When the Mountains Don't Get Closer

A desert hike, a mother's death, and unexpected grace

I got the news yesterday. I had joined an early morning ranger-led fitness hike in the park where I am camping—McDowell Mountain Regional Park on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona. After a long slog through traffic on Friday, I wasn't sure I was up for the 9-mile hike, but I knew it would do me good. Less than halfway through, my brother called. I had come to this campground on their invitation, to meet up with them over the Christmas season. But my sister-in-law's mom and stepdad had both been hospitalized, forcing them to cancel.

Ken mentioned going back to Wisconsin for mom. I was surprised, since she was bedridden and fading fast. That's when he said, "She died this morning." There was no call. No text. But in this day of social media, he pointed me to a thread on WhatsApp, where my sister shared the news about her early morning death. Not wanting to wake us, and exhausted herself, she used the app to break the news, and I didn't see it.

I left the group with the ranger's paper map in hand, dismayed that I had a good five miles of desert hiking in front of me. The thing about walking in the desert, with distant mountains looming over the landscape, is that it feels as if you don't make any progress. The mountains never got closer, and I began to envision being lost in the desert. But as long as I stuck to the trail, I knew I'd make it back.

Each mile brought a different emotion. I let the tears fall for the first mile. In the second mile, I felt nothing but gratitude at the 92+ years mom had been gifted. In the third mile, I freaked out about the cats. My brother and sister-in-law were to take care of them while I spent two days with my son in the Grand Canyon. In the fourth mile, I studied the map, wondering if I would ever see my red Jeep again. In the last mile, I began to churn out a plan to find a cat sitter.

Sometimes the universe has a way of providing exactly what you need. In the back of my swirling mind, I knew it would be okay, and I knew that the right person would come along and help with the cats. After research and many phone calls, I connected with a young woman, Maddie. She agreed to meet me at the park entrance, with her mother driving, where I would escort them to the campground to meet my cats, Coco and Isabella. I could imagine what she was thinking—meeting a stranger who is camping in an RV in the middle of the desert. It had all the ingredients of a horror movie. So I sent her the link to my The Woman on the Ferry page, telling her that I was a writer and RVer and "you and your mom don't have to worry about meeting with me!"

After all my worry about finding someone trustworthy, the meeting turned out better than I could have hoped. Upon meeting Maddie and her mother, their warm smiles instantly put me at ease. When we got to the RV, they noted my Green Bay Packers license plate holder. It turns out, they have a summer place in Wisconsin. Maddie's mom admired my RV setup, while Maddie immediately bonded with the cats, showering them with affection. As her mom and I talked, it felt like reconnecting with an old friend. The conversation flowed effortlessly, grounding me in the midst of my grief. I marveled at the timing of our connection—how the universe seemed to bring us together at just the right moment. I booked Maddie's cat-sitting services and felt a sense of calm settle over me. With that task complete, I fell into bed early, exhausted, but too tired to sleep.

This morning, the sun came up as always. A puzzlement, as if the sun should retreat after mom's death. This evening, I posted a link to mom’s obituary. I had written it when I visited over Thanksgiving. As I read it, I was appalled—spotting typo after typo. I relayed the typos to my sister, who told me that staff at the funeral home couldn't just copy and paste from a Word document. Instead, they retyped it, making typos in the process. I cringed, warning that if my obit comes out with typos, "I will come back to haunt whoever did it!" I can't deny it any longer. I am a writer.

The hardest decisions often come with the most clarity. Mom's service will be later this week, and I am not going to make it. My son has been through a lot, including a long stint in a homeless shelter, this last year. He now has a job in the Grand Canyon that includes housing, and he is so incredibly excited to see me. It hasn't always been that way, and he's gone off the radar for months at a time. And in another magical moment, his raffle ticket was drawn at the company holiday party, and he won two nights lodging, with breakfast, which he has gifted me. I need to be with him.

Looking back, I'm grateful for the flexibility of my RV/entrepreneur life. I spent ten quality days with mom over Thanksgiving. And that's something I could not have done with the old career and its many demands. I wouldn't trade those days for anything.

Those final days with mom were precious and bittersweet. On the first two days, I watched her climb steps and use her walker. Then she fell and was resigned to the wheelchair. It was a rollercoaster for a while, and I saw the rapid decline, doubting that she would be with us for Christmas. In a family of five children, we each have our own gifts to give, and I knew I was the one who could help mom complete her mission to write one last story. One day, she was filled with energy and ambition, so we worked together to draft a story, and off it went to her contact at Guideposts. No more loose ends.

I spent my 61st birthday with mom, and we said our goodbyes. We both knew it would be the last time we hugged. As she choked up, I made my exit.

Death brings perspective. What's really important? What lights up my heart? I decided to close my financial coaching business for good. I was not just walking away from a struggle; it was a declaration of clarity and renewal. I realized it had drained my energy and diverted me from the life I truly wanted. With this decision, I opened the door to more writing, travel, and adventure—things that make me feel alive.

When I shared mom's obituary, I was surprised by the outpouring of kind words. And these four words, written by a friend in my RV co-op, tugged at my heart: "...and we got you!" I'm not alone. I have friends who have my back. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

One of mom’s biggest thrills was being featured by the local television station, for her 60+ years of playing the organ at the little country church. Here’s a snippet.