Weeping at the foot of the cross,

I thought of my time spent at the Western Clave.

I had gathered my things together that morning in preparation for the drive
back to the airport and my trip home. It was high time to leave, the hands
were starting to shake a bit in the morning.

When I put my remaining food in Jeff and Joe's refrigerator, I helped myself
to a shot of whatever was in the big bottle and it helped to steady the
nerves enough to drink my coffee and go home to that which keeps me sober,
for the most part.

I went north on 191 to hit the Gallatin, the road follows the river and I
had allowed seven hours to make the two hour trip. That left five hours to
fish my last in Montana, for this year anyway.

As I left the park I found a small road where the river makes a bend. It
looked very peaceful and solitary - a lovely place to be alone.

I drove down, parked, suited up and began a walk of about fifty or
seventy-five yards to the river and came upon the cross. Near the cross was
a tree still in it's nursery wrappings and flowers were planted round about.

There were tokens, offerings within the stones that circled the tree and
cross. Money from Australia. Bits of paper with scribbled words of love and
many signatures on the cross itself. Stones also circled the flowers.

On the top of the cross was a fishing hat covered with flies and lures. Some
were newer, some had been there since the cross was put up sometime in 2003.
1981 - 2003. His name was Josh Richards. He committed suicide. Oh, 'that'
information was not anywhere to be seen but I recognized the signs. This was
no mere marker remembering the place of someone's death. This was marking
the place where someone chose to leave. As I said, I've seen them before.

Various cultures around the world have dealt with suicides in different
ways. I don't think our culture deals well.

I've met and heard those who think suicide is a cowards way out. I wouldn't
want those men by my side while under fire. Few men have the courage to step
up, look death in the face and say, "Take me . . . leave him." I feel like
giving a gun to those who cry coward and ask them to show me how brave they
are. Boy would the excuses come flying then. We're all going to die, what's
the matter of a few more years?

And then there is the illnesses and those who just can't cope with it all
anymore.

So I shed some tears for Josh, and others like him.

There was a five gallon bucket with a large stone in it so it wouldn't blow
away in the wind. I watered the flowers and trees and replaced the stone, so
it wouldn't blow away in the wind.

I took a fly from my patch that had served me particularly well that week
and sunk it in to Josh's hat, so it wouldn't blow away in the wind.

Knowing I'd catch no fish that day, I packed up and headed to the airport. I
was taking the cowards way out. I knew there was a bar at the airport and I
had a little extra time.

I had had a wonderful week with a fitting end.

john