On July 13th, 2026, we lost a dear man. Josh Kalven was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive cancer in March and died four months later. He was a husband, a dad to five-year-old Luca, and a dear friend to many. And I was lucky to also call him my climbing partner.
In climbing, the rope gun is the stronger climber, the one who goes up first and sets the anchor so the rest of us can follow. That was Josh. He was my rope gun (this sounds oddly romantic, and in some ways, it was!)
Josh was a fighter, and he fought this cancer as much as he could, but when it became clear there was only so much he could do, I wrote him a letter and sent it to him. I’m sharing it here because if there is someone you love who doesn’t know how you feel, perhaps this serves as an invitation to let them know exactly what they mean to you.
And Josh meant a lot to me.
Here’s my letter to him. And if you’d like to listen to me read it, you can do that here.
Man.
It’s hard to put into words what your friendship has meant to me. But I’ll try.
I always felt grateful that you wanted to spend time with me. And incredibly lucky to have spent so many uninterrupted days driving, camping, and climbing together. It really did feel like a gift, knowing how busy you were with your family and your work, and those trips really meant a lot to me; I’m not sure I ever told you.
Endless hours of you helping me with my podcast and my work. Your work. Talking all things skiing, biking, and climbing. My commenting on every piece of gear you own, not to judge you, but because I probably just wanted to be like you, or feel closer to you. And because I just need to comment on everything all the time.
You really showed me the ropes when it came to climbing. I appreciated our early Mission Cliffs hangs and how they slowly morphed into days-long climbing trips across the states.
Endless hours wandering around the Wonderland of Rocks (how did we end up doing that multiple times?) The Grotto? Why lol.
Getting our rope stuck on Quadrophenia in the Adirondacks, problem-solving our way out of that, and then trying to finagle a free rope from the Mammut rep at the local gear shop (we failed).
My helmet flying off the top of Manure Pile after successfully topping out of After Six (or was it Seven?), but not before almost walking off the top of the third pitch.
My trying to convince you to climb Walk on the Wild Side, multiple times, IIRC. “I came to Joshua Tree to climb cracks, not slab,” I remember you telling me. We still did the first pitch.
Playing around Epinephrine, which, you know, in hindsight, we totally could have climbed. Maybe.
And your famous hummus, red pepper, and jack cheese sandwich (the Josh Special)
They’ve all been very special trips for me.
I know how much you love California and how much more exploring you still have to do here. You’ve inspired me to explore more of it. The Valley, Tuolumne, Desolation Wilderness, BC skiing in Tahoe, the Eastern Sierras. I know how much these places mean to you. I hope to get to see some of them the way you did.
I’m struck by how included you’ve made me feel in your life and with your family. The trips to J Tree with Mara and Luca, hanging with your family in Vermont after my dad passed, and more recently, spending time with you all in Cole Valley. The truth is, I feel closer to you than I do to my own family. And that’s a testament to your big, open heart, your loving relationship with Mara, and the loving family that surrounds you.
I wish we could still fulfill your dream of aid climbing in Yosemite, cry over more sad movies together, and have endless cups of (half-caf) coffee before heading to our next crag.
You’ve been one of my most trusted advisors; I’ve always looked up to you, and I’m going to miss you so much.
To the best rope gun I know, and my dear friend Josh: I love you.
