The Life and Death of Malia Hatfull

Mt. Ruapehu Whakapapa base area. In the background, the Pinnacles sidecountry. Sam Morse photo.

The first time I met Malia, the sun was shining. She was sitting in an ornate wicker chair on her porch wearing black lace lingerie. Never having met, I walked up the green steps slowly, not sure if my presence was welcome. I was beckoned from across the street by the multicolored prayer-flags draped along the railing. In my travels, such flags have been a universal indicator that good people are present, so I decided to check it out.

True to what I would discover to be her nature, she was not suspicious or apprehensive about my presence, but seemed curious about who I was and what had brought me to her doorstep. I explained that I was an American—on the road looking for work at a ski field.

She stared out of her tangled dreadlocks with vicious blue eyes that left me exposed.

“Why did you come to New Zealand to do that?” She asked at me, puzzled.

“I don’t know.” I lied, trying to stare back at this woman with an equally impressive gaze. “Well, the truth is, I’m actually getting over something—someone. She was my first love.”

She didn’t flinch, and after a few seconds of silence, she gave me a gentle grin that spoke of empathy. “Me too—my first as well. Here–sit down, let’s hang out.” She pulled up another wicker chair with an air of sadness. “I’m Malia. Nice to meet you.”

In that moment, at the random crossing of a random street on a bright sunny day, I made one of the most meaningful friendships of my life.

You can never forecast the outcome of your decisions.

Seconds before I'd never see her again, Malia sends me off in the fog. Sam Morse photo.

It can be maddening to ponder and contemplate the ‘what-ifs’ of every move, every action taken, every street crossed. The chaos of life seems to both support and contradict the whole idea of fate.

The chaos of life seems to both support and contradict the whole idea of fate.

The argument for or against fate is largely dependent on whether you are looking to the future, or looking to the past.

Malia and I became close friends. We shared a lot in common—both young, both using the natural world to inspire and guide our passions. As we recovered, it seemed fitting that we’d spend time together telling stories, reading myth, drinking tea.

Together we tried to assemble the puzzle and confusion that is heartbreak. Now a few years on, I prefer the kind of love I shared with Malia over many forms of romantic love. It feels truer and healthier.

Months came and went. She and I ended up working at Mt. Ruapehu together—a prominent ski area on the North Island of New Zealand. Working with Malia made my time in her country even more enjoyable, as it enabled us to do a great deal of riding together, much of which she spent guiding me deeper into Ruapehu's sidecountry.

Mt Doom beckons from beyond—Tongariro National Park. Sam Morse photo.

Mt. Ruapehu is the largest of three prominent volcanoes on New Zealand’s North Island. Ruapehu itself has two famous ski fields: Turoa on the south side, and Whakapapa on the north—where Malia and I dwelt in the national park. As with all the skiing and riding in New Zealand, high in the alpine above the trees, on some days the fog was oppressive. Ice is the norm, and powder snow is a myth whispered about, but never expected.

Being able to see is overrated! she yelled through the mist as she began riding away. Just feel your way down, bru!

One day, Ruapehu got powder. After working all morning, Malia and I feverishly scrambled to the West Ridge of Whakapapa. A band of Maori in tow, we got to the West side to find it completely choked by fog—two meters of visibility at best. I could tell the snow was good by its texture, but I couldn’t see anything. The Maori bailed. I was also ready to give up, too, but Malia had other plans.

“Being able to see is overrated!” she yelled through the mist as she began riding away. “Just feel your way down, bru.” I don’t think I’d ever respected someone the way I did Malia in that moment. Her confidence empowered me, and trusting blindly as she did, I turned and felt my way down the mountain through the untouched powder fields.

A semi-out-of-bounds sidecountry run—way west on Whakapapa. Sam Morse photo.

A few minutes, many ecstatic turns and a couple bruises later, I found her at the bottom with a big grin on her face. Getting on the chair, she turned to me. “It’s like Jedi snowboarding, eh?” I laughed merrily, and realized that the whole of the West Ridge was ours, because nobody else was as crazy as Malia Hatfull. That day we’d go to the loonie bin together.

Many years and foggy runs later, I realize that she taught me more than Jedi skills that day. She taught me about courage and confidence, but most of all, she taught me the importance of trusting myself in all I do, no matter the conditions.

In a world where so many people want to play a game of hierarchy, she refused all of it. Malia let pretention wash right off, never trying to one-up another or enter a situation with something to prove.

Instead, she trusted herself, and she never needed to prove anything.

Her dream was to be a wilderness guide based out of her hometown of Nelson, the South Island’s oldest city, which sits perched on the shores of Tasman Bay. She had applied to, and been accepted by, a very competitive program that would put her on the short list of any employer of her choosing. She was going to start right after the winter season.

It’s like Jedi snowboarding, eh? I laughed merrily, and realized that the whole of the West Ridge was ours because nobody else was as crazy as Malia Hatfull. That day we’d go to the loonie bin together.

The day of my flight back to America arrived, I was sad to go but excited to be returning to my family. The morning I was to catch the shuttle to the airport, she was there waiting with me. However, it wasn’t an overly cinematic, tear-filled goodbye. It was a hug, a kiss on the cheek, an exchange of email addresses, and a deep-level eye contact that said everything.

I got on that bus wondering if we’d ever see each other again.

Waiting for my flight in Christchurch. Sam Morse photo.

Years later, in Arcata, California, I was folding my clothes at a laundromat.

Arcata is a very transient town, full of trimmers and travelers—the municipal home of Humboldt State University. Over my shoulder, I could hear a group of such travelers discussing their plans and itinerary. The content of their discussion didn’t catch my attention, but their accents did.

They sounded Kiwi—Just like Malia.

As is my habit, I struck up a conversation and found out that they were indeed from New Zealand. We talked about their home country, and I shared with them my experiences and impressions of the place, making small talk of my time snowboarding and working at Ruapehu. Then I took a leap of faith and asked if any of them knew Malia. It took some digging and description, but before long, one of their group, a guy by the name of Al gave me a weird look and seemed to retract a bit.

After gathering himself, he turned to me and looked me hard in the eye.

“I’m sorry bru, but… she’s dead.”

It turned out that the following autumn after I left New Zealand, Malia had gone back to the South Island to a notable little mountain town called Wanaka. While there, she met a man, and they fell deeply in love.

One day, she was out hiking with her lover in the rain, and they decided to climb a tree. About six stories up, she was supporting herself on a branch, and it snapped. 

She fell to her death.

A photographic ghost of Malia Hatfull. Sam Morse photo.

In many ways, people exist more in our minds than in reality. You can never tell that you’ve lost someone until life makes you plainly aware of it.

I tried to email her a few times over the years, but I assumed that, like everyone else, she was busy.

If I hadn’t been doing laundry in that place, on that day, I still wouldn’t know that she was gone. It’s almost as if the very thing that led me to her in life–pure chance–also led me to the awareness of her death.

In many ways, people exist more in our minds than in reality. You can never tell that you’ve lost someone until life makes you plainly aware of it.

Life gives us many chances to have these experiences—to know people, and to let them impact us. Yet so often, these people disappear into the fog that is humanity, never to be seen or heard from again. It’s worth asking yourself how many of these people are still here, wandering around just like you or I do. And how many of them are gone.

For all I knew, Malia was still out there, she still existed to me.

And perhaps, maybe she still does.

About The Author

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stash member Sam Morse

TGR Editor-at-Large. author of The Ski Town Fairytale and creative behind The Bumion. Lover of steep-and-deep lines, long trails—and hot springs waiting in the distance.