Beatrice "Bea" Petrisky Knipe of 9250 N. 75th Ave, died Monday, August 31, 1970 in Kanai Glacier north of Anchorage, Alaska. Her husband, William Knipe, a former Phoenix fireman and a bush pilot, accidentally drowned at the glacier about two months ago.

She was born in Gary, Indiana to John Portage Petrisky and Helen Norine White Petrisky in 1950.  She came to Phoenix in 1964. She was a graduate from Washington High School and was a member of the Heart to Heart Hour Chapel of Phoenix.  Survivors include her parents, Mr. and Mrs. John Petriskey of Peoria, and a brother and a sister out of state.

Services for Mrs. Beatrice Knipe, 20, will be at 10 a.m. tomorrow in Green Acres Mortuary, 401 N. Hayden, Scottsdale. Burial will be in Green Acres Cemetery.
(Arizona Republic, Phoenix, Arizona, Friday, September 4, 1970)

(Paul Dean, Arizona Republic, Phoenix, Arizona, Sunday, November 15, 1970)
ROMEO AND JULIET HAVE COUNTERPARTS TODAY
Juliet was tall, titian-haired Beatrice Petriskey.
Her Romeo was Bill Knipe, warrior, firefighter, bush pilot; a man Shakespeare recognized when he wrote of the hero who jested at scars that never felt a wound.
The theatrical comparison is an obvious one. For Bill, 29, and Bea, 20, shared a young, fresh, total love. They met last Christmas, were married in January and captivated each other to meld as a pair of star-crossed lovers.
Bill knew her as his "Toonsie". She just called him darling. Constantly and openly.
In March, Bill took leave from Phoenix Fire Station No. 1 to spend another summer skimming glaciers and berg-littered fjords as a pilot for Alaska Air Freight, Inc. They traveled north together and even flew together, always hand in hand.
Bea wrote a poem for Bill, a tender thing called "What Is Love?"
"I know," she whispered. "It's a glance of warmth across the room from his eyes…it's the touch of two bodies enjoying themselves to the fullest…it's the little things that mean so much to just the two of you…a word of praise, an embrace when you're down, an understanding word…it's trust, complete trust knowing that one always knows the other is there…being free together, enjoying the little moments…little things that people don't take time to enjoy."
Bill replied with written thoughts of his own. He spoke of a troubled yesterday but his belief in today – the first day of a new life with a rainbow at the end of tomorrow's goodbye.
He bought his bride a bear cub doll, liked to bake her oatmeal cookies, and had only one answer when Bea joked about the Alaskan cold.
"I'll buy a parka to keep warm…and you've always got me." But that wasn't to be.
On June 17, Bill was called to ferry a fisherman from the North Slope to Portage Glacier Pass. Bad weather clamped their float-plane. But Bill sneaked in for a perfect water landing.
The plane was swirling 125 feet from the shore when a gust of wind flipped it over. Bill kicked the fisherman from the cabin and followed him into the near-freezing water. The passenger made it to the shore. Bill was dragged under by the cold, sodden clothes and drowned. His body was never recovered.
His death destroyed Bea, his wife of five months.
Her mother, Mrs. John Petriskey of Peoria, flew to Anchorage and brought her sedated, grief-split daughter home.
Mrs. Petriskey tried a mother's guiles to bring her daughter back. She had words of comfort at the lowest moments, took Bea shopping for new clothes and tried nudging her gently back into the companionship of friends.
"But Bill is my only man," responded Bea, yet to learn that she should refer to her dead husband in the past tense. "When I look across a table at another, all I see is Bill."
One Sunday, without telling a word of her plans, Bea left home, boarded a Western Air Lines jet at Sky Harbor Airport and flew back to Alaska.
In Anchorage she hired a car, drove past the apartment that had been theirs for a moment and headed southeast for Portage Glacier.
She parked, walked to a beach and sat at the exact spot where Bill could have swam ashore.
And there, Juliet took Romeo's revolver and killed herself with one bullet through a broken heart.