I normally only post my own writing on this blog, but I wanted to share this piece by Greg Pettys. He wrote this for Adam Lawton, our dear friend who was killed in an avalanche on Friday, January 6th in British Columbia. Greg has a very unique talent, and I, for one, hope he continues to write and share his words with the people. Thanks Greg!
The night before I received the call, an angel visited me. With candles lit and incense burning we spoke of death. How was I to know He would come so soon?
That night you made your last turns
The hippies in CB met in an alley,
Making edgy plans, as we always do.
You know, to take over the world.
Of course your last visit would be in the form of snow.
That’s what you were;
A pillar of crystalline purification.
An ever flowing, ever changing, reminder to re-new.
So we ski. It’s what we do.
Somehow we ski now!!
But I remember the tattoo on your arm
I remember the colossal turns you made on Our Hill.
On an alpine board! Who does that?!?!
Waking up early every morning,
Skipping class and prioritizing Life.
Hitching up to our backyard,
Wild-eyed and filled to the brim;
We never made it to Burning Man,
But you were the first person to speak of it.
You always were.
We found our own though.
In Klaus’s janky g-ride,
Cruising down a hill of sudden death alongside Purple Mountain,
In search of Digiorno’s,
We stumbled into...
And you made your own,
In Utah of all places!
But Crested Butte was always your true home.
You were here first.
Paving the way,
As you always did.
Always showing up right on time.
For a pristine fall bike ride into the yellow,
For a Grand Reverse,
Or conveniently when me and one of my girlfriends
Were heading to Orvis!
(And I respect your advice good brother,
…I will do what I can.)
I can’t recount all the spontaneous road trips.
Into the mountains.
To Red Rocks and beyond.
For answers to Life’s most profound mysteries.
Managing to balance your aid of your beloved “troubled youth”
With the aid of your clearly off-centered bretheren back home.
You skied fast and took chances that most of us dare never take.
Riding the “white wave” with style and grace,
…Well, maybe not style,
But I sure did dig those touring flannels!
Shredding the nor.
G-narring the shread.
Praying in our own way while freaking out the squares
In a sacred canyon
Made unholy by man’s greedy desire.
The river flows with or without us brother.
This never was our act.
You knew all along that we were just actors in Gods great production.
But rest assured good pirate, the heady shroud will still fly high…………..
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