On Lola's Passing

Lola “Beastie” McCallum got her last scratch behind the ears on February 9, 2021 as snow fell softly outside. Born perhaps in West Valley City, Utah to unknown parents, she led a rough and tumultuous existence for three or so years before winding up in a Salt Lake City orphanage with many others of her kind. She was rescued from that circumstance by her gentle demeanor and the fine taste of her rescuer. The two were inseparable, immediately.

Lola rolled in the marrow of life. She adventured with her companions in the mountains and in the desert, in forest and in sand and in snow. She treed squirrels in the Tushar Mountains and visited Pando, the largest living thing. She watched from the zone of totality in the Wind River Range as the moon blocked the sun during the Great American Eclipse, and she listened as the woods grew silent in awe.

She explored the source of the Green River, and swam in the cold jade waters that give the river its name. She watched the full moon rise over the cirque at Priord Lake, deep in the High Uintas Wilderness. She met the mountain goats of Mt. Timpanogos and then took shelter on the bank of Emerald Lake as a storm cell roiled down the glacier above, stamping out the light. She pawed seaweed and ate crabs and camped on islands in Muscongus Bay. She followed the pony express route through the West Desert of Utah to the Deep Creek Mountains and met but did not befriend a baby rattlesnake there.

She struck a pose at Wolf Creek Pass and then on the rim of the Little Grand Canyon. She lounged by open fires, warmed by the coals and contented by the stars. She carried in her backpack food for herself and beer for her friends.

She helped herself sometimes to the garden, plucking red and even green tomatoes straight from the vine. She thought no one was watching. She licked her paws afterward. Everyone knew.

She hated ice cream trucks but never said why.

On a Thanksgiving yurting expedition near the Bear River in northern Utah, after the cancer diagnosis and late in life, winter’s first blizzard separated her from the group. Disorienting snowflakes muffled sound and obscured tracks and scents. She took what refuge she could. She made a den, she foraged, she went without. Fourteen days on her body was thin but her soul was not. She found another group and convinced them to help her back to the Salt Lake Valley. 

On returning from the wilderness, Lola overwintered in Salt Lake City. Come spring she made her way to the coast of Maine where she learned the smell and taste and joy of the sea. She discovered too the delight of field-fresh Macintosh apples, a taste that became a passion that became an obsession. She traveled to the apples so often the earth bore the mark of her passing, as a game trail past the hen house through the comfrey patch and around the base of the apple tree.

In the end, her body faded before her mind. She remained kind and sweet and curious until her last breath. Rest in peace, dear Lola.

John Robinson
Rote Farm
2/9/2021

P.S. A photo essay of Lola’s life is available here.