Sierra

What’s the last movie that made you cry?

Note: this story has potentially upsetting content.

The afternoon sun beat down on the eight of us unmercifully. It had been three hours and we had little to show for our efforts other than sawdust, scraps of lumber, and short tempers. 

Our Chief, Jonathan—”Gray Owl”—finally held up a hand. The rest of us paused, glad for a break.

“Look, you guys,” he said. “The pool opens in 20 minutes. What do you say we knock off and pick this up next weekend? I don’t think the girls are really interested anyway.”

We looked around and he was right. I had last seen Kari inside an hour ago when I used the restroom. She and her seven BFFs were all in Jonathan’s family room eating popcorn and watching Mulan.

Gray Owl didn’t speak further. He went into his garage, opened the fridge and with a sweeping gesture like a game show host, showed us a case of beer.

I suddenly remembered why we had elected Jonathan to be the Chief of the Pouncing Puma Indian Princess tribe.

Being a dad offered unparalleled opportunities to look foolish and draw unwanted attention. Scrambling under a restaurant table to retrieve Barney, asking the guy in Petsmart to grab one particular goldfish from 60 or 70, sitting like a big lump in the kiddie pool. Surrendering my dignity was often a job requirement.

But sitting in an Indian Princess outfit at Chuck E Cheese with seven other equally sheepish dads had to rank near the top. Our tassled suede vests with colorful patches, headbands and feathers drew stares and snickers from other patrons.

The YMCA Indian Princess program is a father-daughter thing for six- to eight-year old girls. It was our last year and the Spring Outing was coming up. Embarrassment was forgotten as Chief Gray Owl reminded us why we were there.

“Look,” he said. “We’ve only got eight weeks before the race. We gotta settle on a design and start building.”

The high point of the three-day Spring Outing was a raft race. Tribes from all over the Central Carolinas would be competing. The dads looked at each other as the girls played video games.

The problem was that the Pouncing Pumas had six engineer-dads. Professional pride was on the line as each was sure their design would be the one to bring us glory.

But we got busy sketching on napkins and by the time the server brought the check, we’d come up with a design that satisfied everybody.

Silliness aside, my years with the Indian Princess program…not just with Kari, but with all three of my girls…were halcyon ones.

I got to know and appreciate the other dads on a deeply personal level. Pals Forever, Friends Always is the motto; and while it meant between dad and daughter, by extension it included the entire tribe.

We were there for each other. During layoffs, health scares, the death of parents, the dads were often the last ones lingering at a meeting as the tired kids tried to pull us out the door. And one of the tribe’s favorite dads was Greg.

He was a quiet guy, thoughtful and articulate. His older son was autistic and his younger daughter Sierra was like Greg, quiet and observant. She was the last to meld with the other girls; I could see her hanging back for the first few months, assessing things. Is this gonna blow up on me? 

But once the trust was earned, she thrived. Her pigtails, missing teeth and crooked smile made her irresistible.

Once we laid the keel, so to speak, the rest of our raft fell into place. I recall a lot of “rough carpentry,” pieces that didn’t quite fit, and many trips to Home Depot for caulk. I think there was as much caulk as wood in our raft.

We took Lady Puma to nearby Jordan Lake for sea trials, and except for a little leakage and some issues with the passenger seating, she was ready for the big day.

Jonathan arranged to have us filmed and our first qualifying heat is immortalized on YouTube. The biggest dad…6’5” and almost 300 lbs…sat in the stern and the bow of the Lady Puma was thus slightly elevated. But we won and the girls danced with jubilation.

The program extends past the eight year-old level into the Trailmates program. It’s essentially the same thing with fewer meetings and more advanced activities; white water rafting, zip lining, orienteering.

All eight of our dad-daughter duos opted to continue on and it was fun. But as the girls became teenagers with teenage problems, the dynamics changed. Dads became trusted sounding boards for each other with thorny issues. Boys entered the picture, and differences in maturity meant some friendships deepened while others waned.

By the time the girls turned 16, the sun was setting. It was time. We’d had a great 10-year run, but life goes on.

The dads stayed in touch loosely and occasionally got together for a few cold ones and recollecting.

One day, the phone rang. It was Jonathan and his voice sounded strained.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. Everything OK?”

There was a pause, a croak, then: “It’s about Sierra. She uh— she…committed suicide.”

The funeral was on a cold clear day in March. All the dads in black, the wives and siblings, stricken looks, speeches filled with pauses and tight voices. Some of the pictures were of our tribe in happier times.

After the service, the dads convened under a huge white oak near the church. Its bare branches against the blue sky were filled with buds; another cycle of life, another summer of promise. Except for Sierra.

Greg didn’t really understand what had happened; her note was short and cryptic; it seemed to do with the stresses that come with that age. Of things changing, finding yourself, navigating relationships, confusion, fear. We all took turns hugging him.

One of the dads pulled out his phone, tapped a few buttons, and held it up. “Hey guys. Remember this?” 

It was the Lady Puma raft race.

I’ve never seen such abject agony. Greg watched for a few seconds, then his face collapsed. His beautiful Sierra, so happy once, now no more. No walking her down the aisle, no grandkids, no old-age rehash of the Puma days.

He put his face in his hands and his body shook with great wracking sobs. His wife came over, spoke to him gently, gave us a wan smile then led him away under the limbs of a tree that his daughter would never see again.

We looked at each other with tear-streaked faces and by some unspoken mutual assent, just turned and walked away. It was the last time I ever saw any of them.

I heard Greg ended up getting divorced and moving away; tragically, that’s often the outcome. I can’t imagine his existence.

I only hope he can someday remember the good times. Of Sierra sailing through the treetops on a thousand-foot zip line. Sierra in the top bunk with a friend and her favorite Barbie. He and six-year old Sierra solemnly making their friendship pledge.

And of a band of brothers who wish with all their hearts that things had turned out differently. 

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