Jennifer Ridgeway, Patagonia’s first director of advertising and the company’s founding director of photography, died Tuesday in her Ojai, California, home after a yearlong fight with pancreatic cancer. She was 69. She is survived by her husband, Rick, 70; her two daughters, Carissa Tudor, 36, and Cameron Tambakis, 34; a son, Connor, 31; and four grandchildren.
Company employees credit Ridgeway with creating the aesthetic that would become emblematic of the Patagonia brand: her catalog images relied not on paid models but on photographs of “real people doing real things,” as Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard put it. The Patagonia catalog under Ridgeway’s direction emphasized the documentary image and underplayed the product. The photos told stories, inspired, and did what they were intended to do: sell clothing. But perhaps more than that, Ridgeway, through her selections, described a counternarrative to consumer culture that still managed to boost sales. “She had an eye for authenticity,” says Vincent Stanley, a member of Patagonia’s management team for five decades and currently the company’s director of philosophy, “a real eye for beauty, and a direct, wry sense of humor.”
Jennifer Dawn Fleming was born on December 30, 1949, in Jackson, Oklahoma, to J. Carl Fleming and Claudine Sneed, both schoolteachers. The family, which included her two brothers, lived for a time in Texas before settling in Portland, Oregon. Jennifer attended theUniversity of Mississippi and graduated with an MA in psychology from the University of Oregon. In “Capture a Patagoniac,” an autobiographical essay she wrote for an early Patagonia catalog, she described working as a model from age 12 through college and then moving to New York City for a job with Calvin Klein, where she organized trunk shows for the company’s high-end accounts, such as Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus.
Traveling in Thailand for business in 1981, she missed a connecting flight in Delhi, India, and “inspired by the Cat Stevens song,” she wrote, opted to detour to Kathmandu, Nepal.As she told it, she booked into the upscale Hotel Yak and Yeti and was soon being schmoozed in the bar by a climber slash writer with a contract from National Geographic who was suddenly inviting her to join him on a three-week walkabout inSagarmatha National Park, which is home to Mount Everest.
“I’ve got wads of rupees in my expense account, and I’ll hire you an army of Sherpas. We’ll sip Rémy Martin in Namche Bazaar and dine on yak steak on the Khumbu Glacier,” the climber said.
She demurred, saying, “But the farthest I’ve ever walked ... is from a cab on Fifth Avenue into the front entrance of Bergdorf Goodman.”
The climber, Rick Ridgeway, asked her to visit when her business travels brought her to Southern California. Three months later, they did. The diminutive Ridgeway met her at the airport with his two equally diminutive cronies: a very soused Yvon Chouinard and the Japanese mountaineer Naoe Sakashita. “Great,” she later wrote, as she realized that the cost of her silk gown, pearls, and five-inch heels exceeded the cost of Chouinard’s 1969 Datsun, “I’m being hosted by three drunk dwarves.” The beach cottage just south of the Santa Barbara community ofMontecito that Ridgeway had promised to put them up in turned out to be a shack in Ventura, but in the winter of 1982, the two were married. Jennifer was mustered into Patagonia, hired by Kris Tompkins, then the general manager, and assigned to marketing. “Those first few months, I was in charge of advertising, art, and PR,” Jennifer recalled. “They even had me writing catalog copy. As soon as I could spell polypropylene, I began scheduling ad campaigns for long underwear ... working with the media, running the pro-purchase program, managing catalog production, and creating a photography department.” That year the company produced its second lifestyle-based catalog.
By 1986, as the company grew, Ridgeway happily ceded some of those roles to specialists, but she kept the job that gave her the most pleasure: photo director, with the help of a couple of longtime employees, including Karen Bednorz (now the company’s historical photo archivist) and Jane Sievert (who would go on to assume Ridgeway’s role), managing acadre of athlete-photographers—hundreds of them—most of whom were friends or friends of friends. Some were given clothing to put on their climbing, paddling, and fishing partners. They worked unapologetically on spec or didn’t work at all. Tens of thousands of photos rolled in the door every year, filed, as Bednorz recalls, within six boxes on a big cart the team rolled up from a vault every morning and locked up every night.
Most of them understood that, as Ridgeway wrote in 1986, “The goal of the photos is to sweep people away, to inspire them—to let them visualize what it’s like to be ‘out there,’ not stuck sitting at a desk or in front of a TV. The message is to get off your bum and get out there and do stuff.”
And as more and more of them got off their bums and did stuff, so did the photographers, who learned quickly that to gain entry into the book, their images required a certain kind of brutal honesty and an unscripted je ne sais quoi.
They gleaned images now considered iconic, like the one of the mom tossing her bundled newborn across a small canyon to the waiting arms of the dad. But by employing a system that had both freelancers and any photographically inclined customer submitting photos willy-nilly, they knowingly amplified their workload. “I’m never going to work as hard for anyone for the rest of my life,” says Sievert, who has referred to her friend as “part spiritual mother and part Zen master.” Ridgeway hired Sievert for her climbing background—the better to understand a real climbing shot from a simulacrum of one—and not for her photography chops, because she had none. “I was so green, and Jennifer was so generous,” Sievert says. In the early years, Sievert remembers Ridgeway encouraging her to spend time outdoors, climbing and skiing, not only to cultivate relationships with photographers, but to hone her own athletic talents, because “you can’t do it if you’re not in it.” Bednorz recalls how Ridgeway helped her sort out her personal life. “I had a couple of relationships under my belt,” says Bednorz. “She taught me that a healthy one was possible.”
With time, Ridgeway tended to her own family and other projects, often working unseen and unheralded in the background (there are few photos of Ridgeway herself), with the same attention to detail and single-minded focus that she used to vet photo submissions. In 1985, with Malinda Chouinard, Ridgeway cofounded Patagonia’s on-site day-care center(a concept the two had begun rolling out two years prior), eventually enrolling all three of her children as proof of concept (her four grandchildren currently attend), and then in 2016, again with Malinda Chouinard, she wrote Family Business: Innovative On-Site Child Care Since 1983 to inspire other companies to do the same. In 2011, Sievert and Ridgeway coauthored Unexpected: 30 Years of Patagonia Catalog Photography, a book that the Banff Centre honored with its Best Book–Mountain Image award.
Ridgeway’s gift, says Stanley, was cultivating a portfolio of photographs in every catalog that allowed people to see themselves in the activity. “And it changed the way the industry viewed sports,” he says. Even more than the depictions of extreme athletes engaged in activities that many might be unable to relate to, Stanley says that Ridgeway sought to steep its customers in the wild landscapes those photos celebrated.
Ever the apprentice, Sievert sees herself as the protector of Ridgeway’s vision and her ken for finding the ultimate, authentic image. “You can’t script life,” Sievert says, inferring that a Patagonia photograph isn’t scripted either. And for that matter, neither is death.
In a 2009 piece for National Geographic Traveler, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door,” Rick Ridgeway writes of a trip to Patagonia—his first with with Jennifer and their three children. One scene takes place at Moreno Glacier in Los Glaciares National Park.
“From the parking lot, we descend through a forest of stunted beech trees to a series of viewing platforms that bring us eye to eye with a wall of ice 200 feet high and three miles long. Jennifer stands transfixed, then looks at me and forms her mouth into a silent ‘wow!’ as though saying anything aloud would be as disrespectful in this natural shrine as it would be in a man-made cathedral. But noise is something all visitors to Moreno Glacier hope to hear: The huge blocks of ice occasionally break with a gunfire crack followed by a giant splash into the lake.
“‘I’m going to will one into breaking off,’ Jennifer says with a kind of New Age determinism counter to her usual cause-and-effect way of looking at the world. I keep my camera ready while she faces the glacier. An hour passes, then two. The sun sets and the air cools.
“‘I guess it doesn’t want to break now. Maybe it’s better this way,’ Jennifer says. ‘Now we have more reason to return.’”
“The joke is, ‘Hey, I’ve climbed Everest, now I’m a motivational speaker,’” Conrad Anker told me after I observed that there’s been a noticeable uptick in climbers—many of them former dirtbags and non-Everest types—delivering positivity platitudes and business bromides to Fortune 100 companies. Anker, a 56-year-old alpinist of some renown who recently retired from his three-decade reign as captain of the North Face athlete team, concurred. Compared to mugging for their sponsors’ ads or clicking through a PowerPoint deck at a local climbing gym, a big-time speaking gig is great work if you can get it. Today, thanks to the mainstreaming of extreme sports, a relatively known athlete can fetch upward of $10,000 an hour.
Adventure types have always braved the dais to satisfy their sponsors, raise funds pre-adventure, and pay debts post-trip—or simply relate their stories to fellow pilgrims, gratis. While the spiel has morphed along with cultural norms, the metamessages of motivation themselves have changed little. They consist mainly of man’s mastery over nature, man’s mastery over self,and man’s mastery over mechanical objects.
All of which is to say that even now, in a venue near you, an extreme athlete struts and frets below a proscenium arch, wearing one of those wispy headset affairs, filling with story the murky lacuna between aspiration and realization.
In truth, adventure types compose a nanoparticle of the estimated 53,000 public speakers in this country, but they’re surprisingly ubiquitous. Basically, you’ve got the hardcores and the entertainers. The hardcores, whose names you probably know, are hired for who they are (or were) and what they’ve done (or did). (In short, everyone’s in the game, but the athletes getting real work include Tommy Caldwell, Jimmy Chin, Alex Honnold, and Ed Viesturs.) The entertainers, who you’ve never heard of, are hired for their ability to absolutely kill onstage. Generally speaking, the entertainers don’t win Piolet d’Or awards, and the hardcores don’t kill. (By “kill,” I mean the ability to both own a stage and deliver exquisitely timed maxims diaphragmatically to thunderous applause.) Many of the entertainers, and increasingly the hardcores, are represented by the country’s top speakers bureaus, like Keppler and WSB.
The most successful of the entertainers by far is 52-year-old Alison Levine. While her adventure bona fides are not exactly visionary—she’s climbed the Seven Summits and skied to both poles—they’re plenty good enough if you can slay onstage, which Levine does (in a manner remarkably reminiscent of the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel). “I just like to tell people, don’t worry about being the best and the fastest and the strongest,” she tells me. “Just be the most relentless.” And that she is. Levine averages over 100 gigs a year. She earns $32,000 per appearance, out of which she pays travel expenses and a 30 percent agency fee to Keppler. Levine says she has been Keppler’s most requested speaker eight years running. By her math, she has delivered the same stand-up routine over 800 times to mainly business audiences. She says, “I want them to walk out of the room and say, There’s nowhere else I would have rather been than listening to Alison Levine.” Apparently, they do.
Of the hardcores, there’s the surging Alex Honnold, 33, who, post Free Solo, is the most famous climber in the world since Hillary and Norgay stood atop Mount Everest. Actually, he’s far more famous, since the latter two were bereft of Instagram accounts. Honnold has been talk-show fodder since 2011, the year 60 Minutes featured him soloing around in Yosemite Valley. With a foil to introduce him and ply him with questions, Honnold, who by now has given thousands of interviews, does just fine. No, better than that—Honnold, who evinces part cyborg and part naïf, kills in interviews. Last spring, however, he found himself alone on a stage at TEDx Vancouver explaining how he prepared for the El Capitan Freerider ascent. He looked positively C-3POish as he attempted to coordinate his much celebrated arms and hands to emphasize various talking points. All told, he looked far more gripped onstage than he did on the rock. Still, Jonathan Retseck, Honnold’s agent and the cofounder of RXR Sports, an agency that caters to adventure athletes, told me that speaking ops are piling up for Honnold. Retseck expects the climber will soon command up to $50,000 per appearance.
Most adventure athletes of sufficient notoriety (and some with none) advertise speaking services on their websites alongside documentary shorts, a steady stream of social-media ejecta, and hot links to their memoirs. Public speaking? It’s not viewed so much as a nice to have but a need to have to thrive in today’s adventure ecosystem. Five-figure public-speaking fees are signifiers of the professionalization of adventure sports.
The hardcores are entitled to make a living—and a good one. Still, it discomfits when extreme athletes become cogs in the machine. Blame it all on the malign confluence of Manifest Destiny, the metastasis of social media, positive psychology, and the rah-rah sales culture of hypercompetitive capitalism, with its fixation on shareholder wealth. Rather than collude with their sponsors and corporate America, I think, why not pull a Banksy on them?
Hilaree Nelson did that recently, sort of. In January 2018, the extreme skier and climber found herself sharing a dais with a panel of top-drawer scientists and sustainability specialists, which included Al Gore, who flanked her on the right. The occasion: the World Economic Forum’s annual meeting in Davos, Switzerland, whose attendees consist of the richest and most powerful men on the globe (women comprised only 21 percent of all attendees). The panel was discussing climate change. Nelson told me that she felt out of her depth. But she didn’t hold back.
“If there is hope to be correlated with the Trump administration,” she said, “—and this is hopefully not naive on my part—but it is the amount of people in the United States who have found a voice and who are working locally and through their states, through school education... I mean, it is phenomenal...through big businesses, everyone is taking it upon themselves to make it happen.... I can’t even believe I’m saying this—but I think that’s a good thing to come from the Trump administration.”
She smiled, stared down at her hands, which she’d been steepling and lacing together throughout the talk, and looked at the panel moderator.
If irony is the hygiene of the mind, then it’s also the scourge of Tom Painter’s sinuses. Painter, 52, a NASA scientist allergic to both dust and soot, is laid low by migraines when he inhales either one. But here’s the ironic bit: Painter is the world’s authority on light-absorbing particles like dust and soot—schmutz,in Painter’s parlance—and how they are corroding mountain snowpacks everywhere. Schmutzy snow, Painter says, lowers snow’s reflectivity, or albedo (rhymes with libido). While high-albedo snow reflects upwards of 90 percent of earthbound solar energy back into the atmosphere, dusty low-albedo snow causes snowpacks to melt nearly two months early.
Schmutz’s deleterious effect on snow is widespread and is increasing at an alarming rate—so much so that Painter and his NASA colleagues believe that climate change has likely been given too much credit for the diminution of mountain snowpacks and particulate matter too little. To wit: In 2013, Painter published a study showing how black carbon particulate from the industrial revolution’s smokestacks snuffed out Europe’s Little Ice Age. His most recent work shows that high-dust years lead to a rise in melt independent of temperature.
If you’re a skier or a water drinker, schmutz matters—especially if you live west of the Great Plains. The American West’s water delivery system assumes water melts from mountains come spring and trickles into reservoirs during spring and early summer, where it’s then stored for use throughout the year. Precipitation, much of which comes from snow, is the source of 75 percent of that water. Premature runoff means shallower ski runs, sure, but also less freshwater for table and crops.
Eolian dust, or windblown silt, such as the grains of sand transported from the world’s great deserts, has always found its way into mountain snow. But Painter is seeing a greater prevalence of dust stirred up by humans. The steady creep of desertification—the stripping of plants, nutrients, microbes, and crust from the earth’s surface—stems from overgrazing, over-farming, clear-cutting, land development, recreational off-road vehicle use, and even hiking off-trail. One estimate puts the global rate of desertification at about 30 million acres of arable land a year, or a football field every second, and the United States isn’t immune to its ravages.
Drought equals dust. In 2015, farmers in California’s Central Valley abandoned crops due to diminishing groundwater stores caused by a four-year drought and an anemic snowpack in the Sierra Nevada. Ground that should have been green was brown and vulnerable to wind transport atop the scanty Sierra snow. In the mid- to late-2000s, a series of extreme dust storms began to boil up from the Colorado Plateau and coated the southern Rockies in a patina of rouge. “It’s literally snowing dirt,” says Mike Kaplan, president and CEO of Aspen Skiing Co. “It’s almost like out an apocalyptic movie. You go from glorious majestic white mountains to these dirty-looking mountains, and a whole winter’s worth of snowpack changes overnight.”
Soot is essentially black carbon, and that side of the equation is a bit more straightforward. Soot is produced by the incomplete combustion of fossil fuels from, say, diesel engines, industrial emissions, and burning biomass, like wildfires, which are on the rise because of climate change.
Despite their potential for harm, dust and soot weren’t acknowledged as a scourge of snowpacks until a little more than a decade ago, when Painter and extreme skier turned scientist Chris Landry ventured into southwest Colorado’s Senator Beck Basin to calculate the effects of dust on the timing of winter runoff. Their findings? “Not only does dust bring peak runoff several weeks earlier at the Colorado River’s Lee’s Ferry,” Painter says, “but it also has decreased the annual flow by about 5 percent each year.” Painter figures that 5 percent is enough to satisfy the water requirements of Las Vegas for 18 months.
Painter and Landry looked at two key metrics: snow albedo’s effect on the timing of the snowpack’s runoff, and the volume of pure water lurking in entire sub-basins. Snow scientists call that latter measurement the snow water equivalent (SWE). To the Department of Agriculture, SWE means “the depth of water that would theoretically result if you melted the entire snowpack instantaneously.” Join SWE and snow albedo in one algorithm, and you get a dream come true for municipal water managers, who can now determine how much and when the snowmelt will hit their reservoirs. “Water managers don’t have to commit to billion-dollar decisions with really, really fuzzy information,” says Painter. “They now know how much SWE there is in every sub-basin.”
If the Senator Beck Basin calculations laid the groundwork for everything Painter does now at NASA, his method of data acquisition (by hand, in the field) and mode of travel (by ski) did not. He collects his metrics at 20,000 feet from the belly of a Beechcraft King Air twin-turboprop. Onboard lidar measures SWE, and a spectrometer measures snow albedo. Officially, it’s called the Airborne Snow Observatory (ASO). Unofficially, it’s Painter’s brainchild, and it has disrupted the business of measuring the volume and timing of mountain meltwater. Every western water manager wants a piece of it: Oregon, Colorado, and Wyoming. “It’s crazy,” Painter told a group of water scientists two years ago at the University of Nevada, Reno. “The phone is ringing all the time.”
I don’t ring Painter’s phone; I text it. We meet in the austere concrete-and-glass surround of Mammoth’s Black Velvet coffeehouse to talk snow and water and feedback loops. “We’re finally starting, as a community, to understand this,” he says, referring to the way schmutz and temperature are wrecking the global snowpack. “There were a few of us that really had this first glimpse into it. But the broader community is starting to understand that, yeah, this is actually really, really powerful in a lot of places that we hadn’t realized it was powerful.”
That realization is evolving, says Painter, simply because no one’s had the technology to efficiently measure snow albedo on a global scale. Scientists still can’t tell us, for example, precisely how much water we’re losing to light-absorbing particles in the American West. “There’s much to understand in the West and across the rest of the globe,” Painter says.
But that could change in about ten years, when Painter hopes to hitch radar and a spectrometer to a satellite. The scientist in him knows better than to opine on data he hasn’t yet collected, but key clues point to grim news, even on the globe’s highest snowfields. “The few ice cores extracted from the Himalaya, for example, show dust deposition dating back to the 1850s and climbing steadily ever since,” Painter says. Data rolling in from the Andes, the Alps, the Caucasus, Antarctica, the Cascades, and the Sierra show increased loads of both black carbon and dust dating back to the Industrial Revolution. “So I think we’ve kind of gotten past the surprise stage,” he says.
“The ski experience is beside the point,” Kaplan says. “This is about these mountain watersheds. They’ve got to maintain their integrity, or we’ve got much bigger problems to solve.”
Fred Beckey, widely hailed as North America’s most prolific climber and mountaineer, died Monday in the Seattle home of his friend and partner, Megan Bond. He was 94.
"We were planning another trip to the Himalaya for next spring. He had a lot more to do," says Bond. "He had a good death and a great life."
Reactions to his death, both among those who knew him and among the broader climbing community were swift and all of apiece:
“They'll never be another Fred Becky,” wrote climber and writer John Long on Supertopo.com. “No words.”
When contacted in Seattle this evening, Bond, who is writing a biography of Beckey, said, “Our deep friendship spanned six countries, ten western states, hundreds of bivouacs, and travel over many tens of thousands of shared vertical feet and lateral miles. We spent over a decade together climbing, exploring mountains, wilderness terrains, remote regions, and engaged in shared intellectual and literary pursuits.”
Born in Dusseldorf, Germany, in 1923, Beckey was two years old when his parents, Kalus (a physician) and Marta Maria (an opera singer) emigrated to Seattle with him. Within 14 years, Beckey had become the enfant terrible of Cascades climbing. Described by climbing historian Andy Selters as “a one-man tornado,” Beckey, “a 16-year-old with almost disturbingly fearsome intensity,” climbed 35 peaks in his first year as a member of the the Mountaineers, a Seattle-based climbing club. Within another three years the 19-year-old, climbing in tandem with his younger brother Helmy, made the second ascent of British Columbia’s 13,186-foot Mt. Waddington, with Fred ingeniously using felt slippers over his tennis shoes to surmount a crux ice chimney. Waddington’s reputation at the time was fearsome. In a reminiscence of Beckey on Supertopo, climbing historian Chris Jones called Waddington a “forbidding, remote peak that had turned back the best climbers of the day. How many of us were even born, let alone climbing then! And he was just warming up.”
Warming up, indeed. It was Beckey’s keen intellect combined with an insatiable appetite for ascent that propelled him up some of the country’s most remote—and obvious—rock walls and mountain faces. The Beckey name, it seems, is strewn in the indices of every important guidebook in North America, including Steck and Roper’s Fifty Classic Climbs of North America, and Jones’s Climbing in North America. In 1954 alone, he climbed both the south ridge of 12,540-foot Mount Deborah and the west ridge of 14,573-foot Mount Hunter, in Alaska, both with Henry Meybohm and Heinrich Harrer, the latter of Eiger fame. He also made the first ascent of the Northwest Buttress of Denali that year.
“He had a passion for seeking the unknown that is probably unparalleled,” said past president of the American Alpine Club, Jim McCarthy, speaking from Colorado. “The real thing about Fred is that he is a monument to future generations.”
Beckey, it seemed, left none of the continent’s ranges untouched, either by hand or in print. After receiving an undergraduate degree in business administration from the University of Washington, Beckey cobbled together a life that had him climbing and writing about climbing. With a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the Northwest’s mountain geography, Beckey either authored or co-authored at least eight guidebook-cum-histories, including the three-volume Cascade Alpine Guide, the definitive source for climbs in that range.
A past honorary member of the American Alpine Club, Beckey was also awarded, in 2015, the President’s Gold Medal—an award given to only four other climbers in the Club’s 115-year history. In 2013, Beckey won the Adidas Lifetime Achievement Award for his climbing accomplishments. Beckey, who has often been called the country’s ur-dirtbag—a climber who eschews riches to pursue climbing full-time—was made the subject of an award-winning 2017 documentary of that name.
“He devoted his life to advancing climbing and he succeeded,” says McCarthy. "He deserves to be venerated.”
On the morning after the 2016 presidential election, I skirted the Hells Angels’ former Ventura, California, headquarters, and tapped on a barred door attached to a graffiti-tagged cinderblock warehouse. The 10,000-square-foot facility—a former food canning operation, whose address I am not to reveal—houses the Patagonia Archives, a project recently launched by the clothing company to chronicle its storied past. No signage betrayed the identity of the building’s occupant, or hinted at the work that was taking place within, because the Archives are not open to the public.
Longtime Patagonia employee Val Franco tipped me off about the Archives. She was hired in 1973 by the founders, Yvon Chouinard, and his wife, Malinda, to run the company’s first sewing operation—the same home-grown shop that launched the Patagonia brand in 1976. She is one of five archivists whose collective tenure exceeds 100 years. Of the five, Franco, 64, and Terri Laine, 61, are the Archives’ only full-time employees. Their mission is to curate and protect anything ever sewn, snapped, hammered, stamped, or scrawled within or about Patagonia and Chouinard Equipment, from the present back to 1957, the year Chouinard paid cash for an Alcoa drop forging die, and began manufacturing pitons in his parents’ Burbank backyard. “It will never be done,” Franco said of the Archives, “but you want to give it your best effort to get it undiluted. Because when I die, and when we’re all gone, you’re gonna get a second-hand story. We have an amazing opportunity to get it firsthand right now.”
The company has not publicized the project, although the archivists have been quietly inviting friends and family to bring their Chouinard and Patagonia-branded products “home,” where they will be catalogued, exhibited, and stored. (I’d hear that expression frequently during my visit.) Although Franco and Laine will not pay for these items—they say they have no budget for such things—they would rather see these products housed in Ventura than, say, moulder, forgotten, in a dank garage, donated to Goodwill, or sold on eBay, where a Chouinard-Frost Piolet can fetch in excess of $500. The archivists—in addition to Franco and Laine there are Karen Frishman, 59, Cheryl Endo, 50, and Rafael Dunn, 40—do not begrudge their friends and former patrons their eBay lucre. But anyone who totes their trove home, they say, will be photographed and their stories will be recorded. The way Franco and Laine explained it (and the evidence of this was plain) is that the satisfaction of gifting a well-used rack of Chouinard Lost Arrow pitons, for example, and sharing their histories, far exceeds their resale value. Franco deems storytelling so critical to Patagonia’s institutional memory that she is videoing donors—members of the dirtbag tribe—as they share their reminiscences of the company’s early years. The sooner these interviews are captured, Franco told me, the better, because the problem, as she sees it, is that Patagonia’s oldest friends, and those of Chouinard Equipment before it, are dying. Most of Mr. Chouinard’s former climbing cronies are in their late 70s or early 80s. The climbing legend, Fred Beckey, who recently visited the Archives, is 94. Another recent guest, past president of the American Alpine Club, Jim McCarthy, is 83. Chouinard is 78. “We want to get them before they're no longer with us,” says Franco.
But for the famously media shy Malinda Pennoyer Chouinard, Patagonia’s eldest and best record keeper, there would be no Archives. (She did not agree to an interview for this story.) “She’s the one who’s always kept one eye on our history,” Yvon explained in a prepared quote, his only response to my request to interview him. Climber and writer Doug Robinson, who has known the Chouinards since 1969, remembers Malinda as the organization’s social catalyst. “Before there was a Patagonia, Malinda knew there was something brewing by the scruffy goings on in the Tin Shed and beyond,” he said, recalling how she began stuffing scrapbooks with photos and clippings nearly 50 years ago.
If Malinda was the curator of the company’s heritage, then Cheryl Endo wanted an archive of a different sort to address a persistent problem: Patagonia’s next-gen clothing designers were reinventing features that had been invented decades before. “So a lot of times we’d be talking about something and I’d be standing there going, oh yeah, we did that in 1993. You should look at this pocket. They’re like, ‘What!?’”
As early as 2007, Endo was reading about Levi Strauss’s clothing archive, and in 2014 she pitched the concept to her bosses. They bit. They recruited Rafael Dunn, the digital content manager, Franco, who had been assembling a Patagonia oral history, and Laine for her design savvy. “We’re tinkerers. We had no budget, no facilities, and not really any resources,” says Dunn, “so we were trying to make do with what we had.”
They toured corporate archives at Nike and Eddie Bauer, among others. They took the advice of Rick Shannon, director of the Department of Nike Archives, or DNA, who advised them to begin by collecting as much inventory possible. They placed bins around campus and asked people to donate the detritus occupying desk space, crawl space, or wherever. Endo recalled how Vincent Stanley, the company’s director of philosophy, whose tenure dates back to the early ‘70s, fished an old garment out of the trunk of his car and presented it to her. “He throws this jacket at me,” she remembered. “It’s like this old, broken down fleece. Turns out that this was the fabric that Malinda found at the California Merchandise Mart that was originally marketed as toilet seat covers. It was one of the original pieces that started the company.”
Donations straggled in from outside the company, too. Ric Hatch, who was a sales rep and later became the company’s director of North American sales, gifted a box of samples dating back to ‘79, as did the ‘70s climbing ace and former sales manager, Henry Barber. “It’s still sort of by organic word of mouth,” Franco says. “What’s happening is that people are depositing their garage storage with us. And we’ll take it.”
Of Yvon, Franco has asked virtually nothing—not even for an interview. Hatch, who now lives in Flagstaff, traveled to Ventura to donate his motherlode. “I asked Yvon if he had been to the Archives,” Hatch told me, “and he said, ‘Nah, I don’t need to go over there, that’s the past.’ It was like he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.” Chouinard has since visited the Archives, is said to be supportive of the project, but doesn’t spend much time there.
It could be that the sight of a warehouse packed with seven decades of his company’s makings discomfits Chouinard, given his disdain for stuff in general. After all, he has publicly angsted about being part of the environmental problem himself. This, even as he was morphing a humble blacksmith shop into an enterprise that today generates the better part of $1 billion in annual revenues and employs nearly 2,000 globally.
What did I expect to find in the Archives? Stuff yes, but mainly the culture instilled by the Chouinards, the brand identity an outgrowth of their ideals, which academic historian Kerwin Klein likened to Stewart Brand’s Whole Earth Catalog. “Chouinard seemed to me to have this evangelical, self-contained vision: a homemade Sixties style of politics built from semi-libertarian, semi-progressive, and entrepreneurial values,” Klein told me by phone from the University of California at Berkeley.
I became aware of Chouinard and his companies many years ago when I began to climb, and then later when I sold his wares while working at a San Diego outdoor outfitter to support that climbing habit. Even then, the brand was elevating the word “dirtbag” to an honorific, which came to stand for a renunciate of the popular culture, a picaro who lived to climb or surf, was penniless but happy, understood through voluntary privation that less was more, and would eat cat food if need be to sustain the sporting life. (When he was young and poor Chouinard ate cat food, not to fulfill some Romantic notion, but because he was hungry.) The company’s collateral and catalog, especially, celebrated this dirtbag trope to spectacular effect and its brand of marketing shaped not only the outdoor industry but also leaked into the general culture. Chouinard, the iconoclastic warrior-athlete, a Cassandra concerning the world’s fate, but a Prometheus in his crusade to unfuck it, built Patagonia in his own image, which was precisely why I’d sojourned to Ventura. I wanted not only to peruse the Archives, but also to glimpse how the brand might have influenced my own path.
It was Terri Laine who opened the door. I slipped inside, and the pall of cinderblock gave way to a quiet and carpeted anteroom exploding with color. Opposite the doorway six or seven banners with the Fitz Roy logo arrayed in royal blue, purple, red, umber, and black: “Pataloha;” “Gettin’ Dirty Since 1973;” “Committed to the Core;” “Patagonia Kids” spelled out in mountains, surfboards, and rivers.
“Take a look around,” said Laine, a soft-spoken photographer and visual display artist who rows crew on the weekends, serves on the board of Los Padres ForestWatch, and who has worked for Patagonia for 31 years.
The walls of the room were festooned with photographs in composite frames, most from the 1970s and ‘80s, and a few from the ‘50s, all of which painted a picture of the company’s beginnings and adolescence. One, from 1986, pictured five of Chouinard’s friends, the “Do-Boys,” clad in kayaking attire after a 3-day first descent of the Clarks Fork of the Yellowstone River. This photo was most remarkable in that Chouinard’s close friend and sometime business mentor, the late Doug Tompkins, is pictured grinning and rubbing his hands together, almost as if chilled. (Tompkins, the founder of the North Face) died in 2015 of hypothermia while on a sea kayaking trip in Chile with Chouinard and others.)
Signs of the company’s environmental activism lay everywhere. In the recess of a window casement was the company’s mission statement: “Build the best product, cause no unnecessary harm, use business to inspire and implement solutions to the environmental crisis.” A “1 percent for the Planet” pillow reposed on the sitting room couch. (Chouinard co-founded the organization.) Miniature bales of organic cotton were stacked next to a Trivial Pursuit-like board game used to educate employees about organic cotton’s benefits over the pesticide-laced variety.
I backtracked to a cocktail round and found a spiral-bound book bearing the title, Patagonia History: A Collection of Memories from 1957 to the Present, compiled by Malinda Chouinard, Vincent Stanley, editor. Inside the volume I found a treasure: a letter from the late Yosemite climberChuck Pratt, whom Royal Robbins, one of his cronies, once described as the best writer to come out of Yosemite’s Golden Age. In the letter, Pratt describes a 1961 road trip that had Pratt and Chouinard hitchhiking and hopping freights across several western states, and doing three weeks of jail time in Grants, New Mexico and Winslow, Arizona. “It is a tale of rat-fucking such as you never heard before,” wrote Pratt as prelude.
I followed the path of the anteroom as it doglegged right, and found a window to the main warehouse that yawned under an enormous curved roof supported by bowstring trusses: the 9,000-square-foot great belly of the Archives.
"When people ask me what I do I tell them I’m a seamstress and that my materials are people,” Franco said, as she and Laine walked me into the Archives. “So I’m a connector of people and things. I know I won’t be able to finish anything I’m doing right now because I’ll be retired, but hopefully we’ll have enough in place that the next generation can take it up and keep it alive.”
It was back in ‘73 when she strode into the Great Pacific Iron Works to see a Mr. Chouinard about a possible job, the bundle of keys that hung from from her leather belt jingle jangling. Franco, then 20, was working as a school counselor, but had been sewing for most of her life. She was a Ventura native, the youngest of nine kids, had never spent a night outdoors, never climbed a rock, never used skis, never traveled out of California, but she had one thing Chouinard did not: sewing chops. He’d been pounding out pitons for 15 years at miniscule margins, but had got it in his mind to make his own clothing, which he knew he could sell at “keystone,” or a 100 percent markup, but he needed a lead seamstress. He offered Franco $3 an hour—twice what she was making teaching school. She grabbed the gig.
We entered the main space, with its imbrication of bays and sub-rooms stacked with tables of ephemera: catalogs, company newsletters, posters, garment sketches, hangtags, decals, a stacks upon stacks of photographs. Scattered about the rooms rolling garment racks were pregnant with all manner of clothing from ‘76 onward, especially vintage fleece. A garment rack packed with vestments of purple, teal, green, blues of the ‘80s, reminded me of stuff I either owned and have since gifted. Here was a linked chain of Chouinard D-shaped carabiners like the first ones I’d bought from a veteran San Diego climber. Garlands of Hexcentrics and Stoppers dangled from frayed Chouinard gear slings, much like the ones I purchased 28 years ago to support a climbing addiction. These objects, all of which were stamped with the diamond C, weren’t just tools—they were talismans, signifiers of how far I’d come from an overprotective Midwest upbringing.
Back in the go-go ‘80s, those who threw themselves headlong into the climbing lifestyle were still few. My parents couldn’t fathom my motives when I jettisoned a professional gig to move to the Eastern Sierra to live the life. Patagonia’s catalogs, however, always featured a gaggle of folks making the same choices. The meta-message of those slicks? Follow your Muirian muse and eff ‘em if they can’t take a joke. At the same time, Chouinard had dissed latecomers like me and the entire generation of climbers who had come before, in “Coonyard Mouths Off,” an essay in the ‘72 edition of Ascent. “What was once a way of life that only attracted the oddball individual is now a healthy, upstanding, recreation pastime enjoyed by thousands of average Joes,” he wrote. “The climbing scene has become a fad and the common man is bringing the Art down to his own level of values and competence.”
I glimpsed some of the company’s clinkers, too: a pair of soft shell climbing pants that had pilled so badly on a multi-day ski tour I did that the bottom came to resemble the texture of a chia pet. The Ultima Thule, its design copped from Don Jensen, which required an engineering degree and the patience of Job to pack properly. The Foamback cagoule, Chouinard’s attempt to replicate Gore Tex, and by all accounts made users feel like they were lounging in a steam shower. I also saw short-rise pants I had worn whose front pooched like a codpiece and back cleaved my bum into two asymmetrical loaves. I leafed through recent catalogs whose athletic models were so uniformly blanched, lean, and young, I wondered whether Patagonia realized that the lack of diversity contradicted its censure of monocultures.
Franco and Laine later toured former Patagonia designer Richard Siberell through the Archives. Each time Siberell, who has also designed gear for Simms and Arc’Teryx, came upon one of his past products, he talked about the people who had inspired it. “God you guys,” he said to Laine and Franco, a touch of awe in his voice, “this is like the real deal. I had no idea you were this serious about this. I had no idea.”
After my mother died some years back, I was charged with the grim task of dealing with her household possessions. I might have hired a company to sell the stuff off, but that seemed like shortchanging a process that might allow me to parse her life, item by item, and thereby gain insight into who she was. Here, after all, was a completed archive; it had taken her seven decades to accrete the stuff, and if it wasn’t my mother, it was certainly of her.
I became an anti-archivist, cataloging, and dismantling, and then dispersing the home’s artifacts back into the world. In this manner I made my way through every item in every closet, cupboard, vitrine, dresser, and desk drawer, which included but was not limited to photographs, memoranda, bills of lading, old Daytimers, bills, correspondences, receipts, ledgers, catalogs, artwork, newspapers, marketing collateral, blueprints, furniture, emails, and boxes upon boxes of clothing—and absolutely no gear. Combing through the house and conjuring a memory of its significance was emotionally draining work. At the end of each day, I’d decant a couple of fingers of whiskey into a tumbler and numb out.
Little by little, I dispossessed the home of its goods and shipped them off to gather new meaning elsewhere. With each leaving, my mother’s archive became hollowed out, until one day everything was gone and so was she. Her stuff, of course, wasn’t nearly as significant as the stories they contained, most of the artifacts hinting at a life that centered on knitting together family and friends. Like Patagonia’s Franco, she was a kind of seamstress who weaved relationships. Connectedness had been the culture of her home. I began to understand how her interest in the lives of others connected me to her, and influenced my chosen vocation as a storyteller.
“Culture is not something you create intentionally; I think culture is something you grow,” Vincent Stanley told me. “So the value of the Archives is that when we don’t have very many people around from the early days the Archives helps create a bridge to the founding.”
Plenty of companies have established archives or museums to capture institutional memory, and an entire industry has arisen to help staffers build them. In terms of self-celebration, some corporations have gone huge: think Hershey, Pennsylvania, the entire town a paean to the chocolate company founded there.
I wanted to understand how a mature corporate archive operates, so I called Nike’s Rick Shannon. When he launched DNA in 2006, he had 25 years of paper records to work with, but little else. He now employs 20 full-time staff that manages 200,000 assets in a 150,000-square-foot facility. Today, the DNA headquarters itself functions like a library. Employees can view the collection online and request a portfolio of documents, along with a showing of the physical items in one of several Rig Rooms, with specific themes. The staff works up to three days to assemble a display. “They use white gloves,” said Shannon. “The trick is to not treat the objects as historical, but to place them in context that gives them relevant meaning today.”
If that’s true, then Franco and Laine, who eschew white gloves, appear to be on the right track. Miles Johnson, Patagonia’s creative director, and a frequent user of the Archives, worked at Levi’s before coming to the company. “I mean I use to paw over that stuff at the Levi’s archives because it was really, really important to get every detail exactly spot on, right?” He’s doing the same at Patagonia. “You’re not reinventing the wheel, you’re tweaking and you’re moving things around, and you’re finding ways to keep the image of the brand alive.”
If an archive is an embodied form of institutional memory, then it should be said that archives can be shaped to reinforce a kind of selective memory. And memory, of course, is malleable.
“One thing that has impressed me about Patagonia was the desire for control,” Klein said. Klein is both a longtime climber and a specialist in the history of both alpinism and California’s mass culture. He also studies the artifacts upon which historical narratives rely, as well as the prevailing philosophical traditions informing them. He has studied the role of memory in constructing history, and in past conversations he’s told me how unreliable memory is: how we start with the end in mind and cobble together the past based on what we want to believe in the present.
“So there’s a sense in which history is necessarily always constructionist and retrospective, right?” he told me some years back for a piece I wrote for Alpinist magazine. “And it’s informed by this sort of end that it’s driving toward, the objective, and by the sort of setting in which that objective emerges.” In other words, we construct the stories that bring us comfort, and they have little in common with reality. Ask a Patagonia stakeholder to recount their history with the company, and they’ll likely deliver a message that’s both flattering and entirely unreliable. “Oral sources tell us not just what people did, but what they wanted to do, what they believed they were doing and what they now think they did,” writes the academic historian Alessandro Portelli.
And what about mere stuff? Stories reside in them, too. I had watched how Richard Siberell reminisced each time he came across one of his designs, each object liberating a past memory, like Proust’s famous madeleine. And might not a Lost Arrow piton be inhabited by the skill of the blacksmith who forged it, the bravery of the climber who hammered it into rock? Up in the Sierra foothills, where I live, a tattered Chouinard gear sling from the ‘8os sits on a shelf in my home. The label is frayed, the seatbelt-like webbing tattooed with grime and stained with chalk and sweat. No longer a tool, it’s become a totem.
My reasons for coming to Ventura had as much to do with the house that the Chouinards had built as the one I had created for myself. I had apparently quaffed the Kool-Aid in my youth, listened to the ironmonger-ragman-dirtbag visionary as he preached from the heights. He and his wife had reprogrammed my trajectory, damn them. And judging by the 10,000 square feet bursting with stories, I apparently hadn’t been the only one.