In the final chapter of his life, Ian chose a different ending than most.
Not now, not soon—but far in the future, when time had finally become a known quantity and his body could still answer the call of effort. With a finite horizon ahead of him, he set his sights on Mount Everest. Not with the expectation of reaching the summit, but with the intention of reaching somewhere meaningful—a marker high enough to say the attempt itself mattered.
There was a quiet poetry to the idea. A story his future generations could tell without lowering their voices. Ian died trying to climb Mount Everest at the ripe old age of 89. Some would call it reckless. Others would call it impossible. But those who knew him would understand it as inevitable.
Dying among loved ones is often described as the most beautiful ending, but beauty can carry weight. Watching someone slip away leaves scars, even when the room is filled with love. There was something gentler, perhaps, in choosing a solitary farewell—one that spared others the burden of witnessing the final moments.
In the end, the mountain was never just a mountain. It was a metaphor. A final pursuit. Proof that even at the edge of life, he was still climbing toward something just out of reach.
And maybe that was the truest version of him: not the man who arrived, but the one who tried.
