Dear Kurt,
This is a letter I don’t want to write. Writing is often difficult to get started, but this one is nearly impossible because you are gone, at least in the physical.
It was in the evening of my birthday when I learned that you were presumed dead on Mt. Cook in New Zealand.
I cried like a baby when I found out. I guess maybe that’s not the way to put it, but I cried uncontrollably, and loudly. It was raining outside in Potrero Chico, which I thought was very aligned with this terrible news.
You were just here. We just shared a rope, food, and drink. Most of all you shared your wisdom with Michelle. You realized you had a free week in your wild traveling schedule, so you came here. You were the greatest mentor for her.
I knew you for many years through our Durango community, but it was only in the last year that we became closer, as you started teaching Michelle. She needed a mentor and you showed up, always spending time with her, never asking for any compensation.
And as that friendship and mentorship started I had the pleasure to get closer to you. We climbed together for the first time last year on my birthday, here in Potrero.
I love being with friends and climbing on my birthday, and last year I had the pleasure to tie in with you; and later that day we shared time with Bruce and Robin, who always seemed to be close to you. Our friendship started in Durango, but it blossomed here in Potrero.
I feel like I really got to know you more on this recent trip, here in Potrero Chico. Your energy and enthusiasm were boundless. I feel like you were one of those people who probably had to be reminded to take a rest day. At 56, you were 10 years older than me, a north star, a guiding light.
I’ll forever remember those climbing days with you, that just seem like yesterday, but are now out of touch, except for in treasured memory. You were real and honest. You told me about close calls. We talked about loneliness. You were much older than me, but your enthusiasm was so youthful.
You told me about adventures with your sister, how your parents let you travel all around New Zealand as youngsters. I heard you on a phone call with your Mom, and you were very sweet. Katrina, your sister, who I knew before I met you, had a boulder crash through her house while you were here. You showed me the pictures, and they were shocking. Life in the mountains.
You climbed really well. From the stories you told me you were the last generation of climbers who tied in with a swami belt. Your Dad taught you at X Rock. They didn’t make climbing shoes for kids then so you climbed barefoot. Yet, because you were a guide you knew all the modern equipment and techniques.
We talked about making a recording of your origin story with climbing for my podcast; how remarkable it was that you had one foot in what now seems like a very distant past, and one foot in the modern world. You were the complete opposite of an old, crusty climber.
You were a climbing nerd to the fullest. You had every issue of The Climbing Zine. Because we lived so close together I would always personally deliver your orders. As time went by I learned that you also had every issue of many other climbing publications. Then you told me about your very obscure collection of postcards, a tradition that used to exist, where climbers on expeditions would send postcards out during their time on the mountain.
One day this fall, I was dropping off some books and magazines, and you invited me to your house one day to see the collection. I couldn’t go in, because my dog, Hope, was in my truck and she was getting restless. We agreed I would come back soon to see the collection, and make that recording of you talking about your early days of climbing.
I would say I regret that we didn’t do that, but I was so fortunate to spend time with you during these last few weeks in Potrero Chico that I don’t regret a thing. I only feel fortunate.
When I was out there crying in the rain I wasn’t just crying for me, I was crying for Michelle. She was taking a nap inside, and she was sick. But it was my birthday, so she was going to rally for some dinner later. Instead I had to tell her you were dead.
It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do, but yet, your spirit was there in the moment comforting me as I did it.
Your passing taught me how quickly, in an instant, life can go from being joyous to being filled with sorrow. And that’s how I felt in those moments after learning about your death. Just full of sorrow.
I’ll remember many things about you Kurt. But above all I will remember your kindness and generosity. You had a treasure trove of knowledge about climbing, and you didn’t just share it freely, you went out of your way to share it. As if there was a sense of urgency to share it as much, with as many people as possible, as you could.
When Michelle visited Durango this summer you gave her two full days out of your busy schedule to teach her guiding and rescue techniques. Your enthusiasm was so strong, so pure. I’ll never forget it and your spirit will guide me for the rest of my days.
Sometimes Michelle and I will have a hard time communicating because we speak two different languages, but with your passing there has not been a moment where we have not understood the grief of losing you. It is profound. It is universal. It is part of the human experience, whether we are ready for it or not.
Losing you has reminded me that all we have is the moment, and one another, to share these moments with.
I wasn’t ready to get that news on my birthday about you Kurt. I wanted to become better friends with you. I wanted to coax you into taking sport climbing whippers, after you confided in me, you know you can fall, but you grew up in the style where falling wasn’t a good idea. You were so damn naturally strong.
I’m feeling a bit cried out now Kurt. I should probably go on a run, get some exercise, be in my body, and not just in my mind. Soon I will run into Potrero Chico, and see the cliffs and think of you and your final days climbing here that we shared together.
Thank you Kurt. Thank you for everything, even every single one of the tears that run down my face. You were the embodiment of a good human and teacher. I will do my best to incorporate your kindness and generosity into my own interactions and relationships.
I love you Kurt.
Sincerely,
Luke
