Driving Over to Say Goodbye to Bill

Bill Nalli assessing the snowpack. Photo: Barb Jones

On July 13, a friend of many in the ski and avalanche community, Bill Nalli, passed away from cancer. I am sure that among the many who miss him already will be the mountains themselves, whose glistening snow-covered faces will be absent for the first time in decades the ever energetic turns and quick smiles of our friend Bill. Then again, maybe he is out there after all and forever.

Driving over to say goodbye to Bill. There is so much time to feel. To say goodbye for the last time. Goodbye, Bill. It is something I am having a hard time rehearsing in my mind. It comes out my throat from way down in my gut as a strangled tangle of sorrow, fear, doubt, and dread. It does not come out in words. I have no idea how this will be. Driving over to say goodbye to Bill. In the deaths I’ve been a part of, I’ve never once been able to say goodbye. This is the first moment I’ve realized that. I’ve never once had the time. They’ve all been quick. Too fast. Sometimes too slow. I’ve never once said goodbye forever. And I suppose I’m not alone in having no idea how to do that. I have a bowling ball of agony in my chest. Heavy. Wet. It is time to go. We are off. Driving over to say goodbye forever.

Some of you will know Bill. He was an avalanche forecaster in Utah and in Colorado. He was a ski patroller. He was a guide too. If you skied the Wasatch, if you skied the San Juans, if you skied Solitude, if you drove up Little Cottonwood in the winter, if you skied with the Powder Cats, you might know Bill. He probably saved your ass once or twice. Photo: Barb Jones

I wrote that in the half-hour before driving over to say goodbye to Bill. I had to somehow express my emotion. So I typed it down. Some of you will know Bill. He was an avalanche forecaster in Utah and Colorado. He was a ski patroller. He was a guide, too. If you skied the Wasatch, if you skied the San Juans, if you skied Solitude, if you drove up Little Cottonwood in the winter, if you skied with the Powder Cats, you might know Bill. He probably saved your ass once or twice with a warning about the conditions or by throwing bombs, or blasting for UDOT, or directing you down the safest route. 

Another way you might know Bill is through music. If you like jam bands. Especially Widespread. I bet you danced next to Bill at some point. Another way you might know Bill is through festivals, stuff like Burning Man. Another way is through climbing. Another way is through hockey, skating… there are a lot of ways you might know Bill. I know Bill through parenthood. We were dads together. We took our girls skiing together, biking, and adventuring. Through our adventures, was coined the term Bad Dad Ideas. I knew Bill as a dad who took not only his kid but loads of kids out to experience the joys and lessons of outdoor adventure. A Bad Dad Idea was really a challenging situation designed to increase confidence and a can-do-it attitude.

Oh, gawd, the kids would say, another Bad Dad Idea. We skied some tough stuff. Growth through knocking knees. Confidence through overcoming challenges.

Is there any other way?

A Bad Dad Idea was really a challenging situation designed to increase confidence and a can-do-it attitude. Photo: Barb Jones

Bill said last season was the best ski season he’d ever had. It was. Sublime. Glorious. Joyful. Fleeting. Photo: Barb Jones

Bill said last season was the best ski season he’d ever had. It was. Sublime. Glorious. Joyful. Fleeting. With knees knocking, we drove over to say goodbye to Bill. The house was full of warmth, friends, love, food, music. We did not say goodbye. I can’t even imagine those words. 

We spoke very little. We sat together, holding hands.

In memory of Bill Nalli, a gift for his daughter’s education fund can be made here. Many thanks: