Scotland: Ashes to Ashes

Clinton and I were planning lots of things. The day he passed, we talked about what retirement would look like. We teased our youngest about being stuck with us inside a sprinter van while we drove around to every national park; the older two pretended to be relieved that they would be out of the house by then, but it was going to be epic, we promised him. Your sister and brother will be sad that they missed out, just you wait and see. 

We talked about buying land somewhere, building a cabin away from the daily grind of work and suburban life. We talked about our next journey–a vacation in a place we’ve always wanted to go. Costa Rica was high on our list, but Scotland–Scotland was number one. 

We bought Rick Steves' book on Scotland and had the kids look through and make a list of places they wanted to see. We made our own contributions to the list and were just waiting for the right time to buy our tickets. We kept saying, After Christmas, we’ll jump in with both feet. After Christmas.

God had a different plan for all of us after Christmas, and I still like to think this plan included setting Clinton free from a future that might have been marked by a lot of suffering. God's plan was to freeze the father of our children in time; Clinton would forever be 50, and magnificent. After watching my own father suffer, there is the unfavorable and backward blessing of dying young. 

I also thought about the concept of Heaven, and the omnipresence of Clinton’s spirit. I was, and I am sure that Clinton will always be with us in some form, but I couldn’t shake the notion that we still needed to go to Scotland, and that I needed to bring Clinton with us. I latched onto the idea of spreading some of Clinton’s ashes in the place we had dreamed of visiting. Four tickets to Edinburgh later, I planned our trip through the Highlands.

My sister and I did an unguided bike tour of Ireland while we were in our twenties. I will never forget the image of her flying down a hill, dispersing a herd of sheep in the road with her legs extended, and both of us laughing as we’d never laughed before. With that adventure in mind, I found a company in Scotland that would rent us bikes to complete The Great Glen Way. The plan was to bike through the Scottish Highlands for three days and spend some time in Edinburgh, Fort William, Inverness, and several other small towns along the way. I packed Clinton’s ashes, imagining that the right spot or spots would hit all of us at once somewhere, or multiple places along the journey. We would release a part of Clinton there forever, commemorating our coming together as a new family unit in his absence. We would give him a place about which all of us had dreamed, to rest. The rich earth of our ancestors would welcome him. 

The Great Glen Way was not easy. With no resentment whatsoever, I’ll admit that my teenage travelling companions thought it a lot more manageable than I. That being said, I am of the opinion that The Great Glen Way is meant to be navigated with an electric mountain bike or on foot. To this day, nothing has tasted as good as, or gone down as quickly as, the chicken coronation sandwich and chips I had on our longest, second day of travel. The kids and I loved every misty, magical, mountainous mile we rode, and I would do it all over again in a second.

Just like any adventure, however, there were a few moments that tested the new family unit we were becoming. After a long, gradual hill on day one, we faced a late-morning decision: do we take the high or the low road? Both would get us to our destination, and both would undoubtedly be scenic. Whatever we did, I determined, we needed to do it together. 

My youngest frowned upon the group's decision and began to climb the long hill in the opposite direction. Before we knew it, he was out of sight, and we were turning around, exhausted. Not to be too dramatic, but my youngest child was biking alone somewhere in the Scottish Highlands while we played catch-up, not knowing where he was or how far he’d gone. 

Some smiling locals sat out on their porches, enjoying the glimpse of sun as we turned around, and as I yelled into the distance up the mountain, “I’m taking away your phone!” And then, “There will be consequences!” The mountains returned my voice with an echo into the scattered houses and the locals who smiled politely.

We climbed the long upward mile towards where I thought Byron had gone. When I reached the top, Walker and Cadie had already arrived, and Walker was bent over the ground, barely holding onto his bike. Had he gone up too fast and gotten sick? I looked at Cadie, who was recording her brother in the loving way that only sisters can when you are 18 months older than your younger, taller brother. Walker's face writhed in pain while his sister continued to record. He was cramping, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out. Half an hour later, Byron was found, and we were all together and recovered. 

That afternoon, we encountered a beautiful waterfall, and I was reminded of the ashes on my back. The kids had just enjoyed ice cream from a cute little cottage at the base of the last climb of the day, and we counted the Scottish stags meandering around the green meadow and by an old castle nearby. The waterfall felt like a beautiful spot to release part of Clinton’s body. I mentioned it to the children right when two tourists drove up and walked over to where we stood. The ashes remained on my back, and we started biking again.

Day two delivered a different challenge with the same child, unfortunately. Following a beautiful night’s rest in a local castle with a fancy dinner and breakfast tucked away neatly underneath our biking spanx, we ventured through town and back onto the trail. Again, we climbed up an impossibly steep hill that took us through the woods, carpeted in clover and humus. There, we overlooked the Loch Ness and took a break. There was no one else on the trail, and Scotland felt like home. I had the urge to reach into my pack and release some of Clinton’s ashes. The sun came through the trees, and the air was clear over the spans of the Highlands in every direction. Just as the thought hit, however, the kids were back in their saddles, and Clinton stayed where he was: light on my back while my burning quads screamed trying to reach the faster portion of my crew. 

Just before we got into town that day, Byron flew down a road through the dreamy bucolic landscape of Scottish farms and horses, sheep, and cows. My daughter was behind him and saw him flip head over handlebars when he momentarily forgot that the brakes on Scottish mountain bikes are the reverse of what he was used to. There had been no cars on the road the entire time we rode except for that day. The little red car that came around the corner had to veer suddenly as Byron flew and landed. 

“He’s not okay,” my daughter pulled me aside when I finally arrived at the scene. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. His helmet was intact, and he showed me the road rash on his leg and elbow. “I promise, I’m fine,” he assured me. The people in the car had gotten out before I arrived and had also felt him well enough for them to continue on. 

“He’s not okay,” my daughter kept telling me, “Be glad you didn’t see it.”

That night, we stayed in a bed and breakfast owned by a local nurse. She was attentive to Byron’s injuries and also felt like he would be fine. We shook our heads with gratitude and disbelief. No one speeds down an asphalt hill, flies over the handlebars, and then ends up being okay after landing the way my daughter described her younger brother landing. 

We finished our journey through the Highlands the next day, intact, but sore, and wholly complete as a little family unit without our missing person. Clinton’s ashes remained in my pack from beginning to end–a beautiful metaphor and reminder of his presence the entire time, and of his continuous presence still. 

  Despite the hundreds of breathtaking moments where we could see Clinton floating through the air and landing to join the lush earth, Clinton’s place will always be wherever we are.