The Mourning Cloak

Sue and I reached the top of a small ridge, the cottonwood-lined San Pedro River far below and the snow-capped Huachucas high above. A butterfly flew in and landed on a rock. Wings spread, it soaked up the warmth furnished by the bright Arizona sunshine. Sooty black with muted gold edgings identified it as a mourning cloak. Seeing it brought the memories flooding back.

Richard, a.k.a. “Buckwheat” or simply “Wheat” was a former co-worker at Six Rivers National Forest, located in the northwestern corner of California. Because he worked in fire and I divided my time between fisheries and hiking trails, our paths didn’t cross too often. But as my interest in birds blossomed, I learned that Wheat shared an appreciation for our feathered friends. Later, when I expanded my interest in the natural world to include butterflies, he was the lone co-worker with whom I could share my experiences.

One late winter day, he came to me with an identification question. “Yesterday, I saw a butterfly I’ve never seen before. The upper wings were a dark gray or black, edged with a golden color.” “Sounds like a mourning cloak,” I offered. “Mourning with a ‘u,’ as in grieving widow, not the time of day. They overwinter as adults in hollow logs, sometimes taking flight on warm days.”

Slowly, our friendship grew, fueled by our common interest in the natural world. Wheat informed me one day that he’d seen an Anhinga – a strange, heron-like bird native to the Gulf Coast -- along the upper Klamath River. Their status in California – such as it was – was confined to a sighting or two along the Colorado River, about 750 miles distant. I immediately suspected that the bird was, in fact, a Double-crested Cormorant. Pale-breasted juvenile cormorants “just don’t look right,” even to veteran birders. Wheat added that he’d taken a photo or two and would bring them in the next day. Even though I doubted his report, I didn’t tell him so. “That’s great you got some pictures. I’d really like to look at them.” I’ve seen several beginning birders’ enthusiasm crushed by the skepticism of those in the birding community who evaluate such reports. Because there are but a handful of birders scattered throughout our local hinterlands who relay what they’ve seen, my personal philosophy has always been that of unbridled encouragement. The photos clearly showed the bird in question to be a Double-crested Cormorant, but I closed our brief identification lesson with the refrain, “Keep those reports coming. Inland areas, away from the main population centers, are an unexplored frontier.”

Owing to our Forest’s meager trails budget, many of our trails had no directional signs, were overgrown with brush, and their very location was in danger of slipping off our “corporate knowledge” radar. Wheat knew the location of one such little-used trail, stretching from Board Camp Mountain to Mad River Buttes. So I recruited him to help me nail 6-inch-long, diamond-shaped aluminum markers to trees along the trail. Spending several days out on the trail, far from agency bean counters and paperwork, was a much-needed tonic for both of us.

The spine of this east-west trending 5000-foot ridge has a short snow-free season. The absence of lakes translates to few visitors. Because of this, the area accessed by the trail furnishes a higher-quality wilderness experience than that found in many areas carrying the formal wilderness designation. To the initiated, these forests of incense cedar and white fir, badlands-like rock outcrops, and gentle ridgetops that support short, scrubby oaks have their own unique appeal. Promontories afford panoramic views ranging from the Yolla Bolly wilderness to the fog-shrouded Pacific Ocean.

Out here, interpersonal barriers crumble, and one is left with a vivid, crystalline vision of self. One night as we lay in our sleeping bags contemplating the stars, Wheat confided that his marriage of 25 years was on the rocks. “Man, that must be painful,” I replied. “My wife and I are going down in flames as well … we’ve been together for 11 years.” For the next several hours, we covered topics all too familiar for many living in these times: falling out of love, erosion of trust, and our inability to continue walking the same path as our mate over the long run.

The following day, we completed the trail-marking project and headed home. En route, we flushed a Golden Eagle in Spike Buck meadow at the foot of Grouse Mountain. Our vision partially blocked by a boulder, we watched the raptor ascend in a tight, effortless spiral. Wheat hit the brakes and backed up to where we’d first seen the bird. “Yep, a [deer] gut pile. Someone’s been poaching.” I was impressed about how he knew to connect the dots between the two phenomena. Truth be told, prior to our time together on this trip, I’d found Wheat enigmatic, a bit remote. Both of us could perhaps be termed loners; I was grateful for the chance to see a side of him that office interactions rarely permitted.

Our trip to the Mad River Buttes had brought us closer, and much of the “professional distance” that can exist between co-workers had evaporated. A portion of the area surrounding Wheat’s property had long ago been cleared for pasture, gardens and orchards. These openings are known to attract birds that favor open country. That fall he mentioned to me that a White-tailed Kite had taken up residence, hunting the open fields. “That’s a noteworthy sighting,” I responded. Although kites were common twenty airline miles to the west, in pastures and fields in the lower floodplains of three rivers – the Mad, Eel, and Van Duzen – very little was known regarding their status inland.

About eight months after our backpack trip, on a glorious spring afternoon, I returned to the office from a day in the field. My boss had a peculiar, pained expression. Taking me aside, he gently explained that Wheat had committed suicide. Taken aback, I went for a long walk. Chaotic tendrils of thought swirled around death and the end of relationships, for my own marriage had ended that spring. Despite the warm weather, it didn’t feel at all like spring, the season of rebirth. It felt as though winter was returning, as all I seemed to see were endings, decay, and death. But at least I was at peace with my decision, emerging from my divorce hopeful that I would someday find that special person with whom to share my life.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. I backtracked, rewinding the video of interactions I’d had with Wheat: our time in the wilderness together, sharing bird discoveries, and talking of gardens and homesteading. Last, but not least, our collective burgeoning interests in butterflies. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, my own words came back to me, “Sounds like a mourning cloak. Mourning with a ‘u,’ as in grieving widow, not the time of day.” Could I have put the idea of suicide into his head?

Over the next several weeks, Wheat’s mom expressed gratitude for the outpouring of love and concern for her son. She explained that, beginning in high school, he’d proclaimed that he would never tolerate a divorce. These days, it’s clearly not the dominant philosophy, but there was something in Wheat’s makeup that required a lifelong commitment. Whew, I wasn’t responsible after all; the die had been cast long before our conversation. I reflected on Wheat’s chosen rural lifestyle. I know that my connection to the land has pulled me through some rough patches, yet support networks during a crisis can be hard to come by, owing to the scarcity of people.

Wheat’s mom revealed that he had grown increasingly frustrated with his job. Like many of us who came of age during the era of the first Earth Day celebration, Wheat had made his career choice based on a calling, a resolve to leave the planet in better shape than he’d found it. I could empathize with his disillusionment, for in my naiveté, I’d believed that I could bring about change in the Forest Service, somehow convince it to adopt philosophies that better mirrored my own. Although I had successfully brought about incremental improvements, I hadn’t the patience to cope with the glacial pace of change common in most bureaucracies. So, a number of years ago, I made a conscious effort to seek fulfillment through avenues outside of what I do for a living: writing, traveling, serving as a board member for environmental and land trust groups. That part of my life has made all the difference, for I now better grasp that we needn’t define ourselves so narrowly, regardless of how much satisfaction we receive from our career.

Epilog: This spring marks the 12^th anniversary of my divorce – and Wheat’s suicide. Life is good. In fact, last July my wife and I celebrated our 5^th anniversary. I think back to the excitement I felt -- as a novice butterflier – when I was able to identify Wheat’s mourning cloak, based on his brief description. Butterflies serve as an apt – and arguably the most-frequently used -- metaphor for transformation. Sometimes, when I think about Wheat, I think about his hardwiring, his need for a lifelong commitment to his mate. Sadly, I think about his inability to adapt, to take that next step to transform himself while here, on this material plane.

I recall the words that I couldn’t quite voice as we lay in our sleeping bags. “Small-town life has its advantages, but maybe not when your marriage of 25 years goes down for the count. Yes, tongues will wag in a small town. I can understand why you don’t want to be the object of gossip. Have you thought about moving to the coast, where there are more people? Re-invent yourself, get lost in the crowd, so to speak.” But I couldn’t find the words; they sounded preachy, too intrusive. Besides, I guess that trail was mine alone to tread.

Rest in Peace, Wheat.

Email: Tom Leskiw

Return to Table of Contents