Life on the Ranch
July 1, 2020
The Rock of Remembrance
At my father’s memorial, I shared the story in the book of Joshua how God miraculously stopped the Jordan River from flowing so that the Israelite’s could cross and enter the promised land. The passage of Joshua 3:15-16 says, “Now the Jordan is at flood stage all during harvest. Yet as soon as the priest who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water’s edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing…while the water flowing down to the Sea of the Arabah (the Salt Sea) was completely cut off.” Joshua 4: 1-3 When the whole nation had finished crossing the Jordan, the Lord said to Joshua, “Choose twelve men from among the people, one from each tribe, and tell them to take up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan, from right where the priests are standing, and carry them over with you and put them down at the place where you stay tonight.” 4:6-7 of Joshua continues; “…In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”
On Father’s Day, my brothers and I laid to rest our dad in his beloved, Montana. It was a time of intense sorrow but also a time of great hope. Knowing that we would see him on the other side, surrounded by the glorious presence of our Savior and thinking his mansion on a hill would be a log cabin in the mountains, gave us much comfort.
My dad’s passion was hunting. Anyone who knew him, sensed his outdoors-man nature. Every year growing up, I waved goodbye as he made the pilgrimage to Lake Canyon when cooler weather warranted flannel shirts, winter coats and buckled up overshoes. The old jeep was loaded with tents, food, and rifles and off he went, sometimes with my brothers in tow, to reclaim the hunting camp, reacquaint with California friends, and once again forge into the wilderness in the mountains of Montana.
Bull Alley is home to a lush meadow above Lake Canyon along with a happy, babbling stream that meanders its way down the mountain. When camping in the summer during my youth, the icy cold water lent itself to refrigerate cans of soda pop and ripened, juicy watermelon. The massive boulder, placed by the hand of God himself stands guard like a centurion, surveying the mountainous landscape. This rock was the place where fellow hunters would begin their venture looking for elk each cold, frosty morning. From there, they would split up to hunt the various areas; The Big Ridge, The Middle Ridge, Red Mountain and to push up to the right to John’s Ridge. At the end of the day, it was also the last area that was scouted for elk before returning to camp.
My brother Steve recounts, “It was more famous when the guys from California came up and it seemed they shot a number of elk in Bull Alley. In fact, Dad submitted a hunting story to Field and Stream about two bull elk fighting in Bull Alley. The account recalls how Dad and his friend John, each filled their tag that day!”
It seemed only fitting to my brothers and me that we spread some of dad’s ashes in the place that he loved, and specifically on the rock where his days of hunting began before sunrise and ended at dusk. We decided to call it “Dad’s Rock” in his honor. The 3 ½ mile trek up to Lake Canyon and around the bend to this monument by our party of 30 humans and 3 dogs, was filled with laughter and stories. We reminisced about the time my dad stepped out of his tent and directly into a bear and when a mountain lion was tracking us kids while we hiked to Lake Canyon far ahead of our parents. We told of roasting marshmallows around the campfire and picking wild berries along the trail. Our description of the smell of the pines after a light rain shower and hearing the old black bottomed, percolator coffee pot singing to us that the black brew was ready, brought our senses back to a simpler time. Watching the slick, black cows bawling to their calves, looking for mountain goats gripping the side of the rock cliff and gathering together for a picnic lunch like my brothers and I did long ago at the watering trough, are memories now ingrained into the hearts of our own children.
When we again visit this beautiful land with the forested meadow and babbling brook and sit on Dad’s Rock, our Rock of Remembrance of how faithful and good God is, the floodgate of memories and love will once again wash over us all. My dad was a good and decent man. He raised us to know right from wrong and he led by example on how to conduct our own lives. I thank God for the man I called dad.
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