Miah Wheeler

I will try to paint a picture that is 15 years old. It is of a little kid named named Wallace, which I refused to call Wallace, his name was Turtle. He wore a green pullover jacket that was way too big, on top of his smiling face was a helmet that resembled a turtle shell, he was Turtle. I was 17 working for ski school at the time. Over the next 4 years I would drag Turtle down runs on the Wall and Rock Island that I knew were pushing his limits. Turtle never knew that, he was only 8. He would style rowdy lines like the Hourglass and Rayburn’s (with the root jump) like it was a normal day. I remember telling Turtle not to tell his parents about these days, he always did. Weems would come up to me the next weekend with the biggest proudest smile and ask “did Wallace really do that”? When I confirmed our previous weekend activities Weems face would light up with excitement, which made us proud our adventures. Weems got it, we were having the time of our lives.

One of Turtles favorite runs was Lunkerville. There used to be a lip at the bottom of the straight away into the flats. The lip isn’t there anymore because the cat drivers caught wind of how much air you could catch (like the old 747 jump) and they mellowed it into non-existence. We would hit that jump everyday we were together. Given I exaggerate a little at times, turtle would go 60 feet off that thing. The catch was that you had to point it for at least 300 yards to catch any air. Straight lining any run for that far was nerve wracking, especially for a little kid. One day Eric Smith, Turtle and I were waiting for people to clear out before we hit it. Turtle said “I need to go to the bathroom,” E and I cracked up and decided to call the jump “Turtle Head”.

4 years later I went to college. I would get email updates like “I learned backflips” or “ I rode the Belt-buckle with patrol for my first time”. I was surprised and impressed and knew that he could handle anything he could get himself into. Word spread that Turtle was a badass rider.

After graduating from college I accepted a job offer from AVSC, my first call after accepting was to Turtle. At the time I didn’t realize that Turtle had turned into Wallace, the real deal snowboarder. At first I tried calling him Turtle, but something had changed. He was mature and emotionally sophisticated, not to mention that he could grow one of the best neck beards out there. We spent the next many years honing strategy and skills, and it paid off. Wallace was a fierce competitor at every event we went to whether it was the highest level of slope-style competitions or the Legendary Mt Baker Banked Slalom. What made Wallace particularly special was his attitude. He would use every competition as a learning experience. He got it. It is rare in the coaching world to have an athlete with phenomenal work ethic and a humble introspective personality. Wallace was a silent leader within AVSC. We would travel the world for competitions and to seek out the best shredding year round. If Wallace was there I knew that the moral integrity of our team would be represented to the highest level. I was so proud of him and knew he would go on to make me even prouder.

That brings me to Wally-doo. I think about two years ago Wallace turned into Wally-doo for many of the coaching staff and other athletes. This was the start of realizing that he was not only an accomplished snowboarder, but a dear friend. The root for this name, besides sounding really cute, was that Wallace would DO anything, anytime, for anybody. Wally-doo was a term of affection and an indicator of how we looked up to him. He had developed into not only an awesome rider and friend, but an awesome coach. In New Zealand two years ago he taught me more in one summer than I had learned in a decade. Needless to say, I wanted him around as much as possible. He had the patience that I wish I still had as a 17 year old. Wally impacted the young team in a way that amazed my staff and me. We had so much faith in him. I knew he was a very talented coach so I sent him to Mt.Hood to coach a group of 7-10 year old rippers last summer. WOW, they were stoked and I was so proud of the style and ownership Wally took in the role of a coach.

At Nationals last week I sat in front of the team and tried to explain what a champion really was. A champion doesn’t always win. In fact a champion might possibly never win at all. You have to believe you are a champion long before you win. We talked about a champion being a state of mind. By thinking like a champion you never lose, and you can make any situation a positive one. The reward for living the life of a champion is more than results, it means leaving a positive impression on the world. Wally is my new definition of a champion

In retrospect it is amazing how things have come full circle. The start of my story has me as Turtle’s coach when he was 7; the end is a 22 year old Wally-doo that was teaching his experiences to a whole new generation of young athletes that will never forget him.

I could not be prouder.