Michael Reardon

Sometimes, I am struck by the munificence of humanity, moved to tears by unremitting or undeserved compassion, struck by those who are larger than life, who give of themselves with an expansiveness of the soul, whole-hearted enthusiasm that comes from a place I admire but rarely emulate.

Sometimes, I am struck by the end of a life that shouldn’t have ended. A news story about a 77-year-old cyclist killed while riding his bike on a city street. A young soldier with PTSD who commits suicide. A man and a mountain, repeated so many times, with the mountain the victor.

Michael Reardon was both larger than life, and a life that shouldn’t have ended. I was introduced to him through controversy, a round of letters questioning the veracity of his accomplishments, published several years ago in a climbing magazine. Struck and influenced by the vehemence of the letter content, I, too, thought he must be the poser that was alluded to over and over again. For a brief while, I had the armchair enthusiasts lip curl of cynicism whenever I saw his name in print. For a brief while only, thankfully, because the force of his personality, bursting from the written page, was enough to make me dubiously doubt the naysayers, and then to do a complete turn around in admirance of this cocky, beautiful, elemental, rebellious life-force.

Michael Reardon was a climber who performed his craft no holds barred, passionate and heart felt. And, from what I’ve read, he lived his life the same way. I haven’t climbed much recently, due to an almost absurd concentration on the sport of triathlon (Christmas ‘06 futzing up slabby granite in Texas hill country. Prior to that, summer ’05, watching my climbing buddy and forever partner, cartwheel flip off of greasy volcanic rock in a muddy, humid tropical jungle, feeling the pop of a piece pulled, yarding in rope faster than my brain could keep up, and the thankful catch), but I keep up with the sport in a loose, armchair fashion. Michael was somebody who could make my heart beat a little faster, not in the way that I used to feel when I devoured teen idol magazines in the early 70’s, but his enthusiasm for life just seemed to jump off the page and right into my being. He reminded me of Kenny Souza, who raced 1980’s biathlons with the same rock star mien and the same lion’s mane of hair.

If I am any indication, Michael gave to the common man.
His life wasn’t defined by what I or anyone else thought of it. He lived uncensored and unfettered. There are other people like him, who have touched my life merely by living their life to the fullest, but they don’t happen everyday. That individualist can drive you a little nuts, but it may just be that person who gives you something that you’ll never forget. A munificent force of character. A munificent force of life.

Michael Reardon was a free soloist climber, a professional, one of the few in the world. He would climb up rock walls without a rope, without protection, without any way to stop a fall, if a fall should happen. He solo’d crazy hard, and lived just as crazy hard. He believed in himself one hundred percent.

Michael Reardon was born in 1974. He was educated in philosophy, political science, and law. He worked in Hollywood and was passionate about filmmaking (Casper, Richie Rich, Cabin Fever are ones that have name recognition).

Michael Reardon was married to his best friend, and was a devoted husband and father.

On July 13th, 2007, he was hit by a rogue wave and swept out to sea while on the coast in Ireland. He is missing and presumed dead.