It's well past dark when we finally make the second creek crossing and drop our packs. The halfway mark offers a brief solace. But we still have the big climb – two miles and nearly 2,000 feet of icy elevation before we gain the saddle, then a relatively flat final mile back to the truck. Sitting in silence we down chalky energy bars and nurse the last of our dwindling water. Lost in thought. Recalling what's recently behind and daunted by what lies directly ahead. I tug off

Overturned dirt lies in a heap, damp from recent rain, still carrying the earthy petrichor of so many seasons. Empty bottles clutter a stump beside the fresh hole. An army-green ammo tin carrying your ashes rests quietly alongside. As your brother Kevin struggles through heavy words and the box is placed into the earth, hot tears streak behind my sunglasses, like August rain sliding down a dirty windowpane. I take my turn and toss a handful of soil over top. As hard as I try,