A dude and a gentleman
Remembering the man, the myth, the legend, Dave Diaz

The first time I met Dave Diaz was around 2005. I had just moved into a new house downtown with my husband, toddler and newborn. Dave lived a few doors down in what was known as “The Blue House,” a somewhat notorious college dude den of questionable repute (it went by another name, as well, but decorum prevents me from printing it here). Anyway, it was a beautiful summer day, and I was out in front of my house, probably taking a break from diaper duty and obviously looking like I could use a cold beverage. Right about then, Dave strolled by toting a 12-pack of Miller High Life.

A yellow beer connoisseur myself, I complimented him on his fine choice of the Champagne of Beers. Without missing a beat, he reached into the cardboard box, fished out a bottle, handed it to me and said “cheers.”

Little did I know that day marked the beginning of a nearly 20-year friendship with a man who would go on to marry and have two boys with one of my oldest friends in Durango (incidentally one of the toughest chicks I know). He would go on to become a beer league hockey teammate, a kayaking, biking and skiing buddy, and someone whose deadpan humor delivered the best joke I’ve ever heard in my life (again, decorum prohibits me, and I never do it justice in the retelling anyway. Suffice to say, it entails two Canadians, a bar and a punchline about a large ungulate’s genitalia). 

Dave was a man who was king of the one-liners, who wasn’t afraid to tell someone to “get the sand out” when necessary and rocked a ’stache like no one’s business. But he was also a man who was amazingly gentle, sweet and devoted to his young boys and rode a pink BMX bike with pride at the skate park. A fixture in the lift line on every powder day, his snow sports and hockey prowess belied his Puerto Rican heritage. He was a rad snowboarding bro who didn’t mind hanging with a dorky, old lady skier. He wore Vans mountain biking but still kicked everyone’s ass on the downhill while stopping to admire the wildflowers. He was the first to strip down to bike skivvies and dad bod to join you in a dip in a freezing alpine lake. He would encourage you to run the rowdy line but not shame you for taking the sneak and cheer you on from the surf eddy. And, he was a man who ended every conversation or text not with sappy sentiment or banal chit chat but with a simple and concise: “Word.”

Little did I also know that lasting friendship would come to a sudden, shocking and horrific end last Friday.

I had just finished skiing and ran into friends in the Purg parking lot. We were sipping beers and rehashing the day, when another friend walked up to his car, which was parked nearby.

We exchanged hellos, and the other friend asked if I had heard about … and his voice trailed off.

He had a grim look on his face, so I walked over to hear him over the apres din.

“I’m sorry, did I hear about who?” I asked.

“Diaz,” he said. “Dave Diaz.”

From the look on his face, I knew it was not great news. I began scanning through the mental Rolodex of bad scenarios – car accident? Injury? Covid?

But instead it was the worst-case scenario.

“He was skiing the trees … something happened … and he didn’t make it,” the friend stammered.

Suddenly, the Friday afternoon vibe shattered, and the ugly face of denial set in as I peppered the messenger with useless questions. Questions you know are cliche, but you ask anyway because you can’t stop yourself.

“Wait - what!? Dave Diaz? Are you sure? What do you mean he ‘didn’t make it?’”

My friend only hung his head and shook it back and forth. He was still processing the news himself, having only heard it moments before.

“He’s gone.”