When Sierra Alvis-Robinson was 6 years old, her Uncle Tony Alvis decided it was time to teach her to surf. He perched her on his board. She fell into the water and came up sputtering.

She never became a surfer.

When Sierra was 8, her Uncle Tony decided to teach her to make wine. He piled grapes in a bucket and told her to stomp. Her feet were purple for two weeks.

She never became a wine maker.

When Sierra was 11, her uncle decided to teach her to ride a horse. When the animal galloped toward the beach, she fell in the sand.

She never became a cowgirl.

Now, at 30, she thought she was a disappointment to her uncle. She could not do anything he loved -- the activities that defined him.

At her wedding, her Uncle Tony was there, charming the ladies, dancing under the stars and getting everyone to drink a shot of Patron tequila.

He pulled Sierra aside and said, "I'm so proud of you."

"He valued me for who I was, and when we think of Tony today, that was one of his greatest gifts," Alvis-Robinson told a standing-room-only crowd gathered Wednesday to mourn her uncle's death.

Michael "Tony" Alvis, 53, lived much of his life in the community of La Conchita. He and nine others died Jan. 10 when a mudslide buried 13 homes in the beachfront neighborhood between Ventura and Carpinteria.

Yet during his memorial at Carpinteria's St. Joseph Catholic Church, Alvis was remembered by hundreds of relatives and friends not for how he died, but how he lived.

Pastor Dan Hull said Alvis' life can be summed up in three words, "I enjoyed it."

He was a man who led horse rides into Los Padres National Forest, who loved trails and dogs and a campfire's roar.

The best way to remember Alvis, Hull said, is by living with his spirit of joy, discovery and adventure.

Alvis was a tall drink of water, standing 6 feet 4 inches, boosted by cowboy boots and a felt hat. His hair grazed his shoulders. His black beard was fading to gray, and his cheeks were burned red by the sun.

He didn't like being called a cowboy. He was a wilderness outfitter. An original mountain man who never changed, despite civilization.

Before the funeral, a friend gave Alvis' brother, Dan, a CD of songs that described Tony, everything from "Surfin' Safari" to "Ghostriders in the Sky."

In the pale wood coffin, the body of Tony Alvis lay in a red flannel shirt with his hat resting on his chest.

People bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross as they passed, a line of mourners that never seemed to end.

Women hugged in pews. Men wiped tears with bandana hankies.

Then the pallbearers -- friends and relatives -- men in Wrangler jeans, bolo ties, Western shirts and cowboy hats -- carried the casket into a waiting hearse.

Alvis' parents followed. His mother, Amelia, held a box of tissues. His father, Dane, wore a turquoise cross around his neck.

The couple lived in La Conchita for decades. Dane Alvis vows never to return there.

At Santa Barbara Cemetery, north of the mountain above La Conchita that carries a visible scar, pallbearers lifted Alvis' casket above his grave. They hoisted his worn, brown leather saddle on top.

Dave Gonzalez, a man with a cowboy hat, a canteen and a carnation in his lapel, brought medicine bags Alvis carried into the Sespe. He wrapped them in a woven blanket, adding the bundle to the casket.

"This is his soul right here," he said, patting the blanket and speaking of Alvis, whom he considered a brother, not a friend.

The preacher, Phil Rather, stood with a Bible, thanking the heavenly father for "this wonderful life."

He poured a canteen of water from the backcountry over the casket -- a final blessing.

The mourners formed a circle -- Gonzalez, Alvis' niece and nephew, cowboys-turned-pallbearers. They passed a bottle of golden tequila -- each taking a swig in Tony's honor. They saved the last drops for Tony, emptying the bottle on flowers atop the casket. The casket, dripping with daisies, beads of water and drops of liquor, was lowered into the ground.