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This year, for our annual hike to/from Cowee Cabin for Bill's anniversary, since we have the baby we had to figure out a new way of lugging all our overnight gear. So we borrowed a harness and made use of Url's boundless energy. On the way out he didn't fair so well in the insanely deep snow, but some of that was our fault for being newbies at the sled thing (it kept wanting to corkscrew). On the way back the rain had packed the snow down nicely, plus I installed some stabilizing straps on the sled to allow us to control its torque and Url championed that thing! Good job Url! You earned mega points and an "A" grade for your performance.

Here's some footage of the stroll:

The last time I saw Bill alive he was lying on the floor of his living room. Not asleep, but barely conscious. Too much pain.

The first time I saw Bill. I was playing my bongos in the reverberant stairwells at Evergreen. I had the rhythm bug. I was 18. I heard chords echoing down. I followed the sounds up the stairs, to the top floor, and there he was. Strumming and singing away. I sat down and joined in.

For many nights we met up like this, without planning, and really without speaking. Just with music.

Almost instantly he became my best friend. We treated each other like the brothers neither of us had. We lived together all through college, and here in Alaska. And we played music. He taught me to hear notes and chords, and I brought timing and rhythm, and we shared our lyrics. The adventures are too many to recount, or remember, but resulted in profoundly changing who I am.

It took me a while to realize our relationship was unique only inasmuch as everyone's relationship with Bill was unique. He possessed a certain power that drew special people to him, and allowed him to draw the best out of them.

Bill's Von Willebrand's disease molded his personality. He always said he didn't expect to live past the age of 30. He didn't mince words, and he didn't waste time. Visit his memorial website billkozlowski.com and read the letters from his loved ones to learn more about the kind of life Bill lived.

I understood, but had a hard time accepting, Bill's fate. He accepted it. And when he left he was ready. He was tired of all the pain. Of the faulty body holding him back. Selfishly, I wasn't ready to let him go.

Two days after I saw him lying on his living room floor I was in Anchorage for work. I received the phone call from my wife Laura. "Honey... Bill died". I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach.

I dropped what I was doing and flew home. Everyone was at Bill's house, in his room, surrounded by him and his things. All of us special people. The ones Bill gathered around him. We all loved each other, and we were all connected because of him. We stayed like that for a week. Laughing, crying, telling stories.

We had what we called a Life Celebration. Technically a wake. It was a raucous affair with lots of friends playing music, telling stories, showing pictures, crying, hugging, pondering, and expressing themselves in true Bill fashion. I played guitar and sang all night. I was 30. Bill was 31.

I sang many of Bill's songs that night. I have them memorized. I sang many of the songs we'd wrote together. And I sang one song that I wrote for Bill and Sierra on my way to Mexico to attend their wedding. Sierra asked me to play it at the celebration, and I was happy to. Here are the lyrics:

There's a God up in the Sky
But nobody knows It's name
And I can see it in your eyes
It always looks the same

I've been walking with you for years
And you still know how to dream
Although we couldn't count the tears
I wouldn't change a thing

I hear the bells
Of our heart's jardin, so well
They call me to you
With a love, as old as time
yet always, brand new

And now we're standing here again
Just like we've always been
Just like we never will
Ever, see the end

There's a God up in the Sky
But nobody knows It's name
And I can see it in your eyes
It always looks the same.

Bill said "move to Alaska and play music with me". I said "no way, I've got a great job working in downtown Seattle at a kickass web-dev firm". Next day I spent two hours stuck in traffic, my exit in sight, a truck jack-knifed 200 yards ahead, thinking to myself: WTF am I doing. Next day I started selling my stuff.

I *almost* fit everything I owned in the '83 Honda Accord. I had to put one computer monitor in Nate's van. This was a big deal to me because for some reason I really wanted to be able to put everything I owned in that car. Oh well.

Then bam, before I knew it I was on the Mighty Matanuska heading up the inside passage. The trip was a blur. I pitched my tent on the back deck with a few others. I remember unzipping at port in Ketchikan. It was raining very hard. Anyone who knows Ketchikan in March knows I'm understating. OK I'll be explicit. My tent was as wide as my body, the wind had it squashed up against the railings. The rain was so violent I couldn't even hear myself think.

We landed in Juneau, Bill picked us up, and we all piled into a one bedroom apartment. It was me, Sarah, Nate, Jill, and Doug all living there. At one point the landlord complained about how many of us were in there and we told him Jill was escaping from an abusive relationship and needed the place to stay. Ha! (that landlord, btw, didn't refund our damage deposit -- jerk!).