Trevor Stutz

Originally read at the Celebration of Caleb on Nov. 18th at All Souls Gathering, Shelburne, VT.
 

I know we are all up here to share wonderful moments from Caleb’s life, but I want to start with an anecdote about one of Caleb’s worst qualities. Once, Caleb, Arlin, Alex Brown and I set off for over a month to ski all across the US and Europe. Many of you know how this race ended, so I won’t work myself into a huff up here. Traveling and skiing for a month can be hard, and you develop a routine. We would buy a dozen eggs for the four of us to split every morning, three eggs each to eat before skiing. During the trip, Caleb and Arlin, as Ladues do, skied every single day, even when it rained. Alex and I, on the other hand, slept in and drank whiskey when it rained. The unexpected consequence of sleeping in though, was that Alex and I woke up to only five eggs in the morning. When you buy a dozen eggs for breakfast, and there are four of you, and two of you go ski in the rain, because you’re crazy, and two of you sleep in and drink whiskey, because you’re normal and don’t ski in the rain, you expect to open the carton to find our allotted six eggs. But no, Alex and I opened said carton to find five, and it was obviously because Caleb decided he needed an extra one for himself. Who does that? If this was the only time something like this happened, then you could perhaps forgive Caleb, or give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe he dropped one, or one was broken. But, stories of the sort kept popping up. There’s the infamous Jackson Hole Domino’s pizza story with Travis, where, when splitting a pizza, he didn’t take half, but took the four biggest slices and spread the rest out to hide his greediness. Or the poking his fingers in your banana story. And, when he thought no one was looking, he always took the last bite of food on the table. My point is, Caleb was a not so sneaky food thief, and it annoyed his friends incessantly and he was not flawless. But, other than that, the kid was pretty perfect.

Following the initial shock of the news, I found myself lost in my own thoughts, struggling to come to terms with what happened. I found solace in writing, and with tears slowly dripping off my cheeks onto my lap and with no apparent desire to wipe them away for hours, I wrote a letter to one of the most important people in my life:

Dear Caleb,

Since freshman year, you have been one of my very best friends.

Together, we did a lot. By my count, we drove across the country at least three times, skied over 25 mountains, and twice got so drunk you passed out in a public bathroom stall. Beyond the numbers, we scaled Yosemite’s granite walls, skied backcountry lines in the Alps and the Tetons, huddled frozen through the night on top of 14,000 foot Peruvian peeks, rowed boats over 200 miles down the Grand Canyon, raced mountain bikes down the side of Mount Hood and both sucked at fly fishing. We listened to countless podcasts and books on tape, watched Ratatouille maybe one too many times, ate more than our fair share of all-you-can-eat sushi, chatted about girls, discussed the meaning of life, and could never hit last cup in pong.

Neither of us lacking hubris, we were competitive. And while I did beat you 1v1 at basketball this summer, and we consistently traded off games of chess, and as a team we remain undefeated at Spikeball, the truth is you were better than me at pretty much everything (including, begrudgingly, Catan). In fact, I do not know anyone as capable as you at so many things – I do not know anyone who balances love, kindness, smarts and athleticism as well as you do.

You were really, really good at everything you did, and could and did push the boundaries more than anyone I know. But that is not the most impressive thing about you. Because, no matter how good you were, and no matter how hard you could challenge yourself, there was something that always meant more to you than the next summit. To you, who you were doing it with, was more important than what you were doing. Bigger, faster, stronger, was nothing without your friends and family. Your goal may have been to get to the top, but you derived meaning from the journey, and purpose from ensuring your friends and family were at your side when you did it.

See, I can now say I trad climb 5.10, skin up volcanoes and ski the backcountry, ride mountain bikes and run class IV rapids. It’s how I spend my free time. It’s what I do on weekends and how I plan my vacations. But, Caleb, without you, I could not and I would not be able to do any of that. Because, when you could have been climbing 5.13, or skiing Alaskan spines, or summiting the tallest peaks in the world, you were instead patiently teaching me how to place gear on 5.7s at Red Rocks, showing me how to read the avalanche conditions in Germany, and hauling me to the top of Half Dome. You taught me what it means to be on the sharp end, to ski a line you spent all day hiking to the top of, to push myself beyond my comfort zone and to do it all with the people that matter most. In short, you taught me how to live.

A year ago, I went to New Zealand with my family. I brought my climbing gear and a few extra pieces of equipment for my younger siblings. One day, Reed, Zanna and I borrowed a car, went into town, bought the local guide book and drove into the mountains. We hiked into the crag and spent the day climbing. I put up a top rope and they followed and then I taught them how to lead and clean. At the end of the day, with the sun setting over the lake, we drank beers and I thought of you – how grateful I am for the gifts you have given me. It was one of the most memorable days I can remember, and brought my siblings and I even closer together. See what you did there?

The English major in me doesn’t know how to reconcile the past and present tense in this letter. You were, and you are and you continue to be. No day will be the same, and certainly no adventure will be right without you, but you will always be with us. There was a day, on the Grand Canyon, and it was one of the best days, but who knows exactly which day it was because every day was the best day on the river. You and I were floating in calm water, oars tucked into the raft, drinking a beer under a rainbow-colored umbrella and smiling because it was the best. Then, all of the sudden, you sat up and turned to me in what was left of your frayed sombrero river-hat and decidedly stated, “Alex Brown should fuckin’ be here. Liz and Randy too.” “I know,” I said. That was you. Even on the greatest day of the greatest trip, you were not satisfied because our whole crew was not there. Now, we get to say that for the rest of our lives. But the thing is, Caleb, you passed on your gifts and your skills and your values and your way of life onto each of us. More than anything, you taught us that who you are with is the most important, and now, you will be with us forever.

There is one last thing: no matter where you were in the world or what adventure you were on, I knew you were okay when a Chess.com notification would pop up on my phone: “Your turn to move against casualfiasco.” I had not played yet, because, if I am being honest, I knew I was beat. I am sure you know it too.

I miss you so damn much, buddy.

Love,

Trevor

Since I initially wrote this letter to Caleb, I’ve been struggling with what to do next. Writing the letter helped me structure my thoughts. But recently, I’ve found them incomplete. I know that words are helpful, but actions are meaningful, and I’ve been wrestling with how to reconcile that. I want to turn my words into actions, to extract threads of meaning from the manner Caleb conducted himself, incorporate them into my life, and improve myself as a person. What Caleb wanted to do was challenge himself and push himself, while constantly finding time to incorporate his friends and family in his adventures. Caleb worked on himself, and he worked for others.

Remember that story about the eggs? That was four year ago. The Caleb of today, would not do that. And the reason is, because Caleb worked on his flaws constantly. He was never satisfied with doing his best, because his best was yesterday’s measure and today he should be able to do better. He became aware of his flaws and through attention and awareness, discipline and effort, he improved. The Caleb of today, may even leave you an extra egg, or tell you to take the last bite of food.

Talking to our friends over the past couple weeks, I’ve noticed everyone’s most intense, most fun, most epic outdoor adventure was because of Caleb. And that is what makes him so special. He went out of his way, constantly, at all times for us. To be with us, and to give us our most spectacular memories. His self-sacrifices to incorporate his friends into his passions, in turn created meaning in our lives. Whether it was driving three hours out of his way to pick me up at the airport, or rappelling mid-route off a Yosemite face to hang with his girlfriend, or carrying all our gear, or surprising his parents and friends across the country for the Presidential Traverse, Caleb’s own ego dissolved for his friends.

To me, deriving meaning from Caleb’s life involves reflecting on what he did, how he did it and how I can improve myself. By incorporating more of Caleb into my life, Caleb’s life and existence further manifests itself into immortality.

Caleb, I miss you so damn much. I will continue to miss you for the rest of my life. There will be waves of sadness that will hurl themselves at me and envelop me at the most unexpected moments. But, you should know how much of a powerful presence you were, are and will continue to be in our life. We won’t do things for you, we will do them because of you, because you taught us a better way to live. And as we incorporate your values and actions into our lives, we will become better people.

Once, on a long drive between Northern California and Southern Nevada, somewhere near Death Valley, you and I listened to and discussed David Foster Wallace’s speech, This is Water. In it, he offers the following insight:

There are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom.

David Foster Wallace wrote those words for Kenyon graduates, but, Caleb, he could have been writing your biography on how to live. You showed us a path towards capital T Truth and true freedom – a freedom we will continue to live by and uphold for the rest of our lives.

I love you buddy.