Grandpa Jones wanted his ashes spread in the mountains, so we chose Warm River Canyon near the railroad tunnel as the site where he had touched our lives the most. All family members had a chace to distribute some ashes and say a few words. This photo shows Garrett spreading a few of the ashes. The following is a short tribute I wrote for this occasion.
Spreading Dad’s Ashes
August 24, 2008
I believe it was Aldo Leopold who said, “I only know one mountain well enough to call my own.” We all know mountains. Some we know better than others. We love to climb them, photograph them, ski them and camp in their forests. For dad, though, it was never about mountains. It had everything to do with creeks - Burnt Creek, Stump Creek, Antelope Creek, Fall Creek, Cherry Creek, Robinson Creek, and our family favorite – McTucker Creek. Dad knew all of these places well enough to call them his own. He knew the waters, the wildlife, the fish, and the watersheds that supplied the waters. He knew the holes that held the fish, the pockets that protected the deer and the thickets that housed the elk. He knew where to find a ruffed grouse to fill an autumn fry pan. He knew the ridge that separated Indian Camp from Calf Hollow. Dad familiarized himself with the ephemeral seeps and springs in every canyon.
At first, he found solitude as he searched for fish and game to harvest. Later he guided family members to these special sites that they might share his joy. Towards the end of his life, it was his memories of these places that provided great peace. I am sure he hoped, but never knew with certainty, that all of his posterity would come to appreciate the beauty in the intricacies of nature; to feel the joy and experience the love he felt.
But, something kept dad from talking about things like solitude, peace, joy, and love. Yet, the outdoors certainly provided him these emotions. I sat with dad in silence across many campfires, atop many windblown ridges and in the stillness of the dark timber in canyons carved by these waters. The silence confused some, perhaps offended some, but in his silence he bound himself to things natural.
In the Old Testament Isaiah writes, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace . . .” But with dad it was never about mountains. It was about waters. So it is appropriate, no perfect, that his ashes be spread here among the rocks of Warm River Canyon, for on the banks of these waters he brought good tidings and published peace among those he loved. May God bless these waters.
August 24, 2008
I believe it was Aldo Leopold who said, “I only know one mountain well enough to call my own.” We all know mountains. Some we know better than others. We love to climb them, photograph them, ski them and camp in their forests. For dad, though, it was never about mountains. It had everything to do with creeks - Burnt Creek, Stump Creek, Antelope Creek, Fall Creek, Cherry Creek, Robinson Creek, and our family favorite – McTucker Creek. Dad knew all of these places well enough to call them his own. He knew the waters, the wildlife, the fish, and the watersheds that supplied the waters. He knew the holes that held the fish, the pockets that protected the deer and the thickets that housed the elk. He knew where to find a ruffed grouse to fill an autumn fry pan. He knew the ridge that separated Indian Camp from Calf Hollow. Dad familiarized himself with the ephemeral seeps and springs in every canyon.
At first, he found solitude as he searched for fish and game to harvest. Later he guided family members to these special sites that they might share his joy. Towards the end of his life, it was his memories of these places that provided great peace. I am sure he hoped, but never knew with certainty, that all of his posterity would come to appreciate the beauty in the intricacies of nature; to feel the joy and experience the love he felt.
But, something kept dad from talking about things like solitude, peace, joy, and love. Yet, the outdoors certainly provided him these emotions. I sat with dad in silence across many campfires, atop many windblown ridges and in the stillness of the dark timber in canyons carved by these waters. The silence confused some, perhaps offended some, but in his silence he bound himself to things natural.
In the Old Testament Isaiah writes, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace . . .” But with dad it was never about mountains. It was about waters. So it is appropriate, no perfect, that his ashes be spread here among the rocks of Warm River Canyon, for on the banks of these waters he brought good tidings and published peace among those he loved. May God bless these waters.
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