These are the words I wrote for and read at Doug Wiktor's memorial service on 11/10/99. It was something that I felt I had to do and something that Doug deserved to have said in public and out loud. --Ed

I wanted to say something about Doug. I’m not sure there’s much I can tell most of you, who knew him longer and better than I. But I decided to share some of my experience of him, which I think was in some ways unique since we spent 10 days alone in a wild area of the Grand Canyon less than three months ago.

About 10 years ago I visited the Grand Canyon for the first time and it’s been all I can do to stay away ever since. About five years ago, I took my longest solo trip down into the canyon. It was spectacular. Many friends and family wanted to accompany me the next year after I told them about the beauty of the trip. I also started writing up the details and sending them out chapter by chapter–step by step telling everything that happened.

Almost immediately, my stories revealed that the trip was no car camping trip and not even a normal backpacking trip:

• 120-degree heat
• Cactus and brush ate my shins
• How I spent a night lost without water or shelter
• How I lay in the dirt and hugged a rock all night
• How I had to scramble out of a dead-end ravine and stopped my hand four inches from a rattlesnake’s head.

As I wrote and sent out my stories, one by one those people who had "definitely" wanted to go the Canyon with me the next year found other pressing things to do–such as washing their hair. One desperate friend even got married right when we were supposed to go.

The first time I rode bikes with Doug, he asked about my trips there. By then, I didn’t expect anyone to care about going with me. But Doug was not like everyone else. He was intrigued and then enticed. The more I told him–no matter how tough–the more he wanted to go.

I finally realized that he was serious and would not back down. Since I was busy, I took advantage of the fact that Doug seemed to like making all those detailed arrangements that I detest–permits, forms, flights, reservations, confirmations, payments. I liked him before that, but I really liked him for that characteristic.

I plan to write about our trip in more detail eventually, but for now, I’d like to point out a few things that stand out.

Doug’s pack seemed twice as heavy as mine, but he always just tossed it onto his back without the slightest sign of complaint or wishing that he’d trimmed his load. It’s what he’d chosen. It’s what had to be done. So he did it.

Doug was no shrinking violet when it came to food. For example, I had allocated one package of oatmeal per breakfast. Doug allocated four. If you know Doug’s camping habits, you know that he threw in several extras just in case.

He always seemed to have two full dinner packages nightly, each meant for two people. I would eat reconstituted beans and moldy bread while he was eating something with "stroganoff," "chowder," or "Alfredo" in the name. It was as though I was living in a hobo jungle and he was living in a mansion. Doug knew how to combine the most rugged wilderness experience with his own needs and comforts.

He was also generous with what he had. He lent me a trekking pole, which helped me immensely. He gave me food when I was running low. When I ran out of fuel, I used his stove.

When our main base camp was invaded by tiny flies, I was the one who could not endure them and eventually refused to stay there. Doug didn’t like them, but was not going to be driven out by them either. Nevertheless, he went along with my plan to move base camp into a narrow side canyon, which turned out to be a favorite spot for both of us.

His ability and willingness to do what was necessary or endure what had to be endured set a high standard and taught me a lot.

Three weeks before we arrived, flash floods and debris flows had scoured out this area I had known well. I grieved the loss of the familiar sights and locations, but through Doug’s eyes, I could see it as new and eventually learned to accept not only what was there but the fact of change itself. I learned that we do not live in places so much as we live in time. Doug seemed to know that intuitively, without having to explain or discuss it.

There were two things Doug always did while we were out hiking. Of course, he would eat. He was always working on a hard candy or something else from his endless bag of snacks. The other thing I remember was that he was nearly constantly saying, partially under his breath, partially out loud, "Beautiful, beautiful."

Every day we were there was a different adventure–we never took a rest day. But one day stands out.

It was the day of our Big Expedition. It was as though all our other journeys and explorations had been preparation for this day. The other days had more or less definite destinations or purposes. But this day was pure map-poking exploration, based solely on my distant memory of reading about a route from the canyon we were in, over the crest to the Colorado.

We both felt the fire to find this route–as though we were searching for some mythical route to a golden land. We were on a mission. Doug made it his as much as I did.

At one point, I paused to look around for Doug and take my bearings. Without knowing why, I looked straight down at my boots. Two inches from one of my feet was a nearly perfect quartz arrowhead. We had struggled all day against that steep, loose, cactus-patrolled terrain, and Doug told me that he’d just said to himself that he could think of no reason that another human being would have ever come there.

That’s when I called him over to see the arrowhead, the only one I’ve ever found. He said that he and Virginia had several and that Virginia is a collector, so he knew a lot better than I did how rare a find it was. As Virginia was driving us home from the airport back in Sacramento, Doug admitted to Virginia (and me) that at first he felt jealous, but that knowing how much I love that Canyon, he felt that it was only right that I found it.

When we finally found the right route, it was late. We faced a long, rugged, extremely steep ravine. We both knew that it was nearly time to turn back. But standing at the base of it, I said, "I’ve got to do it." Doug didn’t hesitate: "Let’s go."

We were both ecstatic when we made the summit and amazed at the views and how high we had climbed. It was a peak moment in all kinds of ways.

That was our last full day in the Canyon, and it could not have been fuller.

When we left, we were both glad that the time had been so full, that we’d left nothing undone, nothing till next time. Now I’m more glad of that than ever.

Doug was the only companion who’s ever accompanied me to the Grand Canyon. He was the only person in my experience who had the same attitude and sensibility that I have for both that desert setting and the hard work of experiencing it in its wildest, rawest form. Doug thanked me for introducing him to the Grand Canyon. But I have Doug to thank for reintroducing me to the Grand Canyon and to the possibilities and rewards of sharing that experience.