It looked like a dog tag.

A thin metallic disk, a small hole punched at the top. One of our group found it lying in the skimpy vegetation, exposed by the perpetual wind, that counts as ground cover up here on the Continental Divide, at 11,100 feet.

But a quick examination found that was not the case. Printed on the disk:

"Billings Crematory"

And stamped below, a four digit serial number.

An identity tag. For human remains. Cremated human remains.

We were standing on a grave site. Or rather, a final resting place.

Someone had so loved this divide that it was chosen as the site for their mortal remains to be returned to the earth. Scattered to the winds on the crest of the continent, within sight of the Tetons, and Yellowstone itself.

An elk hunter, perhaps, who returned to this land year after year, to harvest its bounties, both physical and spiritual. Or a government worker, who dedicated their professional career to protecting this land. A cowboy, maybe, who came here often, working to make a living from this high country. Or an urbanite, who had been here but once, as have I, but whose heart stayed forever.

But this would not really be a resting place. No telling how long ago those human ashes were dispersed here, but some of the atoms from that person may have been taken up by those very same plants, scrabbling for existence on a bare rocky ridge.

Perhaps part of them was in the bighorn ram we spotted just over the divide.

Or washed down to become part of the dark conifers below, or even the fish I brought home to eat.

That person, whoever they may have been, was not left here, like this tag.

They are here.