i dont know what to call this...just read it

The DOT truck was waiting with his lights on. The driver, sitting patiently in the front was sipping a beverage, watching the weather do what it does best. Happen. Hwy 20 was being closed for the winter, and the only thing that was rudely interrupting this seasonal certainty was the fact that one lone car was still parked in the tiny pullout by the liberty bell monolith.

The snowfall, which started the night before, had begun to come down in true winter earnest a couple hours ago. But now it was drifting across the road, falling sideways and upways, if that's even a way. The truck driver was mostly annoyed. Each passing minute here meant one less minute away. Wherever that was he was sure that it was better than work.

The driver and passenger of the renegade vehicle on the other hand wanted to be nowhere but right where they were. The skiers bailed on descending the approach gully to the Beckey route on Liberty Bell due to “persistent lack of snow combined with the high likelihood that the snow that could be skied would slide”. Such was the uninspiring but common verdict of early season epics. The two skiers were descending towards their four wheeled home in the twilight of a north cascade fall. The topic of discussion was not new. Concessions were made to the unrelenting realization of possessing perhaps a tad bit too much positive feeling. And that optimism, when it comes to snow quality and quantity is too seldom called a disease. They compared this particular failure to others, like trying to ski a westerly couloir off Torreys Peak in September, or predicting a corn cycle at 12k on Rainer in the face of 50mph winds, or the constellation of times when they were sure it would clear up any minute now….any minute…

The DOT driver was somehow not amused. He opened with “I’ve been waiting for you boys.” And the wayward skiers sensed that their equally wayward plan of skiing the old growths of Rainy Pass under headlamp was being thwarted right before their eyes
They played it cool.
“Oh.”
The DOT driver was all too familiar with what poets call “the greater fools”. He called them dirtbags. Both are complements.
“Highway is closed for the winter…been closed for a little while now too.”
Blank stares.
“Oh.”
He looked them over again.
“I think I’ll follow you out. I know your type.”
He smiled and rolled up the window.

I knew we were fucked then. But hell…I wasn't gonna cry. I have my limits too. I spent the last week living out of a car, sharing some claustrophobic, poorly aerated spaces with a fella who could soak through an underlayer just by thinking about exercise. We hadn’t showered in a combined two-week period. And when you share a car for a week straight there is really no other way of counting such things.
We would not get to ski Rainy Pass. We would not ski the beautiful Old Growths of the American Alps as planned.
Had I known then that I would never get to ski with George again I would have listened when he said, “I bet we could loose him….drive like a man.”

George Dirth died last week. And I can’t believe my eyes. I still don't believe the very words I’m writing…..it’s so surreal.

George knew mountains. He traveled like only the most experienced of the snow men…like a cat. Feeling his way through risk with sage and persistent attention to details. I skied more with him than with anyone else in the last couple of years of my adventuring and I trusted him. George knew terrain. He knew risk. He knew snow. The problem was that the snow didn't know that, or maybe….it just didn't care.

Either way, a week ago a large slab avalanche was set free by George (or is the other way around?) as he, without a doubt in good style, was making turns out in Colorado. I haven’t been able to read the full report. The sight of one picture from the incident was enough. And truly, the details here are just not important.
I know the basics: Slab. Fracture at tree line on a steep convex slope. Avalanche path below. Ran for something like 500ft.

Not too long ago I would have read that and thought….
Not me.
Not any of MY friends.

No offense, but if you’re thinking the same thing….you’re a moron. PLEASE believe me, it takes one to know one and you’re it.

Perhaps the whole point of this here rambling is that you think about this…even if it’s just one more time.

Besides snow, George very much loved his family, his woman, friends and perfect strangers. He selflessly rescued a stranger as she was swept onto a cliff by an avalanche. After activating search and rescue he down-climbed fifth class terrain in snowboard boots to secure her to the rock while they waited for the men with the ropes to come.
He was a vocal advocate for safety and often told me “You gotta be the dude that speaks up, it's your responsibility.”

He was passionate about opening the world of the backcountry to all. George was in the process of designing his own board for OZ; they were thinking about calling it the Dirth Raider, I believe….but he was just as welcoming and friendly with the absolute novice as he was with men of his own caliber and experience.

I don't have the energy or the will to paint for you the full picture of what we all lost last week. But I gotta tell you this:
My friend, George Dirth, was special. He was truly a very, very good dude and I miss him like hell already.

I used to watch Steep and other films of the same vein and wonder….does it really matter…this whole death during passion business?
I gotta tell you.
I don't think so.
It just hurts.
A lot.

George and I have some projects left unfinished. Not that I think he was saving them for me. He would have missed my wedding day to ski the Grand. I would miss it too if I got to see him one more time.
They will be finished in his honor.

Most are adventures. One is a blog.
Grand Lines is George’s creation and labor of love, one that he was hoping to grow to include Utah and the PNW.
It was his way of giving back to the community of snow-crazed lovers of adventure while “getting shit for free, obviously!”

The memorial service, for those who may be reading this in CO is being held this Saturday. Whether or not you knew him, all are welcome to come. He would have like that. That's just the way he was. Grace. No pretense. Just a big heart and too many sweat pores to share a tent with.

Having never met him, I will say still that George Dirth had the same spirit as the iconic water man of Hawaii….Eddie Aikau
After his tragic demise, a saying was born: Eddie would go.
Simply to the point isn’t it?
George would go. He’d get there a little late…G was a big fan of napping, you see. But he’d rip it hard and true and shamelessly go-pro himself doing it too.

Thanks for listening. I hope that with the final arrival of
Winter, you will heed the inner voice when it tells you to turn around. I hope that luck is on your side if that voice is silent. And I hope that if you find yourself staring down an intimidatingly steep slope…that you make some turns in style for my man George.

vimeo.com/69142887

Sorry for your loss, RIP George.

Any age is too young to die in an Avalanche.

Well, that was worth reading..  I imagine George would have approved.   Damn, but nice work.

Sorry for your loss Aleksey - that video of George with his dogs is great.  Captures a chunk of his personality, I bet.

Thanks.
That was a great memorial to your bud.
I suspect he appreciates it.

Read "Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why", by Laurence Gonzales.

George sounds like a great friend. That comes through so clearly in your post.

We're sorry he's gone - thanks for sharing a bit about him.