Hey, my brother. It’s been five years now. Five years of you being gone, and here I sit and write to you. These writings are for me, I know. I always dread this day. I use it as a catalyst to get me to write out the things I wish I could say to you. To scream into the void. Five years seems to have gone by so slowly, yet I can’t believe it’s been that long since we lost you. I often daydream about what these years would have been for you. Selfishly, I daydream about what they would have been for me. Just to know you were out there, ready for our next discussion- ready for our next adventure- I never realized how much it gave me comfort. The gnawing absence of you still aches. 
        Just as others who miss you, I’ve had to figure out how to move forward without you. And so I have. I will never stop missing you though, my brother. I tell your stories. I listen to the playlist I made for you and scream cry in the shower. I jump at the chance to talk about suicide. I have integrated suicide into my life. I hold the groups. I hear the stories. I read the obituaries. I grieve for these people. The others who in the end also lost their battle with the darkness. I never judge. 
        You know what theme I hear most often in these meetings? That suicide is what is remembered about our people. Not who you were. Not what you did. Not who you loved. That you killed yourself. That is what sticks to people who haven’t lost someone to the darkness. Those of us left behind, missing our people- we need others who know this pain. Who know that our people were more often than not the very best kind of people. The people who felt deeply. Who cared fully. Who knew pain. You were marvelous, my brother. You had flaws, as we all do. You made mistakes, as I did. Me n’ you- we were those middle children who ran wild. We were the jailbirds. The potheads. The son and daughter of perdition. We had good stories. 
        So with that, I’m doing what I can to tell who you really were. To have you be more than just another person, lost to suicide. You were strong, my brother. You were amazingly intelligent. You would shine your light on the awkward people, the weirdos. You took people who didn’t have the courage to go outside, and you showed them adventure. You gave them the tools to go out there on their own, and you showed them what it could be for them. You tried to share your love of all things outside with anyone, and you kept everyone safe while doing it. Your legacy will live on in the many people who you took under your wing, to show them how to live life on the edge. There’s nothing I cherish more than another story from a person detailing something you helped them do outside. I know I am one of those people. I always relied on you to keep me safe. I am still trying to learn how to do things on my own, without you. And while I’m doing that- that is where I feel you, brother. I think your molecules come to visit me sometimes, or at least I tell myself that they do. 
        I will share a few times where I felt like you were there with me. On your one year death anniversary, back in 2019, I flew from Iowa to be with Dez. We were going to go to Ouray, to be near where we left you. It was a beautiful Colorado September day. We were listening to the cd you had left in your truck- John Denver. We will always have John Denver. ‘Sunshine on my Shoulders’ started playing. Me and Dez, we were in the deepest recesses of the pit at that point. We sat in that truck, headed towards your town. With the mountain sun shining down on us, we held each other's hands. We silently cried for you, together. They called you Sunshine, in high school. You had the look of that handsome long haired football player from that “Remember the Titans” movie. It was your nickname, and it fit you. We held hands, thought about all the things that hit us in that song, in that moment. “If I had a day, that I could give you. I’d give to you, a day just like today.” I will never forget that moment. And when I need a good cry- I put on that song. 
       The other one is the most powerful moment of my life. Oh, how I wish I could talk to you about these. When you died, brother- I was a fuckin’ wreck. There were so many things coming to me at once, so many feelings I couldn’t handle. So much I had shared with you as a kid that I wanted to hash out with you. I read. That’s what we both would do- if we wanted to understand something, we read. I read Michael Pollan’s “How to Change your Mind.” It’s about mushrooms, bro. You’d love it. I was already on board with the psychedelics, and we’d done them together plenty of times. We had great trips together. I was hoping the future held more for us. 
       I decided I was going to take myself on my own healing journey. I was going to use psilocybin to find some closure. I read and read; I made a plan. I used Lance as my trip guru- you know the guy. He’s really good at being the shaman of a drug trip. I made a playlist. I wrote down my feelings and memories. 
       We hiked up Provo Canyon. We found two great sturdy rocks. We set up camp, built a fire. We ate them, and we waited. I went in with intention. I was going to find a way to say goodbye to you, my brother. In a way I felt like you would understand. Doing something we had done together. Lance kept me on task. He encouraged me to talk about you. He shared the memories he had. In the background, John Denver played. We laid on the ground and stared at the sky. We watched the clouds. At some point, my addled brain saw Jesus. I say, “I see Jesus in the sky!” Lance says- “That’s not Jesus. It’s Sully.” You were called Jesus many a time. 
       It was hours of telling your stories, feeling your presence, sharing visions with my best friend, watching stars shooting all over the sky. I felt closer to you than I had up to that point since your death, and boy had I tried. When things were calming down, and it was time to call it a night- “Wish you were here” by Pink Floyd came on. I had been waiting for it all night. I was so happy to end my night with that song- one that we both loved. The one I felt was more relevant in that moment than anything else could have been. I was alone, looking up at the sky for the last bit of time that night. A cloud formed into the shape of a hand, and as the song played, it slowly melted away into the rest of the sky. Tears silently slipped down my face, as I mouthed the words and imagined it was your hand, looking down on me. I told myself in that moment- that was you. You were saying goodbye. I was right there with you, sharing every piece of my soul with you. Communicating how deeply and completely I miss you. That I understand. That you’ll forever be a piece of me. That I am so proud to share your blood. 
      And that’s the one. Were you there? I like to think so. In some way. In my mind you certainly were. And thanks for that, brother. That bit of comfort I shall forever cling to. It will be one of the things I am thinking of when I slip away, myself. Grief is weird. It’s a real bitch. We all deal with it how we have to. I’m sure some would think it was crazy or irresponsible or not healthy to eat a bunch of mushrooms bought from a drug dealer up a mountain to reminisce about your deepest pain- but it worked for me. And you know what, brother? I know you’d approve. 

Happy Birthday my son. You would be 37 years young on the 25th. Missing you so always, but certainly terribly so tonight. Thanks for so many great memories, for choosing to live life big, and for giving back so much to all of us.

Son, four years ago on the 10th you left us for another world. How myself and so many others miss you so. It quite amazes me that I have made it alive this long without you. You are certainly in my heart all day, every day, and it is gonna be that way till I head your direction. What I and the many others who treasure you have are the memories, and there were so many--you lived a very terrific life in a short span, and impacted many. I will be alone cleaning my office and going through your things tomorrow, thinking of you and really wishing we had another hike, climb or ski trip together in us. Yes--I did go through my office; laid out all of Sully's things, or most of them. I have so many--his whole life of stuff in this office. What a powerful human being to lose. Thoughtful, considerate, smart, courageous--a true friend, as well as a son. I stumble on in the dark without his arm around my shoulder. I have other wonderful kids--all amazing, and we all miss this guy together. Here we go now, one more day, taking it a step at a time without the Sully flashlight.

    Four years. That’s the milestone we have now reached. Four years in the wake of your absence, and yet your absence is still forever present in my mind. I miss you, brother. It shall always be so.
    Grief. I am tired of it, yet I know it sticks. I have been through all the stages and back again. I’d love to share with you how it’s going. I often do. You’re the spirit my incoherent ramblings are directed at. Oh, the things I wish I could share with you. All of the inside jokes that are now left only inside of me. As the world seems to be falling apart around me, I often find myself saying- “Sully, can you believe this shit?”
I am so unbelievably tired of being sad. I often feel like I am letting you down. Wanting to carry your loss and share my memories of you. It’s easy to ostracize yourself as the weird girl with the suicide brother, and that’s what I have become to more and more people. I’m so tired of missing you, but I know I’ll keep on doing it. 
And so it goes. (Vonnegut. We loved him.) Four years. You are a mist of molecules in the air, I’m a more substantial lump of molecules on this spinning orb. This year I found myself some more, but I also fought to stay out of the pit. It’s a constant struggle to find my lust for life, but as everyone told me it would- it’s getting slightly easier as time goes by. You’re gone, and that’s that. It does me no good to think of the adventures we would have had these last four years. To read books with you in my mind, wanting so much to talk about them with you. To feel like these kids of mine would have etched themselves on to your heart- that these twins would have hero worshiped you just like Bod did. Like I did. Yet, I do all of them. I stew on it. I often wonder- would you call me a giant pussy if you could see how I am handling your absence? Probably. And you’d be right. If things were switched, you’d miss your book buddy I like to think. You’d dread this day all year long. You’d listen to John Denver as soon as you awoke, and you’d also cry like a little bitch. So there. And so it goes. 
Memories. That’s what we have, and I am still conjuring them up, trying to revitalize them in my little family. Do you remember our elaborately choreographed dance to the Mortal Kombat theme song? I tried to show aspects of it to the kids. They had a great time, but thought I was a weirdo. We felt so awesome with our slo-mo high kicks. When you broke the shit out of your ankle rock climbing at Wildcat park in Joplin, you made me bring you endless smoked sausage hot dogs smothered in that cheap yellow mustard. I still hate the smell of that stuff. Newsies. Do you remember how much we loved Newsies? Your favorite character was the guy with the eye patch. The Brooklyn character was the first boy that gave me that tummy tingle. You would sing Sante Fe to yourself. What a melancholy song. You always had that melancholy in you- if someone was paying close enough attention they would see it. 
Saturday’s Warrior- what an absolutely terrible and cheesy movie. We watched it plenty. That song with the bad kids sitting on the car- that was our absolute favorite. We thought those bad kids were so cool. Mom probably wouldn’t have loved that they were the icons in that movie for us. It says a lot about how we turned out. Pretending we were lost native children, scrounging up as much Indian paintbrush as we could find as our only sustenance in our orphan imaginations. You punching that kid on the bus who said Grandma Betty was stupid just to get a rise out of ya. We couldn’t ride the bus for a few months after that. That kid deserved it.
I could go on and on. All the things we shared and did together, brother. I will forever miss my buddy. Who knows what stage of grief I’m at now. Mad? I’ve been mad plenty. But never at you. Just the entire world in general. 
And I’ll write a rambling weird message to your molecules next year. And the year after that. Is this forever? Fuck, maybe. Grief is forever. As much as that sucks, I know it for a fact. I’m getting better. I’ll keep getting better. Your loss will remain a scar on my heart, but this sister of yours will stay. 

Happy birthday my son Sully! You would have been 36 today. I was there when that hairy little guy was born, when you played that toy guitar singing John Denver's Rocky Mountain High, on your first climb of Mount Nebo with me at age 7, at your high school championship football game, together at that Hokkaido cabin buried in the snow over a magical winter, when you married Dez in Ouray, and so many other times. Better put--you were there for me in all of my life moments, good and bad. Since you left, each day I wake up quite amazed that I am still here without you--somehow this old guy has kept climbing on. Myself and so many family and friends whom you touched really miss you--we are jealous and wanted more of you, but we look back and are so grateful for the powerhouse of a friend and human being you were and what you gave us. Love you my son.

Written last night. 

Three years.  Tomorrow it’ll have been three years since we lost Sully.  September 10th is a date that looms all year long.  The lead up to this day is worse than the day, brother.  The day always comes, and the world keeps spinning.  People go through the day as if it’s just another day.  I wonder if one September 10th in the future will be just another day, for me.  I don’t think so.
  Another year- and I still write as if I’m speaking to you.  As if you’ve seen what these years have meant for me and my family.  As if you’re watching.  I would like to think you were out there, caring what happens to the people you left behind.  But again, I don’t think so.  It helps me to pretend you are.  
  None of us have any idea of all the complexities behind suicide or suicide loss until it stares you in the face.  Oh, the things I have learned.  A theme I hear more than any other is- it will always hurt.  This day will always loom.  The world will always stop spinning for us.  The ones left behind.  On The Day.  Tomorrow.  September 10th.  I have now done this a few times before. Faced this day.  I know more of what to expect.  I know that today is actually worse than The Day, because I am gritting my teeth to prepare for it.  To prepare for a day that is just a Friday for everyone else.  The end of the work week this go around.        
   And what can we even do to remember you on The Day, my brother?  Is it more helpful to make it a big event?  To mash it full of Sully remembrance and phone calls and activities that you loved?  Or should I curl up in a blanket, in a dark quiet room?  The latter seems more enticing, but I have done enough of that.  
Every year when it comes, I find myself stewing on what this day will be for me.  What I can do to get through it.  Where should I go?  Who can I include?  Your family is all spread apart.  Some of your family can’t really speak about your loss.  Others need to keep busy and let the day pass, just to bear it.  Me, your weird sister who had you at her side for so much of her life- she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with herself.  That first year, I went with your wife Dez to Ouray.  Tried to do what we could to remember you.  Looked at your mountain.  Told your stories.  Listened to John Denver.  It felt like what you would do.  Last year, I had started living in a travel trailer with my family and we were on our first grand voyage.  I put us all in a box- during a pandemic- planning to travel the country.  Just to FEEL again.  To feel alive.   This year, I’m back in Montana.  A place I feel you would approve of.  A place where I do feel myself wanting to put down roots.  The place where I intend to keep putting the pieces of myself back together.  A place where I can feel closer to you, as crazy as that sounds.  
And what will I do?  I’ll wake up with this ache.  I will look at that date, throughout the day.  I will see the people in the world going through a normal day, and my soul will be screaming “IT’S THE DAY.  SULLY HAS BEEN DEAD FOR THREE YEARS.  THREE YEARS, AND I STILL DREAD THIS ENTIRE FUCKING MONTH.”  And I’ll get through it.  I’ll go to bed more tired than I’ve been, since exactly a year before.  I will wake up on the 11th, and feel roughly the same- as that is the day I found out you were gone.  And then the 12th; that day will be better.  And I’ll feel like I made it through it.  That there’s now at least a whole fucking year until I have to face that day again.  A day like any other.  
It reminds me of Pollyanna.  One of the few wholesome movies we could watch on a Sunday.  You remember.  Pollyanna has to sit through hours of awful church every Sunday, but she’s toxically optimistic about everything.  I remember us repeating and laughing on her views of church.  She would play the glad game- trying to find the bright side of everything.  She would say the best thing about church on Sunday, is that it was a whole week before she had to go through that again.  We felt much the same about our hours in Sacrament meeting.  
So that is now what I can do.  Bear it, and know that when it’s over, there’s a whole year ahead where it’s not THE DAY.  A year where I still miss you.  Where I still see things and want to tell you about them.  Where I find myself sometimes forgetting you are gone; then feeling that same ache when I remember again.  That, brother- is progress.  That sometimes I go an hour or so without remembering you aren’t here.  That I am spending my days productively, trying to be a good wife and mother.  That it’s not an injustice to your memory if I can spend an evening happily.  I’ve heard it time and time again- you wouldn’t have wanted those of us who loved you to spend our days so miserably.  That you left because that was the constant state you were in.  I’d like to think you wouldn’t wish it on the people who loved you so.  For I did love you, Sully.  I took for granted your existence.  I assumed we’d have many more adventures together.  So now my brother- that is why I am sad.  Because we will have no more adventures.  But I can face that you’re gone.  There’s nothing to be done about it, and there’s no explaining it, and there’s really no one at fault.  The darkness is to blame.  That gnawing, foul demon that can take any of us.  In my worst moments, I wished that that specter had taken someone else, and not you.  Anyone else, really.  But I don’t feel that, anymore.  I am still desperately sad that you’re gone.  I still have to fight to keep that darkness at bay, myself.  But I no longer want to live stewing.  I can’t just be a ghost of who I was, believing that living in that sadness was the only way forward.  I want to live, my brother.  As I know you once did.  I will carry your loss in my very bones forever- but I’m going to go ahead and get on living.  Because none of us can ever know what your wishes really are.  Your little sister has found a way to believe that.  That you’re okay with me enjoying life and creating new adventures, without you.  So that is what I will do.  
   I’m not the only one dreading THE DAY.  If you could only see the people that are still here, carrying your loss.  You meant so much to so many.  I will try and let that fact not hurt; but inspire.  Tomorrow IS just another day.  It will come again, year after year.  And I will face it.  I still miss you, brother of mine.  I still carry the memories of all our adventures.  I tell my children about them.  I have them look for fairies and find the next rock ahead that they can make their goal to hike to.  I pretend to see your little blond head ahead of mine.  And most times these days- it can make me smile.  And that, my brother- is progress.

My son, 3 years ago today you left us. You have been in my mind and my heart every second of every day during this time, and it will always be so. I have ached--missing your friendship and spirit beside me. We shared so much, and you were right there for me in everything I went through. You were the most considerate, thoughtful person I have known. Myself, Dez, your family members, and so many adoring friends miss you and ache with me. I live hoping that someday I will meet you again out there somewhere, in the wilderness we both treasure. 

Son, Happy Birthday today! You would have been 35. What an amazing man and son you were--you gave myself and countless others so many precious memories. Few have lived with such passion for life; no one could do so darn many things as well as you could, but you had patience and taught us all. There is no moment on any day where you aren't in my thoughts, but today we honor and remember you. Your ashes rest on the tops of Mounts Asahidake and Sneffels, while your spirit travels in the wind blowing across all of those peaks you loved so much. How we miss you; life has never nor will ever be the same without you.

Like many on here I think of you often. It is impossible to forget you because of the impact you had on me and everyone else around you.  You wife Dez posted your bike on Facebook this past spring. I was actually in the market for a mountain bike and I knew this was my answer. She shipped it out. It came in the exact condition I was hoping for. It was used. Very used. It had dings, scratches and chips here and there. But it worked. I had friend tune it up to the best working condition. I ride it weekly and every time I'm on it I think of you. Its taken me spots around Connecticut I have never seen before. I miss you Dennis and will keep you close in my thoughts. Thanks for everything.

Sully, our Dennis, 2 years today you left this world. We miss you every second. We remember everything about you--your fun antics, strength, passion for life, ability to do everything so damn well, connection with wild places, sensitivity, and care for everyone around you. In 32 years, you lived more lifetimes than most can't even imagine. We are left with these most treasured photos, snippets of your voice recordings, mementos and so many memories deep in our hearts--scraps of the fine steak that we were always able to feast from when you were with us. There will never be another Sully. Wish you could come back--life is not the same. We will never forget you, and will seek to honor you by striving to improve how we live, and learning how to be there for others as you always were for us. 

    Hi my name is Ikabod, I am uncle Sully's nephew. I remember a few times that me and Sully would have so much fun going fishing with him that we would just lose track of time and talk for up to 3 hours. Another memory I have of Sully is when we went to this one hotel I cant't seem to remember the name if that hotel, but anyway this hotel had a gigantic pool. I was at the verge of learning how to swim, and so that day my uncle taught me how to back float and dogie paddle. I will always remember him as the cool uncle that always wanted to do this awesome stuff!

    Me and my mom Sharee are going to be grieving him tomorrow. We will take that day to remember all the things that we did with Sully.

Oh, Brother of mine. Here I am again. I can find myself looking at pictures of you for hours, but then I go months and months not being able to see your eyes. It hurts, brother. I know it shall always be so. It'll be 2 years tomorrow since you've been gone. What can I say about this space of time? The longest- most rocky two years of my life. I don't remember months of it, and I burned bridges regularly. I saw you in everything and every where, and I felt the injustice of so many things like a physical ailment. Mostly, I missed you; as I do today- and will continue to do until the day I follow you.

I can say with confidence, that during these two years- there were many times that I did not want to be here either. I have seen the darkness. I understand it. I fear it. I want to be as far from as it as I can possibly get. I don't judge you, I'm no longer angry, I'm just sad. I ache, if I let myself. You may have felt the small joys of life again, if you had just been able to stick out that dread and pain, for just another day or two. I sometimes feel you are out there. That you are somewhere- casually fucking with this little sister of yours. It is something you would do.
It has only been the last few months that I see some light. I crave that light. I crave the things that we both loved- the happiness we would find in just being outside. In finding places not many venture to, in waking up to the cold and a vast mountain sky. That's where I feel you, Sully. That is what I am chasing now- to find you in my life. 

I find comfort in your wife- Dez. We were in the pit together, and I think we are both finally scratching our way inches higher- trying to scramble as close as we can to the light. I need her to feel closer to you, and I think you'd like that. I try and decide how you would feel about things, all the livelong day.
Me and my little family live in a box on wheels. We have not many possessions, and we have no real place we call home. We pick up and go when ever we need or feel like, and I talk to you aloud often- on these journeys. You'd have loved Montana. You would have bitched the whole way through Nebraska. 

These days, I can dredge up memories of you with a smile on my face. Those hours spent playing in the hay bales when we first moved to Missouri. Me being annoyed at you every time you dated or flirted with one of my friends. Us skipping seminary to smoke weed with the other Mormon riffraff. All the time we spent learning how to swing dance- just so we could impress people at dances and therefore have people wanting to dance with us. You being the star of the show that first year in show choir- you remember? You were like a God to that music teacher, all because you had been in show choir for one year before at our last school. You were Mack the Knife in our Sinatra set- girls would ask me about you for weeks after seeing our show choir perform.

Do you remember coordinating our lies for the parents so we could do what we wanted to do? We weren't too bad. Do you remember convincing dad that what he thought was weed smell, was actually burnt rope? You were the best of brothers, and I truly felt safe knowing you were there if I needed. We teased and we drove each other crazy, but I knew the soft Sully- and I knew he'd come out if it was needed. You hided that soft Sully- I understand why. I wish you hadn't. It's too late for wishing, now. 

Suicide. That word. No one can even handle it. To see the way peoples faces drop when the word is even mentioned. We need to say it. We need to face it. We need to do more for others than tell them Happy Birthday when our computer reminds us to. We need to sit through those uncomfortable conversations when you can tell the person is in pain. It is easy to distance yourself from what makes you feel bad and what you don't understand. 

You and I- brother. We always embraced darkness. Some of the best authors and comedians lost themselves to the darkness. The most beautiful words I've ever read are often in direct relation to a broken soul, lost to suicide. You felt so much. You felt so hard. I know you don't feel that deafening sadness, anymore. I don't know where you are, but I would like to think you're around me. You're in Montana on a ski lift. You're in Wyoming at Jenny Lake. And yes- sometimes you're in fuckin' Missouri- watching your sister cry like a little bitch as she gets out what she wants to say on the eve of your 2 year death anniversary. I love you, Sully. I miss you with a fierceness that cannot be described. I cannot have you back, but I will go where I can find you. You're outside, brother. You'll find me there, too. 

I see Gerald's tribute here, how nice. Son, as I do every minute of every day, I am thinking of you. Here it is, 2:16 am on December 15, but it could any time, day or night, of any moment since you passed; you are front and center in my thoughts. And there are so many others like me, who miss you so much. You were a wonderful son, and I always proud of you. We will trudge on, with so much pain, but also gratitude for the 32 wonderful years you gave us, trying hard to look at the glass half full and not empty. I hope that you are out there some how.

It’s not often I have a quiet night of contemplation. I am alone this evening- and my thoughts are with you, oh brother of mine. I’m remembering when our grandmother died back in 2008. We sang “Danny Boy” at her funeral, just you and I. We were a mess, we could see her coffin as we sang, and that truly is such a sad song. The melody runs through my head often, these days. As it runs through my thoughts, I think of us together- mourning our grandmother in front of our loved ones, singing with tears streaming down our faces. I miss you, brother. So, so much. 
“Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
You'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!”

Carl, I have just seen your recent post here and as I know you , that was your heart out there for all to see! You and I became bonded years ago through military service , suffering some of very same injuries that a father and military man goes through in such a career. 8 Years ago today , we welded that bond by surviving and operating during the "Fukushima" Tsunami and Nuclear disaster of March 2011. I know that Sully would want his dad to be the strong , broad shouldered guy that he had always known. I think of you almost daily and pray for your safety , strength and courage to once again stand tall in the face of it all. You sound better to me than several months ago and you make sense just fine. I believe that you are loved and cherished by all of your family and you can take stock in that. Always got your "6" , brother! G

Today, just 6 months ago back from this weekend I got the call from Sully”s boss Michael Babbin, a call that I hope none of you have to take, notifying me that my beloved son was gone. Mike—how hard that call and everything then was for you. Thanks for your courage, and for all that you did for giving Sully such a great opportunity.
6 months gone—miss you son more than ever. I look at the snow piling up, and think of all the skiing and climbing you would be doing, and some of it together. Wish to God that someone could invent a time machine—I would fly back and do everything better, and somehow keep you here.
I have been through much—divorce where I lost the close presence of my kids, fought hard to keep close to them and be there despite that, lost everything I owned, remarried and learned to love and appreciate my new kids, lost my dad and then my mom, hung in there with the teenagers through their struggling years, spent decades away from home serving in the military, held my wife’s hand through her ptsd, built several businesses from scratch making sure to keep my employees fed. Nothing comes close to the sadness and challenge of losing my son. It is a battle for survival every day, and maybe I am losing it. It is a lesson to everyone to hold those dear to you close and let them know you care every second.
Watching Sully’s wife Dez through this—no greater love could ever be shown by anyone than what I see from her constantly. I thank Dez for the depth and passion of her love that is on display for us all. I am so so grateful that they had each other.
To my other amazing kids pressing on in life, who are trying contain similar grief at young ages--I am no less proud of them, and love each one of them individually for who they are. I hope that I can do better. Please forgive me guys for being in a sad fog much of the time; I am trying to pull away and engage in the fight of being your dad.
To each of you who touched Sully’s life, at whatever point that was, to whatever extent, and whatever has happened since, I thank you so much. You are like holy beings to me for that connection. Love you all.
Today and tomorrow we will perform a simple Buddhist ceremony at our house and will be especially remembering the life of this incredible guy, although he is constantly in our mind and hearts.
Son, miss you.

I didn't know Dennis, however I know the pain from losing someone you love. My deepest sympathy to you and your family.

Here is a link to the video Dezaray made for Sully's memorials.
https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10215193692827294&id=1582315624

Carl and Masae,
We think of you and Masae every time we see you drive by, we are so very sorry and saddened by your loss. You and Masae are such wonderful neighbors and so very worldly and interesting people. Our hearts break for you and you are in our thoughts and conversations daily. Please know we are here for you in any way we may be of help or comfort to you. Dan Heath and Marcia Houghton

Carl - We continue to keep you and your family in our prayer. I never had the chance to meet you son, but this website of memories shows a great deal about him. Best regards, John and family

The tributes continued--big Sullivan family tribute in Sterling attended by family and many friends, followed by candlelight vigil for suicide in Ouray Colorado attended by dozens of friends and hosted by Dez. Then on September 30, 11 persons climbed Mt. Sneffels and spread Sully's remains on the summit. Thanks to everyone for your love and support.

Beautiful tribute to Sully in Golden last night; family in Utah are gathering for the 27th--will be a great celebration of Sully's life. This was a hard day for all of us--very difficult to swallow that you are gone, and we are wondering how we failed. We love you son--wish you could come back.

25 September, 2018
Sully,
Happy Birthday my wonderful son. September 25th—I was there at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base hospital in 1985 and saw that very hairy, beautiful guy--pretty big already for a baby. A week later you were on the top of Mount Lemmon—your first family camping trip, and you never looked back. There you were in Japan—going to Japanese school and learning about the world first-hand at a young age; good preparation for your later world travels. At elementary school in Ephraim, Ms. Bolli, Ms. Brenchley and your other teachers always said of you that “this kid has the sharpest wit, can say the most amazing things.” You were a hit with everyone right off. We laid in bed every night at bedtime, and talked about the world—everything, and you picked up so much. There were all the camping trips then—weeks in the San Rafael swell and day trips to Maple Canyon—you learned well how to climb and tie a rope—skills that served you throughout life. More importantly, you learned like your dad to connect to the quiet beauty of the wilderness. Remember that sacred moment with me in the snow and trees at the top of Wolf Creek Pass?
We shared so many moments-connected you and I always by a love and understanding of wild places—a feeling that also bound you to your family and friends assembled here to celebrate you on your birthday. Going through your photos this week, I remembered thousands of times together, and felt even more, as if it were needed, just how impacting your presence has been on every minute of my life. God, there are so many single moments captured in time—canoeing across Leigh Lake, headlamp ski trip on top of the skyline, climbing Mt. Elbert with Chao, rescuing international students out of Ramp Canyon on the Swell, sitting around the fire in the Uintahs, skiing the Interconnect, talking with you as you were camping out on the beach in Valdez Alasaka, the special winter that you, Masae and I shared in Hokkaido, watching you dance at Sharee’s wedding--every one of these and so many more memories now especially priceless since you aren’t sitting here with us.
Watching you start to date, you were a handsome dude, but you were always a one-woman guy. When you found Dez, my first thought was “wow, what a hot chick.” Fortunately she fell for you, and you guys shared the greatest times together. What a wedding memory Ouray will ever be! We were all together then—happy times. Every day I thought of you both, and was always just so grateful that my son had that love in his life. This month, going through all of this together, I learned even much more what a treasure Dez is, and what a good match she was for an amazing man like my son. Sully, I will always be indebted to Dez, and I will love her as my daughter and your sacred special person forever. Dez’ family is my family.
Not only are there the memories of activities, but there were all the deep discussions—you were so intelligent, well-read, and your travels brought a depth of insight to your reflections. I will treasure all of our talks and respect you for all that you shared with me, even when we sometimes disagreed. That’s okay—I always respected you and thought the world of you.
I remember when you started with Apogee and Mike—what a connection and wonderful experience that was for you; I was and am so proud of my son who travelled the world as a leading expert in high angle construction—ever grateful for your dedication to providing for your family and work ethic like my own.
Last year on your birthday, we got you those Hokkaido skis—you were so happy, and knowing that you were now coming back to Utah, I was so excited to be able to share more memories with you. We will so, so, miss those chances now. However, life is eventually placed on hold for all of us—your time came a little early, but you packed more of life into your years than virtually anyone else will ever choose or have a chance to do. This day will come for all of us, sooner or later. Realizing that, I now take time to look back and remember, with your amazing friends and family assembled here in your honor, all the countless things you gave to me. Son, from the bottom of my heart, thanks, thanks, thanks, for every day you gave us. I love you. I will carry you close to my heart every minute until I join you. Happy Birthday.
Dad

Thanks so much for the beautiful tributes here. Tomorrow is Sully's birthday--33 just about. I will write a tribute tonight and post it tomorrow. God how we miss him. Today is now Sully's birthday; I wrote a tribute that will be read in the memorial in Golden tonight. I will then post it thereafter. Thanks to you assembling in Golden. Son--I miss you today. I ache. Happy Birthday.

My dear brother. I grew up in your shadow, and was always proud to do so. I always loved to announce that we were related, and even though I got jealous from time to time thinking you hit the genetic jackpot; I was happy we shared the same blood. 
I spent more moments with you than any one else on this earth, and I had every intention of adventuring with you well into our old age. I would tell people, if there’s a zombie apocalypse, my brother will be the lone survivor in a cave on a mountain. Oh, how i loved to brag about my mountain brother who taught so many how to manage themselves on the rock, or in a kayak. 
Every where I go and everything I see reminds me of you. I feel like you’re a part of me, and I count myself as incredibly lucky to harbor a uterus just after you did. I’ve followed you my whole life, and I will follow you again. I hope this hole in my heart grows smaller in time, for my family misses the lady you called “kiddo.” I will not let you be forgotten. I will miss you until the day I die. 
Often we would read the same books so we could discuss them together. You would find the book I was currently reading all the time and start reading it yourself, and it would disappear. That drove me crazy!! But now, I find myself at my bookshelf. Thinking of the books I had to pause on so you could read it and bring it back to me. I will see you in every page. 
One such book was The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. We talked about how beautiful the way he described death was. I feel this is how you hoped it would go for you. 
“We’ll be alive again in a thousand blades of grass, and a million leaves. We’ll be falling in the raindrops and blowing in the fresh breeze; we’ll be glittering in the dew under the stars and the moon out there in the physical world; which is our true home. And always was.”
I love you, my brother. I will call you Sully, now. Like you always wished.

Carl and Masae,
As we viewed the photos of Dennis and your family, we realized our family has been connected with yours for many years. When our older kids were in high school, they spoke of Dennis many times over the years. Many times we heard stories of Sully's outdoor experiences. It appears he lived a very exciting and fulfilling life. We are so sorry for your loss. We send our condolences, our love, and our prayers. God bless you and yours.
Todd and Sharon

Carl, the photos of Sully are amazing and now I know why you were always talking about climbing. Those moments the two of you spent moving up those mountains will always be some of your best hours and days. It seems to be that you would have been cheated greatly by not having had him for those 32 years here on earth. As we moved through these days of our lives when so much is left without explanation, we can rest on what never needed explantation , the times you spent with your dear boy enjoying God's natural beauty placed here by his very own hand. Gerald

Carl and Masae, you two will always be like brother and sister to me as we survived and carried out the mission in Japan following the Tsunami in 2011. I had you both on my mind that very day of 10 and 11 September and that's why I emailed following the recent Hokkaido quakes on 6 and 7 September. I nearly left to respond and help up there in Hokkaido but I wanted to spend my birthday with Clare and not get too lost in the negative over remembering 11 September 2001. God always has his own way to bring his children back together though I don't claim to speak for him. I thank the Lord God for bringing you into my life and all that things good and bad that we have shared and survived together. We always seem to have some sort of radar and you two have contacted me just when I needed it most. It's my turn now and again to be there as your brother and be all that I can be for you as you move through these difficult waters. Gerald

My beloved husband, you taught me about living through the sun, earth, wind, and fire. Your flame will remain in my heart forever. I will never let you go. If there is such a thing as a soul mate, you are my "soul master". I live vicariously through everything I know now with your knowledge and ability to move obstacles. You always said you are invincible. I promise to be strong and hold on. There have been days where I drift away and imagine seeing and being with you again. Until we meet again, I hope you are happy and resting in peace. My heart is forever carrying a wound of sorrow. Please come take me with you.

Carl-sensei,
We are deeply sorry to hear about your loss. To our regret, we didn't have a chance to meet Sully, but photos and messages from you and others tell us that he was a wonderful, young man. Please accept our sincere condolences to you and your family.
Masa and Kay

I am so sorry for the Sullivan family. I have no words that will make anything better. Carl & Masae, I think about you and your family every single day, & I send you all my love. I am here, when you are ready.

All, we have posted more photos, and will continue to post them, as well as tributes and descriptions of Sully's life, in the weeks ahead. Please send anything you have--thanks to each person who touched my son's life. Carl

From Jaoquin,
Hi Carl, I’m devastated to know such terrible news. In my last years at snow Sully treated me with respect and offered me his friendship, and that gave me tons of confidence to make more friends in college. He was an upstanding and a bright young man that loved his family with all of his heart. You taught him what became his passion “the outdoors” that passion made him traveled around the world. He also told me the important role that Masae had in his life, she taught him to do his best in everything he was interested for and that can lead him to greater things and the most important thing of all she gave him her unconditional love. I believe that we meet the right people in the right moment and they are going to give us a life lesson that will change our life forever. All the moments you experienced with Sully there are now value memories and everytime you remember them will always bring you a smile to your face. Celebrating Sully’s life is a beautiful thing but he is going to love seeing his family together. Sully is a fantastic man because you gave him the best of you. Please give my sincerely condolences to your wife and family.

“Each life that touches ours for good
Reflects thine own great mercy, Lord;
Thou sendest blessings from above
Thru words and deeds of those who love” Hymn: Each Life that Touches Ours For Good
One thing I can never deny is all the great people that have been placed in my life. The best experiences I’ve had are all the many great people I’ve been able to meet along the way. Some of these great people have slipped away too soon before being able to give a proper goodbye. Isn’t that more often the way than not.
My good friend and basically brother Dennis Sullivan passed away a few days ago. Our adventures started very early with pitching baseballs to each other and walking around the neighborhood buck naked at age three to our yearly family canoe camping in the Tetons in Jackson Hold, climbing 14’ers in Colorado and taking a road trip at 19 to California to be on the Price is Right and to try but failed attempts to impress some girls. These were a few of our many adventures together. If you knew Dennis, you know he often had a head of golden long hair that even Thor would be envious of. He didn’t do it for looks, but when it would reach the proper length, it was always chopped off and donated to Locks of Love. Imagine the people he helped that didn’t even know through that lifelong act. If you knew Dennis but didn’t know he did this, I am sure you aren’t surprised at all. Along with his golden hair, he also had a golden heart. He cared for others. His life was lived as a positive force for others. The career and work he did was dangerous but essential for the many comforts and luxuries you and I enjoy everyday. He has the best smile and was always willing to pick you up.
You left us too soon my good friend, but I can’t wait to see you again on the other side. I don’t believe this life is here to tease us with good relationships that we will never experience again. That would be too cruel. This isn’t the end and we will meet again. Forget about the proper goodbye. I look forward to the proper hello when we meet on the other side.

Carl - I am so very, very sorry for your loss. I did not know this young man but if he is anything like you he must have been a vibrant, intelligent person. What a sad time for you and your family.

Sully we miss you!!!!!!
Our beloved husband, son, brother and truest of friends Sully (Dennis Hurel) Sullivan passed away while working in his loved Hokkaido, Japan September 10. Sully was an exceptionally amazing and talented man—full of wit, humor and intelligence, who packed a ton of life and experience into his nearly 33 years with us. Sully graduated from Manti High School in Utah, lived in the Salt Lake Valley, the Seattle area, and spent many of the last years of his life in Golden and Westminster Colorado; wherever he went Sully had great friends and lifted them all. 
Sully grew up from infancy with a love of wild places and outdoor sports from his father—he was an expert guide of climbing, skiing, kayaking and fly fishing and lived to enjoy and share those passions. Attending and then serving as a student instructor in beloved mentor Virgil Ash’s Utah Snow College outdoor education program, the scene of Sully’s tall powerful frame and long flowing golden hair in those Chaco sandals simultaneously carrying a kayak, climbing rack and skis across campus to the various classes he taught was a frequent and indelible sight. Sully was an amazing climber—from childhood he was happy far above the ground and became a renowned expert in high angle construction with Mike Babin at Apogee Rope Access LLC—a skill that took him to the most remote places across the earth, where he gained an insightful perspective on peoples and places far and wide. Working as a guide in several sports across regions and continents, Sully was known for his skill at joyfully educating his passions with meticulous detail and attention to safety—he seemed to be the best at everything he did. 
Sully found the love and sparkle of his life with his beautiful and beloved “angel” Dezaray Huff Sullivan of Spanish Fork Utah; together they found years of joy in travels, outdoor adventures and daily life shared together with dogs Buddy and Qozqo. Dez was great comfort and strength to Sully, and the love they shared an inspiration to all. 
We will so miss Sully’s warmth, incredible humor, wit and caring spirit—his strong, gentle arms around us and that smiling face. His jokes and crazy wit. His passion for the beauty of the wilderness, and our awe as we watched him effortlessly ski a coulour, land a trout or climb an icy waterfall.
Son, you were my soulmate. Every portion of my life is connected to you, and I will miss you every moment for as long as I stick around here. I hope that this website will help to give people smiles and good reminders of all the goodness that you represent. I love you and miss you so.