I grew up near a river. Its name: “Chagrin.”

It was turbid - stained water flowed through it. Prone to floods, with sufficient downpour it spilled over its banks. A river that never let you see deep inside.

It was flat country out there. And I took for granted what a different climate might bring. A bigger watershed. A bigger world. 

Chagrin. I never knew what it meant.

We always know what’s possible. We spend years, decades even, chasing the impossible. Sometimes we’re reminded. Too often we’re reminded.

Chagrined. That’s how I find myself.

Simple times with simple ambitions. The greatest successes, hard-earned by weathered faces and under heavy burdens, keep coming. Until they don’t.

Chagrin. That’s not a word for a river. 

It’s a word for people. The ones who remain. Those who must remain braced, knowing it will happen again. I didn’t say “might” or “could.” Knees bent, always ready for another blow.

Chagrined. By the lost, endless possibility. 

Sometimes it feels like a waste. Not the pursuit, but the result. This big, wide world, it opens itself up to us. We look deep inside. Sometimes it shows us more than we thought we’d ever have to see.

Chagrined. We know now.

For CJ and Chris in a difficult week.

How many hours brought us to this moment?

The days, weeks, years it took to get from there to here?

Like the trees breathing, imperceptible, invisible actions set great things in motion, noticed only with enough time.

With great patience and persistence, recovery comes slowly. Hope helps.

Physics dictate the outcome.

Knowing that makes it hard to take it personally either way.

A cold, crowded trailhead with many friends. Many smiles, much smalltalk. We go our separate ways.

High danger today, but we've agreed to play it cool.

We depart with the looming reminder of choices made a timezone away. Bad news from a familiar place seems to resonate in a certain way.

Over the summer trail and through the big trees, we gain the ridge. More friends. More smiles.

Details begin to emerge from the Wasatch with reception in the Cascades. It was complicated. 

At the parking lot, airplane mode switches off and tragedy ensues again.

Innocence lost. Perhaps it was just a matter of time.

Tears. Voicemails. Questions. The answers won't change anything.

What do you say to a friend who just felt his first tragedy? 

HS-ASu-R4-D2.5-O

Watching it firsthand, the relative size was clearly R5.

For luck, wise friends broke trail with us on this day. The smiles and jokes from their worn, familiar faces mean everything. 

Their presence on the cold Tundra tailgate means that much more in this moment.

They've been here before. And they both know that our friend will never be the same.

To be there for the up, the down, and the transitions, that is one thing. To remain for this, that means much more. 

We'll remember it. Always.

We break formation and head downhill. I can't go yet, and so I stop at a familiar place to walk off unfamiliar feelings. 

"Click." The door locks. A deep breath.

Leaving the fanhouse, strangers approach: 

"We...we triggered an avalanche..."

For my friend Joe and with gratitude to our friends Ryan and Jason.

I have given my nights for mornings, one step at a time.

I have given too many days for mournings, one step at a time.

I have given (much of) my life to the mountains, but the mountains will not take mine.

Moonlit silhouette,

So small, the range gives context.

A dark ridge, bright stars 

(A big fucking pass).

This is life now.

For Stephen S., remembering our great adventure together, 2022.

Little Alaska, I want to hide within you. As one does.

Little Alaska, I've seen you change. And you've changed me.

Cold, dark, and wet. Alder, willow, bears. Little Alaska.

A start with great promise, of what's yet to come. Little Alaska.

Little Alaska, you've tried me, and I've certainly tried you.

You're an acquired taste. I love that taste. Little Alaska.

A love letter to wet brush.