Sonny Holder's Last Ride

My Dad died in December of 2023. He'd had several months of difficulty breathing, especially when lying on his back. Congestive heart failure, he was told. His final weeks were spent in the Intensive Care Unit of a local hospital, his heart working harder while growing weaker. He passed suddenly, surrounded by loved ones. My sister and I were with him for that final moment, just as he and we were with his mother for her last breath in 1986. Family dynamics, I suppose. 

Dad had many hobbies but chief among them was motorcycling. After a long break from riding, he ran across a Yamaha XS650 in 2007. Stored in a barn, no brakes, and priced to sell, he bought it. I had the job of riding it to his house, a white knuckle experience on a bike with no brakes. I hadn't ridden in 15 years or more. A former auto mechanic, he did the work of repair and restoration himself in his early 60s. He rode that bike for years, picking up others along the way. Dad was a fan of Japanese motorcycles, collecting several Hondas to go with the Yamaha. 
 

He rode with friends across the Southeast, heading up into the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains, sometimes riding 100 miles to eat a chili dog at his favorite roadside diner. Good times, good friends, good rides. He always took pictures. 

Dad rode until the last years of his life, until he was 79 or 80, a pretty impressive run. One of his laments as age and illness wore him down was that he hadn't ridden at all in 2023. The man outlived a number of his riding buddies and was still ready to go. Even in his final days, he talked about rides. 

Upon his passing, per his wishes, he was cremated. I was given a small amount of his ashes. Dad hated the funeral industry and refused to let his passing be a money-making opportunity for grief exploiters. In the Spring of 2024, we held a memorial service that included grilled hot dogs and hamburgers, barbecue, and lots of story telling. I managed my grief pretty well, putting on a brave face and greeting strangers like old friends. The event ended and we all went home. I put his ashes in a carved wooden puzzle box in the shape of an owl, then placed the owl in a display case. There it sat for two years, idle but unforgotten.

In recent months, it began to bother me; Dad was the most restless man I'd ever known, and the thought of being kept in storage in a puzzle locked inside a display would have driven him mad. I decided I would scatter his ashes someplace special, a place I knew he would want to be. One location immediately came to mind: the Pocket, a recreation area in the John's Mountain Wildlife Management Area.

Dad loved the Pocket. It is sparse, with a few campsites, picnic area, and Park Service restrooms. Not a snack or drink machine to be found. A creek runs through the area, stocked annually with trout. When I was in elementary school, Dad checked me out for the day and we went trout fishing in the creek. I have never caught, nor do I know anyone who has caught, a trout in the creek. I don't know what it was that drew Dad to the Pocket but he loved the place. I, too, have always loved it, perhaps due to good memories or proximity to my home, twenty minutes away. It's peaceful, and that alone is good enough to keep me coming back. 
 

The Summer of 2026 was long and hot, with August reaching temperatures in the 90s every day of the month. September was barely friendlier but temperatures slowly came down. In late September and early October, the rains returned bringing with them a more pleasant climate. October is my favorite month. I knew the time was right. 

Sonny Holder's last ride was in a Volkswagen. Of course it was. He'd been a VW mechanic from the early 1960s until he retired. His career began in the air-cooled engine era, continued into the water-cooled era, and ended four decades later as the cars became more technologically sophisticated. Too complicated to work on, he said. My wife and son joined me in her Passat (for the record, I drive a Jetta) and we made our way into the Pocket. I don't recall what part of the creek we fished when I was a child so I went to my favorite spot, toward the end of the public land area. I pulled off the road and we walked to the creek in a quiet procession. 

The spot features a waist-deep pool formed by a number of rocks stretching across the creek. Not wanting his ashes stuck in one place, I walked a few feet past to where the creek flows faster. I knelt, talked to Dad as I would if he were standing beside me, and emptied his ashes into the stream. It was in this moment that I began to cry uncontrollably. Everything I'd held in, all the emotions I'd suppressed for almost three years came rushing out. My son joined me in tears. Much like me, he'd suppressed his feelings. He seemed more deeply emotional; perhaps he realized he'd one day be in my position, scattering my ashes in a stream in Autumn. My wife, also in tears, held us together. A family embrace, an emotional release, ashes drifting on a current. 

My wife tells me that the ashes spread out into a beautiful pattern when they hit the water. My eyes were closed, overtaken by tears. Dad's last act was one of beauty. And I missed it.  

Upon regaining composure, I began telling stories of the little area we were in. The trout I had seen in the water, ignoring my fly. Seeing an orange trout in the pool, a sight I'd never seen before. Rambling perhaps, but it felt good to share. We returned to the car, where we sat a long moment, decompressing from an emotional reaction I don't think any of us were anticipating. 
 

The drive out of the WMA was quiet, solemn. My son was still quite emotional. I'd fallen into a relaxed state, feeling rather stoned. I'd done a good thing, the right thing. I believe Dad would be pleased.