Twelve Years

This is it. We’re closing Western Rise. ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ Twelve years ago, this started at our dining room table. One idea we couldn't let go of: clothes shouldn't be the thing that keeps you home. We built it out of a garage. Packed the first orders by hand. Wore every prototype ourselves because we couldn't afford models. People were following along before we had anything to sell. It grew into a team in Telluride, Kyiv, Manila, Ho Chi Minh City. People who answered your emails, built the site, ran the marketing, obsessed over the details. Different jobs, one standard. They made it real. Then there was you. You wore this gear harder than we ever tested it. You trusted it on trips where you only packed one pair. You sent photos from places we'll never go. Some of you came in on the first batch. Some of you last month. You made twelve years possible. The store closes this week. From a dining room table to sixty countries. We'd do it all again. Thank you for that.