Clifftops Are Sacred

And I’m not the only one who practices the religion

I’ve learned to be oddly comfortable sitting on the edge of a cliff. Probably because I’m always attached to a rope and anchor system. Being so close to the edge reminds me how much I love to climb. There’s something about the view, the wind blowing, and my feet dangling in space that makes me feel content.

One summer evening, a year or two after moving to the Northeast, I was sitting on the edge of the Gunks, looking out over the Hudson River Valley. It was the pre-sunset phase of the day. My favorite. Everything was bathed in golden light.

I remember feeling so content that I thought, “I could die here.”

I wasn't suicidal, and I didn’t want to die in that moment. It was just that everything aligned that day, and in my life– in my move here with Whitney, our new home, my new job– it genuinely felt like this would be a great place to spend the rest of my life.

I had that feeling again just a week ago also. But this time, I was sitting on the edge of a cliff in Minnewaska State Park. I was on a mountain bike ride and decided to take a water break in a scenic spot. Below me sat the lake. People were swimming, and I could hear the kids’ shrieks and splashes. A breeze was blowing through the pitch pines surrounding me.

I sat up straight and closed my eyes. The gentle whooshing sound of the wind is my absolute favorite. And it quickly lulled me into meditation.

And then everything changed.

I heard a rustling sound behind me and to my left. It sounded like when my dog frantically searches through a grocery bag she shouldn’t be digging inside. Annoyed, I cracked open an eyelid and scanned over to see what was making the noise.

Meditation fail.

There was a lady there, hunched over, digging inside her backpack. She pulled out a gallon Ziploc bag with some sort of material and a metal measuring cup. She started scooping the material over the cliff edge.

One scoop. Two scoops.

“What the hell is she doing?” I asked myself.

And then it dawned on me as she inverted the third scoop: “She’s spreading somebody’s ashes. Probably her late husband.”

As the ashes fell out of the scoop, a gust of wind came and wafted the material skyward. It blew downwind. I was sitting downwind. I felt the remnants of the man’s body blow over me.

Another Man’s Ashes

Shocked and saying nothing, I turned back around and waited for the lady to pack away her husband and trudge off along the trail. I was horrified. And my thoughts started racing.

“She came up on me from behind, ruining my quiet moment. She would have seen me from a distance.”

“There was no reason she had to come so close. There were plenty of other beautiful vantage points for her to enjoy by herself.”

“Why did she have to blow up my spot?”

Not only that, but then she decided to carry out her little ritual.

I lambasted her, “She didn’t even consider the direction of the wind. Of all the places in this damn State Park, she picked the one spot where I was sitting.”

It was gross. I was annoyed. But then it dawned on me.

Maybe how I was feeling was exactly how she felt when she walked up and saw me. Maybe she was annoyed that I was sitting there. In her spot.

Or their spot.

Maybe this clifftop was where they went on a date. Or where they sat, looking at the view, during their evening walks. Maybe she knew her husband, or whoever was in that bag, loved the clifftops as I do. Because of how alive you feel on the precipice. And maybe, now that they were gone, turned to ash, she wanted them to feel alive again.

The Sacredness Is Shared

Whatever the case actually was, it made something clear to me– clifftops are sacred. And not just for me, but for a whole host of people like me. People who enjoy unique views and exposure. And people who go towards edges despite knowing full well the answer to that lingering question that your brain asks itself as you peer into the void: “What would happen to my body if I fell from here?”

Considering how I felt just a few years ago, sitting on the edge of the Gunks, it was fitting to be involuntarily involved in that women's sacred ceremony. Sort of full circle. I couldn't help but think of myself in that bag and my partner, Whitney, spreading my ashes in all the sacred places we’ve been together.

All the cliffs. All the precipices over yawning canyons where the immensity of geologic time makes me feel so insignificant that I shudder. In those moments, I’ve always felt so lucky to have a partner by my side, embracing the sacredness of the edge.

I also consider myself lucky to work in a sacred place. Yes, there’s also a fair amount of mundanity in my day-to-day work as a climbing guide. But most of the time, people push themselves outside their comfort zones and participate in life-changing experiences. All while hanging on the side of a cliff.

Clifftops are also liminal spaces– a threshold between two places. I’m lucky to be able to provide security and comfort to those who join me in that in-between space. When you are on the edge, somewhere between safety and absolute catastrophe, nothing else matters besides the bond between you and the other life on the line.

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