Kurt's Run
A tribute to a gone-but-not-forgotten friend.
By BENJAMIN CHASE

I stand in silence and snowfall, alone on a steep mountain meadow amid a raging storm. I tilt my head skyward and recall the feeling of walking into the crowded auditorium, the sense of sorrow and despair heavy in the air as he strode to the microphone to let us know Kurt had passed away earlier in the afternoon. Two weeks after a devastating football injury that put him in a coma, Kurt died, taking with him a small sliver of every student who knew and loved him. As I walked back alone on the cold November night, tears welling in my eyes, I thought about the ski trip I had planned with my dad less than a month in the future. I swore then and there that the trip would be special, that I would ski hard in my fallen friend's honor.

In this mountain meadow, completely void of trees except for a lone aspen standing weathered and gnarled next to me, I realize that my trip has been blessed. Wracked by a four-day storm cycle that would bring nearly 40 inches of snow to the mountain, it was my first experience skiing truly deep snow, and better yet, it was the first time I got to share such an amazing ski experience with my first ski partner, my dad. Standing on the run-out far below, he looks up into the storm for me as I hold up an orange wristband with Kurt's initials on it and place it on the lone tree in the meadow. The bands were given to everybody at school as a sign of support for Kurt before he passed away, and now this symbol of hope was a solemn memorial in the most sacred of places to me, the mountains. Before descending to my dad and a few newfound friends, I say a silent prayer next to the tree, and utter the cliché but absolutely true "This run is for you, Kurt." That was day two of the storm cycle, and the first time that Jeff, a new friend but old acquaintance had taken us to what more or less amounted to the run of my dreams. A rollicking ride, brimming with untracked and dropping through meadows, woods, steeps, and rollers. My dad and I would return to it time after time over the following days, netting deeper and deeper turns every run, every day.

Despite the storm's 50 mile-per-hour winds and heavy snowfall, the wristband clung to the tree branch. A miniature pillow of snow grew bigger and bigger on top of it every day. Each time I skied past the tiny tribute to a friend and fellow skier, I felt I could do no wrong. Fast turns. Quick slashes through the tight aspens below. Airs off of pillows. They all felt perfect, divinely inspired turns awash in waist-deep powder. As I gasped for air between turns and tried in vain to grab a glimpse of the terrain below me through roiling bursts of snow, I knew how special this trip was. Blessed by epic snowfall, clear travel, and great new friends, it seemed as though Kurt was smiling down on that little section of the Colorado Rockies.

Arriving back home in New Jersey with the dull ache in my thighs that follows a week straight of hard skiing, I thought back on my trip and what it meant to me. To my dad, it was a lucky hit. To my mom, proof that she is the family snow-jinx. And to me, it was a tribute to, and blessing from, a gone-but-not-forgotten friend.

Benjamin Chase is a high-school junior living in New Jersey.


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