OCTOBER ROAD: My Father's Journey Home

“Fathers don’t need much,” my dad would sometimes say. “A visit or phone call is more than enough to make my day.”

That, of course, didn’t stop me from numerous wild goose chases through the years trying to wow him. More often than not I whiffed on the mission, drawing dad’s standard “very nice” response to the unwrapping of another John Wayne video or coffee table book on horses.

When he passed away this year a month shy of his October 10th birthday, his “fathers don’t need much” message came back to me, but with a whispered final request: “Bring me home if you can.”

Though a resident of Florida for the last 30 years, home for my dad is a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s there that the mountaintop ranch house my dad dubbed “The Ponderosa” sits, still a family focal point with my brother Bob and sister-in-law Jill holding down the fort.

While Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, my dad left his heart, soul and long underwear in West Milford. Before age and alarmingly bad knees caught up with him, he would go back for hunting season in the fall. Some years, before autumn’s festive charms gave way to winter’s tortures, I would join him for some October hiking.

How could I go wrong? October is a time in northern New Jersey known for mild, sun-splashed days and cool, crisp nights. A time where nature’s Crayola box of primary colors erupts into joyful celebration, causing grown men to stop on the side of the road and tear up in worshipful wonder.

Except that some years, winter decides to hold a sneak preview. I flashed back to one of those times, recalling how dad and I exchanged diverging views during a hike. 

“I hear it’s supposed to get down in the 30s tonight,” I mentioned as we made our way into the woods and onto the white dot trail.

“It doesn’t feel cold to me,” dad asserted, a contradictory droplet of snot dangling from his nose. “Only a la-la would be cold in this kind of weather,” he teased.

We followed the trail deeper into the woods, occasionally using our hand-carved walking sticks like a third leg to maintain balance over wet leaves and loose stones.

“I like having the walking stick in case we run into any black bear,” dad said casually. This made me shiver for other reasons.

“Have you seen any black bear out here?”

“Not this trip. But they’re out here. The mounds of bear scat are everywhere.”

“I always heard that you’re supposed to lie down and play dead if you cross paths with a bear,” I ventured, seeking confirmation.

“That’s for grizzlies,” dad clarified. “Black bear will just bend down and start digging into their happy meal. Of course, if you hit them in the face just right with your walking stick, you might be able to daze them long enough to get away.”

“What if you miss?”

“Then your best shot is to poke yourself in the face with the walking stick and hope the bear thinks you’re crazy.”

The highlight of many hikes was angling up the mountain across from the house and stepping out on the open rocks for a breathtaking view of the Wanaque Reservoir. It was dad’s favorite spot … and the only place worthy of spreading his ashes.

Joined by my brothers Bob and Jim, my nephew Robert and my Uncle Allan, we climbed the steep, boulder-strewn trail to reach the scenic lookout and say our goodbyes on sacred ground.

As I thought about my father on this picture-perfect October day, there was a sweetness in everything visible: the woods, the water, the sky. And reflecting on him and how he lived, I couldn’t help but see all these things through his eyes. I sensed that his had been a search for peace all along. His search had sent him down some dead ends and detours, but in nature he found comfort, beauty and an inspiration he could embrace without reservation.

Groping for words as I slipped from the group to a private spot on the rocks, I invited my now departed dad to “reach out to me in any way he could” in the years to come.

“Sons don’t need much,” I pointed out. “A feeling, a presence – a cameo appearance in a dream.”

As we made our trek back down the mountain, it struck me that my father’s final journey wasn’t a once-and-for-all goodbye. The loved ones we lose always stay a part of us. And the love lives on.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” I heard a whisper in the breeze.

“Only a la-la would have kept you away,” I whispered back.