Excerpt from Powder Magazine:
Like a lot of kids, my first acquaintance with the world of skiing was in the local shop (the Snow Leopard in Evergreen, Colorado), renting skis with my family. It was a funky old place, an octagonal log barn that was full of dark corners, shiny skis, and the smell of hot wax. For 9-year-old me, it was like stepping through a portal to a new dimension. The murmur of strange invocations from the staff, the benches cluttered with inexplicable tools, faded old posters of topless ladies hitchhiking with skis slung over a tan shoulder, torn postcards from Kathmandu or Andermatt taped to the wall. Wizards with furrowed brows hunched over a wax-encrusted bench performing unknown rites as my family shuffled around like the other rental customers, eyes rolling like confused cows herded into an unfamiliar corral, puzzling over paperwork, and straining to understand why the boots had to be so tight.