Luke would go

Last night, Jess and I came home from an adventure sans Velda. Our weekend away from working on her started with a roundabout series of flights from Central Wisconsin Airport to Chicago, to Seattle, and into Bozeman. Ten hours in the air and a world away from our daily reality of research and work, we stepped into the West flanked by some of my dearest friends at 1:30 AM. After a short night's sleep at the Bozeman Comfort Inn, we barreled south through West Yellowstone, stopping for an impromptu dance party/pee break and a herd of buffalo loitering in a roadside parking lot.

Fresh off a 5,000+ mile road trip, I drove like I meant to get to Driggs on time – to the chagrin of the occupants of the other rental car in our convoy. I drove like I ski: steadily, quickly, but cautiously; pausing and biding my time when we trailed semis through twisting canyons, accelerating without hesitation when my opening appeared and I knew I could make it safely. Always within the bounds of physics and the ability of my vehicle and the situation ahead of me.

Of course, it's always easier to be in control of such situations than to sit by and watch while you hurtle down the road, hoping the driver really knows what's going on. The over-abundance of crosses on the side of the road did nothing to calm anyone's nerves, clusters of the little white monuments attesting to the loss, en masse, of entire carfuls of humanity. As we were racing towards a memorial and celebration of life of a dear friend, taken too early by an aggressive brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme), death was surely on all of our minds as we passed these testaments to lives ended too soon. And in battling cancer, unlike road trips, no-one is driving. Surely, choices can be made in terms of treatments and mindset, but ultimately the road ahead is a blind one, and it is impossible to steer clear of all obstacles in that journey. Luke's wife, Claire Vitucci, had kept us all abreast of their navigation of the fight against his cancer through her blog, and the route they took could never have been anticipated.

We arrived at Linn Canyon Ranch a few minutes before the shotgun blast signaling the beginning of the ceremony and made our way through a meadow, into a stand of aspen and a glade nestled between foothills of the Tetons. Rainbows of prayer flags rustled gently, answering the muted voices and sobs of the congregants filtering through the trees. Love and sadness, wracking grief and joy at reunion mixed with the smell of hay, of ripe earth preparing for winter, cheeks wet as we struggled with the reality of having lost Luke Neraas. With the reality that the world had lost this monster of love and joy, a feisty machine of a man who could out-hike, out-fish, out-hunt, out-ski, and out-laugh nearly any mortal. 

Again and again as his friends and family spoke of their experiences with Luke, we were reminded that we would all have to love a little harder, laugh a little louder, and live a whole lot bigger if we were to honor the man we had lost. We were reminded that as people lucky enough to have loved, and been loved by, Luke, we were family and not just friends.

As the night progressed, the fire rose with our prayers and messages, sticks brought from around the country wrapped and bound with cords and cloth of his favorite colors. Tears continued to flow, as they will for years when we think of Luke and the void he has left, but laughter and song flowed through the air around us. A leaf fight broke out in the dark, adults giggling and cavorting with silly abandon; group hugs grew to throngs, a hundred hurting hearts joining in embrace, leaning on each other as we supported those around us. 

 

The trip back to Bozeman, this time on the deadline of flight departures for our group to return to Juneau, or to scatter to North Carolina, Nevada, and Wisconsin, was subdued. Our hearts were open and raw, the relative joy at our reunion tempered as each mile rolled away beneath us. The snow line had come down in the night, and peaks draped in white lit up above golden plains. A lone moose stood in a field on the outskirts of Tetonia, Luke's spirit animal seeing us off on our next journey.

As our group split at the terminal, we were reminded once again that the purpose of the journey had been reunion and celebration as much as remembrance; connection and love as much as loss. We held each other close in another group hug, our little family of friends holding each other tight, rejoicing in the intimacy and trust of our relationships. Luke's spirit, no longer confined to a single biologic unit, filled the air around us, brightening the rays of sun breaking through the clouds and shining with ethereal brightness off the snow-capped peaks past which we had raced, and the dangerous road we each travel every day.

The end can come for each of us at any time. Softly, terribly, quietly, by insane cells within us or with screams of rending metal, we all pass that way. In the meantime, we owe it to ourselves to live rampantly, to take every opportunity to experience the world around us to its fullest. Surely, with care and grace, measured steps and reasoned chances, but with conviction and without fear. And always, with love for those around us and for the land beneath our feet.

Luke would go. And so, too, shall we.