I first met Mark when our mutual friend James invited me to join them one autumn camping and bow-hunting elk in Colorado's Flattops Wilderness.  In the ensuing decades, from our different corners of the country, we repeatedly returned to those magical mountains to share the high adventure of their woods, weather and critters, and the special companionability that's a good campfire's highest purpose.  Mark would start the countdown to these forays about six months ahead, enthusiastically announcing the advent of the "Infernal Elkquinox" and adjuring us to begin making ourselves ready.

Among his many talents large and small, Mark was a dead shot with a bow. He could put a flu-flu arrow through a soaring frisbee on the fly. “True story”, as he would say. Story-telling was in fact another of his talents.

He was also a ​terrific camp cook. His organization of the kitchen was particular and not to be messed. His grouse wraps were legendary. But more than feeding the camp, he was its beating heart and everyone’s unabashed cheerleader. Not coincidentally, the place where we most often made our base camp in the early years acquired the name “Welcher Creek”. Don't look for it on any USGS map.

Mark walked humbly; knew the names of wildflowers, grasses and constellations; loved the mountains and being among his tribe. Delighted in people. In particular, he loved Lucy and his sons.

I’m sure he had his flaws. I believe “exasperating” might have been a word that crossed Lucy’s lips now and then.

But he had a big big heart and wore it on his sleeve for all the world to see. He was special, and this firelit circle of the living is diminished for his leaving it.

What's in a name?  An odd set of coincidences?  If you're extraordinarily lucky,  it's a twenty year friendship packed with laughter, adventures, and remarkable friends. Memories and good stories that can warm you, even this miserable winter.   

Each  hike was an education and  every back road travelled had a tale to be told.  There was always someone you wanted me to meet, or a place you wanted to share.  There were fish to catch and shit to blow up.  There was smoke and brisket and there was music, lots of music. 

Above all, there was the magic of the Hill Country and its seasons.  Your love for the flowers, critters and history was only exceeded by your respect and love for those friends who make their homes there.

Thank you Mark for sharing Texas and its wonders.  Your and Lucy's generosity of spirit and life has given so much to my family and to me.  Spring, and the world, is greatly diminished without you.

Knew Mark well as we grew up together one same block. Rosedale Rats.  All the qualities attributed to Mark today could be seen in young, sensitive Mark. 

In recent communication with Mark he called me “Spaniard” and then apologized. I was over joyed with emotions at hearing my beloved nickname. That’s Mark, giving joy yet worrying he might offend! 

I'd shout it from a mountaintop, but Townes Van Zandt's song chosen as a memorial verse sings everything better. Mark was and will ever be a great human, a good friend and one of my finest teachers at my first real film/television job. Thinking of afternoons beneath the Chinaberry that grew out a limestone ledge.

"Spring only sighed

Summer had to be satisfied

Fall is a feeling

That I just can't lose...

Til I'll be tying on

My flyin' shoes"

Flying Shoes, Townes Van Zandt