Evolution and Integration
Seattle’s Evo Shop Stakes a Claim at the Center of the Universe
The culture war between skiers and snowboarders is dead. Far more than just integrated roof racks and touring posses, the signs are universal. From design—where width, graphics and twin tips have radically changed what we mount—to sculpted terrain that invites all freestyle disciplines, a movement is afoot that identifies people not by how they slide, but by the inclusive elements of their lifestyle.
Through media, music and fashion, the various disciplines are merging into a broader alliance. Core brands such as Dakine, Sessions, Arc’teryx, K2 and Lib Tech—a bastion of counter cultural thought—have been quick to promote convergence. Even the Winter X Games and Whistler’s World Ski and Snowboard Festival are now more an expression of who we are than what we ride. For the early believers, switching gears regularly now feels natural.
Still, retail has been slow to adapt. Even in the Pacific Northwest, long an incubator of snow trends, few shops spoke to this new breed until 2005 when pro skier Bryce Phillips founded Evo in Seattle’s freethinking Fremont neighborhood. The shop is an extension of the successful online retailer evogear.com, which Phillips conceived as a K2 intern to resell warehouse overstock and fund a season in Whistler. His new brick and mortar retail location features gallery space, a DJ platform, a movie screen and integrated ski, snowboard and skate sections. This new space instantly served as a retail hub for a thriving culture that disperses each weekend between Baker, Stevens, Alpental and Crystal.
Like many future addicts, my first reliable lift to the mountain was on the ski bus. Friday nights in high school meant riding a coach powered by raw adolescent energy up to the hill. Boom boxes, girlfriends in long johns and fogged windows were part of the ride. At the collegiate level, the role of the bus shifted to include cheap kegs on Carnival Night. Even reveling in post-baccalaureate poverty at Mount Bachelor, the morning shuttle picked up the slack when the tank was empty or my AMC Eagle was in the shop. The bus was always there.
Yet as corporate ski resorts increasingly-and exclusively-court the SUV crowd, the ski bus is falling out of favor. Grassroots programs that stimulate involvement and introduce new generations to the hill have been sunset in favor of initiatives aimed at maximizing revenue per skier visit. School buses have been increasingly relegated to the back of the lot, and daily shuttles are in constant danger of being cut from the budget. At many areas, the brown-bag ethic found on the bus-which brings diversity directly to our slopes-is no longer greeted with warmth, leaving many future skiers no affordable place to start.
But at Mount Baker, the buses are treated as a high priority. At the top of the list is the Winter Ride Program, which delivers 1,400 kids per Saturday to the hill. Representing 22 school districts spread across five local counties (Whatcom, Skagit, Island, San Juan, and Snohomish) the program brings 44 buses packed with middle and high school kids to Baker for eight weeks each winter. The annual cost per student averages $400 and includes weekly lessons, a reduced-price season pass and eight round-trip rides. And while other school bus programs are shunned or shrinking, Baker’s incarnation has doubled in size during the last seven seasons.
Tucked up into the canopy just east of Stevens Pass Ski Area lives a growing example of dirtbag ingenuity and extreme arborism. Seventy-five feet back from the bank of Highway 2 and suspended 50 feet up in the pines is the domicile of Tony Detmer.
Known as “Tree House Tony,” Detmer built his dwelling seven years ago to escape substandard ski-area employee housing. Slowly he added a second and then a third story, installed a composting toilet, swapped the woodstove for propane heat, and perfected the fulcrum on a precarious 50-foot rope swing that launches from the deck. Crammed inside the plywood walls are a two-burner cookstove, hanging couch, second-story smoking lounge and lofted turret-style bedroom, which is reached via a step-by-step ascent of the interior furniture. All is linked to eight fir trees (ranging in height from 120-150 feet) by ’biner and girth-hitched webbing, which needs regular tightening to combat sag.
Tony salvaged most of the construction materials from a demolished Department of Transportation sand shed. His total six-year cash outlay–including all added amenities–is less than $3,000. Last February, Tony kicked down and turned from squatter to landowner with the joint purchase of the surrounding three-and-a-half acres. His dream of creating an Ewok Village is moving forward, with three new arrivals constructing their own tree houses and his neighbor returning to the teepee next door.
As the sun cracked blue on February 14, 1999, at Mount Baker, a steady stream of skiers and snowboarders headed out Shuksan Arm, and exposed zone beyond the boundary rope. Just past noon a class-five avalanche ripped out in a 14-foot-deep slab that ran 4,000 feet and triggered multiple secondary releases. The cataclysmic slide caught, buried and killed Justin Parker and Shawn Riches in a tangled, 1,000-ton mess of debris. One burial ran so deep the body wasn’t recovered until summer by shock was felt instantly.
To this day, Baker locals reference the Valentine’s Day Slide as a cautionary warning of danger lurking on the far side of the rope, But more than just fading into myth or legend, the event catalyzed the mountain management to take action. The area responded with a policy intended to educate and equip their community. Official reaction was swift and commendable, but surprisingly, far from the industry norm.
It is no secret that the backcountry has drawn a crowd., From Tahoe to the Tetons, the competition for untracked has grown more intense. Open boundaries, evolution in snowmobile technology and a proliferation of mechanized operations have decreed that once-coveted spots are stealth no more. This explosion in access has left upsurging user-groups–who all desire the same prime terrain–fighting each other for elbowroom. As a result of this recreational rivalry, conflict and contention have emerged as unfortunate byproducts in an environment where play should take priority.
Yet on Togwotee Pass—an hour removed from Jackson Hole’s off-piste circus—peaceful coexistence reigns. For the past decade, high-horsepower slednecks, money-shot-seeking pros and the quiet touring crowd have kept conflict to a minimum in terrain straddling the Continental Divide. The secret, which seems plain to both immigrants and natives of the Equality State, is a homegrown approach that blends mutual respect, open-range compromise and a sheer vastness of space. This established truce has allowed a new cat-skiing operation to slide into the mix on a preexisting permit, and carve out a sweet 750-acre niche on Angle Mountain.
The sad truth is that most ski shops cater to a platinum card clientele. From the banded showcases that strategically adorn base-village strolls to suburban mega-chains heavily SKU-ed with inventory, ski retail has become less random and more like science. Neatly dressed sales professionals, tasteful build-outs and co-op concept shops are now the norm because they target the right demographic. Three-bill softshells have replaced flannel and denim on four-way racks and shop interiors are polished to steril perfection, making it increasingly difficult to find a case of Schmidt’s, a box of 12-gauge shot and a pair of Teneighty Guns under the same roof.
