Losing friends has become an invariable part of life. Living in the mountains we expose ourselves to so much risk, most of which we feel we can mitigate with good decisions. Even with the best intentions, the right training and precaution, every year it seems I learn another friend has left us.
It's beyond fucked up that I've lost count. Between car crashes on sketchy mountain passes, avalanche accidents and sheer bad luck, everywhere I've lived as a dirt bag has experienced tragedy.
The beginning of COVID-19 was a a surreal time. On one hand the pandemic was the start of our spring touring season in the mountains, but also a time when our leaders demanded we reel in our adventures.
I had barely arrived to Colorado to spend a month ski touring. As I discussed the status of the snow over a cup of coffee, a new roommate informed me callously an avalanche fatality had occurred the previous day.
"Who, where, when?" I puzzled.
"Some guy on Big Eyes" I was informed.
'Oh What Big Eyes You Have' is probably one of the most aesthetic ski lines you can imagine. A perfectly chiseled slot between high rock walls, with a consistent steep pitch for over 1500 feet. Knowing the line well and knowing many who would ski it, my heart sank. Learning later that day it was a friend, someone who I skied with in the backcountry and respected for his knowledge, skills and positive attitude. I was completely crushed.
I read the avalanche report, cried and tried to remind myself that Aaron always accepted the risk. Sometimes it takes days, weeks or months to come back. A non-skier will never understand taking that risk, but for my friend I trudged back into the Gores and ripped turns down that deadly line a few weeks later.
Ski in peace my friend.
