(This was was written to be read by his brother Eric at Gordon's
funeral on December 19, 2000).

I met him as a boy, but I really came to see him as a man.

It was a hot Victoria afternoon when he was called out on a service
call to a local restaurant. Gordon invited me to ride along.

When we arrived at the restaurant on Douglas Street, the proprietor was
clearly distressed. With an establishment full of hungry customers, his
refrigeration system had chosen this moment to go on the fritz. Without
immediate assistance, he was in danger not only of being unable to feed
them, but with the potential loss of thousands of dollars in refrigerated food.

I marveled at the speed with which my cousin took to the challenge. He
started at the main refrigerator and within minutes, he was tracing his way
back to the rooftop cooling unit. To get there, he had to crawl through
some cramped, dark, and filthy spaces, spaces that would have scared even
the most hardened contortionist. For a guy over six feet tall, this was no
small task, but Gordon executed it with apparent ease. I followed him
through the bowels of the restaurant piping and out onto the roof above.
There, he quickly deduced that the rooftop unit was not the source of the
problem. So, once again, he twisted his lean form around those pipes and
ducts, past the pools of grease and grime and back to the main refrigerator.
Here, he opened his toolbox and went quickly to work solving the problem.
The entire process, from arrival, to analysis and finally resolution, took
just 20 minutes.

"Perhaps you might want to consider replacing that refrigerator at some
point fairly soon," he suggested gently to the owner. " It's kind of on its
last legs." Then he bid his customer goodbye, and we returned to the
soothing Victoria sunshine outside.

That evening, I shared time with Gordon at home. While Andrea was
upstairs parenting, Gordon and I were downstairs installing duct work in the
basement. It seemed there was no difference whatsoever between what he got
paid to do and what he would do for free. This, I thought, was a magnifcent
gift and one in which he clearly relished. I was impressed not only with
his ability to cheerfully manage multiple tasks simultaneously, but with the
skill and precision with which he undertook each new challenge. He was, and
will always remain in my mind, a product of his upbinging. He was
hard-working, focused, imaginative and fun. He could have had no two finer
role models than Uncle John and Aunt Ruth.

When the evening was over, he drove me back to Aunt Kay's and politely
said goodnight. As I tucked myself into bed, I remember thinking how
impressed I was with him, and how for the first time I had really come to
see him for who he was - a kind, measured, intelligent and technically
gifted craftsman with a passion for everything that touched his skilled hand.

A lot touched his hand. He was capable of fixing almost anything, even
skinned knees. He was a shrewd negotiator and he had a razor sharp mind
that enabled him to see through complex construction and design challenges
as easily as many of us open our eyes.

That's what happened to me that day - he opened my eyes to who he was.
And today, he is still opening them -- yes with tears, yes with immeasurable
sadness, but mostly with regret that one so vital, so involved, so active
and so alive should now be gone from us. It is a crushing blow.

I remember once during my third expedition to Mount Everest when we
were nearing the end of our permitted time limit on the mountain. If we did
not get to the summit soon, the heaving monsoon snow and howling winds would
dash our summit chances. Days before we were to begin to establish our
highest camp and from there make a summit attempt, a ferocious cyclone swept
in from the Bay of Bengal. Initial reports said that our critically
important Advanced Base Camp had been completely destroyed. If that were
the case, we would not have enough time to rebuild it. Ten years of effort,
two previous expeditions, and close to two million dollars worth of
expedition costs would be lost.

It was a very bleak and dark time. I remember the anger I felt, the
loss, the frustration. Why? Why now? Why us? What was wrong? What was
right? The whole situation seemed utterly senseless. I couldn't get my mind
around it. I feel that way today.

I can get my mind around this, however: like me, I know Gordon loved
the outdoors. Although I could never claim one one-hundredth of his
proficiency with a wrench or sheet metal sheers, we did share "the freedom
of the hills." And so it is that in which I am able to find some small
comfort in this senseless situation. I know that Gordon died in the
environment he loved, a place where he'd spent innumerable happier days
crawling about in the passageway beneath the fir trees, winding his way over
the ferns, past the flowers and alongside piping brooks.

The challenge now for the rest of us is to rebuild our camp, and to do
so with all the speed and precision that only Gordon, and perhaps his
father, could command. It is the ultimate enigma of life that for every
mountain we climb, another one greater appears before us. The key is to
remember what it was like at the peak when we are mired in the crevasse --
to cry, to morn, to weep and to wail, but to crawl out, somehow, somewhere,
some way. From there, we must drag ourselves to our feet, stagger, stand
and keep climbing.

This is how I will remember him; he didn't just embrace life, he
digested it. He thought deeply and he cared passionately. He picked up his
tools and he went at life with the full force of his being. And so must we
all, more so now than ever before.

To my dear Aunt Ruth: I am deeply sorry I cannot be there in person.
It seems a medical mountain has me in her grasp and although I too am
crawling out, I am not yet climbing. So, in my absence, I speak to you
through by brother. He has recently given me new life with new bone marrow
and so he too, like you possesses true grit. Together, we send you hope,
strength and courage. You can climb this mountain, just as you continue to
climb the one before. You are a summiteer. You can. You will.

To Frances, I ask that you somehow find art in this madness. There is
true art in molding tin and steel with your bare hands. What starts out as
nondescript metal magically transforms into something that is not only
functional, but that fits together like a jigsaw puzzle. That's what your
brother did every day. He took raw materials, and with his creativity and
experience, shaped them into something new. You must do the same, as
impossible as that task may appear to you now. You can. You will.

To Ian, whom I have not seen in many years I have not forgotten your
boundless energy and punishing vacation travel schedules as a youth. You,
of all people, possess the innate human endurance to overcome even this
inner Everest. You can. You will.

Eileen: I know you will somehow find a way to smile at points
throughout this. In so doing, you will make others smile with you. This is
perhaps your greatest of so many personal gifts. It is the essence of who
you are. Draw on it now. Share it. Spread it like sweet honey, even if at
moments it is bitter sweet. You can. You will.

And finally Andrea, Alie and Christie. Your expedition has suffered a huge
setback. Now, more than ever, you must pull together. You must look after
each other and accept the help of your fellow climbers. Then, you must go
back up the hill, resurrect the tents and pust forward up the face again.
In the presence of your pain, you must live as he lived - passionately,
completely, deeply. There is no other way for you to get to the top of this
mountain. You can cry first, you can scream and you can yell, but you must
keep climbing. To do otherwise is to do injustice to the man I came to see
that Victoria afternoon. You can. You will.

It was dark in those grimy spaces in the restaurant. It was
frightening. But when we emerged into the sunshine outside, Gordon was his
usual cheerful, indomitable self. He sprang to the next call.

An so must we. We can. We will.