From Kevin Hunting

Like so many others who knew Barry, I was shocked and deeply saddened by his passing last month. He was the kind of person that once known, you could never forget and I still struggle with accepting that I won't see him again.

My friendship with Barry began at Humboldt State University in 1981 where we shared a couple of classes, occasionally discussed the wildlife profession, and ended up competing for a job monitoring Bald Eagles on Catalina Island. Of course Barry got the job which was no surprise to me as even then I knew he was destined to become a leader in our chosen profession. He was then, and continued to be, a person who garnered immediate respect for his deep conviction and passion. I couldn't help but admire his confidence and aspired to be more like him in my professional life.

The next time our paths crossed was in 1993 when I joined the Department of Fish and Game. We renewed our professional association and eventually our friendship and within a co uple of years I found myself working for him in the Wildlife Habitat Relationships program. We worked closely together for 2 years during which I came to see those same qualities I admired in Barry during our college days. I'm sure those who knew him could guess he was a fair but demanding supervisor who accepted nothing short of the best from those around him. His philosophy was "everyone starts with an 'F' and must earn an 'A' ". At the same time he was throwing down this rather large gauntlet, he went out of his way to support and encourage me and others working in the program. I learned a great deal from him under his mentor-ship and he regularly pushed me to take advantage of opportunities and make the most of my professional life.

I will always feel indebted to Barry for going out of his way to encourage and help me in this part of my life.Following this period, Barry and I worked on various projects, professional papers, and initiatives together including our mutual commitment to The Wildlife Society; an organization that he ultimately guided as Western Section President. As he had done many times before, Barry included me in Section activities providing unflagging encouragement that led to Barry and I participating together in several capacities in the organization. We talked several times about the importance of these organizations to our profession and while not always agreeing on philosophical and practical points, I continued to admire his passion and commitment. I didn't realize at the time how important those conversation were and how much I still looked up to him as a leader.

My friendship with Barry continued over the years and I began to see another side of him with which, as a father of two myself, I could readily identify. Although I didn't think it possible, it became evident that his commitment to and passion for his family and children surpassed what I saw in his professional life. It became clear to me that the person I admired over the years for his professional accomplishments was also a great father and family man. Over time our conversations shifted away from our profession to our families and I grew to see Barry's compassion for the people in his life and how he valued and held those relationships above all else. This is the side of Barry that I will always remember as I believe it is what truly defined him as an exceptional person.

I miss Barry a great deal. He left a profound mark on my life and I consider myself very fortunate to have known him. Farewell Barry. You were a great man in many ways.

Kevin Hunting

Thoughts About Barry - Freda Radich

Known to his family, friends, colleagues, and community as a leader in all he chose to do. As the eldest son, he became a pillar of strength for the family during the time that their father and grandfather, Lowell Garrison’s Alzheimer disease progressed over the years.

To his friends he always remained faithful and loyal as well to his life long partner and wife, Cathie and their two children, Nicole and Christopher.

Barry will always be remembered for his love of animals…. From the family dogs to California’s vast species of wild life. His passion for animals began at an early age when he would visit the Discovery Children’s Museum and later work there caring for injured birds and small wild animals. His favorite was a porcupine named Sideways.

It comes as no surprise that he landed a career position with the California Department of Fish and Game as a Senior Biologist.

His dedication to preserving and breeding threatened and endangered species began in early years during college laboratory classes. His parents owned a rural equine boarding stable adjoining the family residence near American River College. He spent many years in the horse pastures, and nearby creek gathering insects and worms to feed his collection of small critters. Barry recently revisited the spot on Catalina Island where he had released baby eagle chicks as part of a reintroduction project.

If Barry where here today, he would want all of us to heal ourselves and each other by standing in for him. To stand tall as a pillar and give others the strength, hope and courage to carry on.

Remember Barry for who he was, for what he stood for and for what he believed in. He was true to his heart.

Freda Radich

Rick Orr's Story about Mt. Shasta

As promised, my recollections (although somewhat hazy, exaggerated, and, quite possibly, inaccurate) of our Mt. Shasta climb.

It was around 1999, or 2000. (See how hazy?)
First of all, it was my idea (I don't care what anybody else says!). I had just finished reading "Into Thin Air", by John Krakauer and, ironically, became interested in trying mountain climbing--(curious, given the tragic climb detailed in the book??).
Anyway, I mentioned my interest at one of our monthly neighborhood dinner parties, and several of the guys (including Barry) quickly agreed that it would be fun to climb Mt.Shasta that Summer. We all began to "train" in various ways to get into shape for the climb. We also read books about Shasta, and made several very expensive trips to REI to stock up on all of the right gear.

Then, just 2 weeks before our planned ascent, there was an unexpected storm on Mt. Shasta, and a group of climbers got stranded on the Mountain in bad weather. Two of the climbers died.
This added a whole new tension to the climb. This was supposed to be fun. None of us wanted to die in the attempt. So, we then made another very expensive trip to REI to stock up on every conceivable mountaineering safety device. (By the time I loaded all of my safety gear onto my already ample equipment, my pack weighed nearly 70 pounds! Not good).
The final group (after several guys backed out) was comprised of Barry, myself, my Brother (Drew), a friend of my Brother's (name forgotten), Rick LeFlore, Weite Ter Haar, and Steve Kent.

Several of us (including Barry, my Brother and I) had our families come up with us to camp out near the base of the mountain.
Finally, the day came. It was late Summer (probably August?). We set out on foot along a flat service road towards the base of the mountain. After about a half of a mile, I had to stop. I had already developed huge (quarter-size) blisters on both heels. (The special boots we had rented for the climb were obviously a bad idea!) Not a good start. Barry patched me up with some "mole skin" and duct tape, and off we went.

Our goal on Day 1 of the ascent was to get up to "Lake Helen" (a flat snowfield at a little over 9,500'), and set up base camp. Then, we would stay overnight (to "acclimate" to the altitude), and set off early (like 4 am) the next morning for the"final assault" on the summit.
Well, for whatever reason (I honestly don't remember why), we got off to a late start on Day 1. By the time we were half way up the slope to Lake Helen, the sun was starting to go down behind the mountains. This gave us a heightened sense of urgency, since we knew that the temperature would drop precipitously as soon as the sun went down. Plus, setting up base camp in the dark was not something we were looking forward to. So, we strained upwards--each man carrying a staggeringly heavy pack full of gear on his back-- trudging through the snow.
Somewhere between 9,000' and 9,500', three of the guys started getting "altitude sickness". One of them, Weite, was literally throwing up about every ten steps. But, there was really nothing that the rest of us could do for him. So, we continued trudging upwards, with our impossibly heavy packs, trying to beat the shadow of darkness that we could now see gradually sweeping towards us along the snowfield.

We couldn't make it in time. The shadow overtook us. All of the sudden, it was dark, and very, very cold.
Barry and I were tentmates, and had distributed various equipment between our two packs to help share the weight and avoid duplication. Barry made it up to Lake Helen before me. By the time I got there, Barry had begun digging out a pad for our tent. I quickly joined in the effort. But, it was hard--working in the dark, and the bitter cold, with unfamiliar equipment, and little oxygen. We couldn't set the tent up with our bulky gloves on our hands, so we took turns doing the detail work with bare hands. My hands felt like they were frozen by the time we finally got the tent up. (Oh, did I mention the wind? It was blowing hard--and cold!!).
As soon as the tent was up, Barry and I rolled into it. We tried to light a small camp stove for warmth, but our hands were too cold to do it. We had planned on cooking dinner, but we were too exhausted. We just lay there.

Then the stragglers started to arrive....the guys that had altitude sickness had finally made it to our base camp. We could hear their voices outside the tent. They sounded bad. It was pitch black, and bitterly cold. But, Barry got himself up, and said to me "Come on, Rick, we've got to help these guys get set up". Which we did. Mostly, Barry did. I was so wiped out that I was of very little help. As soon as everyone had their tents up, we went back to our tent and collapsed into sleep. The end of "the worst day of my life".

At some point, in the middle of the night, Barry accidentally woke me up. He had his flashlight on, and he was digging through a bag looking for some sort of medicine. After that, I couldn't go back to sleep. I lay there, freezing, the rest of the night--except for braving to go outside once for a potty trip. (If you have read "Into Thin Air" you can appreciate why I was apprehensive to leave the tent in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. One of their group did, and they never saw him again! He was blown off the mountain.)
I guess I did, finally, go to sleep, because I distinctly remember Barry shaking me to wake me up at around 4 am. I could hear voices and see lights outside the tent. Barry was telling me that it was time to go.

I said, "I am NOT going." He said, "Yes, you are. Now, get up." I said, "No, I can't. Leave me here. I will watch the camp until you get back." Barry said, "Weite is staying to watch the camp... get up. Now! Get dressed." This went on, back and forth, for some time. Barry urging me to get up, and me refusing. Finally, I said, "OK, I will get up, and I will get dressed, but I am NOT going up the mountain." Barry had won.

Once I was out of the tent, and suited up, I could see other climbers, with their headlights on, trudging upwards in the darkness. It was 4:15 am. I thought that I might as well try.
My Brother and his friend led the way. Then Barry and I. My Brother and his friend were younger, and fitter, and the lack of oxygen didn't seem to faze them as much. Soon a large gap developed between my Brother and his friend and Barry and I. As we looked back down the steep slope, we could see Steve Kent and Rick LeFlore struggling down below. It seemed evident that they were not going to make it up to the next milestone--"The Red Banks"--1,000 feet above.

We were slowly zigzagging along improvised switchbacks. Stepping into the footprints of the hikers in front of us. Maybe ten steps...then a rest. Leaning on our ice axes. Then another 10 steps...and another rest. And so on, and so on. For what seemed like hours. We looked back down to see Rick LeFlore turning back down to the camp. Steve Kent was lagging far behind, and he looked finished too.

Suddenly, however, Steve Kent got an amazing burst of energy, and literally started going straight up the face--no more zigzagging switchbacks for him! He flew past Barry and I, and actually reached the Red Banks before us. In fact, I was the last of our group to make it to the top of the Red Banks.

By the time I reached the Red Banks (about 10,500-11,000 feet) I was physically exhausted. The other guys were waiting for me, and had had an opportunity to rest up. As soon as I got there they said, "OK, let's move out." I don't know if it was my exhaustion, or the altitude, or what, but I started swearing like a drunken sailor. About how hard it was, and how tired I was, etc, etc. Barry was a calming influence on me. He stayed behind with me for a few more minutes while the others forged ahead. Then, with some words of encouragement about the upcoming "Misery Hill", he led the way for me. We scrambled up "Misery Hill", which lived up to its reputation.

For some reason, I was under the impression that, once we had crested "Misery Hill", we would be "home free". Wrong. So wrong! There were still more hills to crest. And then more. Emotionally, I was crushed. How many "Just one more ridge" could I take? I was lagging. The others were out of sight by now. I was alone and very tired and discouraged. I was ready to quit--again.

Finally, I did crest the last ridge. Only to see that the peak was still way off in the distance, across a 1,000 yard snowfield and up a steep 200' crag. That was it. I was ready to give up. I just couldn't keep going. I ditched my gear behind a rock, left the trail, and went over to sit on a boulder to rest and take in the view. I was done.

As if by fate, the view from this particular vantage point looked directly down onto the lake where all of our families were camped. Waiting for the return of the brave weekend warriors! Just then it occurred to me that it had not been a very good idea to have my family come up here, and to get their expectations up about the chances of me being successful. Because now I would have to face my wife and kids, and explain why my Brother, and some of the other guys, had made it to the top, but not me.

That thought alone stirred me to continue. I couldn’t bear the shame of letting my kids down (and the thought of brother strutting around victoriously). So, I decided that I would continue onwards to the top. I felt that I needed to travel “light” the rest of the way, and so I left the gear that I had ditched behind the rocks behind.

Just then, I noticed a lone figure about halfway across the snowfield. It was apparent that this poor bastard was in bad shape. I couldn’t tell who it was, or even if he was a part of our group. Whoever it was, he was struggling badly, and didn’t look like he was going to ever make it across the snowfield—let alone to the top of the peak. So, I used this poor guy as my “goal”. I would catch up to him, and pass him. I did catch up to the poor bastard about two-thirds the way across the snowfield. It was Barry. I didn’t recognize him until I saw his face. He was like a ghost. Pale. Moving in slow motion. And, mentally, he seemed out of it. He seemed groggy and fatigued.

Barry and I, climbing partners from the start, slowly trudged together across the last part of the snowfield. Urging each other on. A few steps at a time. Then rest. Then a few more steps. Then, without warning, I fell through a cavity in the snow. It happened so fast. But, I managed to spread my arms out as I fell through, which stopped me at my armpits. I couldn’t move. I felt trapped in the snow. Barry used his climbing helmet as a shovel, and, eventually dug me out. It was exhausting work for him.

Just 5 or 6 steps later, I fell through another cavity in the snow. Same thing, all over again. Barry dug with his helmet and was eventually able to drag me out. But, he had spent a lot of energy to do it. Energy which he had very little to spare.

Finally, we made it across the snowfield. We stopped to rest on the rocks at the bottom of the final 200’ crag that was the peak. We could hear some of the guys from our group yelling encouragement down to us from the top. “Come on. You can do it. You are almost there. Just a little bit more.” Barry said to me, “No. I can’t do it. You go ahead. I will wait here.” I began swearing at Barry. “We didn’t come all this f___ing way just to give up now! You ARE going to get up there if I have to f___ing drag you.”

It took a while, and a lot of “encouragement” from me, but, I eventually convinced Barry to give it a try. We ditched his equipment behind a rock, and started up the final steep crag to the top. We went up together. Slowly. A few steps at a time. Encouragements exchanged between us during the rests in between. Our friends urging us on from the top.

We made it!! We got to the top! My Brother, Drew, his friend, and Steve Kent were waiting for us. They were so happy that we made it. Nobody else was there, or in sight. We were all alone at the top of the world. We rested for a few minutes and enjoyed the view. My Brother’s friend snapped this picture of us--in black and white. But, the weather was quickly turning bad. The clouds were coming in fast, and the wind was picking up. We decided that we needed to get down as quickly as possible. (The thought of the climbers a few weeks ago was still fresh in all of our minds).

I don’t even remember the descent from the peak to the Red Banks. I was on autopilot, I guess. (Kind of like when you are driving late at night and you suddenly realize that you haven’t been aware of driving for some time). But, I will never forget the ride down the face of the Red Banks back to base camp. We slid on our butts down a snowchute. It was a blast!
What had taken grueling hours to climb, we slid down in a matter of minutes.

We broke camp quickly, loaded up our enormous packs, and slide down most of the rest of way to “Horse Camp”. I don’t remember the rest of the hike out, or much of anything after that. We were all so exhausted. However, I do remember saying, repeatedly, that it was the “worst two days of my life”, and that “I will never climb another mountain—ever!”.

Over the last 12 years, Barry and I went on about a dozen back-country backpacking adventures together. During those trips, we really bonded. You could always count on Barry as a hiking/climbing/camping partner. He was always ready to help. He was a great friend, and I will miss him dearly. Now, after he is gone, I realize what a life-changing experience our Mt. Shasta climb really was. It was a defining moment for both of us. We overcame and conquered. It was a character-builder to be sure.

A month ago, Barry emailed a group of us about climbing Mt Langely and Mt White—two more 14,000 footers in California. Only for Barry would I even have considered it.

Rick Orr

Davis Enterprise Editorial

The Davis Enterprise

Barry Garrison's lasting legacy
Published: June 13, 2007

When my daughter told me that Barry Garrison had died, it saddened me a great deal. Barry was not a close friend; he was one of the people I knew after 15 years of living in Davis.

As is commonly the case in our town, I met him through my children as he coached my daughters in youth softball. I actually remember meeting him because he had a full head of gray hair that reminded me of President Clinton. Before I realized that this association would not please Barry, I discovered he was a very friendly man and a good mentor for children.

I also remember the first time I saw one of his letters to the editor in The Enterprise. As I came to discover, Barry was a common contributor of very conservative missives to our local paper. As I read them, I realized Barry and I had absolutely nothing in common politically and each time one came out I would anticipate the next softball practice when I could talk to Barry about what he had written.

An amazing thing happened: We talked. Neither one of us changed the opinion of the other; on matters of politics we simply had different world views. Still, none of this detracted from the fact that Barry was a very friendly man and a good mentor for children.

For me, my relationship with Barry came to represent an alternative to the demonization of the opposition common to the American body politic in the age of talk radio, cable news and blogs. I thanked Barry once for this and I think the feeling was mutual.

Once my daughters' softball playing days ended, I saw less of Barry. My daughter reminded me the last time we did was at the Christmas tree lot this past December. Our greeting that day was warm and pleasant. As we parted, I recalled again that Barry was a good man and that personal politics should not cloud that fact. Thank you, Barry, for helping me learn this lesson.

David Purkey
Davis

A Tribute From Your Sister

My beloved brother died last Friday. He had a stroke on Tuesday afternoon and his body and brain could not take the trauma and he finally succombed. We know not why such a horrible thing would happen to him.
Barry had a beautiful wife, Cathie, and two children, Christopher and Nicole. Barry loved all things in the wild. His family brought him immense joy. He filled a room with his spirit whenever he was around. My pain is so great that it seems that if I breathe too deeply, I will suffocate in the void that now exists on this earth.
These photos illustrate Barry's generous love with his children and mine (in fact, with everyone!). God now has him and I know that little Julianne is happiliy nestled in his strong chest. I am so comforted knowing that he is caring for her in Heaven and when are all together, she will be as beautiful and wonderful as his children are here on earth.

I love you, Barry. Mike loves you. My children love and adore you. We will honor your spirit by taking care of your family.

Your sister, Jennifer

Tribute from Kent Smith

Just a few days ago, the wildlife profession lost a good friend. I am sure that over the next days and weeks there will be many kind words spoken and offered in Barry Garrison’s honor; among and between co-workers and colleagues, and to family and friends. I am just as sure that there will be many quiet, personal moments of reflection on his life as we knew and shared it...and on our own lives as we wrestle with the reality that he is gone from this earth. Many of us knew Barry as the consummate professional, as a biologist and scientist, as one dedicated to his chosen vocation, as one truly involved in his work and his profession. Much of the reflection that will be shared amongst his colleagues in the coming days will be about this part of his life. Yet, if this is all that we ponder and share, then will have missed something truly important…we will have missed the unique lesson that each life that touches our own can teach us.

I knew Barry as a professional throughout most of his career, but I began to learn about and understand Barry the man, initially through interactions with him through the Western Section of The Wildlife Society, and then, for the past two and one-half years, through our both being headquartered at the Department of Fish & Game’s Region 2 office. Over these past couple of years especially, I had the opportunity and the honor to know the person behind the professional…to know Barry as a lover of sports, as a philosopher, as a concerned citizen, a husband, a father, and as the bearer of what has become a precious commodity in today’s world…plain old fashioned common sense. Over this time we shared thoughts on many issues, from science and scientists to today’s youth; from the economy to professional ethics; from coaching sports to coaching employees; from philosophy to marriage and family life; from faith and religion to global warming. I grew to understand his passion for life and for the things he cared most about, both professionally and personally. And I grew to understand that in spite of his love for natural resources and sound science, which drove his chosen career, what he cared about most, and what often frustrated him most because he cared so much, was people, and especially the decisions and choices that they make.

Barry was one of the most honest and ethical people I have known in my career and in my life, and what he gave to each of us, if we choose to really think about it and accept it, is a precious gift in today’s world. He taught us about integrity and that real science is about seeking the real truth, whether or not that truth ends up being what we had hoped or expected it to be; whether or not it fits the fad or popular diet or politically correct theme of the day. He challenged us to look deeper into the emotions and feelings and inherent biases that we all bring to our decision-making processes, and to be truthful with ourselves about how they affect the choices that we make. And by always seeking the “meaning behind the science” if you will, he helped us understand the influence that personal feelings and agendas have on much of what is called science and research today. He was in no way perfect. He was after all, human, just like the rest of us. But Barry was real. What you saw is what you got. And he was sincere…about life and about family and about the profession he loved.

I will miss our conversations. I miss them already. The world is a better place because of the integrity he brought to it. And now he must live in our hearts and memories. I have lost colleagues and close friends in the past, but for some reason, I am haunted by this loss…not so much because he left us at so young an age, but perhaps because I feel we still had so much to share, more as friends than as colleagues. I feel deeply the loss to his wife Cathie, and to their son and daughter; to all those who knew and loved him; and to all those who will never have the chance of knowing him at all. I don’t know how many out there are J.R.R. Tolkien Lord of the Rings fans, but over the past several days I have been continually drawn back to a conversation in the first book (The Fellowship of the Ring) between Frodo the Hobbit and Gandalf the Wizard (at least in the movie version). Frodo (now the “Ringbearer”) states that “I wish that this burden had never come to me”. Gandalf replies: “So do all who live to see such times, Frodo. But that is not for us to decide. What we must decide is what to do with the time that is given to us”. My hope…my prayer is that in honor of Barry, we would each think carefully about what is truly important in our lives, and what we will do, from this day forward, with the time that is given to us, however long that may be.


From Kent Smith

A Tribute from Mom

There is a special place in my heart for each of my children; a place of unconditional love…but one can never begin to experience that kind of love until your first child is born.

Barry was our firstborn. He was the first grandchild in both our families and the first great-grandchild for two extraordinary ladies. From the beginning he was independent (like all my kids), bright (again, like all my kids), confrontational (again, like all my kids), and eager to express himself (sound familiar?).

He and his brother, Mark, shared a room for many years, (this was the stuff of parental nightmares), but they grew up to be collaborators in mischief, best friends and my “rocks.” His sister, Nicole, asked to be transferred to a different high school because of some of their antics and he was the one who nicknamed his baby sister Jennifer the “Runt.”

He loved animals and the out-of-doors, encouraged and nurtured by his doting and beloved “Gramps,” my dad.

By choice he worked his way through college because in his words, “Dad did it and so can I.” Most of his summer jobs were out of doors…CDF firefighter and the Catalina Island Eagle Restoration Project among them.

Family and friends are still talking about the Big Fat Greek Wedding. Cathie was so beautiful, they were so happy…radiating love and joy of starting a life together.

He loved all sports and was a big Kings fan and critic. He encouraged, mentored and participated in those of his precious children: soccer, softball, swimming and even fencing. He took such interest and pride in them and their activities and achievements, sometimes maybe more than they wanted.

His home was a labor of love from his hand-laid hardwood floors to the crown molding to the rocks hand-barrowed to the back yard. The BBQs and swim gatherings were always such fund with family and friends enjoying and sharing in the fun and food but mostly just hanging out and being together.
Barry knows how much we love and miss him and, as I told him in the hospital, we will all be there for Cathie, Nicole and Chris for him, always.

The hole in my heart will never be filled but memories of how he lived his life with energy, enthusiasm, anticipation and joy will sustain me.

I LOVE YOU SON