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I'm Maren Larsen. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a news article about a group of Seattleites who put on this event called Dick's-A-Thon. It's a 26.3 mile run around the city, connecting five locations of a local burger chain called Dick's Drive In. Participants have to eat five menu items throughout the course of the race, including three different burgers, fries, and a milkshake.

The organizers say it will test your physical, mental, and gastrointestinal strength. It sounds a bit like the quirky unofficial races we discussed in last week's episode, but it's also an unexpected and frankly kind of beautiful memorial to an outdoor athlete gone too soon. The Dick's-A-Thon is put on by the friends and family of Ian Cox, a climber, mountaineer, skier, and occasional runner who went missing in Washington's north Cascades in August of 2022. Just weeks after he went missing, people started to reach out to his twin brother Connor to ask if he'd want to reenact the Dick's-A-Thon, a challenge the brothers had undertaken together years before, in Ian's memory. Connor said yes.

It might not sound like a conventional way to grieve, but it seems to me that if your legacy is a marathon slash eating competition that brings together hundreds of people for a good cause, that hints at a life well lived.

When an outdoor adventurer dies doing what they love, there's usually a split between those who argue they were taking unnecessary and irresponsible risks and those who insist that a bit of risk is what makes life worth living. It's the latter group that often celebrates their loved ones by doing what they loved to do. In grief, they turn towards adventure, not away from it. For today's episode, we're going to talk about why they make that choice. And some of the surprising and powerful ways that we choose to honor the hard-charging people in our lives when they're gone. This episode is about death and grief. If you're not in a place to hear about that right now, this is your chance to skip this one.

Jeremy Jones: Unfortunately I have a lot of experience of losing friends in the outdoors.

Maren: This is Jeremy Jones.

Jeremy: I'm a husband, father, professional snowboarder, business owner of Jones Snowboards and founder of Protect Our Winners.

I was just at my home mountain and, uh, Palisades Tahoe, sitting in my car. We got there early. So I was just looking out, and it's like, I can look at the mountain and see a handful of different spots just at the mountain where I've lost friends.

I can look at the back of the cars and see the stickers that memorialize friends that have been lost. You see it when you get on the lift. You see it in the lift line. I mean, there is, you know, sadly, death all over.

Maren: Jeremy's home resort, Palisades Tahoe is located in California's Olympic Valley and it has been the launch pad for many professional skiers and riders over the years. For some, it has also been their final resting place.

One of Palisades most well known memorials is to Jeremy's friend, professional skier, base jumper, and beloved goofball, Shane McConkey.

Jeremy: There's like a beautiful eagle statue on top of this line that's now named McConkey's, which you can see from all over Olympic Valley. And it has his ashes in there, Shane McConkey's ashes. And it's the drop in spot of one of the more technical lines on the mountain. It's also a beautiful spot just to take in the views.

Maren: In 2009, when Shane was 39 years old, he went on his final adventure: an attempt at a combination of skiing and base jumping in Italy's Dolomites.

Jeremy: The reality is Shane was pushing the boundaries and probably the most dangerous sport in the world, which was a combination of skiing and wingsuiting and ski base jumping. And he had almost to some degree became desensitized to it. I mean, the level of acceptable risk for Shane and that group of people was enormous, cause they were incredible athletes and super high functioning. But the margin of error was so narrow.

Maren: For Jeremy, Shane's death hit hard Though both were elite athletes, their relationship had actually developed mostly off of the mountain, through their wives, Sherry McConkey and Tiffany Jones.

Jeremy: Our wives are best friends and our daughters were born at a similar time. And so my relationship with Shane was very much off the hill. Meaning, yeah, I mean, I, we'd get out and make turns for sure in the mountains, but, uh, we were really just new dads kind of going through that abrupt transition from no kids to changing diapers and all of that stuff.

Shane, passed away while I was halfway through shooting this film Deeper, which was my transition from helicopters and snowmobiles to foot powered snowboarding. And I was actually in Alaska, getting ready to do my first backcountry basecamp foot powered Alaskan trip. So, kind of the most out there that I had been in my snowboarding, like way out of my comfort zone.

So I came home as soon as I heard the news, and Sherry and his daughter kind of moved in with my wife for the first couple of weeks of that. And so to see firsthand, what it looks like if you don't come home, and see the level of anguish and sorrow and sadness, just put so much added weight to what I was doing in the mountains.

You know, here I am, I raised this money. I was making the first film that I'd ever done. and I had all these people in Alaska waiting for me and I just remember driving to the airport, and saying bye to Sherry and my wife and our daughters and just being so sad and so not want to leave home.

I mean, it was like I crawled into those mountains on my hands and knees, in sadness and humility. And it's, it's actually a really good way to go into the mountains.

Unfortunately, Shane was not the first person close to me that has passed away. And I've just learned, when it comes to doing serious snowboarding, starting at ground zero is a good place to start.

I was given some of his ashes and I kept them in my jacket through the whole two year process of filming Deeper. And that was really cool, actually, because I, I mean, I would literally, it was like in my wrist, kind of, uh, pass pocket of my jacket, and I would often just even just place my hand on them and think about them. And there was so much time over that two year period where I was doing stuff I'd never done before. And I would literally like touch his, the container that had his ashes. And then the last run, of the two year project, I dumped those ashes out on top of the line that I, uh, rode at the end of the project.

Maren: After that last moment in Alaska with his friend, Jeremy returned home to Tahoe, where there are signs of Shane's absence everywhere.

Jeremy: I'm reminded of Shane all the time. Cause I see his daughter and his wife, watched his daughter grow up and I'm at the dance recitals and those things. And I can't help, but think about Shane at those times. And the reality is with Shane, he unfortunately died way too young and his daughter didn't get to have a relationship with him. He died when she was three.

But it's really on Shane. It's so sad that he doesn't get to experience it.

Maren: Nearly 15 years on, the weight of grief remains. But for Jeremy, celebrating the life of a person who was committed to having as much fun as possible has also meant not letting the weight get in the way of joy.

Jeremy: He just loved to make fun of himself, make fun of anyone that took themselves too serious.

So I think that that's also maybe why his legacy continues so strong is because it does bring up so much joy and fun and goofiness. And the fact that life is short, and you're on a mountain, whether it's skiing, rock climbing, biking, whatever, we're super lucky to be here. Let's have fun while we're doing it.

Maren: Shane's wife, Sherry, started a foundation in his name with that goal in mind. Every year, they put on the Pain McShlonkey Classic, a fundraiser that consists of people wearing outrageous costumes while skiing difficult lines on snow blades, those super short skis that can be hard to take seriously. It's a memorial of a kind, but it's the furthest thing from somber.

Jeremy has lost many friends and mentors to accidents in the mountains, but he's found a way to hold on to them that both honors who they were and helps him embrace the risks and beauty in the kind of life they chose, and the one that he continues to live.

Jeremy: I think about him in the mountains, which at the end of the day, I think that that's probably the best way to memorialize people is being in really incredible, special places and thinking about them and feeling their spirit in your soul.

When I'm going out and putting on our gear and walking into these big, wild, dark, scary mountains, I use my friends at that time and say, ‘you know how happy Coombs or McConkey or Scotty or any, you know, so many of my friends, like if they had this opportunity right now, they would jump at it.’ And I'll, and we'll talk about it the night before. It's like, should we get up at 3 or 3:30? And I'm like, for our friends that are lost, we're getting up at three and we are going to have the most kick ass day. And it's really a freaky time, and a beautiful time to be walking in serious mountains in pitch black before there's any sign of light and it's quiet.

You're in this headspace of, where your mind is partially awake. And those are the times that I think of my friends the most and go, man, if they are looking down on us, they're probably looking down on us this morning. Cause we're really getting the most out of life today.

Maren: When we come back, we'll talk to an adventurer who's put some thought into how he wants to be remembered when he's gone.

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Peter Moore: My name is Peter Moore. I've been a, uh, hiker and climber, um, since I was about three years old when my dad dragged me up Mount Washington, mostly on his shoulders. The outdoors has always been a big part of my life and I one day imagined it'll be a big part of my death.

Maren: This is a topic Peter has considered a lot. In September, he published an essay on the website of our sister publication, Backpacker, titled “Scatter My Ashes in the Rocky Mountains.”

For Peter, a childhood of exploring the wilds of New Hampshire and Maine with his dad and brothers taught him that we experience the most powerful moments in life under an open sky, both good and bad.

Peter: I was, uh, 11 years old with my Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers on. I tiptoed across the knife edge on Katahdin and realized that terror and joy can often be very closely united, in the mountains.

Maren: Through those early trips, Peter's dad instilled in his sons a love of long hikes and high peaks. So when he died unexpectedly during a morning run when Peter was in his 40s, Peter and his brothers Immediately thought it would be most fitting to take their grief to the mountains.

Peter: It was quite cold that morning. and he went out for a run, and probably a quarter mile into it, he let himself down on the running path. I know this cause a neighbor told me what she had witnessed from her kitchen window. And, that was the end for him.

We were all freaked out, because this immortal man had died at age 73. But I think we all just, you know, we wanted to get past it, almost push it away as quickly as we could.

We so identified my dad with New Hampshire, and the White Mountains, and his role as the hike leader, that we were all kind of, of a piece, in saying, ‘well, we should scatter his ashes on Mount Washington.’ And that was a really good plan among my, uh, three brothers and me until my mom said, ‘absolutely not.’

Maren: The family eventually settled on a cemetery in Conway, New Hampshire, which had a view of a mountaintop Peter's dad had taken his sons up years before. It wasn't the mountaintop the brothers had envisioned, but with a view like that, it seemed fitting. Meanwhile, Peter's grief was buried inside him, and he didn't know how to let it out.

Peter: I was a fairly emotionally closed off guy at that time in my life, It's not that I didn't love my dad or miss him terribly. Um, you know, if anything, that sense has grown over the years. but at the time... I just didn't have the capacity in me to grieve him appropriately or thoroughly.

But, you know, that's the thing about grief. It's like those, uh, subterranean fires that burn in Centralia, Pennsylvania. You know, every now and then they break through the surface and, uh, as I said in my story, they finally broke through the surface.

Maren: For 20 years, Peter's grief laid dormant. He didn't shed tears at the funeral or in the years that followed. He just moved forward, spending as much time as he could outside, eventually moving to Colorado And building a community of fellow mountain lovers there.

One member of that community was a lifelong friend of Peter's, who suddenly found himself confronting the death of his partner.

Peter: My friend, uh, identified as Alan, not his real name in the article, he lost his wife to a stroke. And immediately after that, we began talking about what would be the appropriate place to scatter her mortal remains. So, from the porch of Alan's house in Granby, Colorado, you can see the summit of Mount Ida.

And he said, that would be the perfect place, because every time I step out on that porch, I'll be able to see that and be reminded of my wife and the relationship that we had.

So, one summer morning, we gathered with another group of friends. Alan brought the urn with him. I ended up carrying it up the mountain. And we made it all the way up to the summit of Mount Ida, amazing views out over all of Rocky Mountain National park.

And Alan and I, both being sort of, uh, English major types, we both, brought poems with us that we could read. Whenever an event like this happens, Alfred Lord Tennyson's “Crossing the Bar'' is first on my mind, because it was my dad's favorite poem. And the sandbar that's mentioned in the poem, is near Barmouth in Wales, and there's like a pedestrian bridge that goes across that bar. And I stood out there with my dad, when I was 13 years old, and he recited “Crossing the Bar,” and it's basically Tennyson's reflection on death.

So naturally, I carried the poem with me up to the top of Mount Ida, and I began reading it, and the dam broke. It was like the tears that I hadn't shed for my dad for decades poured forth.

My friend Alan and I, both found it, he was, you know, by this, by this point overflowing too, and two other friends who were with us are like, what is going on with these guys? I've never seen them in this state before.

Which we also found completely hilarious because we were, you know, trying to keep it together and be there for each other. and both of us were failing miserably at being, you know, stoic and manly and keeping our feelings in check. We just let them rip.

It was amazing how quickly Alan and I went from sobbing to laughing and back to sobbing again. It's, it's almost as if they were, they were twinned reactions.

But I realized, kind of after the fact that, you know, it's like, as I mentioned, those fires in Centralia, they, they work subterraneously. And they will erupt if they're given the chance. And I honestly think that finally at that point in my life, I was emotionally aware enough and mature enough to accept the feelings of loss that I had when my dad died. And, I started crying then and I haven't stopped since.

Maren: Maybe it was just the years that had gone by that finally gave Peter the distance he needed to grieve. Maybe it was the connection his dad had to hiking, or to that poem. Or maybe it was something about the mountain itself, about being in that place where joy and terror always seemed a little nearer to the surface.

Peter: I always think of hikes as narratives, that beginning, middle, and end, and lots of incident along the way. And I naturally become a reflective person when I'm, when I'm in the mountains. So I think that the whole ritual of choosing a trail, heading for a summit, reaching the summit, having the calm at the end of a strenuous climb. It's kind of a life journey in a way for me metaphorically every time I go on a hike. The mountains, especially, you know, the spectacular Rocky Mountains, uh, visible from the summit of Mount Ida, it put me in a very spiritual place. I would say, also knowing that I had, you know, Sarah's remains on my back. It was a different hike than any that I'd ever taken with a different purpose. And in retrospect, my brain was telling me, ‘dude, you've still got some things to work through and this poem is going to help you.’ And boy did it ever.

Maren: Shortly after Sarah's memorial, Peter was in the National Park again, this time with his wife Claire, his two sons Jake and Tyler, and Jake's partner Lisa.

Peter: We're just looking to get out of the car and stretch our legs, and we walked up the Colorado Trail, on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Glorious day in the Rockies. And at one point, Jake's partner, Lisa, was so overcome with her joy at being there that she broke into this kind of impromptu dance in a meadow that was right next to the Colorado River. And it was just such a beautiful moment, and it was with all the people in the world that I loved most. And, later on, after all this was over, I said to Claire, we maybe owe our children some direction as to where we want to end up. And the idea of being in a cemetery leaves me cold.

So I asked her what she would think about some kind of ashes scattering ceremony, you know, along the Colorado River there, and she went along with it.

Maren: As a devoted outdoors person, Peter wanted to make sure that his final resting place wouldn't leave the wrong kind of trace.

Peter: I jokingly referred to it as the ultimate leave no trace, uh, dilemma for a hiker is what will happen with your body when you die.

But I also spoke with an expert and he told me that ashes can be a renewing force, and that they have nutrients in them that can touch off new life. And I'm thinking the ashes that Alan and I scattered on top of Mount Ida touched off new life in me.

And I'm hoping, down the line, when Jake and Tyler are in that position maybe the same act will be regenerative for them as well. It's all I can hope for.

Maren: A few months later, on a drive to the ski hill, Peter broached the subject with his son.

Peter: I said, Jake, I've got something I want to discuss with you. And he was like, you know, apprehensive as you usually are when your parent introduces a subject that way. But I went through the story again and reminded him of that hike on the Colorado Trail and I said, your mom and I have discussed it and when we go that's where we'd like to have our ashes scattered and there was quite a pause in the conversation there. And finally Jake choked out, ‘gee Dad, I didn't know that's where that's what we were going to talk about today.’

But you know what death has to be part of the conversation especially in families, especially as parents get on in life. You know, I was completely unprepared for my dad's passing, and reacted in that way. And, and I, I hoped to be more purposeful and open with Jake about it because it's gonna happen. I'm not going to be here forever. So, it gives me some peace, too, to think about that beautiful spot, and to think of my sons, a decade or two hence, being in the position I was in. I'm just hoping that, as the next generation, they can be in closer touch with their feelings and not have it be a wrestling match for decades to come to terms with something as elemental as life and death.

Maren: While Peter hopes that his sons will be able to truly feel their sorrow in the wake of his passing, he also hopes there will be joy.

Peter: Grief is, in fact, a celebratory process. It means that you're holding someone very special, very close, and that you are so aware of their absence. It shows you how important they were. And the narratives of a lifetime. That's what comes out at a memorial service, and if you're living right, some of those narratives ought to be hilarious. And those are my favorite memorial services. ever are the ones where you laugh until you cry.

Maren: At the end of our interview, I asked Peter if he felt up to reading that poem, the one that had opened the floodgates for him.

Peter: He graciously agreed.

“Crossing the Bar” by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar. And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Returns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell

when I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

That poem really does it to me. Clearly. It was the same thing, it was the same thing that happened on top of Mount Ida. It was like, I started reading and then I realized, ‘Oh my goodness, I'm not sure I can make it through this.’ But it's such a beautiful poem and I can remember, you know, like it was yesterday, standing next to my dad in Wales and listening to him recite the same thing.

So thanks for that, Dad. And, uh, thanks also to Alfred Lord Tennyson. You guys did a great job. Woof! And thank you, Marin, for, uh, leading me back in there as

Maren: Oh!

Peter: Are you crying too, Maren?

Maren: I’m tearing up a little bit. Yeah, you're not alone.

Peter: You know, we all, we all need to go there. We all need to look death in the eye. It's part of living. It's like an exercise of the emotions. The more you exercise them, the stronger they become. And I'm, I'm glad to have had so much exercise.

Maren: A sincere thank you to Jeremy Jones and Peter Moore for sharing their stories with us. Find Peter Moore's story, “Scatter My Ashes in the Rocky Mountains” on Backpacker. com. Thanks also to the organizers of Dix-A-thon, especially Connor Cox.

Please note that national parks and many other public spaces require a permit to scatter ashes. If you're planning a memorial for a loved one, please research appropriate methods and places.

This episode was written and produced by me and edited by Michael Roberts. Music and mixing by Robbie Carver. Listener, do you have a story about grieving an adventurer that you'd like to share? Record it as a voice memo and email it to us at podcast@outsideinc.com. And if you're enjoying this show, leave us a review wherever you listen. Or tell your friends about us.

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