On the death of Warren Miller

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST IS SCHEDULED TO APPEAR IN AN ARTICLE PUBLISHED BY WARREN MILLER ENTERTAINMENT 

Winter, spring, summer and fall. And a fifth season, Warren Miller.

It was in his voice that our dormant passion for skiing was reawakened each autumn. In its laughter, in its awe for the greatness, wonder and beauty of travelling down a hill on a pair of sticks. Sometimes in his films we won, making impossible leaps off cliffs, taking lines down the steep face of a mountain that dared any man or woman foolish enough to defy the laws of gravity. And sometimes we lost, unable to get off the simplest of chairlifts, our bodies seeming ill equipped to perform the most basic tasks. But win or lose, on the highest of peaks or the bottom of the beginner slope, Warren Miller captured the unadulterated joy the best and the worst among us shared for this sport.

There was something magical, almost mythical in what he did, living the life we all could only imagine. A kind of idyllic existence, always chasing the next adventure. Never really growing up or growing old. Always that voice, filled with the happiness of doing exactly what he was meant to do, taking us along for the ride. His reality and our dream hand in hand across the screen.

He was the godfather of this industry, its spokesperson even before there were the Vails and the Aspens, even before it became something more, or maybe something less than it was when Warren Miller lived in that trailer at the base of the mountains in those first wondrous years.

And with his passing, we are left with but four seasons. I will miss that fifth one maybe more than I would any other.