Bill's BenchDecember 24th 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
A Daughter's Eulogy
"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).
UPDATE: this was reposted with the name of the author removed, at her request.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Friday, December 24, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Dancing on the edge, The Post-Journal, Jamestown
Dancing on the edge
Lakewood man shares delicate balance of reaching Denali summit
October 9, 2010 - By Lyndon Gritters, M.D.
It's method on the edge of madness ... balance on the edge of a razor ... a dance on the edge of life.
He was so close, and yet he failed to survive. Several feet under my boot, James Nasti lay quietly on the snow-packed knife-edged ridge heading to the Denali summit, the highest peak in North America. Like many, he was consumed by an obsession that he didn't fully understand. Like some, his obsession would claim his life - for there are many things that can go wrong.
THE METHOD
For days, the wind howls endlessly, ripping at our sanity and our tent fabric. Under the unblinking eye of the Alaskan midnight sun, we are smothered under the incessant whiteout of a week-long storm, the trip only just begun. Instead of climbing, we are reduced, frustrated, to merely surviving. Yet, it is a relatively comfortable survival provided by synthetic insulation, goose-down and ritual. Every four hours, we dig out accumulated snow from around the tent; every six hours, we boil water and eat; every eight hours, we repair the snow walls protecting us from the gale; and every 24 hours, we exercise and sleep. Time slows, one day becomes a week, and as we wait, we disappear into whatever paperback novel keeps us sane. Up ahead, someone has died.
After years of preparation, Bill Hearne, of Fairport, N.Y., collapses above Windy Corner.
"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."
Windy Corner - the crux of the route to advanced base camp - is not technically challenging, but the first major step up a deceptively difficult mountain.
At advanced base camp, flags from all over Europe, Asia and South America quaver under the malevolent gaze of indifferent mountain sentinels known as Hunter and Foraker. The capricious weather is now placid and brilliantly sunny as we set tents and build snow walls. An open-air latrine sits like a naked throne at the edge of camp, and a cornucopia of languages contributes to the low level din of activity. A South Korean team ropes up to head out to high camp, a squad of Navy SEALS lazily suns themselves, an Italian group argues about a snow wall and a French party chatters excitedly over lattes.
With the sunset, temperatures plummet 20 degrees, and with the dawn, our fortunes permanently change for the worse. Two of our climbers retch and hack through the night, and eventually quit the following day due to the altitude. One of those lost is a guide, leaving us a party of five climbers with just one remaining guide. One more loss and the whole expedition will have to turn around.
THE BALANCE
The Denali headwall, a 50-degree 600-foot high angled ice wall heading to high camp, is a challenge that all climbers must confront on the way to the summit. It is intimidating to most, and can be brutal. Once surmounted, however, the climb gratefully follows the gentle rocky sinuous spine of the West Buttress route leading to high camp at 17,200 feet. High camp! Through the sleepy morning haze, the sharp crunch of cramponed boots on hard packed snow grows until it seems to come from inside my own head. I lie cocooned in my sleeping bag, wondering why my guide, John, seems so agitated.
"Lyndon - get up - we need you over here - now. Hurry."
My patient is lying, ashen, in his sleeping bag, complaining of chest pain. Despite having summited without difficulty the day before, he now looks terrible and requires immediate evacuation. After getting aspirin into him, park service climbing rangers strap him into a litter, and lower him 3,000 feet down the 60-degree rescue gully back to advanced base camp, where a helicopter whisks him away to Anchorage the same day. I never heard how he made out.
That night the weather deteriorates, forcing our team to make an unfortunate decision. We have a weather window of only three days before we have to depart the mountain. We will attempt the summit the next morning and take our chances with the unpredictable weather before things get worse. The next morning, shortly after leaving camp, however, something tells me to stop. My legs aren't right, the wind is heaving, and billowing purple clouds now obscure the route up to the Denali pass. I stop the team and I leave the rope. I decide to stay behind, watch my friends climb, and let go of the summit after six months of intense preparation. My team members seem puzzled that I have given up, but they remain silent. I am all right with my decision.
I watch anxiously as my friends ascend into the gathering maelstrom, and I finally lose them at 19,000 feet. Eighteen endless stumbling hours later they return to high camp - a normal summit bid usually taking around 12 hours. Two have fallen but have been caught by the fixed lines, and twice they have temporarily lost their way. One climber promptly vomits. I make hot tea and am glad that they are back, but I am also secretly jealous of their summit success. I am still (mostly) all right with my decision.
THE DANCE
Early the next morning, with one day left before we must depart the mountain, a neighboring team's guide approaches my tent, explains that they are making a summit attempt, and offers me a spot on his rope. The catch? I have to be ready to leave in 30 minutes.
It is hard to dance without toes. Despite having the warmest boots available and having ascended 1,000 feet to the top of the pass, my toes are now unmovable and completely numb. My issue is a common malady. In my scramble to join the other team, I didn't have the time to get hot morning liquids into my body, and the price for my omission is steep. Most frostbite isn't simply a matter of bad boots. It is usually a combination of cold, dehydration, exhaustion and poor judgment.
It is now my turn for fate to hang in the balance. It is a risk, but I decide to take my boots off to inspect my toes as the wind roars around me. The wind chill here is so severe that any exposed skin is at risk for loss. Taking a glove off - even momentarily - can result in frostbite. My toes seem to be dead, but an angel appears, silently hands me a pack of chemical toe warmers, and vanishes.
As I negotiate the narrow ridge leading to the small angled summit plateau, I step near a small buried mound of polyester covering the remains of James Nasti. The wind, so vicious several hours ago, has vanished, and in the late afternoon sun the Brooks Range is peacefully laid out in an amazing Technicolor repose all around. Our all-consuming goal, the summit, is a small angled shelf no bigger than a walk-in closet. From this vantage point, I can see our entire West Buttress route 13,000 feet below.
James Nasti was fit and climbing well the entire trip. Just before attaining the summit, he unexpectedly fell forward on his ice axe, slid head-first several feet down the slope and died. No one knows why. Resuscitation efforts failed, and as weather closed in, his team reluctantly abandoned him. His body was ultimately judged too difficult to recover due to altitude, weather and topography, and he was buried there with his family's approval. He is the only climber to be buried on the Denali summit.
More deaths occur following my departure from Denali high camp the next day.
"Two surgeons who were longtime mountain climbing partners have died after falling thousands of feet on Denali. The two were roped together and plummeted at least 2,000 feet to their deaths Thursday while on the Messner Couloir," the National Park Service said. "The two men were alone and had begun an ascent of the West Rib on May 30. It was unclear if they had gone off-route on their way up or were coming down a different way when the accident happened."
I immediately call my family on a satellite phone to let them know that I am safe and not one of the physicians who had recently died. For every death, 500 individuals summit successfully. Like most climbers, I survive, depart with 10 fingers and toes intact, and even manage to have fun.
This time, the method was sound, the balance was right and the dance was good.
(posted by Bill's friends)
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