We named the ski run after a condition of my groin.

Several years ago, just before Christmas, I noticed a lump in my gut. Since my health insurance only covered care by a left-handed doctor named Earl, I needed to head to Denver to find one. Doctor Earl breezed into the room with two interns in tow. He put his hand on my belly and requested I cough. He then asked me if I would mind the interns examining me as well. It being the holiday season I said, “Be my guests.” One after the other, the docs-in-training felt my gut as I coughed.

I was psyched — I got three hernia diagnoses for the price of one. A week later, Earl patched my belly. As you might imagine, this operation really put a damper on both romance and skiing. It was a good winter, so while my mate and friends were enjoying powder, I was not.

When I finally got clearance to backcountry ski, I was still tender. I did not want to ski anything where I would have the least chance of falling. Luckily, my bride knew just the place.

There was a low-angle pitch just below tree line which fit the bill. After a few laps making turns with great snow and no discomfort, we headed back to the car. I was so happy I could have cried. From that day on, we called that backcountry run “Hernia Run.”

Since then, we rarely ski Hernia. In truth, if you were not someone who had been laid up for a month, it is a little boring.

“Hunger is the best sauce.” That saying goes back to the 15th century, perhaps from Cicero. The meaning is obvious — if you are hungry, food tastes better. Or, if you have been laid up for five weeks, a boring ski run can be wicked fun.

By the same token, when you know that something is finite, it is only natural to cherish it all that much more. The last bite of ice cream, the final bike ride before the snow falls and the last ski run before the snow melts. Or perhaps, the last snarky text you received from an old friend who has very little time left to live.

We usually travel in the fall, only returning when the snow begins falling. Early November, the options for skiing are limited. Yes, you can ride lifts accessing what little terrain is open, but many savvy locals look to cross-country ski on trails that only a few weeks prior were good to bike or hike.

But early season, all trails are not equal. Some are more sun exposed, some have more foot traffic and some still are being driven on before the gates are closed.

I was heading to a trail that habitually has good early coverage. Just to be sure, I texted Gretchen, an old friend and cross-country skiing enthusiast, to ask if she had skied there and how the conditions were. I hadn’t spoken to Gretchen since the end of summer. I’ve known her for decades — first as a beautiful young single gal, then as a beautiful married lady and mother, then as a beautiful, yet salty, older lady who was not afraid to speak her mind. I have text exchanges between the two of us dating back years where she commented on town issues, pet-owner etiquette, spelling and punctuation of my columns and Facebook posts. About two months ago, she wrote that she appreciated an old classic joke I included in something I wrote. I reasoned if anyone would know of the snowpack on our trails, it would be her.

I texted, but did not hear back. I went ahead with my plan and had a good day.

I returned home and checked my phone.

In so many words, keeping with her frank demeanor, Gretchen wrote she was unaware of the ski conditions because she was dying. Her next text, five minutes later, read, “What, no snappy comeback?”

Gretchen died the next day.

There were many folks closer to her than I was. But I can say she was my friend. It is not that I would have done anything different. But in reading back through our many months of communications, I wish I more appreciated her wit, sarcasm and passion. It is a good reminder for all of us that those in our lives will not be here forever. Truth is, neither will we. 

Warren Zevon reminds us to, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

The joke Gretchen wrote me about months ago was one I stole from someone unknown to me.

“I want to die in my sleep like my granddad. Not crying out in pain like the folks on the bus he was driving.”

Safe travels, Gretchen.

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stoplights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.