A Climber We Lost: Matt Primomo
You can read the full tribute to Climbers We Lost in 2024 here.
Matt Primomo, affectionately known as Primo, was a father, husband, friend, snowboarder, skier, climber, and alpinist. He was a mountain guide, avalanche forecaster, snow scientist, and land surveyor. Above all, he was an exceptional human being with a heart so big it aerated everything around him with stoke.
Matt lived his life with passion and purpose. As an avalanche forecaster for the Northwest Avalanche Center (NWAC), he was deeply committed to his work. He didn’t just study snow, he loved it, lived it, and understood it like few others. He even designed, manufactured and sold his own lightweight snow saws, hundreds of which are now in the field. He could explain in fervent detail how avalanches impact the landscapes they travel through, from groundwater to soil health. Once, he cut into a fallen 100-year-old tree and used its rings to study a century of avalanche cycles.
Matt wasn’t just a scientist—he was a snow whisperer, a technician of the mountain craft, and, most importantly, an artist. His medium wasn’t a pen or brush but a blank canvas of untouched snow where he carved his snowboard. His Instagram was a treasure trove of stunning ridges and peaks captured from perspectives few have considered or imagined. Whether studying maps, satellite images, or telemetry data, Matt devoted time to understanding and celebrating the mountains in all their beauty. He saw promise and potential in places others had overlooked.
In March of 2022, we spent three days attempting to climb and ski the north face of Goode Mountain, the tallest peak in North Cascade National Park and one of the last great north faces yet to be skied in the Cascades. Matt had spotted the face during a snow study mission with the heli and deemed it skiable. When the weather finally cooperated, we went for it, only to be turned back by a wind slab hazard high on the face. Even in our failure, we were still rewarded with a magnificent sunset and a quietness only felt in a remote range far from anyone else.
Matt understood the risks of the mountains in a way that seems almost ironic as I write this. He wasn’t reckless; he was calculated and wise, knowing when to push forward and when to turn back. For his 38th birthday we planned to ski one of the north-facing couloirs on Mount Stuart, but the ski conditions did not cooperate. Without hesitation, Matt suggested a safer, creative alternative: linking new ice and snow lines on a sub-peak north of Sherpa Peak. That day, we climbed and skied two new lines, staying far from avalanche hazards while still savoring some mountain adventure.
As a mountain guide, Matt had the technical skills and confidence to explore new terrain. He was less concerned about grades or difficulty, and more interested in finding adventure in the unknown. Whether linking beautiful unclimbed cracks or rappelling into untouched couloirs in the Stuart Range, Matt sought out novelty. But it wasn’t just about the epic landscapes—Matt also saw and celebrated the small subtleties of the hills. I remember once, while exploring new terrain off Sherpa, Matt quietly cleaned off what appeared to be some small roots and dropped them into his soup. Perplexed, I asked “What was that?” He smiled, took me to a patch of flowers, and pulled out a few tiny wild potatoes.
Matt always seemed fascinated by trees. On a trip through the northern slopes of Mount Stuart, he wandered off our route to examine a lone, towering larch. He circled it like an old friend, marveling at its resilience, its age, and its colors, smiling with excitement. I loved hearing him talk about the trees, the snow, or the weather. If you got him rolling on something you had to let him take it. Matt wasn’t a big talker, so if he spoke, you listened.
He once skied the NE Couloir of Dragontail, the Triple Couloirs, and the NE couloir of Colchuck in a single day. These routes are all coveted test pieces in the range; many people ice climb them, but very few people ski them. Matt established hard first descents in Cordillera Blanca, Cascades, and repeated some of the most committing and difficult ski lines in the U.S.
While Matt’s adventures were legendary, his true priority was his family. As a father, he shared his love for the outdoors with his son, Milo. Milo rode on the back of Matt’s snowmobile before he could ski. They summited mountains together before Milo could walk. Now 2, Milo is a spitting image of Matt—his smile, his love for music, and his joy for life.
Matt was also a devoted husband to his wife, Stella, who (luckily) didn’t meet him until after his transition from snow dirtbag to avalanche stud, when he moved on from working at the local pizza joint to working at the Utah DOT. In their adventures, they built a life of mountain magic together, all while holding a strong community around them. They often took the lead on organizing group hut trips or barbeques in town. Matt was a fervent connector in our community. He bridged the gap between groups, facilitating outings with the most boy scout adventurers and the wildest soul riders. He welcomed everyone into his circle with ease and compassion, and his steady, joyful, and humble personality was magnetic to those who spent time with him.
I am writing this because Matt perished while soloing a moderate multi-pitch climb outside of his home in Leavenworth, Washington.
I looked up to Matt for many reasons, the foremost being his ability to integrate his mountain life so deeply into his home life. It’s easy to be a solo mountain adventurer without a need for compromise. It’s harder to merge these worlds and find balance in them. Matt was my hero, my friend, and my mentor. He was a pillar to our community and we miss him every day. I will always remember Matt smiling ear-to-ear like a Buddhist monk, surfing down the snowiest mountains and belly laughing as the powder flew over his head.
You can read the full tribute to Climbers We Lost in 2024 here.
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