Sunday. Kids are home from school. We drove to Berkeley to the Lawrence Hall of Science for what was a typical weekend family “excursion.” Driving the unfamiliar streets of Berkeley, I saw a pedestrian, a man crossing the street in front of me, as he hurled a rock at our car right below the back seat window where Jennifer was sitting, causing a dent, knocking some paint off. Thirty-six years ago. I remember his face.
We stopped for lunch at Nation’s, a restaurant on San Pablo and Central Avenues, and ordered burgers. The waitress brought us the wrong order. And the wrong bill. We straightened everything out, finished, and headed up 101 to Santa Rosa. Jadyne took the car and drove the three kids to Books Inc., in Cottingtown Shopping Center. I stayed home.
A few minutes after she left Greg called. “Teeny’s dead,” he cried, “ She was killed in an avalanche near Pearl Pass where she and Roy were cross-country skiing. Roy (her boyfriend) was killed, too. They’ve found him, but they haven’t found her.” “Are you sure?” I questioned, stunned. We had just spent ten days with her at her home in Glenwood Springs over the Christmas holidays, and we knew that she was looking forward to this trip.
Knowing that the ski huts that they would stay in have to be booked months in advance, Teeny, Roy, and a group of skiers disregarded avalanche warnings and took to the mountains. Teeny, an expert skier, was in front. Roy was with her. John, a friend from Denver and Teeny’s dog, Pooh, were all buried in the snow. Roy was found because Teeny had given him her avalanche beacon, and the signal alerted rescuers to his body.
January 1, 1988. The snow that’s falling in this photograph was falling at Pearl Pass, too.
I poured myself a very stiff drink, called Books, Inc., and asked the clerk, “Is there a Chinese woman there with three children?” “Yes,”he replied. “Please tell them to come home immediately,” I said, unable to disguise the urgency in my voice.
“Teeny was killed in an avalanche today,” I said to all four, and the immediate avalanche of tears and grief was immeasurable. I felt so bad for them. They loved her so much. I loved Teeny, too. I felt bad for Greg and Alyce, too, yet Alyce didn’t even know yet. My job.
As we climbed aboard the Amtrak Zephyr that New Year’s Day evening I shouted, “All Chinks on the Tracks!” And this was the last time we saw her, nine days before the avalanche.
Maroon Bells. This is the country where Teeny was headed, the entrance to Pearl Pass whee the avalanche occurred.
Alyce was with Al in Oceanside. Al answered the phone and handed it to Alyce. The words came out again, the tears and grief followed, too. This was just the beginning. We went to bed, turned on the TV, watched the news, numbed by the day. The story of the avalanche was on KTVU 10:00 news with Elaine Corral and Dennis Richmond. I can see the TV story as I’m typing this. Elaine is reporting about the avalanche.
(The memory clings to unexpected and unscripted choices. John remembers the book he bought, “George’s Marvelous Medicine,” and that he had asked if had to go to school the next day. Jennifer remembers that I told Jadyne first, then shared it with them. Jason remembers Jadyne clutching John.)
Song and Charles. Everybody called him “Booboo.”
The next day I went to the Jam Kee restaurant, owned and operated by Song and Charles Bourbeau, Teeny, Greg, and Jadyne’s godparents. I found them as the restaurant closed, cleaning up after the last customers left. The words again. Charles said, “I have no reason to live anymore.” I left. Charles was admitted to the hospital later that week and died a few days later.
(Song and Charles were married in Reno the first time, as it was illegal to marry across racial lines in California. They remarried after the laws changed.
When Song died John took possession of their 1964 Chevrolet, which he named “Hagfubr” for “Hoopty Ass Ghetto Funk Bomb Ride.”)
The days following were a blur. We all returned to Colorado. Aspen Search and Rescue continued to look for Teeny. The high school gym was reserved for her memorial service, the only auditorium large enough to accommodate the many who loved her. We put on the service. We all spoke. In this photograph taken by the Glenwood Springs Post-Independent photographer, Jason, age 13, is reading his piece; Greg is comforting Jennifer and John.
Aspen Search and Rescue continued to look for her every weekend. We came back to Colorado in the summer and had a picnic at the avalanche site on the Fourth of July. The poles used by rescuers to probe for a body were still there. We traipsed through the snow, poking holes here and there. No luck.
On the path to Pearl Pass.
Using the probes in the snow. She was under there somewhere.
She was found over Labor Day, nine months after she died. A triathlon was named in her honor, a bench placed on a hiking trail, and the Emergency Room in the hospital, named for her, shows her photograph. And thirty-six years later we all still wish we could turn the clock back.
P.S. The more things change the more they stay the same…Another January 10th, another avalanche, another loss…
