In Which I Use a Funeral as an Excuse for a Ski Trip

Tyler and I drive the empty roads across southeast Idaho. We've done this drive probably a dozen times but these are unusual circumstances. The normally sagebrush-gray landscape is softened by snow. The expansive lava formations of Craters of the Moon look less like a suburb of Mordor than usual. Unless it snows in Mordor, I guess.

We enter a thick fog in the Wood River Valley that turns to precipitation as we near Ketchum. There's a lot of snow hemming in the narrow streets. North of town we locate the grand vacation home of Tyler's brother's friend. This is the new base of operations, since Tyler's grandparents' home (which he calls the Palace) is no longer available. 

Thanks to the Mountain Collective pass, i.e. the best deal in the West, a couple days at Sun Valley costs zero dollars instead of hundreds, so we go skiing. Warm snow falls and the visibility is soupy. Tyler says this is completely unlike Sun Valley, land of sunshine, groomed runs, and no snow. 

We retire for burritos, beer, and a scenic hot tub buttressed by snow banks. Sophie chases snowballs across the yard. 

Thursday is a stunning bluebird powder day so we ski the resort again, where the tree glades, of perfect density and gradient, are almost untouched. It is very enjoyable until I exit onto a cat track at high speed and slam knee to mouth. No teeth are knocked out, just duck lips and abrasions. I quit. 

Turns out Sun Valley is a fun resort when it snows

We're back at the house on schedule. The rest of Tyler's little clan has arrived: his two brothers, his mom, and her boyfriend. Everyone dons Nice Clothes and we go to the Episcopalian church for the memorial service for Tyler's grandfather. I see other attendants' grief and tear up thinking abstractly about losing a parent or grandparent. My brain shies away from specifics because I don't to want sob audibly at the funeral of a man I barely knew. Afterwards I flit around the reception eating cured meat and trying to avoid talking to relatives I don't know. 

Our crew retreats to the house to debrief on all the politics and power plays happening. I feel grateful for the simplicity of my family. 

Just another beautiful day in big mountains

Tyler, Ben, and I have a window the next morning to go for a backcountry tour before the interment of Charles's ashes. After studying some topo maps we have a potential objective, but driving down the canyon yields disappointing options, so on the way back we pick a National Forest access point at random and are greatly rewarded with an easy climb in the sunshine and pristine powder through perfect trees on the descent. This never happens. 

We go to the cemetery. The priest extols the beauty of our surroundings and I warm inside, but it is hard to the reconcile the sweet sadness of the ceremony with the uneven family dynamics, the permanency of death, the shadow cast by money.

My loves on the summit 

Tyler and I drive to Boise the next day but not before a repeat of the successful tour, to tire the dog out and get another taste of powder. 

We have dinner with some of Tyler's oldest friends, kind and funny and charismatic and fiercely loyal to him. The intensity and longevity of Tyler's friendships, I think, are a testament to his character. 

On Sunday a bunch of us ski the local hill, Bogus Basin. Boise down low is shrouded in a chilly gray but the road to the resort climbs out of the haze into bright sunshine. The group splinters because of different ability levels (or one could say lifestyle choices: occasional skiers vs. habitual snow sliders) but we regroup regularly for beer and pictures. 

The gang and me at Bogus

Too soon we have to say goodbye and drive the long interstate back to the Tetons. Temperature variations cause impenetrable fog and we're both tense, half-listening to Serial while peering into the abyss. 

It is bitter cold and clear in the Valley. We try to organize the detritus of our trip and then pass out. Today it is back to work, back to real life, back to a place where everyone counts their wealth not in dollars, but in days spent outside.