I have lived not just one life, but many- and I have left every single one of them to find myself a little more. Despite every change I’ve made, there has been one place where I have found my true self in every single life. Outside. Among the trees, on top of mountains, in the silence of snowy fields and desert landscapes. The Yin and Yang. In reality I find it hard to pretend to obey but mountains have always kept me honest. And when I organically meet someone in the mountains, intuitively I know we are destined to be friends. This is the magic of the mountains.

It is humbling to be alive and awake. When you meet someone who has their fingertip on the pulse, who is also old enough to know better and yet still young enough to enjoy it, you both somehow know that it is possible that the world itself is without meaning. This is how I felt when I first met Kurt Blair on Mt. Emma on June 10, 2023.

Of all the San Juan joints in all the mountains in that vast range, he walked into mine. Standing there with my friend Darin Baker watching Kurt gracefully prance up the rocky ridge finish in his ski boots as I said out loud, “be careful”, his Cheshire grin informed this was not his first rodeo. Humble and confident as we shared information, I’d hoped that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Pain is my playground. It is subjective. Surrender the body to the environment and there to accept all the fear doubt and insecurity. It’s about taking control. There we face our own darkness and get to truly know ourselves. Exploring the depths of our own being. Breaking the pain barrier is a brave soul who suffers for a greater cause. In order to truly experience pleasure you must also experience real pain. Pain is the portal to the meaning of life. The scars we carry a proud reminder of the pain we suffered.

Sometimes bad has to happen in order to appreciate the good.

I don’t want to burden you with sadness—this is a story of the incredible adventures I shared with my friend Kurt Blair. And yet, losing him has left a wound that may never fully heal. I feel robbed. I feel denial, anger, envy, and profound grief. But I’m here to honor the Kurt I knew: talented, generous, knowledgeable, regretful, genuine, proud, hopeful, tenacious, kind. Human.

These are the stories of our time together, however brief. My last text to him was on December 3, 2024: “Please tell me you’re bunkered down waiting for the weather to change.” He never replied.

Now, it’s time for me to let go. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting—it means finding freedom in acceptance.

Weimenuche 7/14/23

In the summer of 2023, I fell into the familiar trap of chasing a checklist: the bicentennials. The great Gore Galore once said, “Everyone should climb a mountain for their own reasons. My favorites may not be other people's favorites. Find your own. That’s where the sense of exploration comes in. Don’t follow someone else.” Don’t be a sheeple I say, and always give credit where it’s due. Chasing the bicentennials turned out to be one of the most enjoyable lists I’ve ever pursued, filled with absurdly creative loops and the equally absurd friends who joined me. Insanity, after all, is contagious.

One of my closest friends, Steve, was eager to climb Oso, while I had my sights set on everything. Then, out of the blue, Kurt called to ask about my weekend plans. Together, we devised a five-day backpacking trip to tackle Oso, Silex, Guardian, Six, and Seven—a feat that would have been impossible without Kurt’s quiet tenacity. Steve, always the sharp navigator, makes climbing less stressful for me. I had just met Kurt on Mt. Emma a month prior, but now we were about to spend five days in the Weminuche. That’s a lot of miles, a lot of uphill, and a mix of long, quiet stretches punctuated by bursts of adrenaline. Out there, thoughts crystallize, and every step feels earned. I often find myself thinking, I own this.

The three of us couldn’t have been more different in personality, but it worked. On Oso’s steadfast summit, we traversed over to the slippery spire of So-So. Somewhere along the way, Kurt asked how Steve and I had met. Friendships are often built on shared gripes, and we both launched into a litany of stories. Kurt, with his sharp wit, quipped, “Sounds like that guy is a few fries short of a happy meal.” It was hilarious, and it summed up our situation perfectly.

After parting ways with Steve, Kurt and I pressed on to Rock Lake. The next morning, we bushwhacked to Leviathan Creek. It was brutal, and when we reached the lone tree across Vallecito, I looked at Kurt and said, “You first.” We found a suitable camp, did some housekeeping and shouldered small packs up toward The Guardian and Silex. We freelapsed into an exhilarating ridge scramble between the two escaping into immediacy to quiet a cluttered world and my mind. Moving fast and light across a solid ridge is intoxicating. The next morning we traversed from Six to Seven. It’s chossified ridge with pluckable holds, its easy to let temptation get in the way of good outcomes. Doing something bad sometimes feels good and traversing a chossy ridge seems to only make me smile but when I looked back at Kurt, he was also smiling. I thought, perhaps I’ve met my match? On Six I marveled at Jagged’s ridge and believed him trustworthy to explain my obsession with Gray Needle.

On our way out this time I went first and stumbled upon one of the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen in the San Juans. I thought, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this. Kurt said it was a tiger lily and needs specific seasonal conditions to grow and that he hadn’t seen one in years. He also told me about his sister who is a savant botanist and mother who loves and grows many flowers. Kurt has a library that I have seen something similar to in Moab of Dave Schipper CEO of Outdoor Labs. While Dave’s library is rock climbing focused, I could spend a lifetime reading in Kurt's library thumbing through the relics and autographed treasures while marveling at pictures of him on 8000m peaks. Among the stories, one stood out—the time he returned early from Denali to care for his mother.

The more Kurt opened up, the more I realized the value of simply listening. Sometimes, my greatest achievement is keeping my mouth shut. He lived by a simple yet profound philosophy: you only get one chance at life, so do the right thing the first time. For Kurt, a balanced life—one without overindulgence or deprivation—was key. He had climbed during the "good old days," driven purely by passion rather than the pursuit of recognition.

As we crossed the final stretch of the Vallecito River, water surging mid-thigh, I turned back and said, “Sometimes, you just have to take it.” Kurt, ever pragmatic, reminded me to unbuckle my pack in case I went under. By the time we reached the car, we were hot, dry, and utterly spent, but the journey had left us both richer in ways that only the mountains can provide.

Lizard head 8/20/23

With eyes squinting against the afternoon sun, my friend Ben aka Supranihiliest read on the summit register a post from Kurt’s son Dylan that said, “my dad is so cool.” I called Kurt that night and the conversation went in an unexpected direction of secret wish list climbs of which I have many and tell no one. Somehow my number one climb was also on his radar and we started planning. Eisenhower once said, “In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”

Africa 10/6-10/26/23

Atmospheric Optics. Sunrises and sunsets in Africa seemed to stretch into eternity, painted in hues made more vivid by low humidity and clean air. Mount Kenya, with its dormant volcanic parallelograms adorned in muted gray lichen, was unlike any puzzle I had ever encountered. To acclimate, we climbed Lenana. Although October is usually Africa’s dry season, it snowed—dry flakes stacking delicately on the ground, their dendrites creating airy spaces and excellent ventilation. Staying positive is key when climbing big objectives.

The porters were unforgettable. One passed me with a smile, carrying at least 70 pounds, including a chair I’d later sit on while enjoying “Spanish pancakes” at camp. His genuine joy and kindness were humbling. My claim to fame is only at punching rocks.

The day before our climb of Nelion Peak’s north face from Shipton Camp, we rested while the porters helped stash our gear at the base. When it came time to start, Kurt won the Rochambeau and led the first pitches, combining two into one smooth effort in his La Sportiva Trango Tech GTX boots. He made it look effortless.

On belay, I fumbled—punching three rocks, kneeing two more, and feeling thoroughly out of my comfort zone. At the belay, I admitted, “I think this climb is better than me. I’m not sure I should keep going.” Kurt reassured me, insisting the next pitches were within my abilities. His confidence in me was unshakable. With his encouragement, we swapped leads and simul-climbed to a giant amphitheater, where we unroped and free climbed to the crux.

There, rock shoes came out, and I began the intricate dance up the slab. We zig-zagged—right, then left—tangoing, foxtrotting, step by step, on an endless series of holds, as clouds swirled like guardians of the peaks as if it were their home. “Hey, are we gonna make it?” I asked. Kurt smiled. “No,” he replied, “but we shall continue with style.”

Hours later, we reached the west ridge direct, discovering an excellent bivy site with snow. I climbed in my rock shoes through the snow, feeling oddly at home. The ridge, a low-angle masterpiece of rock with sparse protection, claimed a YDS 5.7 grade but felt like one of the scariest blank sections I’d ever faced. Kurt danced the salsa ahead, while I followed in terror. The 6,000,000-foot-long ridge felt endless, but finally, just before sunset, we stood on the summit of Nelion and radioed back to base camp: We made it!

The descent was a marathon. Kurt’s route-finding skills led us to faster, freer paths to the rappels, but the 28 rappels themselves were their own mess. Every pull seemed to snag the rope. My arms burned as I stacked coils into small saddlebags to keep them from tangling—only to watch them snag anyway. We alternated climbing back up to free the ropes, exhaustion compounding with each attempt.

A dry, cold windstorm with laser sharp ice crystals lashed our faces, our headlamps cutting through the darkness. “How you doing?” I asked Kurt mid-descent. His quiet persistence was unshaken. I lost track of how many non-stop hours had passed—18 now on route, maybe—but I asked Kurt what he’d charge a client for this climb. He quipped, “Two guides, three days, $10,000.” I laughed. “Well, looks like I just saved ten grand.”

On final rappel, Kurt declared, “If the ropes get stuck again, I’m leaving them.” Mercifully, they didn’t. Dehydrated, cramping and stupefied we arrived at base by 2am, the porters greeted us with warm tea and cookies, their patience and kindness the perfect antidote to our ass-beating.

Diversity is our strength, unity our power—and in moments like this, those truths resonate deeply. The climb may have been grueling and life-changing but it was a testament to persistence and teamwork. To me it seemed like we were a thousand miles away but once I stepped back to live in the moment, I could see that we were all just on a long journey back home.

On the way out the next day I thought, whatever you say, say nothing. I never saw a woman porter. I didn’t see many women or older people matter-of-fact and decided I’d enjoy the silence. Blend in with my blonde hair, green eyes, white skin and fatness. Enjoy the lobelias, chameleons, weird little hydraxes and the most beautiful blue flower I’ve ever seen. I loved the vastness, the peaceful landscapes, the porters smiles, the whacky birds and vegetation with Mt. Kenya at my back as we hiked toward the middle of the earth. There was no milk, no cream, no cheese and no butter. I didn’t realize how much I would miss butter until I went to Africa. I never saw a cow or a horse or a dog. I suppose its hard to domesticate zebras and hyenas and cows are messy. I am a mess after 5 days on route. We got a hotel, showered and drank beer. The next day we flew to Tanzania for the tallest peak in Africa.

We opted for a quicker route up Kilimanjaro, again with porters. While I appreciated their help, I couldn’t help but wonder about the FKT (Fastest Known Time) and wish I could just take off on my own. Porter speed wasn’t exactly my pace.

The best part of Kili? Sharing a bunk with two French women. They smelled like roses, exuded elegance, and were easily the loveliest sights I’d encountered in a while. Their nightly spritzing ritual and soft French exchanges were a sensory delight. Meanwhile, the guides in the room next door stayed up all night talking loudly in Swahili—when, frankly, I’d have preferred more French. Finally, I crawled out of my warm bunk, knocked on their door, and pleaded for silence.

At midnight, we all rose for the final, grueling ascent. It was painfully slow, to the point where frustration consumed me. I yelled out, “Chop, chop!” trying to spur some urgency. I told Kurt I was freezing because of how slow we were moving. Ever the steady presence, he calmed me down and helped me stop to put on my puffy pants. I was irritated, but the dudette must abide.

As we slogged on, I couldn’t resist nudging Kurt, venting about the ridiculous pace. Finally, we caught up with the lead group and passed them. Kurt glanced back at me with a grin and said, “Let’s go!” I’d never experienced anything like it—falling asleep while hiking uphill, yet somehow still moving forward.

Step in step, clandestine rebels at heart, hating to be shackled by rules. By the time we reached the summit, it was just us, beating the sunrise and everyone else. Together, we pulled the devil by his tail and claimed the summit in glorious freezing solitude. On the descent, I couldn’t resist taking off—scree skiing was absolutely otherworldly. Behind me, I could hear the porters mimicking my earlier outburst, yelling, "Chop, chop!" Whatever.

The key to truly appreciating someone’s company, I’ve found, is not spending every moment with them. After days surrounded by porters, fellow climbers, and even Kurt—especially during our time on safari—I desperately needed solitude.

So, I set off on foot, wandering into the wilderness with the monkeys, elephants and giraffes. I beat my chest and let out a primal scream: "Ahhhhhh, ahhhhh ah ahhhhhhhhh!" It was cathartic, wild, and exactly what I needed. Kurt, as always, seemed to understand without question.

Staunton 11/12/23

Kurt was in town for his IFMGA pinning ceremony and we celebrated with friends at my favorite sport climbing state park. It was my turn to play guide as I thought a fully decorated rare bird like him should climb my favorite routes with one of my favorite partners. Watching these two skilled climbers send routes effortlessly was even more enjoyable than climbing them myself. After they flawlessly tackled a route I often struggle on, I came up with a contest: Who could climb it faster, Chris or Kurt? They were game, and naturally, Kurt edged out the win in the final five seconds. As I lowered him down, he said, “You’re a bad influence.” I couldn’t help but think, Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Instead, I quipped, “I’m always right… sometimes.”

We said our goodbyes, and Kurt took off for a winter-long ski mountaineering trip in Chamonix with his good friend and fellow SJMG guide Steven Van Sickle. See you next year, Colonel.

Castles East 6/12/24

Keeping in touch with Kurt all winter was exhilarating, and his European adventures sounded like a hit. At one point, I shared more of my secret wish-list climbs, with the FFFA on Castles East sitting at the very top. Kurt’s reply was classic: “Well, you don’t achieve happiness by taking it easy. There’s work to do. Which pitches do you want?”

The group who climbed before us had rated this newly LiDAR-ranked hardest 12er in the state at “5.10 WTF,” which gave the fear of blowing it yet the excitement of doing it. I mapped it out and was confident that Kurt and I could tackle it as a day trip. Of course, he brought the best and lightest gear. We met the night before to sort it, ate pizza, and car camped at the trailhead. It was great to see him again. I slept well.

The approach was a grueling 10 miles, winding through a moraine, crossing a freezing river, and ascending some heinous, hardpan terrain with almost zero grip. Thankfully, my GTX boots held up. I claimed the odd-numbered pitches and set off, gingerly navigating the first chossy pitch, feeling oddly cozy. I love choss. He solved the crux puzzle in 2.5 seconds and I followed with the heavy backpack penalty. Sometimes it’s better to lead everything so you don’t have to climb with Godzilla on your back. The third pitch was a beast—harder, weirder, and requiring some creative chimney wriggling. A #5 cam was handy but wasn’t essential. I corkscrewed my way up, managing rope drag as the real crux, then transitioned right to left. Combining the final two pitches demanded even more careful rope drag management. At the top, I realized I’d been focusing too hard on ego instead of the process. There’s value in setting goals, but sometimes the real reward comes from letting go and immersing yourself in the journey. We’d done it, and I found comfort in knowing our path was uniquely ours. Standing at the summit, I felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be.

This climb held a deeper meaning for me. My mother-in-law, Kathi, had recently passed away, and I carried her ashes with me all the way to the top. Sharing that moment with Kurt was incredibly special. He even captured a video I was able to send to the family. As I released her ashes into the wind, I said, “We’re only here for a little while, and it can be so beautiful. Enjoy the present moment as long as you can.” Then, with all my heart, I screamed, “Be free, Kathi!” It was perfect—perfection in its purest form, when there’s nothing left to take away.

On the way back down, we slipped into philosophical conversations. “If you want knowledge, add daily; if you want wisdom, subtract daily,” we mused. I joked that with age comes wisdom—if you can remember it. Sometimes my brain damage flares up, which ironically helps with forgetting the unimportant stuff.

If you do the right thing, there’s nothing to explain. That day, Kurt and I created a memory I’ll treasure forever. Some things, no matter how much brain damage you have, you don’t forget. Thank you, Kurt.

Block Tops 6/25/24

Jonny Zaugg is an enigma, and his obsession with the Skyline Traverse was contagious. The crux? The Block Tops—specifically, navigating around T3. Watching his video left me awestruck, a stark reminder of how fleeting and small my existence is. It was both glorious and humbling. Naturally, I started obsessing about traversing up and over the Block Tops and reached out to Boggy, the San Juan Sage, for guidance.

Kurt and I slept at the YBB trailhead the night before. True to form, Boggy arrived the next morning on time in his mods $$$ budgeted Igloo and whisked us up to the upper upper 4×4 road where vehicles with rear lockers, low range transfer cases and flux capacitors with an off-road capability score of 70/70 go. He added plutonium and we drove at 21 gigawatts which gave the driver score of 10/10. Boggy’s driving skills are unmatched, and thanks to him, I now know how to handle washboards like a pro.

When I stumbled outside into the light I felt anxious. Energy was high. Boggy, who knows the terrain better than anyone, mapped out a plan: ascend Gilpin, traverse T4 to T1, then loop back via Blue Lakes Pass. The scale of the task—and the quality of the terrain—loomed large in my mind.

No one ever rates choss but if they did on a scale of 1-6 where CHO 1 is downright enjoyable and saves time like scree skiing down Kilimanjaro, CHO 2 wastes a little time like going uphill or traversing with pluckable holds but the enjoyment factor is still high like traversing peak 6 to 7. CHO 3 has negative enjoyment factor and for every one foot forward you slide back 1.5’ like most San Juan and Elks choss. CHO 4 is utterly miserable and adds to the WMA (weighted mental age) like traversing to Little Finger or going up to Castles East. CHO 5 would describe anything that you're still stuck on while waiting for SAR. This is how I imagine traversing around T3 would be like. CHO 6, you don’t make it. Skull and crossbones. If this were the case, going up to Gilpin was CHO 3. It would be a CHO 1 with complete snow coverage and CHO 4 without.

Finally, we reached the ridge, and climbing T4 was an absolute blast. The weather was perfect, and the three of us chattered away like birds of a feather. Then came the real business. Kurt led the charge as we faced the infamous T3. Boggy, armed with his CalTopo tiles, suggested an east-to-north approach for the best chance of success.

Kurt tackled a blind corner, climbing down, around, and up, ripping off 3,000 holds and inadvertently modifying the terrain as he went. Watching him navigate the snapping dinner plates of rock was nerve-wracking. When he gave us a thumbs-up, it was Boggy’s turn. He knocked down 4,000 more loose holds, kicking steps into crumbling rock, each movement a test of nerve. I stood frozen, trying to calm my mind by writing a poem:

T3, take me out of this cruel world.
Let me ride with you like a gentle wind,
Run along the rocky top,
And dance like a wild flame.

T3

It didn’t help. Adrenaline surged as I watched Boggy unlock the technical section. My nerves were shot, my hands shaking, my leg doing the Elvis. When my turn came, traversing the choss section, you were on your own. Don’t fall. While hanging onto the third to last hold on the solid rock around the corner, I asked Kurt to toss me down the rope. I tied in with my left hand while I white knuckled the right on a three finger crimp. I didn’t need the rope but it sure made me feel better. Once I was up, I hugged Kurt and pushed onward.

At the summit of T3, we found the register stuck. Boggy and Kurt teamed up with an axe and a locker to pry it open, only to find the paper inside wet. Still, we managed to read that the first ascent was made in 1934—by Kurt’s grandfather, Robert Blair. What!? Standing there, I realized I was climbing with royalty. It was surreal.

We set up a rappel, and I went first, playing canary across the CHO 2 terrain to T2. I pointed out loose rocks and followed the west side, another CHO 2. Boggy found a fun route up T2 and confidently led the way from T2 to T1. Leaving our packs at the ridge, we made a quick out-and-back to T1 before returning to gear up for the descent.

With spiky gear on, we descended as the sun cascaded and dominated the sky. Boggy dropped us off at Kurt’s truck, and Kurt drove me back to my car. Before I got out, he turned to me and said, “You have really good friends.”

Sport climbing 8/3/24

I’ve never really thought of sport climbing as either a sport or true climbing, but I’ll admit it’s a great way to build strength. I’m probably the worst indoor climber you’ll ever meet, but when it comes to outdoor sport climbing, I take it a bit more seriously—especially at a destination like Staunton State Park, which I’d say is Colorado’s answer to Owens River Gorge. It can actually be fun.

One of my big goals this year was to finally lead a 5.11, and Kurt, knowing this, joined me and my crew for a day at Staunton while he was in town. That day, I got plenty of free flight lessons and learned a valuable lesson: be wary of partners with short attention spans.

Kurt has a knack for seeing the big picture and helped me stay focused, which made a huge difference. Though I still don’t think sport climbing is my true passion, that day reminded me it has its place—and it can even be rewarding.

Gray Needle 10/1/24

Jonny, Boggy, and I finally climbed and established the route up Gray Needle. The USGS won't update the summit coordinates if they hold historical value, but thanks to Clint, who located the old CMC star-drive bolts, we were able to pinpoint the original summit. It felt like uncovering a piece of history.

After the climb, Kurt suggested meeting in Durango to celebrate and discuss plans for the following day. Boggy had to head home, so Jonny and I met up with Kurt and his best friend, Bruce. While they shared stories of their trip to Greece, most of the conversation circled back to Gray Needle.

It would’ve been amazing to share the summit with all of them, but perhaps it was meant to be the three of us—third time’s the charm, after all. Two years ago, we’d approached via Lime Creek, only to wake up to a foot of snow. The second attempt saw us climbing every single pinnacle from Jagged to Gray Needle, but the bolts eluded us. This third time, armed with the knowledge of their location, we went in with renewed piss and vigor—and finally succeeded.

Chimney Rock 10/2/24

Sleep-deprived but showered and well-fed, Kurt was stoked to climb Chimney Rock with Ben and me. The day felt like a fable, where Kurt was the wise pika, keeper of one profound truth; I, the crafty chipmunk, knowing many small things and attuned to the chaos of unforecasted outcomes; and Ben, the snow leopard heretic, embracing the absurd with reckless faith. The chipmunk knows that sheer luck often determines survival in the face of unpredictability, skirting disaster by the thinnest margins of misadventure.

The climb itself teased and tested us, demanding unconventional thinking, sharp observation of the smallest environmental details, and the patient unraveling of a KerPlunk puzzle—one only a pika seemed born to decode. There was nowhere to hide. The snow leopard’s bold defiance of logic made us question everything: Yes, your tongue can get stuck if you lick a metal pole, and sure, that cobble in the mudstone will hold body weight. Nothing is truly for nothing—and speaking of nothing, there was nowhere to place gear.

As I climbed the second pitch, I was struck by a memory of a sign I’d seen once: “Jesus loves you.” My only thought was, Well, that’s because he doesn’t really know me.

Despite the challenges, forgiveness came easily when Ben summitted. I pointed behind him and said, “Look.” The expression on his face when he turned and saw the shimmering golden aspens blanketing the Cimarron’s was worth the entire free solo effort. It reminded me that nothing in nature lives solely for itself. Rivers don’t drink their own water, and trees don’t consume their own fruit. Living for each other is the unspoken rule of the wild—and what a privilege it was to share this adventure together.

The drive home was long, a blur of winding roads and fading adrenaline, leading to a groggy "Blursday" at work on the Frange the next day. But the memories of that climb and the lessons it carried lingered, as vivid as those golden leaves.

Rainbow route 10/7/24

Kurt was in town again, and we met up for an indoor climbing session. I climbed every hard route I could find, working through all the colors of the rainbow until gobies formed on my fingertips. But this visit wasn’t just for climbing—Kurt wanted to meet my husband, Marc, over dinner and talk about a potential trip to Potrero.

Marc has always been wary of leisure trips to Mexico, convinced that women like me tend to disappear there. As a result, he’s effectively banned such adventures. While I usually have a long leash and occasionally land myself in the doghouse, there are some ideas that simply stay ideas.

Marc complements me more than he compliments me. He pats my head when I manage controlled meltdowns and laughs at my endless onomatopoeia's. Truthfully, I’d rather lose with him than win with anyone else, and I won’t embark on an adventure unless he’s on board.

At dinner, Kurt slowly got the hang of Marc’s dry humor, and Marc eventually relaxed. Despite our three very different personalities, the evening went surprisingly well. Later, Kurt told me, “I think you two both feel lucky to have each other.”

He’s absolutely right. The next day, I bought my ticket to Monterrey.

Las Vegas 11/7/24

My favorite Frange climbing partner, Chris, and I planned a trip to Vegas to tick off all our wish list classic routes. On the last day, while we were cruising up one of the popular trade routes that usually has a line, a climber with a smile like Kurt’s passed me on the left. He politely checked if I was okay with him doing so, and I waved him on.

At the next belay, I introduced myself, and he confessed he was a guide, introducing himself as Aiden Multhaf. I laughed and said, “Like Molotov cocktail? Cool.” He asked what gave away the guide vibe, and I told him it was his smile—it reminded me of my favorite climbing partner, SJMG’s Kurt.

He immediately shouted, “Kurt Blair?!” Surprised, I said, “Yes, do you know him?” Aiden lit up and launched into the same hilarious, legendary stories I’ve heard from everyone who’s ever climbed with Kurt, including myself.

Chasing each other up the route was a blast, and as we rappelled down, we ran into none other than Erik Weihenmayer and my secret crush, Jimmy Chin. It was a surreal moment. I’m glad I was mid-rappel, or my Elvis leg might’ve danced itself into an embarrassing spectacle. Instead, I kept my cool, smiled, and counted my blessings.

While still on the route, I texted Kurt to tell him about the encounter. He was already on his way to Monterrey, but I knew he’d appreciate the story. It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

Potrero 11/13/24

Kurt met me at the airport with a driver to ensure I arrived safely at Rancho el Sendero. I was running on fumes after burning the candle at both ends—working through the night and jumping on a flight with the hope of catching some sleep en route. That afternoon, we strolled around town and dined at La Posada, where my friend Paul Barrish was staying. The food was incredible, and the conversation—centered on past, present, and future climbs—was nothing short of inspiring. Listening to them reminisce about climbs like Ama Dablam and dream about routes like Time Wave Zero made my heart happy.

After much-needed sleep and a homemade Kurt-special omelet, we set off the next day for an amazing climb with a full view of Time Wave Zero. I knew Paul was giving it everything he had on his own climb, which filled me with a sense of camaraderie and motivation. Our route, predictably, was already crowded, and Kurt noticed my restless energy. He let me take the lead to shake out my nerves. Kurt’s polite persistence got us past a slow party of four, and soon it was just the two of us, back in our familiar rhythm.

I struggled at the crux of the third pitch, my lead faltering slightly. I’ve always had a knack for mimicry, but sometimes I need chaos to ignite the spark that pushes me forward—Nietzsche’s idea of birthing a dancing star through chaos resonates deeply with me. Chaos is my ally, the fuel for my creativity and fire. As I pieced together the puzzle of the crux, Kurt’s calm, steady presence traveled through the rope like a lifeline. He watched intently as I worked out the moves. When I finally succeeded, he pumped his fist in celebration, a shared moment of triumph.

There was a unique flow between us that day, a mix of my anxious energy and his steady calm. He could have climbed with anyone else, but he chose me, making me feel like an equal. That kind of energy pushes me to climb stronger and freer. Sometimes I think, I’m going to fall. It’s okay if you fall—everyone falls sometimes.

That evening, we had dinner with Michelle and Luke. Michelle, the niece of the Sendero’s owner, is training to become a guide at Potrero, and Kurt had spent the previous week helping her. Despite the language barrier, her determination was unmistakable. She reminded me of vibrant blue flowers in Africa—rare and full of life. Luke, a family friend of Kurt’s and the creator of The Zine magazine, gave me a copy of his latest issue. He reminded me of myself—a soul perpetually chased by a dark horse, torn between two conflicting selves. In the end, we all have to be our own heroes, even if we carry cracks within.

On the flight home, amid the chaos of noise pollution and crowded spaces, my mind wandered. My thoughts shifted from the clutter of judgment and decisions to scheming and dreaming about future climbs with Kurt. Winter and spring training for our big climb on the Cassin Ridge filled my imagination. Kurt has unfinished business there and told me to go home and start preparing. Though I’m constantly tired, I find peace in the process of planning, mapping out the details of what lies ahead. A good climbing partner is a rare and valuable gift, one that brings clarity and freedom to the chaos.

We parted ways at Concourse B in Denver—Kurt heading to the presidential lounge, and me to Marc, who was waiting curbside. Soon after, Kurt was off to New Zealand to guide a climb on Mt. Cook. And in February 2025, we’ll set out together for Bolivia. The journey continues.

December 1, 2024

I wake up to a text from Jonny: Kurt is missing on Mt. Cook. I immediately text Kurt, though I know it’s futile. My phone buzzes incessantly as friends reach out, their concern palpable. In moments like these, character is revealed at its rawest, stripped bare in the mightiest of lows. At first, I feel strangely unbroken, trapped in denial. I reach out to Dylan and Bruce, hoping for some reassurance, but it takes them both a while to respond. At work, paranoia creeps in, and I find myself obsessively checking the news, scrolling for answers that aren’t there, hoping for a glimmer of treasure in the void.

Kurt always made me feel like I belonged, like I could be someone—not the nobody I’ve always feared I am. If I lose him, what’s left? Quitting feels so easy. But then I hear his voice in my head: Have you learned nothing? You only get one life. Do the right thing. Take care of yourself first. Ride it out.

That night, I take a long walk, trying to clear my head, but everything hurts. My leg throbs, my back burns, my heart aches, and my head feels empty. The pain isn’t new, but tonight it cuts deeper. It’s the comparison—the contrast between how good things once were and the emptiness of now—that amplifies it. Chronic pain isolates you, making you feel like no one truly understands. As I shuffle back home along the paved trail, my leg feels like lead, my back sears, and I’m reminded—life, for all its weight and struggle, is still a privilege. But the thought flickers: Is it better to burn out than to fade away?

It feels hollow to say, at least he died doing what he loved. Clichés like that are just platitudes—simplistic, stale, and unoriginal to me. Death always feels premature. Grief doesn’t follow a script; time doesn’t always heal wounds. Life doesn’t fit neatly into chapters or formulas, and this ache, I suspect, may never fully fade. I still haven’t cried. Maybe I’m too stubborn, or maybe it’s because crying has never solved anything for me. That’s why I don’t do it.

Yet in loss, there’s an uncomfortable clarity. The most valuable moments often emerge when something is taken away. Maybe Kurt will become just a footnote in history, a name remembered only by a few. But one thing I know with certainty is this: To thine own self be true.