This last weekend at Loon’s Oktoberfest, one of our favorite family traditions, was the last time we saw Hans Herzog. Hans passed away this week, and the loss of his presence in so many different circles in our small community is palpable. He was working the Loon event, as usual, but came over to say hi to Geoff and me. We raised our 20 year old Loon Mountain Stein relics in his direction to toast, “Prost” to him, and he raised his empty hand back to us, blue skies above and his bright eyes twinkling back.  He told us about his trip just last month to visit his homeland and what an incredible time he had. This year, Carver told him he wasn’t participating in stein hoisting; but, rather, he was going to focus solely on the keg toss.  Hans chuckled and shook his head as Hans always did, and we were so proud as parents– that our almost 17 year old son was so casual about focusing only on the Keg Toss.  Having raised children, some more challenging than others, Hans always had a soft spot for both Carver and Greta, whether they were in Bavarian outfits or GS suits at the top of a race course.

I stood near Hans at the start of countless races in the last eight to nine years our kids have been ski racers.  My job was the starter round up, perhaps the easiest of race day roles.  I used my “teacher voice” to make sure the 200 children or teenagers lined up in order.  Hans essentially did everything else.  While that isn’t exactly true, when Hans was around everything just seemed to move smoothly.  He was always there when I arrived and often one of the last to leave– never mattered how cold the day or how furiously the wind howled or how much snow, rain, or sun swept across our faces– Hansy was dressed for it all.  His presence was always calm and well meaning and kind no matter the situation.  Even the kid who showed up late and missed his start, Hans welcomed him into the gate with a smile.

Then there was the Hans we knew at New England Disabled Sports.  I have the best memory of watching him tether Betsy McMahon in her pink snowsuit on a snowslider, a stand up piece of adaptive equipment, coming down the hill FAST.  Betsy was laughing and loving every bit of the wind in her helmet covered hair.  Hans was literally one of the strongest skiers any of us knew.  Watching him in the Kostick Cup race year after year tethering sit down pieces of equipment and thinking about the parents whose kids were so happy to be flying down a race course demonstrated the very best in sport.   Anyone who skied with Hans made core memories, including the adults.

No matter the local restaurant, and I don’t want to list them all as I’m afraid I will leave someone out, Hans had a place at the table.  We don’t go to Gordi’s very often any more due to life’s chaos, but when we do go, we expect to see Hans in his spot, waiting to check in with the kids about how their races went, or soccer games, or whatever he last heard about.  He made our humanity better in any and all circumstances, and we are forever grateful for his friendship. And when his daughter, Hannah, passed away at too young an age, we worried about him.  But he just kept doing what he did– people kept him busy; his wide variety of jobs kept him busy.  Hans needed to be needed, and his sticker on his work truck said it all: Never fear, Hans is here.

Geoff worked with Hans centuries ago when he was still walking and waiting tables with Jeff Clermont in their college days at the Beacon.  So when our kids were little and something was burned or even a little bit overcooked, Geoff would use this crazy, Hansy Austrian accented voice he recalled from when Christian and Hannah were young and tell them, “Chreeeestiiann (or sometimes it was Hannnaaaaahhhh), eeeet isn’t that baaahhd!” And our kids would giggle understanding that Hans, one of the most interesting humans in their young lives, would have insisted Christian (or Hannah) eat whatever had been overcooked while he was distracted.  And so I feel like you should carry that on when something doesn’t go the way you want.  Say it out loud and you will feel better: “Chreeeestiiann, eeeet isn’t that baaahhd!” And it won’t be that bad.  Honest.  Hans, you will be missed.  We raise our glass to you in heaven– to one of the very best!