Ed Chamberlin was born in Rochester, Michigan in 1958, only 216 miles away, and two years after, my own illustrious Michigan birth. I can’t remember the first time I met Ed, when we both worked at Grand Canyon National Park in the late 1980s, but I think this was something we bonded over: we were both Michiganders born in the wrong place and time. We both, though we never met in Michigan, wanted to live in the West of those midcentury Westerns: we wanted to ride the open desert with Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans; four-wheel the rugged expanse with Pat Brady and his jeep Nellie Belle, fly with Sky King over endless vistas, and we both loved Tonto best, Kemosabe.

We loved the west of myth, and when old enough, we headed to that enchanted land of wide-open spaces, far from Eastern conventions, in search of our true selves and a place of meaning. And, I think, we both found it. And we found each other, what are the chances?, and never lost our love for our chosen home or each other.

As you may or may not know, Ed suffered from diabetes, and I do mean suffered. He was diagnosed at a young age and spent incalculable hours managing its effects throughout his life. He hated it. The time it took, the unending beeping from his glucose monitor waking him in the night and pestering him by day. He liked to ignore the smaller fluctuations of these unending demands. He felt best when his blood sugar was low, most of the time so low as to be on the verge of crashing. At this level, he felt happy and energized; but, if his sugar levels dropped a few more points, he became giddy and silly, with the goofy fun of a little kid. And we loved his enthusiastic embrace of life as much as he did.

But …when his sugars hit the tipping point, crazy things happened. Everyone who spent time with him has funny, scary stories of these moments perched on the edge of mind-numbing insulin shock.

Should I take him to the hospital? (I’ve done it). Should I cut to the head of a long line of people at a packed Disneyland concession to demand an orange juice, right now, and leave in such a rush I don’t pay for it? (yes). Should I demand he pull over immediately, and when he won’t (because, he says, he’s fine), should I lie and say I’m starving and need a McDonalds hamburger, also right now? (Yes). Or should I laugh with him till I can’t breathe like the crazy people we both were? (Absolutely). If there was one thing Ed loved, it was to laugh. He found life (except diabetes and cancer) extremely humorous.

He loved silly things like glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs and Jesuses, Virgin Marys and aliens; he loved goofy postcards, and improbable roadside art because, it made him laugh.

And Ed loved the outdoors, and spent much time kayaking, hiking and exploring what the wild world offered. He loved learning from other cultures and traveled the world connecting with people far and wide. He made it to all seven continents. He talked often about how he loved the Uyghur people of China and wanted to return; he was planning trips abroad right till the end.

And he loved beauty and history and worked his entire adult life to preserve both, to preserve our memories of the beauty humans have made: pottery, rugs, paintings, artifacts—a record of our own interactions with the natural world—our attempts to render the Southwest’s beauty and ethereal presence into a resonant form. He loved New Mexico and its many peoples, their place-based cultures and evocative art.

And he loved his husband Lyle. His partner in crime, a soul with whom he could also resonate. Their passions merged in each other. He loved supporting Lyle’s art, helping with studio tours, art fairs, photography, and radio shows. He was happiest assisting Lyle in any endeavor. More than once, Ed turned to me, tears in his eyes, and sobbed, “I love him so much!”

And Ed loved science. Except when it came to cancer. He did not want to know anything except whether the drugs were working. And they weren’t. After two years of pain, chemo, radiation, and experimental drugs, Ed died on October 10, 2024, one month short of his 66^th birthday, from an extremely rare form of prostate cancer for which there was and is no cure. He did not want to go. He fought with everything he had.

We the friends, we the blessed, who by some miracle, were placed for a brief time on this wild earth in Ed’s presence, and were allowed to bask in the glow of true friendship, will remember this amazing man as the one who stood beside us no matter what, who made us laugh and brought us joy. We can only hope to do the same for others through Ed’s example.