On Monday, February 17, my family and I set off on our annual Blues Break trip to the Columbine Cabins. For the ninth year in a row, we headed 45 minutes north of Steamboat Springs to a place that feels a world away. With no Wi-Fi or cell service, it’s where we go to truly disconnect from the chaos of everyday life and reconnect with each other—no computers, no video games, no interruptions. Instead, we embrace the simple life: just books, board games, and the great outdoors. Every year, I’ve wondered what would happen if something major occurred while we were off the grid. In a world where it seems impossible to truly escape, would we find out? And if not, would I even care?
Before heading into the wilderness, our final stop was Backdoor Sports. My sons needed backcountry gear, and I knew exactly where to go. At 8 and 11 years old, one wanted to try tele skis for the first time, and the other wanted an AT setup—and Pete Van De Carr always had a way of making outdoor adventures accessible, especially for kids. Stepping into his shop, we were greeted with the same infectious energy Pete always radiated. He fit my older son with a brand-new pair of boots right out of the box, an act that went beyond business. When it came time to pay, as per usual, he barely charged us anything. “I won’t charge you for the tele gear,” he said. “How about $50 for the AT stuff?” Anywhere else, it would have been far more expensive, and if the only option was something brand new off the shelf, well, that wouldn’t have been an option.
That night, I told my wife about his generosity, and she suggested Steamboat Locals write a blog post about how Backdoor Sports helped local youth access the backcountry. I agreed—it was the least we could do to highlight someone who always left people feeling better than before they walked into his shop.
This is not the post I thought I would be writing.
I wish I could say I knew Pete well, but I can say I knew him for a long time. Our paths first crossed when I was 16, working my first summer job at Cookie Lockhart’s tubing company out of the old Lockhart House and Antiques store on the corner of 11th and Yampa. Back then, Pete ran the competing operation across the street. Instead of antique western wear, his tubing business was also part of a miniature golf course adjacent to Double ZZ BBQ (before the lot was developed into upscale condos and a fine dining establishment). His operation had more energy, more excitement, and—frustratingly for us—more tubes on the water.
The city allowed each tubing operator a set number of daily rentals, but somehow Pete managed to send twice as many yellow tubes down the river as we did with our red ones. Still, it was in our best interest to work together. Each morning, someone from Pete’s crew or ours would take a tubing run under the guise of “trash pickup.” While we did bring a bag and collect litter, our real purpose was to scout the river for city officials monitoring tube traffic. If we spotted someone sitting on the bank with a clipboard, we knew we had to stick to our permitted limit. But if the coast was clear, all bets were off. Most days, I was the one on “trash duty,” floating downstream and reporting back to both Cookie and Pete. If the counters were out, we played by the rules. If not, well… more tubes hit the river. That’s how I first got to know Pete Van De Carr.
Later, Pete became a client of mine when I worked in radio advertising. I remember pitching him a campaign when he laughed and said, “My wife calls this place ‘Blackhole Sports’ because money just disappears.” Maybe that was because he gave great deals to everyone he considered to be a friend, which seemed to be everyone that walked in the store. He didn’t run Backdoor Sports to get rich—he did it because he loved helping people experience the outdoors. That was Pete in a nutshell, and he was still making new friends in his shop up until his final day.
As I was getting my boys fitted for gear that Monday, a young couple wandered through the store, browsing river maps. Pete asked if they had a permit for the season, and when they excitedly told him they’d secured one for Gates of Lodore, he half-jokingly invited himself on their trip. “I’ve got experience, I’ve got gear… and I’ve got a guitar.” They laughed, but it was clear they were genuinely considering it. The couple admitted they’d been looking for someone with river knowledge to join them, and that they didn’t have enough boats for their trip. After exchanging phone numbers, Pete looked at me and grinned. “You know, the real reason I sell river maps is to talk my way onto other people’s trips.” More than anything, I believe the biggest loss on that trip won’t be Pete’s knowledge of the river or his equipment—it’ll be the spirit he would have brought along.
Maya Angelou once wrote, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Pete embodied that sentiment. Whether he was bending the rules on tubing permits, turning down my advertising pitch, or helping my kids get set up for the backcountry, I always walked away feeling lighter. He reminded me of the Steamboat I fell in love with—the kind of place where a guy with a blue NRS strap for a belt could own a run-down building on prime riverfront property and use it to fuel his passions, not his bank account.
After a week in the mountains, we drove back toward town, my phone buzzing endlessly as we re-entered cell service. Anxiety crept in—the missed messages, the work left unattended, the snow waiting in my driveway, and the fact that I wasn’t even heading home but to a hotel in Denver for a youth basketball tournament. I had planned to drop off the gear at Backdoor Sports, thank Pete for setting us up, and—hopefully—not get stuck talking too long because I had a lot of everyday chaotic life to catch up on.
As I carried the gear we rented—or more accurately, borrowed, given Pete’s nature—towards Backdoor Sports, I noticed flowers in the snow lining the entrance. Getting closer, I saw skis serving as memorials, covered in handwritten messages to Pete. I stopped abruptly, shocked at the realization of what I was seeing. The opportunity to thank Pete for setting my kids up for an adventurous week in North Routt was gone.
Suddenly, my question from earlier in the week had an answer. Is it better to remain blissfully unaware of life’s tragedies, lost in an untethered escape? Yes. If I had known what had happened on Tuesday, February 18, it might not have changed how we spent our week, but it would have weighed on my mind. Not knowing that Pete was gone allowed us to freely live every day on our escape from reality as “The Best Day Ever,” exactly the way Pete would have wanted.
And that’s how I’ll always remember him.
