It’s so hard to write this. And even harder to remember — it’s tears and gratitude all at once.
Of course, when you work as an extreme guide, your chances of getting in trouble are higher than most.
But still… it’s so deeply unfair. To Kirill’s family, his friends, and everyone who ever rode with him or worked alongside him — sending strength.

Kirill Seryogin was the founder of Kamchatka Freeride Community — a visionary, guide, and a cult figure in Russia’s freeride and backcountry world. Calm, grounded, keen on safety, never reckless, never taking risks. He made the wild beauty of Kamchatka feel both safe and sacred. He built a movement, a community, a culture. 

I’ve been scrolling through our chats and photos… So many photos with him. So many.
The last time we saw each other was in Moscow — the crew brought the film “Longing for Silence” about Kamchatka.
Kirill, as always, was the one who organized everything.
He was also the one who introduced me to Anya Orlova — our world freeride champion.
He did so much for all of us. Didn’t he?
So many of us were spoiled by chairlifts and sunny resorts.
But Kirill… he made Kamchatka accessible — by helicopter or on foot, dragging your snowboard up some remote slope to ride down into the wild, where there’s nothing but snow and silence and maybe one other group on the entire range.
Kirill and the team they built together — they took freeride in Russia to another level.

We first met in Snow Valley — Snezhnaya Dolina, where they were guiding heli and backcountry groups.
Kirill mostly ran the heli ops. So many lifts and drops he did!
That year, there was so much snow, you couldn’t even see the first floor — we entered the house through the second-floor balcony.
Then a snowstorm hit, and we all got stuck — a few groups together. That’s how we met.

I remember the first thing that struck me about him — his soft, clear blue eyes. That calm gaze.
Rocks, blizzards, crevasses — but with that look, you felt like nothing could go wrong.
Kirill told every new person he met about the Kamchatka Freeride Community.

You’d hear the stories, see the photos — it looked beautiful, but hard.
You’d think, “This isn’t for me. I can’t do this. Too dangerous. Physically impossible.”
Climbing a mountain in stiff boots, board on your back…
But with Kirill, it was suddenly doable. Even fun.
We all followed him — up, up, up — and it wasn’t so scary anymore.

Me — and so many others — we’re all so deeply thankful.
For the impossible he made possible.

That’s how I discovered this whole new world — backcountry, freeride, this wild, controlled kind of danger.
That’s when everything started… from Kamchatka.

He was warm. Familiar. We had so many real, soul-deep conversations.
About big things, heavy things. And about little nonsense things that still mattered somehow.
On those Kamchatka trips. At our dacha in Moscow. At his lectures at Sport-Marafon.
And when they screened the film — that last time.

Those soft, clear blue eyes — how much warmth they held. How much experience and care he passed on to all of us.

At that final screening — some club, loft Overtone —
everyone there was “one of us.”
A room full of people who shared the same obsession.
Familiar, familiar, familiar.
I remember I felt a little lost in the crowd at first —
but then there were his bright blue eyes again, shining like always —
on snow, behind goggles in a storm, and even in a dark club.

We talked about parenthood. About living for the thrill, and what it costs.
I told him I was moving to Canada, to the Pacific coast.
He used to ask why Kolya and I hadn’t left yet —
“You speak the language, you’ve got everything. Just go.”
I asked why he didn’t leave.

Of course, he said he loved Kamchatka too much. He wanted to develop the region.

— So… you’ll come visit me in Vancouver?
— I will. Why not? It’s closer than flying to Moscow, across the ocean.

And when we said goodbye — those same bright blue eyes again.
So many plans. So much future — it felt limitless.

— So, you’re leaving for good?
— Just for school. Maybe I’ll come back… to visit.

And now I’m flying — for the first time in three and a half years.
Just visiting.
We missed each other.

I always think back on those Kamchatka trips.
And all the times we crossed paths in Moscow.
His smile. His energy.

It’s not fair. It’s so, so unfair.
We’ll all keep crying over how unfair it is — for a long time.

Thank you, Kirill, for everything.
You changed so many of our lives.
You opened up a new world — taught us freedom, and courage.

I’ll always, always, always remember.