Thomas Burberry, Helly Hansen, Eddie Bauer, Yvonne Chouinard…and me


Woke up in the night to a Burberry dream…and after 23 years in this business it somehow it all made sense…

Thomas Burberry and Shackleton, Helly Juell Hansen and Goran Kropp, Eddie Bauer and the 10th Mountain Division, Yvonne Chouinard and Jack Johnson, and rocky mountain peaks somewhere over there waiting for morning. Asleep, awake.

A thousand miles and 15 years later I returned home from the Coast Range and giant snowflakes  swirled into the dusk and around my daughters nose high on my shoulders walking home from school with her big brother in a Whistler Wired touque and a quilted shirt.  On skis before she was two and in the city by three, I wonder if she remembers the mountains the way I do and walking to the Alpine Cafe for chai tea and krispy squares with Wedge in the distance.

I hear footsteps down the hall past midnight where my wife fell asleep with one of the two and makes her way to bed past the night light that slips through the cracks around the bathroom door. The dream comes quickly and then fades and I laugh out loud there between the sheets and the peaks on opening days. 

Tailored suits and striped ties hang waiting in closets, trench coats and train rides, and Kate Moss can’t really be 40, already, can she?

Fifteen years of opening days and mountain styles, Patagonia plaids, Helly puffy’s and Olukai slip-on’s flash past and down under the stairs the fat skis and skins are stacked waiting for some love and that place these dreams are made of…waiting for me to wake like Wendy, like Peter Pan through windows and clouds down Highway 20 south and on until morning where tales of lost boys and loved ones, lost souls and brothers, are found wanting in check shirts and gabardine like these words in pencil in leather bound Moleskine’s in the night.

They are waiting at the base and on shorelines…in the dream…the band of brothers, Sherpas and pirates, engineers and dishwashers, Admundsen and Scott, men and women, Denis and Sarah, familiar and unknown, a village and a tribe, for their turns with paddles and poles on opening days, on any day, anywhere but right here right now with a rocky peak lucky enough to grab some snow and a day off…or a year, or 15, or a lifetime…to push off into forever, to protect, to explore, to inspire.


Every father has a dream for his family and a lifetime and 23 years in this business of putting clothes on I am, we are, as ever drawn to the mountains and oceans between the boardrooms and umbrellas and the spirit of their adventure and escape, each one of us forever bound by the search and the Swords of a Thousand Men on late night punk rock black and white TV’s before the death of the white noise and import record shops an ocean away, 1856, 1979, once upon a time.

go there



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