A week ago I went through my gear cupboard to thin out some of the clutter. I was able to collect quite a bit of duplicate and no-longer-used stuff and donate it to a local scout troop.

But, there was also a small pile of gear from the past; it was either worn out or out grown. Included here were the climbing boots I had used for over 20 years of mountaineering. There was a sun-faded, 60-40 cloth parka that was torn, worn thin and patched beyond redemption. And, there was the pair of Nike Waffle Trainers I had used for many climbing approach hikes through the 1970’s. None of these had any useful life left in them, even if they had still fit, but I just couldn’t bear to toss them in a landfill: They had served me too faithfully through the years to be summarily and unceremoniously tossed.

We have a small sacred place on our property; it lies between two small desert washes and is shaded by a lovely white-thorn acacia tree. A large saguaro stands sentinel over the place. In spring, the acacia flower fragrance is lovely. When our much-loved golden retriever Rosie died earlier this spring we scattered her ashes there and placed a statue of St. Frances on the spot. We visit the spot often in the evening; it is a bittersweet experience.

This morning I took a digging bar and shovel to Rosie’s place, dug a hole near where she lies and with proper ceremony buried my worn-out but faithful gear. Doing this made me feel as though I was letting go of an important part of my past but it also made me feel as though I was honoring old friends. I suspect that my sadness is more my missing the way I felt when I was young and using the gear than missing the gear itself. I feel the march of time quite keenly just now.