Twenty years ago my dad had his first heart attack. Twenty – it seems like a big number. But here we are. And it’s not big enough. That day twenty years ago, when we got to the hospital my dad was sitting up in bed, gauze taped across his forehead, a black eye, a split lip. But he was smiling at us.
John was strong. He was tough. And after that day, he spent the next eighteen years remembering what mattered most – what he loved and what made him him.

So he got up and he walked. He walked to get stronger. He walked to clear his mind. He walked to escape our nagging. He walked to get better. He walked to be better. And when he’d exhausted the ten-block radius of our neighbourhood, he went farther. The city shrank with every step he took.
He’d spend the rest of his life hiking, exploring and ringing out every moment of adventure that he could.

And now I will. Because his life is more than a memory.