My freshman year at Middlebury in 1979 I was introduced to an amazing group of people through my older sister who was in the class of 1981, Ricardo was one of them. It might have been at a Black and Red party where the floor broke from heavy funk, “everything is on the one y’all and don’t forget it” (Weybridge House?). Or it could have been oozing down a hallway late at night. The smile that drew you in, the energy that made you move, too. I was young and impressionable and impressed.
An early indelible ski memory was that of riding up the chairlift at Sugarbush North (Glen Ellen) with Kim Holtan. It was the last of the slush bumps but the lift was open. Below us bumping and grinding butt naked Ricardo and Rich Lennon showed their stuff and it was a proud site to see, “rotor-router baby bubba”. Many memories flash and move, some fuzzy in a funky groove, George Clinton and P-Funk at South Lake Tahoe? “Something smells like a skunk and I want some”. Some are as sharp as this morning, early, even though I couldn’t drag myself out of bed for the early breakfast at Proctor Hall; I wanted to, just to be there. Early powder at Hatcher pass, Ricardo waiting at the Eagle River exit already up for hours jammed with java, waiting for the Alaska winter light. Denali in that late October light from the ridge, the cold and dry turns dropping into Eldorado Bowl. Angelic Kudjo in the Audi après ski at Alta. Sharing stories of Stacia and Lambert, Helicopter pilots we both flew with, rocks and remote locations. Scary stuff, turbine powered flying rocks.
Waves of grief hit me at random intervals. Even a hemisphere away the swells roll in from the pacific. When talking about our current trip to South America, the smile flashed the beta began to flow, he knew this land, Chile, Argentina, Bolivia these are stomping grounds, bread and butter, Tierra cognita.
Still the waves roll in. It’s happened before. An acquaintance, a near friend, another friend, a parent even, the shields of youth and time eased the pain. But this time it is so close to home as a knife to the heart. How many times have I been the bearer of this news, holding back the tears of empathy, sharing the hurt but still distanced, not as raw and real. A subtle distraction and it hits.
I look at the Forecast center website. I see the pictures. I’ve seen them before, with other people. I’ve been on a breaking slab. The crown face is over head high. The slab looks hard. All the other tracks to skier’s right are still intact.
The best get fooled, the avalanche forecaster in Cordova last year. Robson ski cutting was carried into trees resulting in a fractured femur. With Ricardo you feel comfortable. There is a plan. It is sane and rapidly but well conceived. This is how it goes… Then it all changes in a second. Life changes either imperceptibly slowly or in a fraction of a second. There is no middle ground. You think you can plan, prepare then it’s gone. He never changed. Despite my lack of hair, neither did I. We could call each other doctor but we are the same despite all the imperceptible changes that others may perceive. There is constancy. Ricardo will never be far and sometimes he will hit me, the boom box background beat on the ridge. Time to get down and boogie baby.
-este
oh este!
ReplyDeleteI am grateful to all of Ricardo's friends who have shared their memories and their grief. I empathize with your waves of emotion which hit me at very random moments and stop me in my tracks. I am still stunned by his death. Card’s was never destined to fade away. I now live on the island of Papua and I'll do a climb to the glacier on the 13th and remember Ricardo and all of our friends – and maybe crank up the funk in the ear buds.
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