Well I'll be damned... they did it.
I'm standing by the counter in my local gear shop. The wall on the right is filled entirely with skis. Stacked side-by-side, spanning the full-length of the room, there's a full size-run of each model.
70s and 80s rock is blaring from the back of the shop.
That musty shop smell reminds me of the first on-snow job I ever had. I was a high school kid, teaching adults to ski and ride in Massachusetts, and it involved many, many trips in and out of the rental shop. Looking up, I feel myself smirk before turning back to the handful of magazines spread out in front of me.
I knew it... she got the frickin cover.
That's unreal!
One of my first friends from college is making a hell of a name for herself as a photographer and videographer in the ski industry. And she just landed herself the cover shot of a magazine where she once interned. Drills whirr, laughter floats, and the familiar sound of base-grinds bounce around the place.
My grin widens.
Shaking my head, I flip to the masthead on the next page. Pulling my chin into my chest, I squint down at the names and titles. Another friend is the Editor in Chief now. Their locker was a few down from mine when we worked together at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort. Wow... hell yeah! Curiosity's got the better of me now, so I reach for the next mag in the stack and find even more friends doing big things—Senior Photo Editor, Gear Editor, Senior Contributor.
Well I'll be damned... they did it.
When I spot that last name, the music fades. They were my editor on a few assignments years ago, and I'm picturing myself hunched over my keyboard in the dark at midnight—while my then-partner was asleep—as I combed through drafts. That was after spending the day working in the mountains and the night managing a brewery in town.
Wild.
The sound of Ozzy Osbourne's Crazy Train fills my ears and I'm back, leaning against the counter. Behind me, there are multiple racks of this year's tech shells. Goggles sit behind the counter like liquor bottles and the fluorescent lights are making the tinted lenses pop.
I really miss those folks—all of them. And I miss that life. Part of me wonders how things would've played out if I never left. Still, drumming my fingers on the magazine cover in front of me, the smile hasn't left my face.
* * *
Print ain't dead.
onward.
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