Five Months Ago Bryan Wrote

TUESDAY, MAY 12, 2009

Bill Hearne

We lost one of the good guys a few days ago. His name was Bill Hearne.

Bill was a good friend of my sister Debbie’s, and I first met him years ago, back when I was living in Rochester. He and several of his running friends were going out to the Adirondacks to camp, hike, maybe do a little rock climbing, and just generally relax in the woods and enjoy each other’s company. My sister was part of this yearly tradition, and she invited me to come.

So I went. And that’s when I met Bill, and learned his unique definition of the term hiking.

See, for many people, hiking means going for a nice walk in the woods, maybe zipping up a little ridge, taking some pictures, going back to the tent and roasting marshmallows. That’s definitely what it meant to me, at the time.

For Bill, hiking meant waking up at some ridiculous hour of the morning – one that my mind has since blocked out – and heading out in a rainstorm intense enough to drown a carp. As we headed down the muddy trailhead, we passed another hiking couple, already in full retreat. As they passed us, the husband announced: “It has been decided. We are going shopping.”

But Bill led his group onward, and we jogged straight up a 4000-foot mountain (they don’t seem to understand the concept of the switchback in the Adirondacks, so I mean straight up), then down the other side, then up another one, then back again, down and up and down, the whole way back. Jogging. It was 14 miles. I counted.

That hike is one of my favorite memories, and the last thing I remember from that day is passing out in my tent as Bill and the rest of the Old School stayed up and partied.

The next morning, again godawfulearly, Bill invited me to join him for an actual jog. I politely declined. Mostly because I still could not feel my legs.

To say that Bill was an athlete is an understatement. Bill was theathlete. Back on that trip, when I was 19 and full of amazement at my own athletic skillz, Bill was around fifty, and I remember seeing him for the first time. He just looked like a normal guy. A little paunch around the belly, even. I did not yet realize that he was, in fact, the Terminator.

But there are lots of great athletes out there. The thing that was so great about Bill was how completely humble he was about it. Living in San Francisco, you get the idea that athletic ability gives you some sort of license to carry a chip on your shoulder and indulge in endless self-appreciation. If they put it to a vote, I’m willing to bet a good percentage of the population here would opt to have the city covered in mirrored surfaces.

Bill was not like that. For Bill, running, climbing, teaching spin classes, and just basically being a perpetual motion machine was fun. And it was the kind of fun he loved to include other people in. It was a welcoming, patient, laughing, goofy, grinning, all-inclusive fun. He was just one of those guys who met you and made you feel like an old friend in the same moment. There aren’t enough people like that around anymore. Especially now.

I was never very close with Bill, but I got an email from him a few years ago. I had just climbed Mt. Rainier, and he had heard about it through Debbie. So he sent me an email, telling me he was training for a climb on Denali, and wanting to know if I was interested in joining up.

I have to admit, I had a hard time writing a response that did not include the phrase “completely nuts” in it. Not for Bill’s sake – the guy was a machine, and I had no doubt that he’d make his way up Denali. But I had barely finished my Rainier climb, and I could not imagine the discipline I’d need for Denali. So I wrote back, saying thanks, but no thanks, and keep in touch, and good luck.

After years of preparation, Bill made it to Denali, where he died suddenly in the middle of his climb, carrying supplies from one camp to another. They say he went quickly, and without suffering. They say he died doing what he loved, and in one of the most beautiful spots on Earth. I’m glad for all those things.

But most of all, even though I didn’t know Bill as well as some of his many friends, all I can say is that Bill is one of the best people you could ever hope to meet, and if you never got the chance to go on a hike with him, then you really, really missed out.

May 15th 2009 Denali Expedition - Insiders' Account

Day 1- Friday: We were postponed leaving Talkeetna due to weather. The TAT had their offices and hanger and bunkhouse across the road and hostel-type accommodations across the street/RR. When we woke, it was drizzling and overcast w/a low ceiling.
We had break at the Roadhouse and called TAT at 7:00am. We finally left Talkeetna at 11:45 and landed at KIA at 12:15pm.
The flight in on the Havilland Otter was breathtaking and even that doesn’t describe it.
I felt like a little kid marveling at all the neat animals at the zoo! I was ecstatic beyond words looking at the mosquito and bear infested marshes. I can see why Dr. Cook said any expedition to McKinley is a maritime endeavor.
The glaciers and lower snow-capped peaks, my God! It’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen. The ridges are all snow and serac. Ice covered knives and bergschrunds that would swallow an RV. And the real gem…Denali.
It completely silenced me in awe and dare I say, fear. The sheer vertical rise it lords over the rest of the Alaskan Range is impossible to understand until one sees it for themselves. It left me speechless. I looked over at Dan. I don’t know which was bigger, my eyes or my mouth. The severity of the trip finally hit home.

http://www.summitpost.org/trip-report/523722/Denali-2009-Summit-Bound-with-a-bunch-of-Nachos-.html

Libby Hearne's Eulogy

Sorry this took so long to get posted (my fault, not hers). Here is the text, as written, of Libby Hearne's Eulogy for Dad:

"I want to start by saying: thank you so much for coming here to pay tribute to my dad. My family and I want you to know that all your thoughts and love really matter to us, just as you all mattered to my Dad.

Over these last few days, I have been taking stock of all the things that my father gave me. I won’t get to all of them, because I had the best dad in the whole world, and we’d be here for three years. But I’ve been looking in the mirror, trying to see. He gave me my short, stocky frame and my coloring. We both had bad teeth prone to cavities. I’m hoping he gave me that hair that will never really go gray. And frankly, he kind of owes me because, as anyone who has done an ounce of physical activity with him knows, he sweat copiously, no matter the temperature, all the time. Yeah, he passed that gift along to me. He also gave me the genetic disposition to get sappy and emotional at tender moments; he gave me a taste for asparagus. It’s something that has been very humbling to consider, in my simple love for him: that his legacy to me is not just the things he taught me, but it’s actually inscribed all over my body: that I gesture like him sometimes, and smile like him sometimes, and that no part of me would be here without him.

But what makes me even happier is the list of things that weren’t just gifts of chromosomes and genes, but were things I learned from watching him. He taught me that moving was always better than being still, though stillness has its place. He taught me to laugh at off-color jokes, and to make them as often as possible. He taught me to clean my plate, and to shamelessly eat other people’s left-overs too. Dad loved literally every single food except okra and, weirdly enough, kim chee, but luckily these didn’t come up very often. If you put a plate in front of him, he would eat away happily, every time. He taught me the joy in exuberant eating, though that shouldn’t surprise us, because he found joy in everything.

And I think we all know: my dad was a total rockstar. He was amazing! He accomplished so many impossible things that they became mundane. Of course he just ran fifty miles. Of course he just climbed Kilimanjaro, and then ran a marathon around the base. But lest his ironman physique fool anyone I am here to tell you: my dad also loved beer and Doritos, and he loved them a lot. How cute is that? My dad was pretention-free. I always found it so endearing: after running 17 miles, teaching a million classes at the Y and doing god knew what else, he’d lay on the couch and drink a bunch of beer and eat a ton of chips, cheerfully pouring the crumbs into his mouth when the bag was nearly empty. I want to paint you a family tableau, one that replayed itself too many times to count. Around eight o’clock we’d all sit down and pop in a movie. Dad would be horizontal on the couch, rattling his bag of Doritos and crunching loudly. We’d gripe at him: God Dad! We can’t hear the movie! but we needn’t have worried because within minutes the bag would stop rattling, and the crunching would slow and then stop. He always would sit up at the end and give us his review of the movie, which we might have believed, if we hadn’t heard him snoring away for the last two hours.

But when he wasn’t passed out on the couch, my dad was in constant motion, doing everything. His physical achievements weren’t even the most impressive thing about him, which is saying a lot. My dad could do anything capably. He taught me how to play wiffleball, how to do my taxes, how to stretch my sore hamstring, how to make friends with anyone. My dad could fix a bike, carve a turkey perfectly, pack the car. He sang beautifully. He told both really good and really bad jokes. For someone so smart, so funny, so strong, so loveable, the best part is that Dad was never haughty or superior. It would never have occurred to him to act like that. When I think of him, I picture running on the canal path with him trotting next to me, not caring how slow I was, chattering away blissfully. If we were climbing a mountain and he got a bit ahead, he’d wait at every turn. When we played baseball in our yard as little kids, he’d pitch underhand, straight at the bat, so we could know the pleasure of hitting the ball. He was never frustrated with our pace, as kids or as adults. And though he worked, uncomplaining, for thirty odd years behind a desk to support my family, he always fully supported the creative lives that my brother and sister and I have all somehow stumbled into.

Though my dad could run circles around so many of us, he was happiest when he was with people, anyone, everyone. We’d tease him, when we were all out in public together: Do you know everyone, Dad? Now it’s clear: he kind of did. My brother-in-laws was in the Supercuts at Eastview Mall two days ago. When he told the stylist he was here in town for Bill Hearne’s memorial service, five people in the Supercuts mentioned how much they loved Dad. People everywhere loved him because my father was, above all else, incredibly kind and open-hearted. My father was loving, and loved to hear anything you had to say. He had so much love that it took this many people to hold it, and if he had lived for thirty more years you know there would be hundreds more people in here. His exuberance and the way he cared for other people is, for me, the most inspiring thing about him. Though we can go on and on about how superhuman he was, the truth is that my father was, at base, and most importantly, a kind and lovely man.

My dad was like the sun. He was constant, warm, and beaming. If I hadn’t talked to him for a while, it was OK because I knew he was in motion somewhere, shining brightly. My dad, like the sun, lit things up with joy. My dad was freakishly cheerful. Maybe you all thought: no one could really be that cheerful all the time. But I grew up with the man and I have to tell you: he did not have some weird dark underside that made him to kick cats or anything like that. My dad’s joy was utterly sincere. These last few days I’ve wondered: how did he maintain these endless reserves of joy? But he just did. He couldn’t help it. That was the way he came to us. He was like the sun, and I was lucky enough to warm myself in my father’s light for thirty one years.

My father’s body gave out last Thursday, as all of ours will, sooner or later. But my Dad was right where he wanted to be: high up, surrounded by beauty and new and old friends, and as close to the sun in spirit as he could ever be. I’ll miss his light for the rest of my life, as we all will. Thank you."

Posted by James (way late).

2 Mount McKinley climbers fall to their deaths

ANCHORAGE, Alaska – Two experienced climbers fell more than 2,000 feet to their deaths on Alaska's Mount McKinley, raising this year's death toll on the mountain to four, officials said Friday.

John Mislow, 39, and Andrew Swanson, 36, were roped together when they fell Thursday afternoon along Messner Couloir, a steep, hourglass-shaped snow gully on the 20,320-foot mountain, North America's tallest peak. National Park Service rangers used a helicopter to recover their bodies Thursday evening.

The climbing partners began an ascent of the mountain's West Rib route on May 30.

Park Service spokeswoman Maureen McLaughlin said many factors about the fall remain unknown, including its starting point and whether the climbers were descending or still ascending the mountain, which is in Denali National Park and Preserve. Climbers are not required to disclose their descent route, although some do anyway. Mislow, of Newton, Mass., and Swanson, of Minneapolis, did not.

Rangers hope to learn more after viewing photographs in cameras belonging to the climbers, as well as from interviews with other climbers.

McLaughlin said the men fell at least 2,000 feet to Messner Couloir's base at 14,500 feet. Other climbers saw at least part of the fall, she said.

Rangers at the 14,200-foot camp were notified by radio within minutes of the accident. Three skiers in the vicinity were first to reach the climbers.

The deaths were confirmed by rangers, including medics, who were following close behind.

Rangers say Mislow and Swanson were seasoned mountaineers. In 2000, the two received the Denali Pro Award in recognition of setting the highest standards of mountaineering for safety, self-sufficiency and assistance to fellow climbers.

The two helped several teams in distress that year and assisted with visitor protection projects, McLaughlin said.

Swanson, who was single, was an orthopedic surgeon and practiced alongside his father, Gene, and older brother, Kyle, at the Orthopaedic and Fracture Clinic in Mankato, Minn., where he grew up. Each day, he commuted 60 miles from Minneapolis to the northeast, staying with his parents if he was on call, said his mother, Eydie Swanson. Kyle Swanson headed to Alaska on Friday to bring home his brother, she told The Associated Press in a phone interview.

While on Mount McKinley, Andrew Swanson called his parents every two days from his satellite phone. They last heard from him Tuesday, when he said the plan was to summit on Wednesday. If they couldn't summit on Wednesday, the two planned to turn around and head down.

Another call announcing the summit was expected but never came, Eydie Swanson said. That made her uneasy, but she reasoned the satellite phone had given out.

Eydie Swanson's voice broke as she talked about her son. She said he was a pilot and was passionate about climbing and bicycling. Most of all, she said, he loved donating his time twice a year in Africa as part of a mission working with children with severe spine deformities.

"He had the most wonderful face in the world," Eydie Swanson said. "He was so handsome, so kind, so irresistible. If you knew him, you loved him."

Mislow, a neurosurgeon, was married with children, McLaughlin said. He was a resident in the neurosurgery department at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston.

Mislow's family was requesting privacy for the time being, according to department chairman Arthur L. Day, who called Mislow a brilliant surgeon and researcher.

He was tirelessly dedicated to excellence, and always exhibited and demanded the best of himself and others in personal ethics and performance," Day said in a prepared statement. "His death is devastating to us all; the world has lost a great light, and his presence will be sorely missed."

Mislow and Swanson's deaths bring to four the number of fatalities at McKinley so far this year. There were a total of four deaths last year. The most deadly year was 1992, a bad storm year, when 11 people died on the mountain, McLaughlin said. Many years there are no fatalities. Altogether, 106 people have died on McKinley since 1932, when the first two deaths occurred, according to Park Service statistics.

In early May, 61-year-old climber William Hearne of Fairport, N.Y., collapsed after this team reached 13,500 feet and was pronounced dead soon after. On May 19, 41-year-old Gerald Myers, a chiropractor from Centennial, Colo., vanished after he left his climbing partners at 14,200 feet to make a solo summit attempt. His body has not been found, but McLaughlin said he is presumed dead. Searchers looking for him located the bodies of two Japanese climbers who went missing last year.

Bill in Yoga

Bill practiced yoga for 4-5 years, and was a certified Yoga Fit and Yoga Stretch instructor.
Every Tuesday and Thursday morning Bill would be at the Metro Y in his Run’n’Ride from 5:30 – 6:30, followed by Spinning from 7:15 – 8.00 am. In between he would squeeze a 6.30 am yoga class, for practice, and then around 9.30 he would teach his Yoga Stretch class.

Bill practiced yoga with full attention and focus. His 6.30 am practice class represented his private time, when he was not preoccupied with community building, or encouraging and motivating others. Rather, his private practice represented a challenge to let go of all that, and explore the line between what he wanted to do with his body, and what was truly feasible. His heroic persistence did not always work for him. Some people are just not able to arch into an elegant Downward Facing Dog, a Cobra, or a full Lotus pose. Though quite advanced in his yoga practice, Bill knew when to push, and when to surrender into the Child pose. He could do strong Warriors, but for some reason could not transition from Three Legged Dog into a Lunge in one move. This did not bother him. His yoga was more physical, than spiritual - he would be the first one to admit that. But he liked our yoga rituals, starting with “grounding”, and ending with relaxation (what Bill would call his Snoring pose), and closing with the traditional yoga greeting "namaste”, which roughly translates as “the light in me recognizes the light in you”.

Bill would never leave the yoga room without uttering that greeting. Whether he was aware of it or not, he had thoroughly internalized the "namaste" greeting and all that it meant. His internal light recognized the light in all the people he encountered.

Bill’s yoga friends from Carlson YMCA.

A couple of people asked me to append my talk from Bill's memorial service, so here it is:

I’m Kristen Kessler from Mercury Opera Rochester and I feel privileged to have known Bill. He was one of the founders of the opera chorus group that some of us started in the late 90s, and I got to know him very well as he became a board member and the treasurer, as well as continuing to perform with us. We sang together both in the chorus and regularly in quartets, we worked together on the finances of the group and numerous other issues, and we also ran and hiked together occasionally. I got to know Bill mostly through the good times, but I really came to appreciate him in the many struggles that the group had. In all the difficult times that we went through, Bill had an amazing ability to listen to very emotionally charged discussions, stay calm, manage the conversation, and keep everything in perspective. He had a serious side which he managed to keep under cover most of the time, but when you needed it, he was amazingly even-tempered and thoughtful.

I also appreciate Bill’s other side – the lighter side. Like many of us in the opera, Bill liked to dress up and make a fool of himself on stage. In looking through the Mercury Opera photos earlier this week, I was impressed with the number of different soldier costumes and peasant costumes that he wore. (The chorus regularly appears as either soldiers or peasants.) He was a blast to be staged with because he was never a stiff, never nervous, and he always knew his music. Sometimes he was still learning it in the dressing room beforehand, but by the time we got to the stage he had it down. He was a consummate flirt, especially on stage, and rarely missed an opportunity to have a laugh, or to go on a new adventure. He was a true energizer bunny and I still have no idea how he managed to fit in everything that he did.

Never one to miss a party, Bill was always the first one to volunteer to drive me home from the cast party when I had one glass of wine too many. That generally happens at about a glass and a half of wine, so over the years there were many varied opportunities for me to use his chauffeur services. He had a great sense of humor, and his energy, determination, and adventures were an inspiration to all of us.

The chorus of Mercury Opera Rochester had a concert last weekend, performing party scenes from a number of different operas. It seemed fitting that we dedicate those performances to him, because as we all know, Bill loved a party. And of course, Bill would have wanted to have a beer (or several) with us after the concert, so we did go out afterward to shed a tear together and raise a glass in his honor.

I sang with him, I worked with him, I ran with him, and I hiked with him. I’m sure he was just as surprised to find himself on the other side of this life as we were to find him gone from us. Bill was a great friend and I will miss him terribly.

YMCA Carlson Adventure Club 2008