Snowboard Connection in the early ’90s. Photo: John Logic Archives Logic (right) accepts the 2017 Craig Kelly Thunderbird Award alongside TSNJ Publisher Jeff Galbraith (left) and 2016 recipient Tex Devenport (middle). Photo: Ben Eng We didn’t know a single person in Seattle. I’d only been there for a few days in May when I went there to scout a location for our new shop, which we named Snowboard Connection. On that initial scout-ing trip, I saw a car with an “I’d rather be snowboarding” license plate frame. I left a note on the windshield that said, “I’m opening a snow-board shop. It will be at 76 S. Main St. Come say hi!” The car belonged to Luke Edgar, one of the city’s most Stoked!Loud!Relentless! enthusiasts . He rode his bike by the location every week, from May to September, till he finally found us unpacking and sorting out our new life. Luke had been riding since the days of the Burton Woody and had a friend, Cameron Adams. They were too old to be shop rats, but they hung out the same way. Marshall sent us our first employ-ee, Karl Volz. Together, we faked those first few months. We’d steal screws from the local hardware store and drill the boards at night, when no one could watch. One of our early customers was a guy named Sam Merriman, a former Seattle Seahawk football player. He loved boarding and was a giant athletic dude, not like the skaters we were used to. It took 17 screws for each foot to mount his Kemper bindings. There were so many variables and technology was chang-ing rapidly—Morrow had no wood in their boards; Gnu was bought by a windsurf company; Sims boards were made in Italy; Barfoots in Southern California; Mike Olsen of Mervin Mfg. was making the Concept, a lightweight board that was flexible, but prone to break-ing. Nothing was standardized, but everything was compatible in a mash-it-together, Frankenstein style. Someone who is now dead said, “The harder I work, the luckier I get,” and I strongly agree. Choosing snowboarding, letting Craig pick Seattle, putting our store next to the only all-ages club in town while the music scene was exploding, and then the tech/dot-com money flooding the city—it all seemed like luck, but we absolutely loved putting in the hours. We were making new friends every day, form-ing small alliances, supporting each others’ new ventures. Mambo-sok, NoBillyNo, Ned Limbo, Spacecraft, K2, Mervin—the plane to the annual snowsports trade show in Las Vegas felt stuffed with local royalty. Matt Goodwill, Jim Hale, and Tex Devenport mixed with old-guard pros like Shawn Farmer and Nick Perata, and Mack Dawg would stop by on his way to Baker. Add Jamie Lynn, Mike Ranquet and a gang of seasonal locals and it made a potent brew. We continued like this for many years, with friends telling friends, hiring great people, making lasting bonds. Customers would become friends, then become staff. Staff would become sales reps and stay in the industry. Employees would date customers, then marry them. People had kids. People bought houses. A community was built and supported with $nowboarding dollars, a sprawling wheel of people, each one a spoke, with SnoCon as the hub. For 24 years. Holy crap! Do you know how rad that is? Can you imagine how incredible it felt, knowing we had built a vehicle people hopped on and used to steer toward their dreams? Skip way, way forward, to 2014. The shop was still going with an-other location in Bellevue, an online store, about 30 employees, and we knew something wasn’t not right. We’d been underwater for five years, since 2009, and the bank decided to call the loan. They were gonna force us through that door, or we could walk out on our own free will. Adam Gerken, our general manager/Partner, and I talked it over, Lisa and I took some long walks, and we pulled the plug. There was no more money, no more credit. Our vendors were very understanding (most of them, at least). We didn’t make a big announcement but just said on a Friday, “To-morrow’s our last day.” Johan Malkoski of C3 put the word out, and the place was flooded with beers and tears for the weekend. It’s over, and it’s not coming back. It shouldn’t. We were self-taught, self-directed and we made lots of mistakes, cracking thousands of beers along the way. It was perfect for what it was, when it was, coming from where it did. Not everything is meant to last forever. THE SNOWBOARDER’S JOURNAL 035
The Snowboarder's Journal frequency 15.2: Page 35
