In Loving Memory of George Hurley
(April 16, 1918 - September 20, 2000)

Dear Friends,

I know some of you well and others I only have heard George speak of. I am overwhelmed by all of your thoughts and comments about George. He was truly devoted to all of you, the hawks and Peter's Mountain. This summer before he was so ill, I had thought of contacting the forest service to see if he could be flown to the tower just one more time. It was impossible for him to walk up any longer. However, God's time and mine just didn't coordinate. I took him to the Sods twice this spring and he was able to sit on a rock and look at another place he loved dearly. His last evening I was able to share with him e-mails that Cindy sent me from some of you. Hospice told me the last sense to go is hearing. I know, he knew, that he was loved by the people with whom he spent hours and hours doing what he loved to do the best. Thank you for your care and the beautiful flowers from the folks at the tower.

Sincerely,

Anne Hurley

Flowers were sent from "The Hanging Rock Crew"

The family has asked for donations to be made to:

Hospice of Northern Virginia
P.O. Box 1576
Merrifield, VA 22116-1576

A Tribute to George Hurley

George Hurley was my Dad. I am his firstborn. For 55 years, he raised me, loved me, taught me, showed me, supported me, educated me, and comforted me. He made me who I am today. I am happy to be who I am, because I'm much like Dad. He was a good man, as those of you who knew him know. I will always be proud of him.

Dad loved the things God made. He once told me when he was deciding on his life's profession, he considered being either a chemist or a naturalist. I think he became both; chemistry nourished his body and nature nourished his soul. Chemistry was his vocation; nature his avocation. He did both well.

Dad loved the outdoors. Birding was his first love, followed closely by photography. A consummate photographer, he left behind thousands of wonderful images from nature. His collection of 18,000 slides includes many, many pictures of flowers, critters, ferns, fungi, and fantastic landscapes from all over. I have yet to match the quality of his images. He became active in birding in the early 50's, and joined the Brooks Bird Club during its heyday. The BBC Forays were magical times for him, and for our family. Dad's first Foray was in 1953, at Thornwood, in Pocahontas County. It has always been my favorite site. There is no freedom like wandering the back roads of West Virginia simply watching our beautiful birds, and just being in nature with folks who share your love. Dad and his wife, Anne, were Foray Directors for several years, doing a superb job. (Dad did all things well!) Appropriately, Dad's last Foray was also at Camp Thornwood just a couple of years ago. I had a feeling then it would be his last, and made every effort to enjoy each moment. Future Forays in that Pocahontas County heaven will always be special to me.

Dad loved to travel. He saw much of our America and traveled extensively throughout the world. Usually, birding was on the agenda somewhere. He took several tours: to Switzerland, to Australia; to Ireland. In 1986, he visited my family when we lived for a year on the Adriatic coast of Italy. That Spring, we took a glorious 6-week tour of Europe, wandering the roads and towns as we desired. We both saw a Hoopoe, the only one each of us ever saw, in the driveway of a restaurant in Termoli, the town we called home. In the mountains of Germany, we saw Alpine Choughs. In eastern Austria, he birded one Sunday morning on the shore of the Neusiedlersee. On a trip to Alaska, he made the journey to the remote Pribiloff Islands.

Our family was raised campers. We camped extensively. It is a shame that many parents travel without their children. Ours took us everywhere. In 1957, Dad built a tent camper from plans he saw in Popular Science. He constructed the camper part, and Mom sewed the tent part. It slept all 7 of us, and carried us to places most children never see. How lucky we were. We took extended trips to New England, as far as Prince Edward Island, where we swam in water so warm there were jellyfish. We traveled to Key West, canoeing in the Ocala National Forest and visiting the magnificent Everglades on the way. A long trip to Big Bend National Park in Texas was special. I never knew millipedes could grow so big! We three older kids made scrapbooks of this trip. Mine remains special to me even today.

Dad loved high places. Mountains lured him. Preparing for a trip to Rocky Mountain National Park one year, I asked him where to look for Dippers. They were where he said, found within minutes of reaching the spot. He loved the mountains of Switzerland, Germany, and Austria. I have a picture of him someplace in Austria pouring water on our Fiat's fuel pump to overcome a vapor-lock problem.

Dolly Sods was always a special spot for Dad. I first went there 45 years ago with him, and will never stop going back. It is my favorite spot on Earth. In those days, the roads were so bad Sunday drivers didn't venture on that mountain. Nothing at the Red Creek campground was taller than 8 feet, and blueberry pickers/venders were common sights in mid-summer. Now, all our Thanksgiving cranberries come from the bog below Bear Rocks, and nothing surpasses the taste of blueberry pancakes cooked over an open campfire.

Dad's warm and friendly face was familiar to many who watch migrating raptors from the Hanging Rock Tower on Peters Mountain. He spent some time there every Fall for the past 45 years or so, save a couple of years. I can remember going to the tower long ago. Perched on a sharp ridge, the site affords long vistas into valleys on both sides of the mountain. There once was an open pasturefield just up the ridge where hawk-watchers also craned their necks to tally Broad-wings. It's long overgrown now. I've not been to the tower in decades, but now feel drawn back. Dad was interviewed there for a clip by WCHS TV a couple of years ago. It's a video I'll treasure now.

My Dad was a special man. He was always my hero. His last 8 weeks were difficult for my brother and sisters and I. Cancer is an evil, unrelenting terror. I was not ready to let him go 18 months ago following his heart attack, so God granted him a miracle cure. I was there; I know. It gave me time to prepare. Dad had 82 full years of life. He left little undone, which makes his passing a bit easier to accept. The world is truly a better place because of my father.

Now Dad is on the big mountain. His life list is complete, and the creatures in his binoculars are angels. May he stay ever in our hearts.

I shared a special moment with the people at Dad's wake service, and it is appropriate to repeat it.

I visited Dad for 5 days at the beginning of September, the last quality time we had together. Because of his endless interest in things of nature, I was not surprised to find hanging on some milkweed leaves in a Styrofoam cup in his kitchen a Monarch butterfly chrysalis and a caterpillar.

Dad said that he intended to photograph the butterfly as it emerged from the chrysalis. On that Sunday morning before breakfast, I noticed that the chrysalis had changed from an opaque light green to a much darker-almost black-shade, with a clear view of butterfly wing veins visible though the shell. Dad said we'd get out the camera later in the day to capture the emergence on film. After breakfast, as I took the dishes to the kitchen, I was startled to see the new butterfly hanging on the remnants of its chrysalis. We'd missed it!

Dad went back to bed and I went to Mass. When I returned, the Monarch was still hanging there; butterflies must spend several hours pumping blood into their wings to stiffen them before flight. I became concerned that the creature would fly away in the house, possibly injuring itself. So, I took it out to a flowered bush in Dad's backyard. I stood there for several minutes awaiting its first flight, but it wasn't ready. I returned to Dad's room and went to the window that faced the bush. Dad slept. As I watched, the Monarch took to flight, its first. Amazingly, the butterfly flew in a direct line the 50 feet from the bush to the window where I stood. It hovered there for 10-15 seconds, appearing to look in, then it fluttered around a bit in the yard, and was gone. I was astounded. There had to be a message in this amazing event.

It occurred to me that the transformation I had seen, this metamorphosis, was analogous to Dad's life. He spent most of his life crawling around the earth, working, feeding, and growing. On the day of his heart attack, he began building his chrysalis. Then, on September 20, he broke free from his earthly shell and flew free, transformed into the perfect creature God had created him to be. For the rest of my life, the sight of a Monarch butterfly will remind me of my father, George Hurley.

May he rest in peace.

Tom 10-14-00

At 5:10 p.m. on September 22, just after the early session of George Hurley's wake, a gyrfalcon was sighted at Hanging Rock Raptor Observatory. It was a state-record sighting. One can't help but wonder if George, in his new, more influential capacity, had something to do with that bird. Maybe, just maybe, it was his way of making one last trip to Hanging Rock.