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It was exactly the trip I'd been looking for. And Wendy, as usual, had given me her blessing. It was what I loved the most about her.
1617alta

It was exactly the trip I'd been looking for. And Wendy, as usual, had given me her blessing. It was what I loved the most about her. Didn't matter what I proposed - didn't matter how crazy or eccentric or dangerous the project - Wendy rarely let her personal concerns get in the way of my plans.

And this one was a doozy...

On the cusp of what I considered to be a life-changing double-knee replacement operation, I was blithely trying to convince my dear wife that a five-week jaunt in the European Alps was exactly what her kooky husband needed.

"It'll be my last kick at the adventure can," I'd argued. "My last chance to ski my favourite mountains with all my own body parts in place."

Wendy had just laughed. She, of course, wouldn't be coming along. Her role would be to stay behind and cover the home front.

"You're going to be careful, right?" she'd said, eying me just a little bit sceptically. She knew all-too-well the kind of activities I was drawn to in the mountains of Europe. Knew that my knees were totally shot and that my margin for error had been drastically reduced. Realized too that my stupid male pride wouldn't allow me to fully acknowledge that little bit of annoying reality.

"Of course I'll be careful," I'd answered glibly. "I'm always careful."

She didn't reply right away. The subject was a bit of a sore one between us. She thought I was too old now to be doing what I was doing. Thought I should grow up already and embrace my half-century with grace. But I couldn't envision anything else for myself. The mountains were my life; mountain storytelling was my vocation. Finally she smiled. "You just make sure you call me from time-to-time to let me know you're still alive..."

I nodded happily. Hugged her for all I was worth. "You know I will," I told her. "I'll call you every day if you want." And that was that.

It was the same deal we'd had for years. While hubby gallivanted around the globe writing his Snoweater stories for various magazines and newspapers, Wendy was happy to stay at home and keep the hearth fire burning. Besides, it's not like she sat in a rocking chair, pining away for me. Her children, her garden, her friends - her work with Kidsport and the B.C. Games Society and Legacies Now - kept her plenty busy.

And I certainly didn't take her role for granted. She was one of the best mums I knew - and I sang her praises everywhere I went. Alas, what I did take for granted was that she'd be there for me when I got back...

Never, ever, take anything for granted.

The European trip was an unqualified success, however. I travelled from Alagna in Italy to Jasna in Slovakia - covered thousands of kilometres and collected scores of stories. I was in heaven.

Still, it was a 10-day stint in La Grave that really tickled my fancy. With guides like Ptor Spricenieks, Patisse Vauclair and Anne Cattelin to lead me through this fabled alpine maze, I was provided with a unique backstage pass to one of the most intimidating ski domains the world has to offer. And in true Beaudry style, I took full advantage of it.

Doubt it? Here's a passage from my journal:

We're sitting outside at the Castillan Hotel, basking in the warm March sunshine and eating a casual al fresco lunch. We've already had one amazing run today - nearly 8,000 feet of impossibly-steep vertical and untracked snow - and I'm just happy to be alive. Suddenly Patisse shows up; as usual, my new friend has a plan. Seems there's this legendary couloir accessed from the top of the La Grave lifts that he badly wants me to experience. "You can't ski this run every day," he says, giving me a meaningful glance. "Too dangerous. But conditions are perfect now. Si tu veux le faire, il faut y aller aujourd'hui."

I'm tired. My knees hurt and I wouldn't mind just taking the afternoon off. But he insists.

So off we go. Up the interminable (and very old) gondolas again and all the way to the summit. A long traverse from the top lift station at 3,600 metres delivers us onto this steep glaciated face that we chew up in a dozen high-speed turns.

Then things get interesting. A short, highly-exposed climb leads us to the run in question. The couloir is indeed a classic - high-walled and narrow with sudden choke points that you can only straight-line. But the snow is still untouched. It looks beautiful. Scary for sure, but enticing nonetheless. Patisse's tone now turns serious. "No falling here," he says. "I'll go first. The belay anchor is about 500 metres below. Remember, no mistakes..." He leaves the rest unsaid and we follow carefully behind.

Patisse had warned me that the mandatory mid-couloir rappel was not an easy one. The anchor was tough to access, he'd explained. The passage down was stupidly narrow. "You might get stuck in a couple of places," he tells me now. "You'll hit some nasty overhangs and a partial chimney. But don't worry. Just keep wriggling and you'll get through. Oh, and by the way, the rope might be a little short... but you should be fine."

"Right," I nod vaguely in his direction. Seeing I'm the first to go down, skis on my back, and no clue as to my final destination, I have every right to be nervous. Why me first? Just getting to the anchor and hooking in for the rappel already has my knees quivering with trepidation...

"Ready?" asks Patisse. I nod again and push off into the void.

So there I am, suddenly dropping down this long, twisty, rocky, vertical bottleneck on the end of a rope - scrabbling for traction, stuck for a moment and unable to extricate myself, fighting panic, trying desperately to stay calm - before finally coming to rest on snow again. Fear, anxiety, exhilaration, terror, excitement and then total relief: my emotions are coming fast and furious. I carefully unhook myself from the rope and gingerly kick-step down the steep, narrow neck of snow until I reach a safe spot where I can wait for the rest of the team to join me.

What a moment. It's now late in the afternoon - well past 5 - and I'm sitting in a little natural grotto carved right out of the mountain. The sun is burnishing the rocks across the narrow valley from where I'm sitting. A thin slit of snow cuts its dizzying way to the valley floor. Beautiful. Below me, dropping 1,000 vertical metres straight down, is one of the coolest-looking couloirs I've ever set eyes on. And it's trackless. Still no cakewalk - far from it - but it looks very inviting. Can't wait to taste those turns...

I remember describing my day to Wendy on Skype later that evening. It was still morning in Vancouver and she was just getting ready to go out for a run in the Endowment Lands. I could picture her sitting at her desk in her running gear, listening to my story and rolling her eyes at my antics. "You're crazy," she'd told me. "Absolutely and certifiably insane." And then she'd laughed. "But you sound so happy." And then: "I'm glad for you 'Chel. I know how much this means to you."

And my love for her knew no bounds. For this was vintage Wendy. Didn't matter that she was worried. Didn't matter that she thought I was being unreasonable. The fact that I was happy trumped all her fears.

Damn! How I miss her...

Wendy was murdered two days after I got back from Europe. I wasn't home though. I was in Whistler getting in "my last ski days" before the scheduled surgery. How trite my European ski adventures now sound; how inconsequential my planned knee replacements have become.

For now I know what a real life-changing experience is all about. Every morning I wake up hoping that the nightmare is over; that Wendy will suddenly appear at my bedside, smile and tell me it was all a terrible mistake. Every night I lie in bed wondering if there is anything I could have done to protect her from this calamity. I fear for my children's lives. I fear for our future. Slowly but surely I'm becoming a different person...

So in a way, this is goodbye. By the time you read this, my daughters and I will be far away. I don't know when - or if - I'll write another Alta States column. Don't really know anything right now. It's a whole new world out there. And I don't have my best friend to help me navigate it anymore. So pray for us, Maya, Jenna and me, if you have a spare moment. We have a very long climb ahead.