For the Love of George
We Bid Farewell To A Legend
I met my friend, George Etzweiler, for the first time only two weeks after my father had passed away. George was 97 years old at the time. He had invited me to run on his team with him, up to the summit of Mount Washington. I went because I was researching for my book, The White Mountain, and I had to. And I owed it to my dad to buckle down and go because my dad would have been horrified had I dared shirk any responsibilities because of something as 'normal' (he would say) as him dying.
But I was hurting, lost and depressed.
George, and his welcoming family and team, saw I was in distress and immediately brought me into their family. And I ran up that damned mountain with that 97-year old man who helped me heal and made me laugh and saved me.
He became my dad that day and I have been forever grateful to him. Through the years since, we've stayed in touch and he has remained a source of humor and inspiration.
Last Sunday evening, at the youthful age of 105, my friend, George, passed away, surrounded by his family and over a century of memories and love and living. I'd normally say, in a situation like this, that I'm crushed by this loss.
But as my father would surly say - and as George himself has repeated through his dry sense of humor - he was pretty old after all, what did you expect?
Today, we offer a remembrance of George. What follows are two small excerpts I wrote, the first in 2017 and the second in 2018. These were not part of the chapter in the book on George, but rather served as the outlines and templates for what that chapter would become. As such, I thought they might be an interesting way to memorialize George for you all and at the same time offer a different look into the process of including him in the book as well as highlight his incredible Mount Washington runs.
So, today, in George’s name, get a little exercise in. Touch some grass. Take a breather. You deserve it.
Goodbye my friend, it's been one of my life's great honors to have known you. Keep running.
2017: HOUR FOUR, NEAR THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT WASHINGTON
Long after the elites crossed the finish line and the summit crowds were making their way down Mount Washington, 97-year-old George Etzweiler continued, with the help of his family, to run his own race.
A century of heart beating to the rhythm of the granite; deep, long pulls of air against the warm wind at his back. Every so often he'd wobble and his grand son would touch his back, and like he was regaining energy, George would straighten and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Runners or hikers heading down, would pass and gently touch George's shoulder or hand, literally touch the man like he was a patron or a prophet, like you would respect a holy man.
Cars full of young runners, teenagers and ultra athletes, would stop and they would roll down their windows and take pictures and shout over and over again to George, "Thank you!" and "You're beautiful!" Many would just say, "Inspiration!" And George would sometimes lift a hand or smile, but the day was about him, and muscle and guts.
I don't know what has to be inside someone like George to make that fire burn with such intensity. But I do know that he's funny and self-depreciating. I asked him what his running strategy was, and he said, “Slow.”
After, as he gathered with his family in the set of cabins they have rented for decades for their annual visit to the White Mountains, George didn't talk about the race. Instead, he talked about his kids, and grand kids and great grand kids, many of whom were renting cabins nearby.
“Everybody thinks I come up here each year to run up a mountain,” he whispered, as though telling me a secret. “But really, it's for this...” He waved his sunburned hand at the people around him. Then, with a wink, he said. “Though next year, I'm hoping for a better time.”
2018: A FATHER’S DAY STORY, DEDICATED TO MY OWN DAD
By 1pm, most race officials have left the summit of Mount Washington, the time clock packed away, the finish strip folded up; most runners are already off the mountain eating turkey under a tent below.
But some hardy souls remain, bracing against the wind, hoods up, hands jammed into jean pockets. One man, a timer, stands near the finish with a stop watch and a finish banner, waiting for George.
The mountain, though, doesn't care how long it takes George Etzweiler to get to her top, she's patient.
Just below the summit, George doesn't care either. Surrounded by his little team, his breath coming in short, deep puffs, head down, yellow windbreaker flapping in the breeze, George carries on, like he always does, like he always has.
When George was born, The White Mountain National Forest had been established for only 18 months, the Observatory was still 12 years away from existing, one of the observatory founders, Alex McKenzie, was 11 years old, women could not vote and The Great Gatsby wouldn't be published for five more years.
"We're almost there," George's grandson, Bob, says to him, "How are you doing?"
"Am I dead yet?" George quips between breathes. Everyone laughs. If he's joking, he's fine.
All too often lately it feels like we don't have much to cling to in this world. But George is an anchor, nearly 100 years of flesh and blood, pure guts and drive, still running for his wife, for his children and grand children and great grand children, still running because his new sneakers impacting the tar at 6,000 feet are like his heartbeat, gutting out every second of life.
Every inhale is a dare, a proclamation; every exhale is an exclamation point.
Near the finish line, his team learns that he's ahead of his finish time of last year, he could beat his time. People start shouting, you can do it, you can beat your time. And there at the top, after four hours of running on 98-year-old legs, incredibly, George speeds up - you can see it, he jerks forward, sheer will alone driving his body to shave an extra second or two off that time.
The two dozen or so people at that summit, for a few precious seconds, pay witness to the infinity of the human condition; a split second of reaching for and then shattering limits.
George stumbles across that finish line and collapses into a chair, his family comes together around him like a protective wall, giving him time to be exhausted. In the end he shaved one minute off his time from last year.
One year older, one minute faster.
The mountain relaxes, witnesses shake their head, wide eyed, grinning, like they had watched something remarkable, or miraculous. And they had.
And after a couple minutes of water and deep breathes, George jumps back up to accept his medal, the applause; the summit wind ruffles his shock of white hair, and he says "How'd we do?"
And everyone laughs, and cries.
DOCUMENTARY ABOUT GEORGE: Finally, here’s an amazing short film about George, called “For the Love of Mary.” Put together by film-makers Kirk Horton and Simon Perkins, the Mount Washington climb featured in this film was shot on the same day of my run with George up the mountain. If you look close enough, you can see me in some of the shots. (Don’t do that, though, pay attention to George!)
My husband ran the Mt. Washington race several times, and he used to tell me about seeing George there. He was an inspiration to a lot of runners. I smiled as I read your posts about him. A New Hampshire gem!
Thanks for sharing this amazing man with us. He will live on into eternity thanks to your writing. He’s a hero and an inspiration. If there are rocks in Heaven, he and Don Soule can run and find them.