Mike and I learned to tie our first figure eight knots together a long, long time ago. We suffered through every conceivable misadventure (and some that were not) on our course from gym-rat top-ropers to alpine knighthood. Too many tales to list here.
In the early days, he had a bottle of Burmese whiskey that he always threatened would be opened when the good stuff ran out. I swear he hauled that same bottle on our winter trip up Whitney and Lone pine peak and throughout several Yosemite and J-Tree trips. It was finally opened one tentbound evening in the Sawtooths. We laughed, choked and sputtered until it was no more.
Such a sad tragedy to lose Mike this way. He was a tough climber, a great writer, and an excellent friend.
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