Last September, a dear friend and longtime inspiration to many, Tom Lippert, passed away. I’ve been putting off writing about Tom for a while now because I felt this deep need to write a commemoration that did him justice. I also knew that once I started writing, I’d have to start accepting the reality and permanence of his passing.
If you knew Tom, you’d know that his spirit was too free to be confined by a set of words. But here it goes.
Over my childhood years, Tom and Laurel Lippert became my surrogate grandparents of sorts. Fortunately for me (and for everyone else), they also happened to be two of the most interesting people on earth. Together, they lived a life of love, exploration, and connection. Tom was a photographer and Laurel a journalist. Later in life, both of them also became pilots.
They traveled the world, collaborating on stories together. Each in their own form, they told stories about the Earth and how different humans found their way in it. In a time where very few people had the guts to go against the grain, Tom and Laurel said, “F– it” and made a successful career out of their creative adeptness and bold nature.
Their presence, in the myriad ways it happened to show up for me, became a comfort space. Over the years, I spent hours chatting with Tom and Laurel, each conversation revealing a new experience from their enthralling lives.
I’d sit in awe as they humbly told their wild stories, and they’d listen to mine with open ears and unconditional support. They inspired me to pursue a career in storytelling, something I wish I was able to convey to Tom more clearly than I did.
Tom and I formed a special relationship based on our shared love for skiing. He was the man behind the lens at the forefront of extreme skiing in the ’70s, a sport that has happened to become pretty significant in my life. He understood my crazed passion because he had the same bug. He was there for me during my injuries. He accepted why I had to keep going back despite the risk; for Tom, with the surgery scars on his knees, did look a little bit like Frankenstein, too.
Tom photographed Tahoe before the corporatization of skiing, reminding me of what the sport is at its core. He captured a ski culture that we’re fighting to sustain, and he motivated me to keep fighting ferociously for the preservation of our home.
The Art of Tom
I often talk about the interchangeability of art and skiing; there’s this kind of magic that happens when someone enters the flow state on skis. Time stops in a way that I think only a still photo can portray. Tom understood that — capturing its essence in his photos, his distinctive vision separating him from other photographers of the time.
The reason his photos hold such significance is because Tom didn’t just take photographs of people: He saw them. People were free to be themselves because there was never judgment. There was curiosity. There was joy and there was laughter — but never judgment.
Tom carried a contagious bliss. It was impossible not to smile around him because he simply loved life. Even in that last year, when he was battling through the brain tumor, he made the effort to still find joy. He drank his coffee on the deck and always had a sweet treat after every meal. If there was even the smallest, most fleeting opportunity to crack a joke, Tom would crack it. He never took life too seriously, and that’s something I’ll always carry with me.
Tom Lippert loved deeply, giggled often, and was a master at capturing moments. I hope you enjoy some of the photos on this page as much as I do. Here’s to Tom, whose spirit could never die.
So sorry to hear of Tom’s passing. I enjoyed running into him when I lived in Truckee, and he & Laurel helped inspire my nephew Trevor to become a pilot before he was old enough to drive. He now flies international routes for United, thanks in part to them.