Obituaries/Tough Stuff

Bend Bulletin: Alex Reed, Who Died at Smith Rock, Remembered as Passionate Climber

Published: April 29, 2018

Bend climbers Alex Reed and Chris Hatzai spent long hours together in the rarely used, northeast corner of Smith Rock State Park last summer. Often starting at dawn, their days could last 14 hours. The friends, suspended by ropes, created numerous routes in The Marsupials by drilling and bolting the lichen-coated, 80-foot walls made of consolidated volcanic tuff. They often hung side by side, chatting about matters large and small.

“Alex was super good at developing,” Hatzai said recently. “We’re basically doing construction on the rope. He loved every minute of it.”

Although just 20, Reed had already made a mark in the Central Oregon climbing scene by pioneering routes with a skill that promised a bright future. But that passion for developing routes led to Reed’s early death, highlighting the risks and the consequences climbers face.

On the morning of April 10, Reed hiked the back end of Misery Ridge Trail to the anchor of a new route in Smith Rock’s main area. Hatzai had told him about the spot on the face where there was room for the route.

“No, there’s room for two routes,” Reed had corrected him once he spied the pristine face of Picnic Lunch Wall.

That morning, Hatzai was driving to Smith Rock to join his friend. Reed planned to reinstall a static line down the face. He had removed it because he thought it was an eyesore in the increasingly popular state park. Hatzai found this typical — Reed’s thoughtfulness was causing him extra work.

Reed was squeezing in time at Smith Rock before a shift at the Bend Rock Gym, where he worked. But before Reed could attach himself to a rope, he fell.

His body was found 300 feet below on a section of Misery Ridge Trail, according to the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office. The death was ruled accidental.

From 2002 to 2017, seven visitors died at Smith Rock. Four have died in the past two years.

The causes of death vary from critical health issues to falls.

Each year, 776,632 day visitors wind through Smith Rock’s 652 acres, according to the Oregon Parks and Recreation Department.

Reed’s death marked the first death at Smith Rock for 2018.

“We definitely lost a huge part of the climbing community,” Hatzai said. “But my own selfish way of thinking is I lost one of the best climbing partners I’m ever going to have.”

Finding a way

Developing a route means first installing a master point anchor from which to rappel. From there you descend bit by bit, drilling holes, hammering bolts into the rock and cleaning future holds with brushes. That’s the simple description of what’s usually a several-day process. As soon as Reed and Hatzai finished a route, they’d begin another, saving the unclimbed — and therefore unnamed — routes for later. They tied a red tag to the lower bolt hanger of several routes to tell others they had called dibs on the first ascent.

But now Hatzai wants to remove the red tags and invite Central Oregon’s climbing community to experience the routes that he, Reed and Mike Mejaski put together.

“Now is the time to open up the routes,” Hatzai said while recalling memories of Reed during a recent outing with four friends during a bright Sunday morning.

Hatzai, 32, and Reed had developed a strong, respectful friendship that spanned their 12-year age difference.

“We would literally have each other’s lives in our hands,” Hatzai said. “In developing routes, there’s a real camaraderie. … It ups everything.”

Stoked on life

Originally born in Massachusetts, Reed spent his first five years in Kyrgyzstan, where his parents, Scott and Gwen Reed, worked as missionaries. They returned stateside to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, where their son finished high school. He forged a strong bond with his sister, Leana, who is now 16, Scott Reed said.

Alex Reed moved to Bend in early 2016 by way of Bishop, California, another climbing destination. Living out of his van, he quickly found his footing within Central Oregon’s climbing community. Reed became a near-daily fixture at Smith Rock and at the Bend Rock Gym, where he became assistant manager in October 2016.

Climbers remembered Reed, who had a penchant for bananas, Spotify playlists and “dad jokes,” at the memorial service they organized at Smith Rock on April 14. Scott, Gwen and Leana Reed traveled from their New Hampshire home to attend.

Hatzai, whose new forearm tattoo reads “Alex: Bold as Love,” spoke at the service. He remembered Reed’s “stoke,” or unrelenting enthusiasm, for climbing and life. Hatzai shared funny anecdotes about Reed, who favored beat-up sandals and once ripped the skin off a toe while challenging a friend to a foot race through a field of small, loose rocks after a grueling day of climbing. In the following days, Reed taped up his bloody toe and climbed through the pain. He never complained, his friends said.

“His selfless, caring, goofy nature is what made him feel so close to all of us,” Hatzai said during the memorial. He later posted the speech online. “It truly breaks my heart to now know you are not with us anymore. And damn, what an impact you made in such a short time. Not just on me, but to many. My greatest memories of you, Alex, will be kept in my heart forever.”

The Reeds were heartened to meet the people with whom Alex had made such deep friendships through climbing at Smith Rock and at the Bend Rock Gym, Scott said. Hatzai gave Scott a tour of Smith Rock, pointing out the many routes Alex had climbed.

“We especially asked Chris to take us to where the spot where Alex fell,” Scott said. “It was important for me to embrace that pain.”

The Reed family met with the ICU nurse who happened to be hiking nearby when Alex fell. She prayed with Alex during his last moments, Scott said.

“Our family will be eternally grateful for the role she played,” he said.

Last, first ascent

In July 2017, Reed was the first climber to conquer the 350-foot Puddy’s Tower at Smith Rock. Smith Rock expert and pioneer climber Alan Watts named the yet-to-be-climbed spire after Mike Puddy, a climber and prominent dentist who died in a motorcycle accident. Puddy’s Tower, in the Monument Area, is made of loose, consolidated volcanic ash.

“It might well have been the last unclimbed spire at Smith Rock,” Watts said. “But it wasn’t Alex’s crowning achievement. He did it just so he could prepare some other routes. I don’t think it was necessarily a hard climb. It’s just something that he did. It’s ironic, in some ways, that he did end up doing the first ascent of a spire that was named in memory of someone. (Now) we’re thinking of ways to remember Alex.”

Watts knew Reed well.

“Alex was young, motivated and passionate. He saw Smith Rock the same way I did when I was 19,” said Watts, 57, who authored the 1992 “Climber’s Guide to Smith Rock.”

“It kind of took over his life. He had lots of passion and enthusiasm about doing new routes and climbing routes that people hadn’t done. Alex was doing everything for the right reasons.”

Rock climbing is inherently dangerous. Watts has lost a lot of friends in his 45-year climbing career, he said. Reed is the second friend to die at Smith Rock.

“It was a fluke, a freaky accident,” Watts said. “Smith Rock lost part of its future. Who knows what Alex would have done over the next however many years — lots and lots of new climbs. What’s the deceptively dangerous thing about climbing is … you get to where you don’t have a fear of heights anymore. You get very comfortable walking along the edge of a cliff. You almost lose sight of the fact that the danger is just so close.”

Hatzai, standing at the base, worked Reed’s safety rope while Reed made his ascent on Puddy’s Tower. At one point near the top, Reed nearly dislodged a rock ledge.

“Alex said it started pulling out on him,” Hatzai said. “He got his other foot up and pushed it back. He told me all this when he got back to the ground. I was like, ‘Oh, my God, dude.’ There was a huge part of him that really liked that. He really liked adventure.”

Time to send

On a recent bluebell Sunday morning about two weeks after Reed’s death, Hatzai and five friends carried packs crammed with a day’s worth of climbing gear, layers and provisions across the footbridge over the Crooked River at Smith Rock. Droves of hikers and climbers streamed along the trials, some opting to trek up Misery Ridge Trail to climb popular routes such as Gulag Archipelago and Five Easy Pieces. Instead, the crew turned right off the bridge and away from the scrum of visitors. While hiking a half hour along the Wolf Tree Trail to Burma Road, the group pointed out various rock features they’d climbed and those they intended to tackle in the future.

Conversation often circled to Reed. He loved bananas, for instance — even scoring a sponsorship from Barnana, a banana-based energy bar company. Early this year, Reed climbed Chain Reaction, an expert route featuring an overhanging roof section made iconic by the Clif Bar logo — while wearing a banana costume. Hatzai and Jonah Durham, 20, laughed while telling the story, gravel crunching underfoot as they neared the day’s climbing destination.

“Afterward, Alex was like, ‘I couldn’t see my holds! I was slapping around trying to feel,’” Hatzai said, adding that Reed knew the route well enough to navigate its most challenging section by feel. “He totally did it, and he got some rad pictures.”

Durham said the banana stunt and Reed’s general devotion to the fruit inspired a tattoo idea, which he plans to get below the crook of an elbow.

“It’d be a smiley face with bushy eyebrows, a pair of glasses and a banana for a smile,” he said.

Durham met Reed in Bishop, California, while doing the same “dirt bag climber thing as Alex,” he said. Reed had already landed in Central Oregon, whose climbing opportunities and community he gushed about. Durham, from Washington state, was so impressed he followed him here last month. Now enrolled at Central Oregon Community College, Durham said Reed’s passion for nutrition, fitness and yoga rubbed off on him: He began pursuing a degree in nursing.

Reed was interested in kinesiology, Hatzai said, although travel lust tempered any immediate plans for higher education. He wanted to live in Spain and climb elite routes that only 2 percent or 3 percent of climbers can tackle, Hatzai said. Still, Reed was committed to his current home. In his short time here, Reed developed 10 climbing routes at Smith Rock.

His climbing drastically improved, too. When he arrived, Reed could hang with most of Central Oregon climbers. Within a year, Reed had accomplished several expert ascents in three attempts or less. Such ascents feature small, far-apart holds that require gymnastic athleticism to connect, Hatzai said.

“It’s a significant step up,” he added. “That shows how far Alex came in such a short amount of time. It shows how hard he was willing to work.”

Open the routes

Soon, Hatzai and his group arrived at the Marsupials section of Smith Rock State Park’s northeast face. The jagged, incisor-like rock faces found in the main area had been replaced by the molar-­like pillars that jut from loose rock fields. They split into smaller groups: Hatzai and Durham alternated climbing and manning the safety rope duties while Tommy Smith, Dan Ling and Mejaski did the same on a route a few dozen yards away. The section is shaded and far from the view of most Smith Rock visitors, yet the friends climbed and cajoled through dusk. By the end, Durham had climbed a route in one attempt without falling. Majeski had bolted that route a couple weeks before, next to one of Reed’s yet-to-be conquered routes. His friends whooped and cheered. Per climbing tradition, Durham assigned the route a difficulty ranking of 5.12a, which Watts described as the “entrance exam for an accomplished climber.” Durham named it “Eternal Stoke” after Reed.

“Alex was the ultimate ‘Super Stoker,’” Durham and Hatzai agreed.

When Reed and Hatzai were developing these Marsupials routes, they quickly began developing a new route as soon as they had finished. Since Reed’s death, Hatzai and his friends have removed the placeholders so other climbers can attempt Reed’s routes.

“We want to share this. Alex was so good at bringing the community together,” Hatzai said. “This is totally how Alex would do it.”

Bend Bulletin: Scholarship Fund Will Honor David Kurtz

Published: April 28, 2018

While David Kurtz, a well-known local nordic ski coach, has been gone for several months, his passion and generosity live on in loved ones’ memories — and by way of a new scholarship fund for youth skiers.

Bend Endurance Academy, in conjunction with the Kurtz family, have established the Kurtz Nordic Scholarship Fund. It’s geared toward in-need youth nordic skiers who are “interested in making it to that next step from development team to the competition team or just wanting to be at practice more, wanting to be more a part of the team,” said Sandy Visnack, Bend Endurance Academy executive director.

The academy has gathered $2,000 toward the Kurtz Fund. The Kurtz family will also be making an endowment. Bend Endurance Academy is still deciding how the scholarship funds will be dispersed.

Kurtz was 18 when his parents enrolled him part time at Mt. Bachelor Sports Education Foundation’s nordic program in 2000. He was coached by MBSEF’s then-director Ben Husaby, a former Olympic skier who later founded Bend Endurance Academy. Husaby saw great potential and commitment in Kurtz, Visnack said. He found a way to provide Kurtz with tuition assistance to further develop his skiing on the competition team.

“(The tuition aid) helped David blossom into the skier and person he became,” Visnack said. “He had found his place.”

Outdoor life

Since Kurtz, 35, died by suicide on Dec. 31, 2017, Visnack said “numbness” best sums up what the academy staff and their young athletes have felt as they sift through losing such a passionate and generous person.

“This year has been tough in losing him,” Visnack said. “For me being new and discovering how much he touched people’s lives, it’s pretty incredible. It really is. These kids form pretty strong bonds with our coaches.”

Kurtz’s mother, Susan Whitney-Kurtz, 71, spoke on the phone while attending a music retreat in the Columbia River Gorge. After several months of mourning, she’s ready to share some memories of her son, whom many referred to by his last name. Sometimes his mother does the same.

“Kurtz was always involved with and comforting to his skiers, especially after races when they were worn out,” she said. “Once, after a race, a little skier threw herself into a snowbank. David went to comfort her. She looked up long enough to say, ‘It’s OK, Kurtz. Sometimes I just need to cry.’ Then she threw herself back into the snowbank and continued sobbing. He stood there with his hands folded, glancing around. Everyone was coming by glaring at him, like, ‘You terrible father! Pick up your daughter,’” Susan said with a chuckle. When Kurtz told his mom stories like these, he would struggle to keep from laughing. “People were walking by trying to shame him. He thought it was hilarious once he realized he was being mistaken for the father.”

Whitney-Kurtz and David’s father, Charles Kurtz, raised their family in Bend. They nurtured a love of non-­motorized sports, particularly nordic skiing and cycling in David and his older sister, Ellen Kurtz, now 38 and living in Portland.

“David was always on the back of a bike or (being pulled in a snow) sled since birth,” Whitney-Kurtz said. “He grew up outdoors.”

She remembered taking David on nordic ski outings at Dutchman Flats when he was about 3 years old.

“He was pretending to be a racer, striding across (the snow). He saw me looking at him, and he got all embarrassed,” Whitney-Kurtz said. She often initiated their ski outings with a playful rallying cry: “Are you ready for a ride yet? OK, sure!”

Kurtz wasn’t a little boy for long. As an adult he would cut an imposing figure at 6’4”, yet since the age of 6, he used his stature to intervene on behalf of someone being bullied, whether out skiing, at a pub with teammates or on a playground, his mother said.

“He was bigger and he was gentle,” Whitney-Kurtz said. “He would go stand behind someone who was being bullied and give them support, even if he didn’t know them. The guy would back down and leave. If absolutely necessary, David would begin rolling up his sleeves with great care and concentration. He never had to finish the second sleeve.”

As a teenage Bend Endurance Academy racer, Kurtz excelled. He won many races, often at the state level. His success earned him a partial-­scholarship to Western State Colorado University where he enrolled in 2003 after studying at Central Oregon Community College. He majored in history but didn’t complete his degree. He returned to Bend, joining Bend Endurance Academy’s staff in 2009. He also worked seasonally at Lay It Out Events, an event company.

‘One heck of a motor’

Stu Smith-Blockley, a Webskis ski technician, raced and coached a combined 15 years with Kurtz. The two were both MBSEF club members; when Smith-Blockley was in eighth grade, he remembered Kurtz, a senior, as the cool upperclassman who was nonetheless inclusive and egoless.

“He was a big part of me coming up racing and getting better. It was pretty awesome to have him as a role model,” he said. “We went on ski trips together and raced together.”

Smith-Blockley recalled hearing about how Kurtz won the 1999-2000 state championship 5-kilometer classic ski race by about two minutes.

“If you looked at him, you wouldn’t know he was a nordic skier. The dude could leg-press 1,000 pounds and run a sub-6-minute mile. He had one heck of a motor and was super strong. He had some races where it was pretty incredible what he did to the competition.”

If he was proud of himself after such races, Kurtz never let on.

“He was one of the most humble people,” Smith-Blockley said. “That’s what was so awesome about him. He was never too involved with himself. He’d be stoked to have had a good race, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to go gloat about it afterward.”

After college and their respective stints competing in collegiate nordic skiing, Smith-Blockley and Kurtz continued to race together and coach under Husaby at Bend Endurance Academy.

“It was like time hadn’t changed,” he said. “It was the same camaraderie we had when we were racing. You got to see how much he cared, how passionate he was about the kids we were coaching. Kurtz cared so much about making a positive impact on the kids in that sport, because he knows how good it was for him. (After practices) everybody came back with a smile on their face, whether they were doing intervals or hitting jumps because they got fresh powder.”

At Kurtz’s Jan. 20 funeral mass at Old Historic St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in downtown Bend, a Prineville priest, Joseph Kunnelaya, whom the Kurtzes had invited to sermonize, gave a moving speech, Whitney-Kurtz said.

“He said, ‘Life is so dangerous. If you stop paying attention for a minute you can get in a car crash or fall. David’s biggest danger was his depression and forgetting how much he was loved.’”

Whitney-Kurtz has begun researching suicide and its prevention. She has found both solace and insight in Thomas Joiner’s 2011 “Myths about Suicides.”

“He says there’s a Venn diagram: You’re feeling lonely; you feel like you’re a burden or you’re useless. The third element is the means to commit suicide and not having fear. That lack of fear is where soldiers and athletes fall in a higher risk zone than your average person sitting around the house with the dumps, feeling useless.”

When asked about whether David battled depression, Whitney-Kurtz said speculation is useless.

“Joiner puts it very well in ‘Myths’: ‘Only one person knows why the person committed suicide — and they’re no longer available.’ The stage I’m in right now from his death to today, is: Why? Why? Why? There is no answer once that person is gone. But those are my personal questions. But it would do a disservice to make any speculation at all.”

Whitney-Kurtz added: “Young people need to be educated about when they feel themselves slipping. I need to separate David’s legacy from suicide. But David’s death means my whole life has focused now on suicide prevention. I don’t have any other reason to be right now.”

Bend Bulletin: Dying Vet Gets One Last Ride on Harley

Published: June 10, 2016

When Jim Moyer revved the 103 cubic-inch engine of the ink black Harley-Davidson tricycle, the syrupy purr was enough to distract him from the six-week prognosis his doctor has given him to live.

A veteran suffering from terminal cancer, Moyer, 69, recently took advantage of the numerous promotions Wildhorse Harley-Davidson extends to veterans and service people. The ailing vet wanted to ride a Harley one last time.

“I needed that rumble in my butt one more time,” Moyer said.

In the instance of Moyer, the local dealership let him roll out a motorcycle — free of charge — for a pleasure ride.

On a recent afternoon, Moyer idled at a crosswalk in downtown Bend. When the light turned green, he cranked the throttle, flushing the engine with oxygen, fuel and fire. The act unleashed the trademark thunder, and his wide grin flashed in the chrome-rimmed rear-view mirrors.

“The Harley sound means the open road, freedom,” he later said.

A few weeks later, Scott Dumdei, who handles sales and finance at Wildhorse, had visited Moyer and his wife Sue at their tidy home.

Dumdei, 45, has known Jim Moyer for 30 years; he first met him at the Western Tool Supply company, which he managed. At the time, Moyer was a maintenance manager and designer at Nosler, the ammunition company, and was a regular customer. Dumdei, then in his mid-20s, said he looked up to Moyer as the cool older guy; his employees respected him, and he was a “solid, stand-up guy who was all about business.”

The two maintained a cordial business relationship, later discovering they shared a love of motorcycles.

Sitting in the Moyers’ living room, Dumdei described how pleased he was to see Moyer walk into Wildhorse — where Dumdei has worked for five years — several months ago.

Moyer told Dumdei he’d recently undergone several chemotherapy treatments to combat the multitudes of tiny tumors growing in his intestines and lungs. The situation was serious, but he was still optimistic the chemotherapy would work and he would soon be strong enough to handle a motorcycle.

While Moyer grew up riding motorcycles, he hasn’t owned a bike since the early 1970s, when the responsibility of marriage and raising a family sidelined his love of the road.

‘Ghost rider’

At Wildhorse, Dumdei walked Moyer among the showroom’s fleet of bikes. He fixed his gaze on a pristine, purple Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce, for sale on consignment. With only 10,000 miles on it — impressively low for a 14-year-old bike — Moyer couldn’t imagine a more perfect machine.

“Every piece of chrome was exactly where I would have put it,” he said, adding that its two-seat configuration would accommodate his wife. Moyer envisioned how a detailer could apply flames and the words “Ghost Rider” to the tank. He said it would be fitting for him.

“I’m dying, I’m a ghost,” he deadpanned.

However, someone plunked down $8,400 for the Deuce before the veteran could buy it. In coming days, Moyer also learned his cancer was not responding to the chemotherapy; his oncologist recommended they let nature run its course. Moyer acquiesced. Informed of his deteriorating condition, Dumdei and Wildhorse co-owner Brandon Nash knew they had to act quickly; they agreed to let him roll out the shop’s brand-new jet-black Tri Glide Ultra, a three-wheeler.

“It had zero miles and they let me put 50 on it. Who would do that?” Moyer said, choking up. After he dabbed his eyes, he passed his wife a tissue and apologized — his medications make him extra emotional, an effect that compounds his compassionate nature, he said. Moyer said on the bike’s inaugural ride, which he took on Mother’s Day, he bought his wife flowers, which he stored in the trike’s trunk. Then he rolled through downtown Bend, intent on stopping at as many red lights as he could; a fine excuse to crank the throttle and feel the pure exhilaration.

A legacy indebted to veterans

Modern American motorcycle culture is rooted in World War II. Harley-Davidson — one of two American motorcycle outfits that scooted through the Great Depression — contracted with the U.S. military to supply troops abroad. Returning veterans snowballed their newfound love of motorcycling and need for camaraderie, often forming motorcycle clubs. In 1953, the Marlon Brando movie “The Wild One” capitalized on this subculture, ushering motorcycling — and the two-dimensional image of bikers as organized criminals — to the mainstream. Indebted to the originators who stoked the brand’s legacy, many Harley-Davidson dealerships operate veteran promotions. Wildhorse offers five programs, including the Harley-Davidson Military Program and the Wounded Warriors Project. A purple parking spot — colored for the Purple Heart Award — is reserved for veterans. That Moyer was permitted to pleasure-ride the tricycle is less the result of any particular program as it is the product of Wildhorse’s general regard for veterans — particularly terminally ill ones, Dumdei said.

Moyer enlisted in the military in 1965, receiving an honorable medical discharge in the same year after a mix of pneumonia and exposure to gas during basic training devastated his pulmonary system. In 1978, The Moyers moved from Pico Rivera, a city located in eastern Los Angeles County, to Bend. When oil mining ushered in a construction boom in Gillette, Wyoming, in the early 1980s, Moyer said he resisted the urge to relocate so he could be a “hot shot contractor,” and kept his family in Central Oregon, a place he was proud to call home.

An unguarded love

Moyer said the hardest part about his predicament is not being around to care for those he loves.

“You don’t want to leave your wife unguarded for 10, 15 years,” Moyer said. He and Sue, married for 49 years, were high school sweethearts who wed when they were 20 and 18 years old, respectively. Although Sue said she initially didn’t like Moyer because “he was too brash, too macho,” she eventually warmed to his swagger. “I got older and realized it was kind of cool — he’s a man,” she said with a giggle. The couple recounted the story of how Sue, still a teenager, gave Moyer all her savings so he could buy his first motorcycle, a Honda 250 which he would fully customize. Sue’s parents, however, “went berserk.”

“You saved up all that money and you gave it to some bum,” Moyer said. The couple, with wet eyes, laughed.

Moyer, who has “been tight with the Lord for over half his lifetime,” said he is not afraid to die. Now that he has hung on long enough to witness the birth of his granddaughter via smartphone footage, Moyer said he’s ready for God to take him from “this misery.” Moyer, who used to weigh 192 pounds a year ago, now tips the scale at 122. When he sits, he squirms with discomfort; extra skin, when it pinches under his pelvis, is painful, and he often sits on a pillow. “That’s what makes this so hard; I know he’s still strong,” Sue said, sitting alongside her husband. “He’s still him in his heart.”

One last ride

Dumdei said helping a friend get back on a motorcycle, even once, is something that makes his work meaningful.

“This is not just some line I like to use: I enjoy changing people’s lives,” said Dumdei, a five-year Wildhorse employee. “It’s worth more than money to me.”

When the reunited friends parted ways at the end of Moyer’s most recent visit to Wildhorse, the two men hugged. “Oh, buddy. Take care, now,” Moyer said, his jaw resting on his friend’s shoulder.

Asked what riding motorcycles has meant to him, Moyer was not short for words.

“A feeling comes over you, and it turns everything to light,” he said. “The bike brings you to life.”