Blast from the past

Many times, when things take on a life of their own, the beginnings can be somewhat dubious. As such, I will humbly give my version of the events several years ago that led to one of the greatest discoveries to hit the family costume box. (Because if you live in Durango, surely you have one. It is a prerequisite, along with a drawer solely devoted to koozies and scars from at least one knee surgery.)

See, according to my recollection, I was the first in the family to spy the pristine relic at a local thrift store. It was in mint condition, displayed on a headless mannequin atop a circular rack of sundry retro wear. Upon discovering such a rare and valuable score, I was filled with the barely containable nervous excitement that comes from having such a fine specimen in my crosshairs (at least I would assume, as I have never actually hunted. Even putting the worm on the hook makes me squeamish.)

I tried to hide my jubilation so as not to draw attention – how did anyone else not see it? – as I casually asked the clerk to remove it, my palms sweaty with anticipation. Once in my hot little hands, I may have let out an evil cackle when I looked at the price tag which read, to my elated astonishment: $2.

Mwaaahahaha. “Do you know what this is?” I wanted to say, as I clutched the fluffy yellow taffeta close to my chest, the fly collar poking me in the eye.

It was, of course, a windshirt.

A windwhat? you may ask. Which would immediately incriminate you as a child of the ’80s or later, in which case I will educate you. A windshirt, my dear novice, is the 1960s and ’70s answer to Gore-tex. A button-up shirt made of simple nylon used to shelter skiers from the breeze of spring days. They are a somewhat rudimentary invention by today’s standards, offering scant insulative value, absolutely zero breathability and little to no water repellency. They are boxy and often too short to tuck in let alone reach your wrists, causing one to wonder if the human race has grown in the last 40 years. The pockets are far too small to serve any real purpose, and the collars can be downright dangerous on gusty days. The material is stiff and unwieldly, far from body conscious, and the flapping creates a deafening racket at high speeds, not unlike a prehistoric pterodactyl coming in for a landing.

So why all the fuss for what amounts to a glorified hefty bag? I guess you could say it’s all about fashion – or lack thereof. See, windshirts hail from those hallucinogenic days of electric Kool-Aid, flower power and free love. They are an uber groovy abomination of color and pattern – think Mary Tyler Moore on acid or if Sgt. Pepper and Marsha Brady had a love child in the back of the Magic Bus.

And perhaps there is a bit of nostalgia wrapped up in the chintzy mystique. As a child, I remember seeing adults sporting the jaunty finery, along with Vaurnets, jeans and the requisite bota bag, en route to a day on the slopes. It was as if to say, after a long and dreary winter of woolies and longjohns (the jeans were always a constant), “Let’s party.”

So, I snatched up my precious find faster than a wild T-bar can smack you in the head, and proudly presented it to the Spousal Unit.

Now this is where historical recollections get diverge, but suffice to say that first little windshirt unleashed a cyclone of activity. See, before long, my bigger half discovered Ebay as a prime, cheap and plentiful source for the castoff apparel. Suddenly, small, tightly wrapped packages started appearing on our porch from farflung reaches of windshirtdom. Perfectly preserved parcels from the depths of closets and attics forgotten by time, from Sheboygan and Duluth to Toledo and Scranton – just waiting for the highest bidder.

As the obsession grew, he became somewhat of a connoisseur of the “Skyr” brand, and I’m pretty sure he cornered the market. Soon, the unwieldy outerwear outgrew its Rubbermaid bin in the basement like a can of psychedelic snakes. When things started resembling an explosion of Ralph Furley’s closet, a riot of garish combinations of plaid, gingham, calico, polka dot, paisley, stars, stripes and assorted fruit and flora, I worried that a windshirt intervention was in order. Surely there was an old man somewhere in the Upper Peninsula franticly searching for his favorite ski shirt, the one that looked like Danny Partridge’s technicolor vomit.

But by then, it was too late, we were in the full throes of windshirt mania. They became de rigueur on ski trips, and people would greedily dig through the collection, looking for the perfect one to clash with their outfit on Gaper Day, and even the kids got in on the action.

Pretty soon, others began to amass their own stash, much to the chagrin of the Spousal Unit, who had become a sort of windshirt mogul. In fact, there was the night they filled the Ranch (of which they proved valuable in deflecting spills) and the first (and so far only) annual windshirt day at Purg, complete with pre-ski windshirt draft party. They’ve come along on trips in the backcountry, to apres at the Beach, happy hour at Jackson Hole’s fabled “bench” and even hiked to the top of Kachina Peak.

Come to find, friends had developed a fondness for the fabulously gaudy garments as well. There were even a few who had been hanging onto their originals, waiting for the them to become fashionable again, if only ironically.

Sure, I guess you could say we’re hanging onto the past. Yearning for simpler times when skis and hair were long, and liftlines and relationships short. When your skiing spoke for itself, but just in case you took the Hollywood line, you knew your shirt looked good, too.

As much as I would like to say I lived this heyday of flimsy nylon outerwear and safety straps, the truth is I was of the era of rear-entry Hansons (the orange ones that froze up like torture devices – my parents must’ve hated me), Hart Gremlins and that cutting-edge invention known as the ski brake.

But who knows, maybe years from now, my own kids will be scouring thrift stores in search of those hellish Hansons and even a CB jacket to go with it. In the meantime, I plan to sport my windy loud and proud every chance I get.

– Missy Votel