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| Larry Heaton conquers Savage Mountain in Orlando, Florida - August 2011 |
As long as I can remember, every year my family traveled up to Virginia for Thanksgiving to visit our cousins, uncles, and grandparents. It was always a big celebration lasting 4 or 5 days, with no one wanting to go home at the end. Our family is tight. From the oldest cousin to the youngest, we are a band of brothers. When all the ten male cousins were younger we would play a big game of tackle football which we called the Gravy Bowl. It was the highlight of the year. I dreaded the plays where Larry, my uncle, got the ball. His 6'7'' 245lb frame would barrel down the field and my only hope to stop the touchdown was to jump on his back and dangle from his neck until the ground rumbled with his fall. Sure, he could have carried me with his free arm while hurdling the other eager cousins if he wanted to, but he played along and gifted me the glory instead.
Larry always did that. He loved letting other people shine and even when he wasn't extending any uncommon courtesies, it just felt good to be around him. I looked forward to our fireside chats every year. He would recount his latest adventure in humble tones, passing off such mountainous hurdles like summiting Mt Rainier or whittling away at the Appalachien Trail while carrying large rocks in his pack, as if they were mere tasks on a to-do list. There's a wall in the Heaton house that is littered with medals and artifacts of his adventures and when old enough, his sons, Daniel and Matt came with him.
At 55 years old, this past November, my uncle Larry had just completed an ultramarathon. He ran 55 miles from 8:00 in the morning until 1:30 the next morning, only resting for twenty minutes. When I asked him what kept him going, he said that for each mile, he recalled each year of his life and relived the miles of memories with his high school sweetheart Betty, his sons, work, and friends. His commanding presence and brick build were secondary only to his fortitude as a person.
Larry's motto in both personal and business life was simple: "Leave on a good one." Don't walk out of the room, come off the mountain, or turn the light off before knowing you had given the day your best.
Only two weeks after we all held hands and said a blessing for the future of family over Thanksgiving, Larry died in a car accident. Hundreds attended his funeral; so many that they had to set up televisions in the basement of the church he helped build so other friends could watch the service. People traveled from all over the country to pay their respects.
I realize now, that as I grew up, my childish adoration and reverence for Larry never really matured. I always felt physically and emotionally adolescent next to him, but in a way that made me want to push harder, so I too would have something to talk about when we sat by the fire.
I will forever remember him as the mountain who conquered mountains and the Superman who proved to the world that a body is merely a vehicle for great things.
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| Larry with family Daniel, Betty, and Matt Heaton at Thanksgiving in Collinsville, VA - November 2012 |
The sandhill cranes' arrival in Florida is the sure sign of winter. They come in with the staccato trumpet calls that pierce the morning air and echo through the prairie's live oak rim. Their migratory populations have ebbed and flowed over the years on the prairie, some years with over 1,500 individuals and other years only a few dozen. There doesn't seem to be a solid explanation for this, but some believe its due to the amount of dog fennel that grows up to 6 feet high and gives the cranes a natural barrier from potential predators like coyotes and bobcats. Without the vegetation, they simply pass over the prairie and onto greener pastures. 
One of my favorite things in the winter is to go out and photograph the sandhills at sunrise. When polar fog exhales from the wetlands, their silhouettes dot the horizon and make for some great images. On these mornings though, I'm not the only one stalking birds. If sandhills usher in the day with their calls, then coyotes are the denizens of the night. Their mad cackling can be heard from a mile away and I can't help but wonder while I'm sitting around the backyard fire, what they're howling about. No matter how close they sound, every time I go looking for them they're nowhere to be found. After their raucous nights, though, I'm always certain to find the remains of their prey in a cloud of feathers on the cold prairie floor. 
Not wanting to stress the bird or cause it any more pain if its wing really was injured, I stayed back and watched it for a while. It was really sad to watch. The crane would call out to its flock in a broken shrill and the others didn't respond. It's limp neck eventually lost all mobility and hung low as if paralyzed. In the deeper water, it could barely keep its beak high enough to breathe. I apologize for the graphic photos.
