Dear SVSEF Family and Friends,

This is hard to write.

Michel Rudigoz was… well…  always there.

When I was a buck-toothed, grubby little ski team kid being welcomed into the world of SVSEF at eight years old by the beautiful and mystical Doran Key, Rudi was there. When I worked my way up through the SVSEF program, then led by the prescient super coach and forever-enthusiastic Lane Monroe, Rudi was there. When I graduated from SVSEF and left to see the world, he was there—beating the drums for SVSEF, for our community, and for every single kid who ever clicked into a pair of skis and gave it a go.

And then I came back.

Eight years later, not intending to stay that long. Just a moment to catch my breath before heading back out on the trail.

Rudi was here waiting.

Fast forward twenty years, and at every step, every milestone, every Wild Game Dinner, every alpine ski race we ever hosted, he was here. Without fail.

He never was not here.

Ever.

Michel was not just present. He was a presence. His bulldog frame, wild eyes, and perfect hair drove us all into a frenzy. Sometimes he was so clear in his eloquence—his long-winded and absolutely passionate streams of thought around skiing, particularly Giant Slalom. “The mother of all events!” they were… well, captivating. The words, and the way he fully embodied them, brought you into his world, and it was utterly irresistible.

And then he would sometimes (well, actually quite often) totally lose you.

Of course, the more excited he became, the harder he was to understand. The thickness of his French accent congealed like a French soup, and the words stopped taking the appropriate shapes. Now it was just a feeling doing the work. You were nodding your head, progressively turning off your rational mind and entering a more mythical space. The more you nodded, the deeper into his world you fell.  A world of imagination, dreams, human potential, and beauty.

He was a magician in this world, and if you were lucky enough to know him, you were brought into his realm. It wasn’t the words. Not the crazy animations. Not the intensity. It was that feeling he conjured that brought you along with him.

I think it was this space beyond the words that we all fell in love with.

It was a feeling inside of us—sometimes an uncomfortable one—that he would ask us to face. He was not afraid of humanity, as so many of us are. Rather, he was a champion of our humanity, and all it entailed.

Sometimes messy. Sometimes scary. Sometimes elegant. Sometimes in a language you literally and figuratively could not understand.

All this, and always unpredictable.

So many of his former athletes, myself included, still love throwing out—with total fondness and an accompanying smirk—”You ski like shit!” Everyone knows exactly what this means.

If you know, you know.

It was code for the old days at SVSEF, when we were a newly formed star in the solar system. There is something so special about that. How our origin story at SVSEF is woven together with Michel Rudigoz. The two are intimate and inseparable.

It was hope and legacy and respect and grit and love all captured in a small French bottle…

As my professional journey with SVSEF carried on, Michel made sure that I had every bit of opinion I could ever want, need, or hope for.

I mean, holy smokes.

But by the Gods, am I grateful for that magic-maker of a man. I am grateful for the time and care he took to pour his passion from his cup into mine.

I am grateful that his ski boots have always been located next to mine on the boot dryer at the training center. They served as a daily reminder to never forget what this is all about, and that the view we enjoy at SVSEF was hard-fought by those whose shoulders we stand upon.

Toward the end, Michel became a child of our village.

Like so many others, I was entrusted with the unspoken task of making sure Michel was in good company, and that he didn’t wander out into the middle of a live race track. That he was as safe as we could make him.

It was a duty born of love and respect, and one we took on without hesitation. It was the least we could possibly do for someone so dear.
For someone whom we all—whether you knew him or not—owe a great debt of gratitude.

His boots will stay right where they are.

And he will never be forgotten in the stories we tell.

He will be missed dearly.

Godspeed Coach.