Feb. 7 was my last day at the Casper Star-Tribune. I start my new job reporting Ohio government and state issues for the Dayton Daily News one week from Monday.

Casper sunrise, January 2012

I enjoyed my time in Casper. Like I do with everything, I tried to make the most of it. I met hardworking and passionate journalists and people — it was a great place to do journalism. I left with few regrets, many good memories and a stronger sense of myself and the work I can do.

The new job is a good move for me personally and professionally. Josh and our little dog are moving with me to Columbus and we’re looking forward to learning a new city, a much bigger city.

A favorite New Orleans dish: My uncle

Thanksgiving at home didn’t happen this year. Plane tickets were expensive, my sister’s schedule didn’t align with mine and Josh’s dad, stepmom and stepsisters decided to drive to Wyoming for the weekend. I hosted my first Thanksgiving and proved once again I am my mother’s daughter.

Perfect turkey. (Nov. 24)

We served way too many appetizers, including $40 worth of cheese, and enjoyed leftovers for a whole week afterward. We drank wine and played games and watched movies. We were too full for dessert (pumpkin-apple and French silk pies, a la mode) but ate it anyway.

A few weeks before Christmas, I found out family from Virginia that I hadn’t seen in years were driving home. I scrambled to find a plane ticket: $650-800 to fly out of Casper. Flights from Denver were a little cheaper, but I couldn’t afford booking a $350 ticket in the case I-25 closed and I never made my flight. And I didn’t have $800 for a guaranteed flight.

So Christmas at home didn’t happen, again. We ended up driving to New Mexico for a long weekend with Josh’s family. Of course, Nola came with and she behaved so well during the 10ish hour car ride.

Outtake from the Christmas card photo shoot. (Dec. 12)

And when I called my mom’s house where everyone was gathering on Christmas day, no one answered the phone. I called three cell phones before my brother answered, roaring laughter in the background.

They were doing the white elephant gifts, he explained. Apparently, in the Christmases I missed, my family started a new tradition. At that moment, I made a vow to go home next year, no matter what, even if it is only for two days.

Although I’ve done a good job of finding family around the holidays to celebrate with, nothing beats going home.

Nola loves digging in blankets. (Oct. 31)

Two weeks ago, this little one entered my life. It’s hard to imagine life without her.

We named her Nola after New Orleans, something we always agree on. The name seems to suit her well. She’s sweet, loyal and, as demonstrated by more than a few spills, extremely resilient.

She’s part maltese, part poodle — 100 percent love.

We have a lot in common. We both love peanut butter, Motown and falling asleep on the couch to the evening news.

Nola. (Nov. 2, by Joshua A. Bickel)

We searched Wyoming shelters for small dogs all summer. We fell in love with a dachshund, but someone else adopted her before we could. We found dogs in Colorado shelters, but they didn’t adopt out of state.

My mom’s trusted breeder in Illinois happened to have four puppies available when I visited home in September. When I held Nola, she got scared by a sound from another puppy and burrowed her head into my chest with a wimper. I was sold.

My mom drove her as far as South Dakota, and I drove more than 600 miles each way to pick her up. On the ride back, I let her sit in the passenger seat. She climbed into my lap and stayed there until I had to get gas in Rapid City. She felt safe with me. And I didn’t feel so alone driving in the dark.

She’s taught me a few things in the short time she’s been here.

- Patience is something I work on every day. The dog has taken it to new levels. Nola turns into super-hyper puppy for about an hour every morning, and I feel like I’m at mile No. 10 of a half marathon with Josh.

- Confidence is built on a series of experiences. We’re working on her confidence to squat and do her business outside despite barking pitbulls, strong winds and strangers passing by on the sidewalk.

- Sometimes, we need a little help — even when we know we’ll succeed. Nola can get off the couch, but often she will sit on the end and whine for someone to pick her up and put her on the floor.

And the answer is different for each race. And it often changes from the time I sign up for the race to when I cross the finish line.

I trained for my first, a 10K in New Orleans, as a healthy distraction from my master’s project. I ran my first half marathon to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I ended up testing my relationship in the process, as my running partner (and boyfriend) and I had different race mentalities.

After that, I kept running, mostly for the mental escape and runner’s high and pushed myself in the Denver half marathon. I shaved 21 minutes off my Seattle time and gained an appreciation for the strength I’ve built in the past two years. I celebrated that strength with girlfriends on a trail run in Napa.

This year’s Denver race tested that appreciation and, after 10 miles, my patience.

I signed up in May for the Rock ‘n’ Roll Denver marathon — the full 26.2 mile race. I was in decent shape and had a whole summer ahead of me to train. Training went well, very well, actually, until the second week of July. I ran a 5K, my first race in 10 months, and injured myself by starting out the gate too fast.

I hobbled through runs for a few weeks, trying to self diagnose because my health insurance doesn’t cover sports injuries. I realized I would lose too much training time to prepare for the full. Over a few weeks, the point of injury shifted and I realized it was my IT band. I started a daily routine of stretching, foam rolling and doing awkward strengthening exercises such as the clamshell.

I stopped running and lusting after running and enjoyed the things I could do — hiking, biking, walking.

And one day, I could run. I was determined to run the half. I fit in a few runs including a 10 miler. I was in no shape for a personal record, but I knew I could battle through it. My boyfriend, less prepared than me, agreed to run with me.

A scene from Seattle replayed in my head: 12 mile marker. He wanted to walk. I’m yelling, “We’re almost there!” He starts walking. I threaten to run ahead. I do. I stop, walk backwards to meet him. He says, “My legs hurt. I think I broke my knee.” I say things I can’t repeat here. This continues for the longest 12 minutes of my life.

Going into the half marathon, I was more nervous about running with a partner than I was about my muscles falling apart. I have done and do a lot on my own. I also enjoy working on group projects, but I get frustrated with them when what I think to be the most obvious, right idea is ignored.

And this is why I struggle to run with others. For me, running has been such a personal, individual effort where I control when to sprint, how far to run and when to finish. I may not be fast, but my excellent internal clock makes me a terrific pacer. My body knows it can run at a harder pace when I’m only running 3 miles vs. 6 and I sustain that pace over time.

Josh doesn’t run this way. He runs hard, slows down and then, just when I think he’s completely exhausted, has an incredible burst of energy that propels him ahead of me and across the finish line.

Knowing this I set a different set of goals for Denver: Run the whole way with Josh, pace him to a PR and finish injury-free.

Coors Field, Rock 'n' Roll Denver (Oct. 9, 2011)

My hips started hurting after only 6 miles. Josh wanted to stop after 10, but stopping made my calves hurt. I channeled my frustration into obnoxious optimism. “We can do it! Only 3 miles to go! Your legs aren’t broken! Let’s run to that corner and then walk!”

The Seattle race gave me the longest 12 minutes of my life — Denver gave me the longest 3 miles of my life.

Like all races, it eventually ended. Crossing the finish line, I realized we accomplished all three goals. It felt better than a PR.

Rock 'n' Roll Denver (Oct. 9, 2011)

And there’s always more races to run for those PRs.

By JACKIE BORCHARDT - Star-Tribune staff writer

They tried donuts, sandwiches, everything they could think of to entice doctors to share suicide prevention techniques and raise awareness.

But the doctors didn’t come, even though the sessions were in their own offices, so the Natrona County Suicide Prevention Coalition gave up.

“We were trying everything to get in there,” said Jean Davies, executive director of the Wyoming Meth Project and a coalition member. “Nobody was rude, but the only people who ended up coming weren’t the people we were trying to reach.”

In the five years since, the coalition has funneled suicide prevention efforts into schools, where participants had little choice to attend. In health classes and school assemblies, coalition members have a captive audience that wants to learn.

Davies said coalition members would like to reach out to doctors again.

They’re not alone.

Other states and communities are reaching out to the medical community, hoping to make suicide a public health problem akin to smoking or not wearing seat belts.

Big effort, little results

Most states answered U.S. Surgeon General Dr. David Satcher’s call to action in 1999. Armed with strategic plans and varying sums of money to combat suicides, volunteer groups set out to attack what Satcher called “a serious public health program.”

But a decade later, suicide rates nationwide haven’t dropped. The latest figures from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention indicate things are worse — the rate increased from 10.46 suicides per 100,000 people in 1999 to 11.26 in 2007, the last year for which figures were available.

Suicide has been addressed in small pockets and with various programs, but big change requires a change to the system, said Dr. Lloyd Sederer, medical director of the New York State Office of Mental Health.

“This is not to try to disparage any of the efforts that have gone on but to say there are other ways we should be thinking,” Sederer said.

His office and the New York State Health Department plan to incorporate suicide prevention into physician licensing requirements and insurance incentives.

People on medical plans and who seek medical care are “boundaried populations,” meaning they can be individually identified, targeted and tracked.

The idea comes from several successful efforts, the most widely known being the Henry Ford Health System in Detroit.

The Michigan HMO created the Perfect Depression Care Initiative. The suicide prevention program focuses on patients two ways: assessing signs of depression and suicidal behavior and building a comprehensive follow-up system in which physicians check on patients in person, over the phone and via email.

In the first four years of the program, the number of suicides per 100,000 patients dropped 75 percent. The program celebrated 10 consecutive quarters last year without a suicide, defying statistics and inspiring others to follow suit.

Small program support

The New York plan for a system-wide approach won’t end smaller efforts, Sederer said.

The state Office of Mental Health formed a strong network between county and community offices and research at the University of Rochester and Columbia University.

After the 1999 “call to action,” advocates lobbied the state Legislature to mandate suicide prevention efforts.

“[Legislative action] gives credence to how serious suicide is,” said Melanie Puorto, director of suicide prevention initiatives for New York state. “Otherwise, the grassroots efforts and small community groups have a hard going to make a big difference.”

The smaller groups and programs encourage moving suicide out of the realm of mental health to a place where people feel safe to talk about it.

“People are afraid to seek help because they feel people are judging them, not listening to them,” Puorto said. “You break down stigma one person at a time.”

Nebraska lowered its suicide rate through targeted efforts and partnerships with existing agencies.

The youth rate decreased and Nebraska ranked No. 41 in the nation for high suicide rate in 2007 — an improvement from No. 33 in 2006.

In 2003, the Nebraska Suicide Prevention Coalition developed its own prevention curriculum and specific training for clergy, law enforcement, schools and doctors. Training sessions were free.

“We wanted it to be like CPR but with suicide prevention,” said Dave Miers, licensed professional counselor and commission co-chair. “Everybody in the state should be trained.”

Local coalitions formed and telecommunication makes communication possible across the large state. The farm state also utilizes an existing Nebraska Rural Response Hotline, a toll-free number available to rural families in crisis.

Hospitals hand out fliers about firearm safety and how to properly dispose of medications — two major methods of suicide.

“We know that individuals who have any type of health condition are at a higher risk of suicide,” Miers said. “They may not be suicidal but are at a higher risk. Any information hospitals can have, the better.”

Enacting change

Grassroots efforts help, but governments have the responsibility of getting practices to change, Sederer said.

He said program-based initiatives risk losing funding with the election of a new official or a shift in priorities.

“We’re trying to get around that by saying there are basic standards that supersede all of this and they need to be encoded in the care system,” Sederer said.

For example, a doctor who didn’t take your blood pressure or told you that you don’t need a mammogram or colonoscopy would be considered giving lousy care.

“The same applies to mental health [conditions], which are more common than diabetes,” Sederer said.

In order for an agency to enact change, Sederer said it must have the following:

• leadership;
• a culture of innovation;
• a capacity to measure certain processes of care;
• and the ability to influence practice.

Exercising power over purse strings to reward or punish helps, too.

“Governments have responsibility in terms of getting practices to change, supporting good practice and demanding that practices that are not up to snuff do better,” Sederer said.

“Or there will be impacts on their financing.”

Man, I thought, I would if I were closer.

Obstacle races haven’t reached Wyoming yet. Honestly, running races are scant and when I look for races, I always end up looking in Colorado.

A few days passed and I realized I had more vacation days left than I though, days that had to be used before the end of this fiscal year. I was already taking two days for a wedding in Missouri, but the four-day series running this week made it easy to take the rest of the week off.

And it wasn’t too late to sign up for the Warrior Dash.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t corral our siblings and friends to join us, so we battled the cold, rainy (and challenging) course on our own. The 5K course involved climbing a lot of 12-foot walls and hanging and dropping down on the other side — two things Jenni have never done and rarely do.

But we did it at our own pace and had fun, finished in about 43 minutes. The race was very well organized and I would definitely do another.

Before

So clean. (Sept. 18, 2011)

After

Post-mud pit glory (Sept. 18, 2011)

Oh, yeah.

When we finished (wading through a mud pit under barbed wire), the announcer saw our shirts and said, “We need some Kool Aid over here!” And spectators chanted, “Oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah.”

It was a good time. Getting hosed down by firemen was not.

Even better: Changing into dry clothes before retrieving our free beer.

By JACKIE BORCHARDT - Star-Tribune staff writer

Classroom door shut, lights dimmed, a Powerpoint presentation lit one wall.

“Suicide is a tough subject, but it’s everyone’s business.”

Ray Pacheco, a program coordinator with Mercer House, standing to the left of the presentation, spoke somberly.

“There’s a problem and there’s an epidemic in our society, and that’s why we’re here,” Pacheco said.

Pacheco grew up in Casper. While attending Natrona County High School, he lost two friends to suicide.

Now, as a counselor working with teens on Natrona County’s Youth Empowerment Council, Pacheco trains others to lead suicide prevention presentations in schools.

School principals invite the Suicide Prevention Advisory Team (SPAT) to talk to middle and high school students, usually in small groups.

The 45-minute presentations deliver striking facts and preach a message of empowerment — just because you’re kids doesn’t mean you can’t help. Most are delivered by high school students who have experienced suicide in some way.

“It’s not just a program for a lot of kids — it’s their way of truly giving back and wanting to help,” Pacheco said.

Students connect with other students better than adults, Pacheco said.

The student presenters must first undergo a psychiatric evaluation and are limited to two consecutive presentations. Any more might reopen wounds that are only lightly scabbed over.

***

A skinny black plastic band is one of many colored bracelets piled on Emily Talouse’s wrists.

The band reads “Suicide is everyone’s business” in white text.

Tolouse moved to Casper at the beginning of her freshman year. She fell into “the wrong” group of friends and dealt with depression, cries for help and suicide attempts.

At one point, she and friends called the police to report a friend who had written a suicide note and locked herself in her room. Tolouse watched her friend’s parents turn away the police officers at the door. They didn’t want help.

Parents need to know these things, Talouse said. She wasn’t prepared for that first situation — it was “mind-blowing, eye-opening.”

Parents of young people especially need to be vigilant, agreed Charlie Powell, a licensed psychologist at the Central Wyoming Counseling Center and one of the founders of Natrona County’s Suicide Prevention Task Force.

“As parents, what scares us is we know how rapidly their state of mind can change. To continually preach the message that this too will pass is what we have to do,” said Powell, a father of two. “They might have a negative experience with one Facebook photo and their world just crumbles. We have to help our kids build resistance to that.”

“Parents need to open up a little, but the entire community needs to be aware of it and know the signs,” Talouse said.

Talouse knows now that saving a life is more important than guarding a friend’s secret. She doesn’t take chances when it comes to depression and suicide — it’s not a game.

Talouse redesigned the SPAT presentation this spring, made it clearer and easier to understand.

“Facts will get my attention; a personal story will make me bawl my eyes out,” Talouse said.

The facts weren’t new to most of the eighth-graders watching Pacheco’s presentation at Dean Morgan Junior High School in March. Several had heard similar presentations before.

“Who has a gun in their household?” Pacheco asked.

All but a few in the 21-student class raised their hands.

“How many of you know where the ammunition is?”

Six hands remained raised.

Most suicides — 67 percent — are by firearm, Pachecho told the class. Females attempt more, at a ratio of 3-to-1.

“How many of you have been directly affected by suicide — friend or family member killed themselves?”

About five students slowly raised their hands.

Pacheco asked if anyone wanted to share their experience.

“My brother attempted last year, and we didn’t know why,” one boy said.

Another student said he’s tired of talking about it.

“Why?”

“It’s hard.”

***

Health officials turned to videos, posters, websites — anything — to tell students it’s OK to break promises to suicidal friends and tell an adult help is needed.

Many programs have dropped the public service announcements and invested in programs that connect students with each other and trusted adults.

Several Wyoming high schools adopted Sources of Strength, a national program founded in 1998 in rural and tribal areas of North Dakota.

The program teaches students to spot warning signs for suicide and depression and seek one or more sources of strength: supportive family members, positive friends, mentors, healthy activities, generosity, spirituality, medical access or mental health.

The message: You’re not alone.

Tongue River High School, which lost a student and a former student to suicide in the past three years, started the program in 2010-11.

“We’re trying to establish relationships with kids,” said Pete Kilbride, counselor at Tongue River High School. “We know that’s the single greatest factor for a kid being successful in school.”

The secret to preventing suicide — and it shouldn’t be a secret — is developing a competent community where everyone cares about each other’s welfare and knows how to give help when it’s needed, said Maureen Underwood, a licensed social worker and director of the Society for the Prevention of Teen Suicide.

Everyone takes responsibility for the well-being of everyone else — recognizes warning signs, offers or suggests help, talks about suicide in a supportive manner.

“If your friend broke his leg and the bone was sticking out, would you try to fix it yourself?” Underwood said. “Why would you try to deal with someone who is suicidal? It’s the same difference.”

Suicide prevention is not required by Wyoming content standards for health instruction. Mental health and suicide are included only in the context of the negative effects of bullying and only at the eighth-grade level. Some school and district anti-bullying programs describe suicide as a dangerous consequence.

A handful of states require teachers to receive suicide prevention instruction. Wyoming does not.

Many health teachers choose to talk about suicide in class, Pacheco said. His group only visits Natrona County schools where teachers and principals have invited them.

The high numbers of suicide attempts warrant more attention, Pacheco said.

“There’s something definitely wrong,” Pacheco said. “We can’t sit on our hands. We’ve got to do something.”

By JACKIE BORCHARDT - Star-Tribune staff writer

The boxer shorts were one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

Kameron Reichert, 17, walked around the house in his boxers as long as his parents could remember. His younger sister Kassidy used to pull them out of his dresser and layer as many as possible over her diaper.

But when the pair became teenagers, the boxers became annoying. Kameron used them to tease Kassidy — chased her around the house, waving his little shorts inches behind her. Kassidy refused to touch the couch after Kameron sat there in his boxers because he was too close to being naked.

No, her parents said, he’s not naked. He has his boxers on.

At home, Kameron lived in his boxers but hightailed it to his room to get dressed as soon as the doorbell rang.

He wouldn’t be caught dead in his skivvies.

So his parents doubted he meant to pull the trigger, meant to be found dead in his boxers on their bedroom floor.

“I don’t think he would have wanted someone to find him that way,” his mother, Cara Reichert, said. “I think he was mad and just wanted to see. Why he had to load the gun, I don’t know.”

***

Kameron Reichert died Dec. 10, 2008, in his Dayton home from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t show signs of depression. He didn’t leave a clue about what he was thinking.

But on the day Kameron died, he was angry.

Two weeks earlier, Kameron sped out of a parking lot and was promptly pulled over for suspicious behavior. Nearly 6 feet tall, Kameron drove his red Grand Prix with the seat reclined so far back he could barely see over the steering wheel.

The deputy sheriff searched his car, found tobacco products and issued him a citation.

Kameron played football, worked at the corner grocery store and chauffeured other kids between Dayton and Ranchester. He didn’t get into trouble.

Kameron told his parents a twisted version of events on Sunday. His parents ferreted out his lie and punished him on Tuesday night after giving him a chance to come clean. They revoked cell phone privileges and limited time with friends — a fairly light punishment for a teenager. Kameron didn’t think so.

He asked his parents to lessen his punishment. They stuck to it, and Kameron shut himself in his room.

On Wednesday morning, Craig and Cara went to work. Kassidy went to school. Kameron stayed home.

The school never called Craig nor Cara, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Paramedics estimated Kameron died soon after his family left the house.

Craig stopped at home for lunch with a co-worker. He saw Kameron’s car parked outside and called Cara to ask why their son didn’t go to school.

He talked to Cara as he walked inside the house and into the kitchen. A .22-caliber pistol that belonged to Cara’s grandfather lay on the table next to bullets for a different gun, the pistol that had once belonged to Craig’s favorite uncle.

No, it can’t be, Craig thought.

Craig walked past the kitchen into his bedroom and found Kameron, wearing just his boxers, in front of the full-length mirror. Craig called 911.

“On the phone with the dispatcher, I remember saying, ‘This doesn’t happen to families like us,’” Craig said. “I always thought it happens to families who have a lot of family problems.”

In the days and weeks after Kameron’s death, neighbors, friends and acquaintances told Craig they had been where Kameron had been. They had felt depressed. They had held the gun in their hand, deliberating whether to pull the trigger.

“People go to great lengths to hide their symptoms,” Craig said. “Unfortunately, I think they probably always will.”

The first week moved in slow motion. Hours felt like days. Kassidy lost her appetite. Craig wrecked a pickup at work.

“You have no concentration, you have no thought process,” Craig said.

“You don’t even feel like you can watch a movie and laugh, and if you did, you feel guilty about it,” Cara said.

***

Kameron’s family has spent the years since his death piecing together the story of that day and the days prior, searching for hints that could explain why everything happened the way it did.

They’ve learned they’re not alone.

Suicide is the No. 3 cause of death among American youth; it ranks second in Wyoming. About 17 percent of Wyoming high school students reported seriously considering suicide on a statewide behavior survey. The rate was slightly higher for girls.

Teenage suicides include some of the same factors as adult suicides — mental illness, depression, substance abuse, a triggering event.

However, the trigger for a teenager can seem insignificant to an adult, said Maureen Underwood, a licensed social worker and director of the Society for the Prevention of Teen Suicide. Some kind of loss, such as breaking up with a boyfriend or getting in trouble at home or school — or with the police — can provoke youth who aren’t as resilient to setbacks.

“With an adult, you kind of know within a week you might feel better,” Underwood said. “Kids don’t have that kind of perspective.”

Tunnel vision. Putting your blinders on. Not seeing the light on the other side.

Teenagers and youth are also the only group at risk of copycat suicides, Underwood said.

“They copy each other in everything else that they do, so it’s not a surprise that they copy each other in this as well,” she said.

Nearly two years to the day Kameron Reichert died, his classmate Ethan Faurot killed himself. The two weren’t close, but Ethan’s mom told Cara Reichert that Kameron had always been nice to her son.

Ethan’s death surprised Cara, who remembered Ethan being upset and distraught over Kameron’s death. Ethan’s mother told Cara that he wondered how Kameron could put his family through that.

She said, “Obviously, he forgot.”

***

Soon after Kameron died, Cara asked Craig if he would be able to return to the house again, the wooden house with the green roof they built 15 years ago.

He said he hadn’t thought about it.

Relatives told them not to sell, that if they did, they would never be able to go back to where so many memories were made.

They moved home a few days later. The carpet had already been removed in Craig and Cara’s bathroom. They finished remodeling the kitchen.

Six months later, the Reicherts hosted an exchange student, which forced Cara to clean and repaint Kameron’s room.

In that time, she hadn’t even made his bed.

She began changing things, starting with Kameron’s favorite chair in the living room. She replaced the rest of the living room furniture, rearranged her bedroom, got rid of the minivan and bought a new car.

They kept Kameron’s car. Kassidy drives it.

Kameron hasn’t been forgotten.

Cara thinks of him when she stands by the kitchen sink or uses the pull-out faucet, which she bought especially for Kameron because he would skip the glass and angle his head under the tap to get a drink.

She thinks of him on weekend mornings, when Kameron, an early riser, would wake up and join her watching TV, but not really watching.

“Every day, I wake up and I just miss him, all the time,” Cara said.

The last photo of Kameron was taken two days before his death, the night before Cara’s birthday. Kameron and Kassidy are standing in the kitchen, smiling. They’re baking chocolate chip cookies for their mom’s birthday. Kameron doesn’t have his shirt on.

“I just giggled from the other room because I didn’t think I’d ever see them working together on something like that,” Cara said.

Cara doesn’t celebrate her birthday anymore. She takes the day off from work, from life, from everything.

The family also doesn’t celebrate Easter, arguably Kameron’s favorite holiday. Even at 17, Kameron searched for plastic eggs filled with cash and a basket of gifts.

When co-workers and classmates talk about their families, the Reicherts struggle with how to respond.

Kameron’s gone, but he is still their son, her brother.

His name is on the welcome sign next to the front door. His school and football pictures are framed in the living room. His music collection hasn’t been removed from the family computer.

“It’s hard to go further, but it’s hard not to acknowledge him,” Craig said. “I’m sure we’ll never find an easy way to do it.”

Kameron apparently told a couple of friends he intended to end his life, Cara learned later. They didn’t take him seriously.

She wished someone would have contacted her, said something — anything. But she doesn’t know if she and Craig would have taken them seriously.

“If I had been those kids’ age and a friend of mine had said something, I would have said, ‘You’re being dramatic,’” Craig said.

The Reicherts don’t blame anyone for Kameron’s death. Traversing through indeterminable grief, they’re past that point.

They’re reaching out.

Craig calls families like his, families that lost sons the same way he did. He wishes someone had called him. He leaves his name and phone number.

“If you ever need to just talk to somebody that has lived through it, I won’t keep anything from you.”

Some call back.

I was a little homesick after my brother and dad visited. So the next weekend, my mom drove from Illinois to Wyoming. She brought her two little dogs.

It was really, really hard to let this dog leave me. (Aug. 20, 2011)

While Mom was here, we went for a 4.5 mile hike along the Bridle Trail at the base of the mountain. And, for the first time in a month, I didn’t hurt afterward.

Rewind: I hurt what I thought was my knee after running the Parade Day 5K way, way too fast and failing to stretch properly afterward. How fast? Try an 8:15 first mile — my PR 5K pace was about 8:40. I ran the first mile alongside a group of Marines, which should have been my first warning sign. Soreness went away a few days later and I attempted to run. I gimped through 5 miles and another 7 that weekend. The point of injury moved from my knee to the top of my quad. The next week, I (stupidly) ran 12 in New York.

I hobbled through two runs a week for about a month. When I saw other runners — especially younger, perkier, faster runners — I got insanely jealous and a little sad. I just wanted to run.

Harder than running through the pain was realizing I wouldn’t be able to run the full marathon in Denver next month. I signed up in May, intending to complete my first marathon close to home with friends and family cheering me on. I told myself I could always drop down to the half in case I didn’t get the training in. I didn’t get depressed, but I was pretty down for a few weeks.

After the hike with Mom, I dialed back, focused on strengthening exercises for my IT band. The injury made sense in hindsight — I stopped lower body weight training a few weeks before the injury, stressed all my muscles too hard in the 5K and didn’t cool down properly. I’ve hiked every week since and gradually added shorter runs in.

This week’s runs have given me hope that I can finish the half. My legs felt like new on Thursday and this morning I only felt a little pain after 4 of 6 miles.

So I’m back in the saddle with a modified plan that includes lots of stretching, foam rolling and trail running.

Standing outside Park Elementary School, Cooper Castle watched kids scuttle past and through the front doors.

He shuffled his weight from one foot to another — nervous yet excited for his first day of school.

His parents, David and Erin, stood on either side of him, doing the same.

It was their first day too.

Cooper woke up at 5:01 a.m. but went back to sleep. Just before 7, he got up and got ready — showered, brushed his teeth, ate breakfast.

Well, he tried to eat breakfast but was too excited to finish his bowl of Life cereal.

Once inside the school, Cooper made a beeline for his classroom, the one he visited during Monday’s back-to-school night. Teacher Cindy Hill met him at the door.

“Hi, Coop! Let’s find your hook for your backpack,” Hill said, leading Cooper down the hall and away from the classroom. Cooper ensured his black, flame-decorated bookbag stayed put and turned to go to class.

Hill directed him toward the back door to the schoolyard to play before the first bell rang.

Outside, Cooper froze. He knew the classroom and the school from back-to-school night. He didn’t know the playground.

Kids ran around, hugging old friends and saying hi to new ones. Erin suggested they play on the monkey bars and Cooper nodded. He crossed the playground pinned to his mother’s side, right hand hooked in the flap of her pants pocket.

Cooper didn’t play but held his mother’s sides and buried his face in her shirt. Erin held his hands and whispered in his ear.

It’s OK. This is just like preschool. You’ll be fine.

Cooper moved toward the monkey bars and jumped up to the lower of two bars. He didn’t need help.

A few minutes later, Cooper pointed to a student about six feet away.

“That girl’s from my swimming lessons.”

“Yes, she is,” Erin confirmed.

Cooper pointed to a higher bar. He needed help.

He may be on his own at school, but he still needs rides to and from school, packed lunches and help getting dressed in the morning.

The bell rang and Cooper jumped in line with the rest of his class, looking back at his parents every few steps. Seated on the classroom carpet, he joined his classmates in a group clapping song.

Uneasiness faded. Mom and Dad slowly walked out the back door.

Halfway down the hall, Erin started to cry.

Erin and David did their best this summer to prepare Cooper for the first day, for the first week, for the first year. They talked about what school would be like. They talked about the new friends he would make. They drove past the school often.

They didn’t do much to prepare themselves.

“We’ve been trying to prepare, but it’s still hard,” she said, inconspicuously wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

David smiled at his wife.

“It’s fun to watch him grow up and move on in life,” David said.

Both were comforted knowing they’d see him in a few hours — the first day ended before lunch.