I decided to play a mix especially made for me by Spotify. During the night the sky had opened and washed away the heat (and the ticks) and so my exit was silent, peaceful, and foggy. As I walked, the songs that played were of my teenage years. Sneaker Pimps, Bjork, Portishead, Smashing Pumpkins.

I thought of the awkward teenager that was me, becoming an adult under the care of my father, trying to find my way in this world, yearning ALWAYS for adventure. When I was in my early 20s I dreamed of backpacking the AT. Or of just backpacking at all. And here I was. May 6th, 2018. Backpacking BY MYSELF. I knew that young me would be SO PROUD of this moment in time. I let out a guttural woop that bounced off the rain-darkened bark of the oaks and pines.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I thought of my father. I had always wanted him to be proud of me. That’s pretty much all I ever wanted of him. And I learned throughout my 30s to just know that he would be, without him having to say it. I knew he would be proud if he could see me then. If he could see me, now.

When I finally got back to my car, the first thing I did as I left the trailhead was call him back. I had forgotten, and then remembered. His phone went to voicemail and I left him a message about my trip in the woods. About the thoughts I had about my backpacking dreams. About how I loved him. Call me back, I said.

My brother found my father in his office the next morning. He had passed away at 6:44 AM, May 6th, 2018. He had gone to his office early in Sunday morning, printed out labels for juices and started the process of making house-made cashew milk. According to the coroner, he had slowly made his way to the floor (as there was no bruising), and breathed his last breath.

My call back was too late. The phone was in his back pocket, his body waiting to be found.

I never meant for this blog to turn into a digital mausoleum, filled with stories of my friends, and now my family, passing. But the ever-present reality of mortality seems to be the theme of my 35th year of my own life.

And I keep forgetting that my father is gone. But everything continues to remind me of the fact. Father’s Day. Listening to a podcast mentioning the median age of male mortality (75) and the fact that my dad was so much below that number (62). I finally removed “Dad” from my car’s favorites list, because I would attempt to call him by habit a few times a week. Now it just reads:

• Mom
• Grandmom
• <New Entry>

There are a few strange things that have helped me feel like maybe I am still connecting with him, on some energy-type level.

The first was the thoughts of him on that second day backpacking, thinking about my youth with him and knowing he’d be proud of me.

The second was when I picked out the dress that I was to wear at his funeral. I rented the dress because I didn’t have any black dresses in my closet. I narrowed down the Rent the Runway options to be as follows:

1. available next day
2. under 50 dollars
3. size 6
4. black

There were only about 10 to choose from. I picked one, and as I was about to enter it into my cart, I noticed the name of the style:

Angela

That’s my name.

I lost my breath but then I sucked the air back in and clicked, “Confirm”.

And then, there was the morning of the funeral. I listened to Queen in honor of my father and in order to keep away the tears that were bubbling beneath the surface of my eyes. The first song that played on Spotify shuffle was this:

Later, when I entered my father’s apartment for the first time after his passing, the sight of every day living, of every day objects, shattered my heart to pieces: His unwashed dishes in the sink. Mail on the counter. His pants on the floor next to his bed as if he had just stepped out of them.

There was one object that captivated me, though. It was a tiny buddha. A smiling, skinny, childlike buddha — a miniature model of my father. He was on his bedside table, and he was goddamn smiling at me.

I took him.

My father told me once that he thought that he had lived a few lives before this last one. He recalled a dream of a previous death where his body had floated down the Ganges, hindu-style. He thought he’d been reincarnated. Growing up in a very Catholic household, this was kind of a weird thing to say to your daughter. But I feel like my father felt safe telling me these potentially blasphemous things. And I feel like maybe he shared a real secret with me — about life, about death, about the energy of existence, before he left this life.

It’s been a month now since my father died.

But his memory, and his buddha, keep me company.

And I know now that in life, it is one thing to share the burden (and the journey) of your existence — your fears, your hopes, your dreams, your milestones — with your parents.

It’s another to carry that weight alone.

I love you, Dad.