One Last Hike

SWEET MEMORIES: Back in 2020, qL publisher Isabelle Southcott (left) hiked Sweetwater Trail with her friends Regina Sadilkova (middle) and the now-late Rebecca Kirk (right). Always healthy and still young, Becky’s death in August was a shock.

LAST WORD

ISABELLE SOUTHCOTT

How do you know that the last time you see someone will be the last? How do you know how many hikes you have left with a friend before you’ll be hiking alone?

You don’t.

I guess that’s both a good thing and a bad thing, but the lesson I’ve learned from this is to make every moment count.

A good friend of mine passed away last month. A friend who wasn’t supposed to die just yet.

The last time I saw Rebecca Kirk was a week and a half before she passed away. She and her granddaughter Jamie came over to my house to meet the litter of puppies I had. As always, she was full of life and spoke of future plans. We talked about the hikes we would do this fall. Her long hair had been cut short a month earlier and she wore her new style with elegance and grace – but that was Becky. I can’t remember a time in the more than 25 years I’ve known her that she didn’t look elegant.

Becky and I met a few times a month for coffee at Quality Foods. We were often joined by Deb Calderon and the three of us would discuss the local news, hot gossip and what was going on in our own lives. Most weekends during the fall and winter months were spent hiking the local trails. Our hikes weren’t long, an hour and a half or two, and Becky was in charge of where we’d go. She was the planner, the organizer. She’d usually bake cookies for a little pick me up during our rest stop. My dogs quivered with excitement when her white Jeep pulled into the driveway because they knew Becky spelled adventure.

I first met Becky when I was covering court for the Powell River News back in the nineties. Maggie Hathaway, who worked for Legal Aid at the time, had nicknamed me “The Dreaded Reporter” and pointed me out to her clients.

The Powell River News covered courts and I spent an entire day finding out who was charged with what and what the verdicts were. If you had an impaired or shoplifting charge, your name appeared in the newspaper. If you were found guilty, I’d report what happened and to whom.

Becky worked for the RCMP Victim Services and because of this, our paths frequently crossed. I respected her and as I got to know her, our friendship grew.

Becky knew me when I was single, when I was married, when I became a mom, and when I got divorced and became single again. There’s something about knowing someone and having that someone know you through the different ages and stages of your life that is irreplaceable. Knowing someone’s history, their family, their triumphs, and their struggles is a gift that only happens over time, through long conversations, deep friendship, and trust. Becky knew me the way only a long-time friend can know someone and accepted and loved me as I am. As I did her.

Grief comes in waves. There’s shock, denial, anger, and acceptance. At least that’s the way it is for me. I think of Becky on my morning walks with the dogs and remember how she loved to breathe in the smell of the woods. When I was doing my Haslam Lake walk a few mornings after she died, the lyrics from an old Stan Rogers song popped into my head as I stared at the sky. “There’s God in the trees, I’m weak in the knees, the sky is a painful blue.”

And so, I asked God why? Why her, why now?

It’s ironic because when I think about it, God helped us become friends. Although we’d known each other through work, we began sitting together at the Baptist Church soon after I got divorced. I’d bring my youngest and she’d have her grandkids. We’d go for coffee after the service was over just to talk. I don’t think I ever told her just how much she helped me through such a dark and difficult time in my life and just how important she was to me.

It’s funny what you remember about someone. It’s the essence of that person, all the little things, but it’s these little things that make up the whole person.

Becky was a private person. I didn’t know she’d had a few health challenges and so when her son called to tell me that she’d become violently ill and had died, I was in shock. I didn’t believe she was dead. I didn’t want to believe she was dead. But she was and is.

What I wouldn’t give for one last hike with Becky.

Instead, I hike alone with the dogs and think of her. One moment, I’m happy, the next my heart is in my throat and I’m crying. I see her everywhere I look. She is on the path ahead of me, her backpack bouncing a bit with every step. We stop at the lake and share some of those yummy bush cookies she always packs whenever we go hiking together. She’s smiling because she is in the woods, moving along the path. I am grateful that I was able to share part of the journey with her, although I thought we would have many more hikes together.

Memento mori. Death is inevitable, we all have to die. Death is always there; it’s both a bitter kiss and a tender embrace, we all must choose to live every day. So now I say goodbye.

Rest in peace my friend.

|| isabelle@prliving.ca