Please join us in commemorating the life of Kelsey Boleski, a highly valued friend and esteemed member of our community, whose unexpected demise at the age of 34 has caused profound sorrow among us all. Kelsey was an exceptional individual, renowned for her extraordinary skills as a skier and mountain biker, as well as her limitless compassion and affection for others. During this challenging period, we are uniting to collect funds to cover the expenses of the funeral services and provide financial relief for the bereaved family.
By contributing, you will not only pay tribute to Kelsey’s legacy but also offer crucial assistance to her family and friends at this difficult time. Let us together ensure that Kelsey’s enduring legacy of love and compassion remains radiant. We appreciate your benevolence and your unwavering support for Kelsey’s family. When a buddy dies in this valley, ripples spread rapidly. A small community cares for its neighbors, and in this mountain town, common ground is virtually a foundation—most of us got here one way or another and stayed because it’s more magical than most other places we’ve known.
We may debate it or leave and return. Many have departed and want back. Our choice to live in this valley has many common causes. It may be a preference to avoid suburbia and urban life, like cold, snowy winters, and be brave woodsmen more often than most. All kinds of brave souls have traveled to this mountain town at the end of a road in a remote part of our state. Many stay because it’s special to them.
Mountain, river, and trail access are combined with community and a deeper sense of being. The corner, the chairlift, and whatever music, literary, political, or philanthropic event you attend will remind you of others. You see individuals you know and get to know them by inches every year. People’s different hobbies enrich this community. At Kissidugu Foundation activities last week, my kids danced, drummed, and learned about a culture distinct from our alpine reality.
I went to my first Move the Butte a couple weeks ago, and I was expecting to cringe at some amateur dancing like a crowd did at me and my ski patrol girlfriends in Breckenridge 15 years ago when we took a hip-hop class and performed it for an end-of-season party.
Move the Butte didn’t bother me. Not once. The world-class dancing, faultless choreography, gorgeous energy, inventiveness, and support wowed me. On and off stage, the community flourished. I shouted, howled, screamed, danced, and cried as they honored the winter victims. Since then, more lives have been lost, which breaks our hearts whether we know these people or not. We know someone who knew them intimately. We remember losing someone we loved recently or distantly. That emotion lasts.
This week, our editor Mark Reaman skis with old friends in Austria. As we attempt to relay the news to our community in his absence, it’s important to note that we sometimes lose community members to wilderness expeditions. After Eric Freson died, Mark noted that many of us live here are adrenaline junkies, as Eric evidently called himself. Extreme activities carry the risk of death.
The past six weeks and many times before have seen community members die from natural causes, non-adrenaline-related accidents, diseases, and other causes. All are terrible because someone dies young. It is hard to imagine how someone who lived a shorter life than our luckiest, oldest ambitions could have crossed over so swiftly and early.
Our little community may feel the loss of each life more because they are tallied and felt. After Kelsey Boleski’s untimely death this weekend, it became clear that she enjoyed adventures, skiing, biking, and community.
My thoughts and prayers are with everyone who knew the winter victims. That anguish is felt by many, and it’s a bittersweet reminder that we’re all here to live. That could be performing on stage with a group of amazing dancers, making new friends, joining a new club, or volunteering for a cause you care about. It could mean calling your mom, sister, brother, or dad. Guide your kids with additional hugs.
Our skis had “Know Fear” stickers made by my cousin. It criticized the 1990s “No Fear” clothing firm, which Google says is still around. Know Fear has always been a favorite. We don’t have to avoid fear or discomfort. Fear and grief reveal us what we value and protect. Experience them by living deeply, taking risks, and pushing to the brink of fear and agony.
Trying to care for each other requires facing fear and pain. It’s inevitable, but the guts and delight on the other side balance it. I hope everyone checks in with each other and with themselves as we lament a rough season for so many in our community. We can honor bravery, joy, and lost loved ones. They can vanish quickly.
