I've been trying to think about some memories of Wes that perhaps others would not know. Interestingly the first memory that came to mind was from when we were kids. I'd say were were no older than 7 or 8. There was an open space across from his Mom's house that, from a young kid's perspective, seemed like endless wilderness. We would wander over there, finding hide outs, building tree houses, searching for "ancient artifacts" like rusty nails and shattered glass. We would lose ourselves in that wilderness. Even though we were always within shouting distance of his Mom's house, we might as well have been on the moon. We would point out the wildlife. He taught me how to spot hawks, grouse, coyotes, foxes. I remember a day we (actually he) spotted a full grown bull elk. It was huge, graceful, spectacular. Wes quietly watched as I tried to stop myself from talking. He was calm. He just sat there taking it in. That sort of experience was the essence of life to him. He taught me how to appreciate it. He taught me that the bull elk, the coyote, the hawk were not intruding on our territory, but quite the opposite. We were visitors in their environment and the best way we could show respect was to stay out of the way and quietly observe. I will never forget that elk. It is still vivid in my mind. So is the picture in my mind of Wes sitting in a tree, just staring and counting the points on its majestic rack.
I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and I tried to explain to him that I can split my life into two parts: the part before Wes died and the part beginning February 23, 1997. Wes' passing inspired me to live my life -- truly LIVE my life. I still love skiing, hiking, camping, anything in the outdoors. Each year I take a few backpacking trips. I'll load up my 40 pound pack and trek in the backcountry for a few days or a week. I'll go days without seeing or hearing another person. It's funny that no matter how far I get from civilization, I have never felt as far away and free as I used to in that open space across from Weston's house when we were kids. It's funny how that works.
Wes was a hunter. My parents did not allow me to have guns. They tried to teach me that killing animals for sport was wrong. To this day I still struggle with that. I don't think I could kill an animal for any reason except survival. I often wonder how Wes felt after he shot a deer or an elk or even a pheasant. I wonder if he would feel guilt or if he would feel upset. I imagine that he did. But I also think he had an understanding with them that it was somehow necessary. He needed their meat, and in a strange way he needed the activity -- it was an escape from human reality for him. I think the animals understood. Wes would never allow them to suffer. There was a mutual understanding that he was higher in the food chain. It was a basic rule of nature. Wes understood that more than anyone and taught me to understand that as well. I still can't kill an animal for anything but survival, but I don't have a problem with people that can -- as long as they are making full use of the resources that they are killing for. Just another example of how grounded, respectful and aware he was his entire life.
I realize that many of my most vivid memories of Wes are from our days sharing a house in Santa Rosa. That's understandable since it is the most recent and it was also a time when we got to know each other again. We had grown apart in high school as we followed different paths. But the friendship and brotherhood was always there. Wes was friends with many people that would have loved to see me fall. For whatever reason I did not endear myself to certain people and I think it was because I was too introspective and analytical for my age. People are intimidated by differences at that age. Wes, however, would never let anything happen to me. The loyalty never went away even when we were not as close. As Wes began to grow out of that stage, we discussed moving to California for a fresh start. We became best friends again. Neither one of us had a lot of friends out there because we were both shy and had a hard time meeting people. Wes made friends with some people that we was working with. I remember one night, I was feeling really low and he had plans to go out. Before he left he offered to stay home and hang out with me, but of course I was stubborn and told him to go. He left and about 15 minutes later the phone rang and it was him. He gave me another chance to change my mind and offered to come back home. I refused. He told me he would ask his friends if I could join them, but I said I wouldn't go. I finally convinced him to go have fun and I would be fine. We both hung up the phone. About 20 minutes later Wes walked in. Quite irritated by this point, I asked him what he was doing home. He said that he preferred to stay home. That's all. He didn't say that he felt sorry for me or that I ruined his plans. He didn't even admit that he was worried about me. He just said he wanted to hang out at home. I knew better. Wes felt a responsibility to be with me, just as I felt the same responsibility when he was low. I still get a lump in my throat when I think about that.
On August 19, 2000 our friend Kyle died, barely 3 years after Wes. Wes, Kyle and I were friends since we were about 4. Kyle's passing was especially hard because him and I leaned on each other quite a bit after Wes died. A few weeks after Kyle died his family asked a few of us to hike to the summit of The Mount of the Holy Cross to scatter his ashes. It was a long and miserable hike (beautiful nonetheless), but of course we all agreed. For 31/2 years I had saved some of Wes' ashes. Yes, it's a bit twisted, but you do funny and sometimes twisted things when you are grieving. We had scattered some of Wes' ashes at Goat Rock on the California Pacific Coast. It was Wes' favorite spot out there and worthy of a "burial". For some reason, though, I saved some of those ashes. When we carried Kyle to the top of Holy Cross, I of course brought Wes along for the ride. At the summit we reminisced about Kyle. No one knew that I was there for (and was carrying) Wes also. We each took a small bag of Kyle's ashes and went to an isolated spot on the summit to pay our tributes in our own way. I let go of Kyle from one hand and Wes from the other. Even though we had done the same in California for Wes, setting him free on the summit of Holy Cross along with Kyle made me feel a sense of honor, respect and a bit of closure. I know Wes is grateful for that. Not even a few seconds after I threw Kyle's and Wes' ashes from the summit, two hawks circled overhead. No doubt who they were and what they were doing there. Both Wes and Kyle were always troubled beings trapped in the wrong body. They were not meant to walk on this earth, they were meant to fly above it.
I hope this blog will inspire me to remember the things I've forgotten. The pain of how our time in California came to an end sometimes overshadows the times we had growing up in Colorado. It's probably the trauma. Reading the memories from others helps me remember as well. It makes me smile. I know he must be smiling too...
Jason -- 24 February 2008
