Written by Timmy

Every day Junior year at Portsmouth High School I walked into physics class and saw the name “Turd Furgeson” written up on the whiteboard. With no explanation, Joe had some funky fixation on Norm Macdonald era Celebrity Jeopardy. With a chuckle, Mr. Duncan erased those words before starting the lecture. It was back the next day, that goofball was persistent. All of the students sat in the rows of desks set out for us in the classroom, but he elected to sit at the teacher’s. I’m not sure if he could even see the whiteboard.

Joe and I would chat about our love of music and skiing, and we began to pair up for projects. In class we learned how to structure kinematics system of equations, and soon enough we were launching marbles from the third floor stairwell and nailing the bullseye of the carbon copy targets. A few solid high fives were heard through the halls.

We were fast friends. Shortly thereafter we were riding up to Jay Peak in his green Honda Ridgeline, aptly named Master Chief. I noticed a baggie of coarse shredded tobacco in the slot under the radio. Joe would always chief on his corncob pipe in the driver’s seat, polite enough to roll the window down. He had the soul of an old curmudgeon who loved a good rocking chair.

We stayed up there, deep in Vermont with our friends the Harrises. After a day of charging hard and smacking a few of the hidden shark fins beneath the powder, he showed me how to patch up the holes in the bases of my skis. Sorry Pete for making a mess in your basement. The morning before writing down these words, I was tuning my skis in the garage. I could hear his voice in my head: “Warm up the ski inside before dripping the ptex so it welds properly, always file with the grain of the edge, make sure to brush the wax after you scrape it”.

I can’t count how many times we decided to ski out of bounds at Jay off Timbuktu to the road. No plan other than to stick our thumbs out and get a ride back from a stranger. Joe and I were always locked in battle out in the glades. If a fresh line of powder was spotted below, there was almost a collision above it to see who could get there faster. It was always a friendly competition to see who could rip it better, Joe was usually the winner. I would get an earful about how to get good enough to beat him one day. I still hear that same aforementioned voice in my head: “Chest down the fall line, keep your torso up straight, look three turns ahead to avoid the trees.” I will never forget these lessons. Although I’m still a little mad at him, he told my now fiancee Lindsay that I have bad form.

Then the summer rolled around. Joe rang and he had a mission. We were going to go out on his family’s boat, The Milk Jug, and we were going to catch a striped bass. Unfortunately, no matter how many times we tried, we were not patient enough fisherman to catch one. But we had plenty of success finding bait fish, we must have caught 200 mackerel in our many misguided attempts. He asked me to stop in Greenland for supplies at Suds and Soda, and taught me how to rig a sebiki jig. Making sure the tide was right, The Milk Jug made the long winding journey through the no wake zone until we were out past Wentworth by the Sea. Sometimes we would drop the line down and three or four mackerel would have bitten. It always amazed me they didn’t need any bait. After we got six in the “live well”, we always said we had put together the cast of friends. We put Ross on a hook and cast him out to swim around as striper bait, but our luck was always lousy.

Many winters later we would stay at Grandma’s House in Moretown, Vermont. There was nothing quite like rolling into Northfield late at night to shoot the Moretown Mountain Gap in a blizzard, Comfortably Numb blasting on the radio. Sparing a few fishtails, Master Chief always made it. The close calls (and sometimes collisions) deterred nothing. Joe was stubborn about getting off I-89 early no matter the conditions; it saved 20 minutes.

He showed me the LFO woods at Mad River, we had to keep our voices hushed in the single chair line to keep the poachers away. That place, the mystical MRG, was so special to him. The years he dedicated there on patrol were pivotal to his life, and had him on a course where he was truly doing what he loved. I remember the first year he volunteered as a red jacket patroller, there was a celebration of life for his grandfather held at the mountain. He told me he pulled a first aid sled down the hill loaded with fireworks as they went off. I hope the good folks at Mad River give him the same treatment. He would have an ear to ear grin knowing that.

Joe took a trip out west in 2019 to see America. Master Chief unfortunately was gone, but undeterred he put his mountain bike and a quiver of skis on the roof of his CRV and went. I planned to him in Colorado and he came and got me at the Denver airport. I really got to see how much his adventurous spirit developed on that trip. We backpacked in the Rocky Mountain National Forest, camped next to Sand Beach Lake at over 10,000 feet, and took photos of the milky way at night. A day later on the Fourth of July we were skiing a bowl at over 14,000 feet on Mt. Evans, hiking the rocky ridge right alongside the billy goats. On the way down, Joe had the utmost bravery to jump into a 40°F alpine lake in his skivvies. Nothing could stop him.

He carried that momentum to become a pilot, something he told me he day dreamt of as a child. At Hampton Airfield, they had a headset hung up for him labeled “JOE ALLEN PROFESSIONAL BADASS”. Perhaps against his better judgement, he let me copilot and fly the rental Cessna from the New Hampshire seacoast to the Isles of Shoals where we dove for lobsters the month prior. Lindsay rode rationally nervous in the back seat. Of course, he took care of getting the plane on and off the ground, but he did ask me if I wanted to try a landing coming into a grass runway in Newburyport. No way.

In Alaska as a bush pilot, he did and saw incredible things. He flew across vast expanses of ice, ferrying natives from their homes to Anchorage for medical supplies, groceries, and doctor’s visits. He told me sometimes 9 people would be in his 5 seater plane, children on their parents’ laps. He was right on the cusp of flying multi engine planes and getting to the next phase of his career.

Joe left us at his peak. Susan, his mother, said to me he was at his zenith. The things he did amazed me. Last summer I rode behind him, cycling up the Waterbury Headwall. It got so steep even standing on my pedals I couldn’t move the bike, so I hopped off to walk and ate his dust. He was completely out of view in 30 seconds, waiting for me tapping his foot at the top. Summiting Mt. Washington on a tour, he didn’t break a sweat, at the top he stopped to enjoy a beer. Although I’m sure he would’ve preferred an old fashioned. Every season he would clock dozens of laps out on the mountain, nobody I knew could touch his numbers. It always made me so jealous. His last ski touring post he made on Strava was the day before he passed, he titled it “Skis on feet, smile on face”. I could not think of a more fitting title for a book on his life.

The final thing to touch on is Joe’s relationship with music. He had a deep and expansive love for it. It’s surprising since it’s a hobby that doesn’t require being in the wild outdoors. Back to his old grumpy soul, when I met him he refused to listen to anything made after the 1970s. More than anyone I’ve met, he should have been at Woodstock. Although I’m sure you would’ve heard his voice cut through the fray: “Up yours hippie!”. The Band, Hendrix, and Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were idolized by him. Three years in a row, “The Weight” was his most listened song on Spotify. He said he had no problem with that.

I’d like to think I helped crack that rigid shell by getting him into other decades. Not long after I was paid back ten fold in recommendations of the odd and obscure that he knew I’d love. I was fortunate to see his taste in music evolve just like he did as a young man. I am going to forever miss the car rides where we traded the aux back and forth showing each other the next artist we discovered. I’ve been putting together a playlist spanning our time together, digging deep in my memory. With every spark of inspiration, it’s been growing larger daily.

Together we went all over the place to catch shows, live music was another fascination that put a smile on his face. We got to see the great Neil Young and Willie Nelson. Once he drove 6 hours down to Brooklyn from Vermont in his flight school buddy Bruce’s 1980-something lemon. We saw King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard and thrashed around in a maelstrom of moshers. It did not matter even if we were seeing a lame Pink Floyd cover band in Salisbury (who he heckled from the front row), those were moments were sacred and ones he lived for.

It hurt, deeply, when I found out my buddy was suddenly gone. We had so much planned, and it guts me to know I won’t see him again. Instead, I will do everything I can to honor his legacy. I will always remember the fantastic but fleeting time we shared together. Take a load off Joey, we will miss you forever.

August 19th, 2024 I had the honor to get up on stage with King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Joe’s favorite band, and we brought him to life again for a fleeting moment. The stars aligned somehow, and through some miracle I got into the groove and ripped his favorite song “Perihelion”. Right before getting up there they played “Supercell”, a song about a raging storm, and the rain came pouring down. That’s how I knew he was there. I believe he was trying to send us a nor-easter blizzard but it was too hot out. Hearing thousands of people chant his name, “JOE-Y, JOE-Y, JOE-Y!!” paralyzed me. I could not believe how the community and band was so ready to honor his memory. After a false start, I was snapped back to reality, and I played my heart out for Joe. All of that noise certainly woke him up, and I know after he saw what happened he is resting easier now. All across the world now people will know his name, and he is forever immortalized in the Gizz-verse. The final takeaway I want everyone to know is that these moments do not last forever. When they are gone, the memories are the sole thing you have to combat the grief. Always pause in life and cherish just how good it is to be with those closest. Rest in peace Joey, I will always keep you in my heart.

Joey’s Favorite Jam Bands

King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard
Grateful Dead
Neil Young
The Band
The Clash
Jimi Hendrix
Khruangbin
Explosions in the Sky
Creedence Clearwater Revival
The Doors
Johnny Cash
Cream
The Who
Chuck Berry
Crosby, Stills, & Nash
Black Sabbath

Memorable Concerts or Festivals

King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard – Oct. 21st, 2022 – Forest Hills Stadium; Queens, NY
King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard – Aug. 19th, 2024 – The Stage at Suffolk Downs; East Boston, MA