Finding peace and closure, 27 years later.

My father died alone on a chairlift at Okemo Mountain, VT after suffering a sudden heart attack on the morning of Monday, November 21, 1994. We were told that he was dead by the time he arrived at the top, at that the poor young lift operator was understandably quite upset.

Two ski patrollers, a man and a woman, went above and beyond and drove my father’s Bronco from Okemo back to NJ. My mother made them a meal, which we shared at my childhood kitchen table before they returned to Vermont.

I was not in the right frame of mind at that time to get their contact information so that I could properly thank them when things settled. I was 26 years old, and my fiancé had just died from cancer. I came back home to live with my parents after his death. My father was heartbroken over the loss of his future son-in-law, who was more like another son to him, and to see me in so much pain.

He heard that Okemo had 3 slopes open, so he quickly packed his bags to prepare for his November early season trip to heal his soul. You know, the way only the skiing and the mountains can.

He walked around the house that Sunday in his ski boots, “breaking them in” for the season, he said. He proudly showed me how he fixed his ski pants with duct tape. He seemed to linger longer than usual before going to bed. He would often get up at 4am for our trips to Vermont. He made his lunch, and he left a love note for my mother before heading to bed later than usual.

Over dinner with the two ski patrollers, I bravely asked them if anyone had actually seen my father skiing. I wanted to make sure that he did not die before he got some runs in. My father skied in an unusual way. Usually listening to his “tunes”, which was an old Walkman duct taped to his chest. Oh, how he would love the advances in technology we have today!

Anyway, he would listen to his “tunes” and ski with his arms outstretched, making wide GS turns when he had the trail to himself. We called it “happy skiing”. His skiing simply exuded happiness. He was easy to notice. So I knew that if he got some runs in, he would have been noticed. At our “home mountains” of Jack Frost/Big Boulder, everyone knew him as “doc”, the crazy psychiatrist who skied in a clown wig. The ski patrollers assured me that he had been seen skiing. This was affirmed by his time of death, approximately 10:30. His goal was always first chair. So I know without a doubt that if he died at 10:30am, he would have gotten some good runs in.

After my inquiry, the Okemo skiers were so helpful and comforting. A lift operator wrote that she remembered that day, and that she had seen my father ski all morning. A lift mechanic told me that he saw that my father got first chair of the day, something he always strived for. Someone even sent me a digital copy of the article in The Rutland Herald about the event from 27 years ago. It filled in so many details that were unknown to me, and that I always wondered about. I was even given the name of the lift operator who was the first to have contact with my father and call ski patrol for help.

With this information, I returned to Okemo three days ago, and I took some emotional runs.

The newspaper article said that my dear father was taken down in the ski patrol sled on the Lower World Cup trail.

So that was my father’s last run. I’m pretty sure his spirit left his body by then, but I consider this his Last Run.

I was now able to ski this run with purposeful intention. And I literally took him with me, as when my brother handmade my custom skis, he put some of my father’s ashes in the lamination of the skis.

I celebrated an awesome bluebird ski day at Okemo with 22,000 vertical feet and 24 miles covered, and toasted my dad end of day with a yummy jalapeño margarita!

As I enjoyed my margarita, a woman asked if she could share the picnic bench with me at the base of the mountain at the end of the day. We got to talking. And as skiers often do, we quickly bonded, talking about skiing, our families, and our losses. As two complete strangers, we shared tears and a hug.

I believe every day is a beautiful day. For me, some days are just more beautiful than others. This day was a particularly beautiful day. A magnificent day at Okemo.

When I shared my story about my dad a couple months ago, an Okemo local told me something I never knew – the meaning of the word Okemo – “All Come Home.” Perfect.

Every day you ski, may you feel the thrill of the sport, the healing power of the mountains, and the beauty of connecting with strangers, your fellow skiers.