He died doing what he loved.
Spend long enough in a ski town, and it’s inevitable that you’ll hear these words (you may even utter them yourself): a reminder that no matter how rad we are, no one gets off this ride alive. In some perverse way, it’s almost one step closer to becoming a full-fledged Local™. The dearly departed may have been your best friend, or you may never have met them before - which is why it’s even more troubling to discover that they’ve left a hole in your own life. What gives?
I grew up in a small town in Ontario. There are thousands just like it all across Canada. Just some houses and a few businesses where a big highway intersects with a smaller highway. (And cows. Lots of them.) There was a guy that used to work for my dad’s friend, Ike. Ike on his Bike, my dad used to call him (looking back, I don’t think he had a driver’s licence). I had no idea what he did for his friend, I don’t know his last name, and I never knew his story. I do remember, years later, when I heard that he had passed. This old man had very little impact on my childhood beyond being an occasional presence, and yet there was a realization that can only come from age that he had a full life of his own.
Whistler has a big rep, but it’s still a small town. Unlike our hometowns, where dumb luck dictated where we grew up, for the vast majority of us, this small town became our collective sanctuary for the like-minded (ski bums in training). Where larger than life people gather, larger than life stories are created and retold, from the naked antics of Johnny Thrash and countless others, to the feats of daring escapades on the mountain. These superheroes would perform a stunt requiring skill and cojones to the admiration of the rest of us without one or the other. Then they’d go back to raising their kids next door, or bringing you your dinner at Sushi Village, as though it was Just Another Day in Paradise - another fine phrase that understates how lucky we are.
The point is, small towns are nothing without that sense of community. You may not have had an Ike, but maybe your paperboy, crossing guard, or even mayor that stands out in your mind from your old life. When these members of your community are gone, no wonder you feel some sense of loss. It’s part of your vast tapestry - and you can’t help but notice when that thread is missing. The pillars that hold our community up just happen to have some incredible accomplishments, and maybe we wrongly assume them to be invincible. So when one crumbles, we’re never ready for it.
I don’t really know what to say anymore. Stay safe out there when going faster than a speeding bullet. You never know what will happen.