Read an article about Ken in Rock & Ice magazine by Chad Hussey

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Saturday, December 5, 2009

Tim Linehan

Ken,

When we met a decade or so ago at a Wednesday evening AMC rock climb, I had no idea of the privilege that was soon to be mine. You were one of those individuals who was always welcoming and helpful to the new comers. You were always willing to provide a belay. You were always willing to mentor a new leader or a new ice climber.

We became friends and climbing partners. We spent many week-ends together climbing rock and ice in CT, NY, MA, NH, and ME.

At some point during our trips, you told me of your earlier, difficult, fight with cancer – the possible recurrence of which seemed an ever present specter. This explained, perhaps, why, at times, you seemed so… driven. You seemed intent on doing as much as possible with each opportunity that life afforded… to live each day as fully and as completely as possible. When “normal” people might be lingering longer over their morning coffee, we were roping up in -12 degree weather to climb grade 4 ice at Lake Willoughby; when “normal” people were starting their holiday shopping the week-end after Thanksgiving, we were gearing up in 6 degree temperatures, being hammered by 40mph winds and blowing snow, and suffering through -36 degree wind chill to make an early season attempt on Pinnacle Gully; when the rest of our party would be relaxing after the successful climb of a Cascade volcano, you would urge us back to the cars and on to the next objective. There was so much to do… and so little time.

But what I remember most, was the laughter. You could find humor and enjoyment in circumstances and situations that would make most people pale. Your head would go back, your eyes would twinkle, and then you would let roll with a full throated, belly supported burst of laughter. It was that, the laughter, that came to mind when I read the message informing your friends that your time with us was drawing to a close. It is… hard… to reconcile the fact that someone so full of energy and life is gone. It's too soon. It's much too early.

I’ll remember you on each and every uphill “grunt”. Along with the familiar weight of the pack, the familiar crunch of the snow, the familiar bite of cold air nipping at nose and finger, and the all too familiar tired legs and exhaustion, I'll remember that familiar laugh. Thank you for the mentoring and the knowledge shared. Thank you for the good times. And, most of all, thank you for sharing yourself. I, along with many others will miss the reality, and the possibility, of your friendship. Good bye my friend.

Tim

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