Wrapping up a five day stint at the world’s greatest trade
show has taken its toll. The Outdoor Retailer expo has a habit of doing just that.
As I sit in a terminal concourse at the Salt Lake City International Airport
five hours early for my flight home, my brain is still reeling from this mad adventure.
Approximately 75 percent of what I do is geared toward the
outdoor adventure market. This primarily includes photographing advertising
campaigns for outdoor sports brands and shooting editorially for magazines. I
attempt to niche myself as one who can create photographs and video from the
ends of the earth and still bring back a high-quality product. Those assets are often
a necessity when working for outdoor companies where many of the shoots are on
location. Therefore, twice a year, I make the pilgrimage to Utah with 20,000
other outdoor industry pros, semi-pros, and newbies; and everybody wheels and
deals and parties and tries to create new business for the upcoming year.
Buyers, exhibitors, manufacturers, media, and people like me barrage the city’s
downtown Salt Palace for four days of outdoor adventure retail mayhem.
Massive brands like The North Face, Columbia, and Merrell
run their trade show empires from gargantuan booths featuring museums, bars,
and enough new product to keep everyone’s adrenaline at full tilt for the
upcoming season. The established guys overlook the small starter companies in
booth footprints barely larger than postage stamps and surrounded by homemade poster
board walls and hand-crafted graphics. Some brands will make it and some will
not. The new iPad case that can protect a tablet if dropped from space (they
tested it) may make it. The skier cartoons drawn by a proud husband’s wife who
wanted to quit her day job and try something new may not. In any case, it’s
simple enough to wander around for days on end, running into people and
products that look as if they may be a fine fit to represent.
* * *
My start into this soiree began at 4:40 a.m. in my bed. Jolted
awake by a screaming alarm, I threw the remaining gear into my Jeep
and headed to the airport. I had put off booking my trip until the week prior,
which ended up proving a master calamity. I’d chosen such an early flight
because I wanted to get to the OR the day before and make sure I was set for
the next day’s All Mountain Demo at Solitude Mountain Resort. As soon as I grabbed
my ticket and was flushed through security, we boarded the plane and were told
we were going to be sitting on the tarmac for nearly an hour due to runway
construction at a Phoenix layover. “No
worries,” I told myself; “You’re a
patient guy. Just relax.” Besides, I was going to have to wait a while in
Phoenix to change planes anyway. Once the hour passed, our 737 commenced rolling,
made a right angle turn onto the runway, and then roared its engines. Shortly
thereafter, the engines stopped.
“Hey there folks, this
is your captain. We hate to delay you further, but we need to taxi back to the
terminal due to some slight mechanical problems.”
I’m in a Zen like state at this point – breathing through my
nose and out my mouth and trying to slow my rapidly expanding heart. It was a
bit of a contrast to the guy next to me who created an entire sentence – featuring subject, predicate, everything – with the F word.
We make our journey back to the terminal, and I realize I’m
now sitting in the midst of a mob about to revolt. Five minutes pass and the
negative vibe in the plane is thickening. A baby cries.
“Hey there folks, this
is your captain again. I hate to break the news but this plane is inoperable.
We’re going to have to rebook your flights on another airline. We’re sorry if
this causes any more inconvenience.”
Time to leave.
Several more hours of flight schedules and reschedules come
to pass, and I finally make it into SLC. Hailing a cab from the rainy airport, we
dodge traffic on the way to my abode for the next five nights - a circa 1960s downtown
motel three blocks from the show. Because I had unfortunately made my
reservations the week before, the only room I could find unoccupied was a
smoking room (I don’t smoke) in this one-star rated harbor for homeless urban explorers.
Opening the door, the stench of old cigarettes
and latex pour onto the threshold nearly knocking me over. “Ahh,
wow…amazing…this is…well, this is your own fault,” I say to myself, frustrated
that I’d waited so long to book. I’d been to the show before and knew better. I
figured I was going to be at the expo or out most of my time, and I would only
be using the room to sleep; so I decided to make it a go. That, and I really
didn’t have any other viable options.
I unpack my gear and head over to the Salt Palace to
register -- only to be told I could NOT register as a non-exhibiting attendee. Cranial
veins are popping; beads of sweat are forming on my brow.
“I’m sorry ma’am,
that’s actually incorrect. I have come to the show before and it’s listed
online. I’m a non-exhibiting attendee.”
“Sir, you’re not
getting into this show unless you are an exhibitor or a buyer.”
I smile, say thanks, and turn around to make the wet trek
back to the motel. After I register with no problems online, I head to a pub
for some dinner and a Sierra Nevada. Full and sleepy, I walk back to the motel
for some rest before the next day’s shenanigans. I pull back the comforter and
there are four cigarette burn holes in the sheets. I decide to sleep fully
dressed.
After waking up the next morning, I walk into the shower. “Wait…what is that stuck in the shower head?
A syringe…you’re joking…
* * *
Hopping on a complimentary shuttle from the Salt Palace to
Solitude, I have a rejuvenated spirit and am ecstatic about skiing some of this
year’s rare snowfall. I shred the mountain all day on some new K2 demos then
head over to the OR mountain party. Kass, a ski instructor from Vermont I’d met
earlier in the day, was wrapped up in conversation at a full table so I planted
myself down at a spare with some strangers.
There I met Brad, who was recently divorced after 37 years from what I gathered
was spending too much time at Burning Man experimenting in weird adventures. He
was nice enough though and offered a ride back down the mountain in his
self-proclaimed BMW, or Big Mormon Wagon. I never could figure out if he was
actually Mormon or atheist.
The Salt Palace is teeming the next morning with tens of
thousands of people. I make my way onto the floor and take an initial scope of
the entire venue. I have a few meetings set up each day and one big brand
meeting I’ve spent months bringing to fruition. The rest of my time is spent
trolling companies to see which brands have an advertising identity that might
work well with what I offer visually.
One of the most interesting aspects of the OR is the variety
of attendees. Cool hipsters with hairdo science projects to suit people to free
spirits to young entrepreneurs to corporate powerhouses pretending to be hippies
all abound into this melting pot of outdoor industry. In one corner you have distinguished
old men adorned with Hemmingway-white beards selling rich leather and hardwood
bear statues and on the other end you have early twenty-somethings wearing
flat-brimmed hats peddling the latest designs in artificial climbing handholds.
It costs a lot for a freelance photographer like me to attend
an event like this. $475 for the entrance badge (I think it’s around $30 for
actual buyers) plus $750 round trip plane tickets plus $325 total lodging costs
(told you the motel was cheap), plus food, plus etc., plus etc. But...once you
pass through the gates and under the massive Outside Magazine arched entryway,
you have entered a world where anybody who is anybody in the outdoor world will
find themselves for this winter week in Salt Lake City. Heck, even Bear Grylls
comes. Except for a very few rare, smaller brands everyone is very respectable
- even to freelancers.
I saw Kass, my ski buddy from the day before and asked how
her day was going. I’d spotted her in the crowd by her loud, boisterous
demeanor, signature no-makeup face, neon orange shoes, and Sherpa backpack full
of rolled up canvas samples. Kass is very no-nonsense and told me twice that
old men love her. I suppose this is because her give a damn meter is completely wrecked. That being said, she
saunters seamlessly around the OR producing business and business contacts for
her employer. It’s actually quite impressive to see first hand.
Time flies, and I soon find myself standing in front of a
small television screen imbedded into a black booth wall. I’m watching some
sort of demonstration about underwear for ninjas being narrated by Dwight
Schrute from The Office. Somebody
walks up and asks if they may be of assistance.
“Yeah, hey, how did
you get Dwight Schrute to narrate your video?”
A blank stare for a minute then the man crumpled in
laughter. I wasn’t joking; I just thought…you know, ninja suits, and the
narrator did, in fact, sound identical. When the guy comes back up he sputters
something incoherent, but I gather from his overall context that the narrator
is their CEO.
Anyhow, the day continues in a similar fashion and I find
myself invited to a snowboard company’s advertising agency’s super secret party
that night. After the OR winds down, I'm somewhat lost and walking down a dark, sketchy
back alley leading to where I thought there was supposed to be a high-end
celebration. Trodding along, I spy a misplaced hotdog vendor
behind a cart in front of a massive garage door.
“Hey,” I say.
“What’s up?” he
responds. “You want a Sicilian hot dog?”
I walk inside the garage, gazing into ancient Industrial
Salt Lake City turned into brand new Advertising Agency Salt Lake City. This
place has all the stuff every modern ad agency has: exposed brick walls, black
ventilation ductwork, clients’ art adorning every wall, some awards, and the
ping pong table. What draws my attention though is the full-scale half pipe
they have in the back, complete with six skaters. That, and the amazing
snowboards everywhere. It was as if someone took the scene from Pinocchio where
the wooden boy goes to the land of bad kids and blended it with modern day
business. Microbrew cans overflow from ice-filled kiddie pools. I grab a stout
and the Sicilian.
I first decided to partake in the ping pong (a game I don’t
regularly play), but some lip balm sales rep with a high-pitched voice and
thinning hair decided he needed to prove something to me, so I drifted over to
watch the skaters and check out the new line of snowboards, which were
glorious. Somewhere throughout the night, I bantered with a couple different
art directors and other creatives – learning about their clients and exchanging
ideas while realizing this type of networking kicks email's butt any day.
* * *
My trip culminated with my biggest meeting of the show. As
is the case with many adventure photographers, I’ve been wanting to associate
myself with a single large brand, such as super producer Jimmy Chin has done
with The North Face. I’d worked for months shedding blood and tears over emails
and phone calls to set up this meeting, and I felt it was worth it when another
photographer stopped by to set up an impromptu meeting but was politely denied.
After spending some time with a young marketing manager completely stoked on
life, I worked out a deal to shoot some spec work of their products this
summer. If they like the direction I head with their branding image, it looks
as if we might have a productive relationship sometime in the near future.
I happily sauntered back to the motel and stoked on life
myself. The next day of the show was going to be the last, and I felt as if I
had already tapped every resource I could. Trying to rebook my flight to leave
that day rather than the following was going to cost $200 and I didn’t really
have enough time that afternoon or the next day to ski, so I decided to swing
by Starbucks, grab a coffee, and begin writing my perspective of the
Outdoor Retailer.
It was an arduous and productive winter path, and I’ve long since
left my dirty motel room and the concourse where I began this story. I now sit back
on a 737, patiently waiting to go home and begin my new work leads.
“Hey there folks, this
is your captain. We hate to delay you but there’s some runway construction at
our Phoenix layover...I'm afraid our departure is going to be postponed for about an
hour.”
BF
