Long ago a close group of dummies lived together in S.L.C. Utah. They rented in the same apartment complex year after year and kept it tight. Jason Bump, Brian Thien, Travis Wood and Bobby Meeks came from So Cal. CAPiTA’s Blue Montgomery was already posted up in Utah attending college. Spy Optics Chris Sayda was smokin’ grits around Brighton somewheres. I moved over from Vail with Kingpin Productions’ Whitey and Mikey LeBlanc. All in all, most of us capped our careers off in Salt Lake.
The late 90s was a different time. We frequented local peeler bars and closed down the Manhattan and Bricks nearly every night. Staying out late, consuming plenty, and struggling to cope with early morning shred sessions was the game—we managed. Around this time JP Walker and Jeremy Jones were eating candy, going to sleep at nine and quickly surpassing our on-hill skills. But that’s another story.
One after another each bro eventually took industry jobs and went his separate way—sad but true. Makes you want to cry in a beer or something … I digress, back to the story at hand: My boy Jason Bump came up with the idea of a reunion trip to Utah and pretty soon there were many names in the hat. When the smoke cleared a handful of overworked, and even a couple married-up fools made the pilgrimage. Jason Bump, myself, product mover Travis Wood, Blue Montgomery, and recently retired Bobby Meeks. Saydah had just moved back to Utah so we divided the crew between his crib and that of TechNine big dawg Ethan Fortier.
There was a party at The Circle Bar our first night out with E-Stone, Cole Taylor, Mark Edlund and bunch of other homeboys in attendance. Travis Parker was in the fray and Quicksilver’s Brian Craighill too. We drank a lot … some blonde Euro chick with really challenged driving skills endangered half our posse. Luckily, I was whisked back to safety with a complementary fifteen-minute rally around some snow packed Church parking lot. Thanks Chris.
We showed up at Snowbird the next morning and soon discovered none of these new snowsurfers even tear up our terrain anymore. We hit untracked cliff lines an entire day after the storm! Wow. Young homey’s, you kids are straight trippin … or slippin’—in any case thanks for all the freshies (and the tickets Laura). Then it was off for steak and legs just like the old days. Nothing had really changed. The same group of loveable idiots with an extra crows foot or two—except for that Jason Bump, he still looks preteen. E-Stone made a guest appearance. Travis got wasted and threatened a fistfight. Reminders that fisticuffs are unacceptable in your 30s fell on deaf ears. As fate would have it his nemesis got ejected before anything actually went down—sweet.
The next day snow fell lightly from greybird skies. It was afternoon, hangovers were heavy and expectations were low. I gave Jim Mangan a shout at Park City, rallied the troops, and within’ an hour we were riding knee-deep pop pow on the backside of P.C. W.T.F.? Things kept getting better as our pal Ben “Bubba Dodds band Form Of Rocket played that evening and killed it. Followed by more scantily clad women of course. At last call on our final night we came to the profound and nearly sobering conclusion our five-year reunion was actually ten—it got mighty quite for a minute. Had it really been that long? There was a serious moment of reflection, possibly even some drunken self-evaluation. It passed quickly. We composed ourselves, bolted out the bar, and pissed on a monster truck. Keep your eyes open for www.PissOnMonsterTrucks.com. It’s coming.
