Avalanche in Tahoe

[Trigger warnings: death; grief]

My phone rings. It’s my buddy Ron. We’ve been playing phone tag all day, so I pick up immediately.  

“Hey A., before we go into anything… there was an avalanche in Tahoe…”, the words catch in his throat as my mind already knows what’s coming next — “… my friend… he’s one of the ones who died in it”. 

Rationally, we know these things can happen, we know it every time we go out there. But when it happens to your own friend, the world comes down on you. Like an avalanche. 

“Oh no, Ron, I’m so so sorry… do you need me to come over, hang out?” 

I know my words sound hollow but I also know that he knows I mean it. Not only because he’s one of my absolute closest and best friends here, not only because he’s one of the few people who can get me to talk about my own dead father, but also, and maybe now especially, because we’re both climbers, we’re both adventurers, we’re both guys who could have been up there on that mountain. We both know it could have been him, or me, or another of our friends. One of ours, one of us, one of our community. I don’t even know the name of his friends who died in that avalanche but it’s as if I knew him. Because, in a way, I did. 

At 6’1” & 220 pounds Ron is almost twice my size but what I feel right now is the instinct to hug him, hold him, protect him — to take all his pain and grief, and carry it for him. Or, at least, help him hold some of it, as he has often helped me hold my own.