SKIGZR - 18 July 2026

Above: Monuments to Ev and Joanie Howell. Slackline Park. Park City, UT. 18 July 2026.

I came across this modest monument at Slackline Park today while walking with Tom Oliver. How it arrived here remains a quiet mystery—perhaps placed with the city’s quiet blessing by one of Everett and Joanie’s children. Whatever its origin, the stone stopped me cold. In an instant, I was transported back to the six remarkable years, from 2001 to 2007, when I skied almost daily with Everett and the original Ski Geezers.

The founding trio—Everett, Don Dowell, and John Brose—were all in their early seventies in 2001. These men were not casual skiers; they were daily devotees at Park City Mountain Resort. Everett’s Utah license plate proudly declared it: SKIGZR. My own induction began with a dim but vivid memory: riding up the Payday lift around 2000 with a stranger named Don Dowell. Conversation flowed easily, and by the end of the morning I had an invitation to join him and his two friends—Everett and John—the next day. From then on, I skied with them nearly every day for the next seven years, averaging roughly 130 days a season.

Tom Oliver, today's walking companion, a year older than me (I was fifty-five at the time), became part of the crew as well. More than fifteen years their junior, Tom and I were affectionately dubbed the “Junior Geezers.” Everett had made his living in the forest and logging business. John was a retired Texas oil man. Don, whose background I recall less clearly, split time between Wellington, Utah, and property he owned in Wyoming’s Star Valley.

What bound the Ski Geezers together was not age, but an almost religious ardor for skiing. We met faithfully at 8:30 a.m. at the base of the Crescent or Payday lifts—thirty minutes before the ropes dropped—like an alpine version of a ROMEO breakfast club. A small band of fellow early risers became our familiar lift-line companions.

Of the countless runs and stories, one stands out in high relief: the morning a cow moose decided to chase Everett down Picabo from the top of the Silver Star lift. Everett carved ahead, oblivious, while the large moose thundered behind him like a furry freight train. The rest of us froze at the top, then followed in stunned silence. Near the bottom, the moose veered off into the trees. Only when we reached the King Con lift did we ask Ev if he’d noticed his escort. He hadn’t. Pure Ski Geezer sangfroid.

They were excellent skiers, these seventy-something warriors. But by 2007, as the original trio approached eighty, time began collecting its toll. Everett passed away of natural causes in 2008. That same year, Don broke his leg near the bottom of Jonesy’s run. John kept skiing, though less often, eventually migrating to Deer Valley. I joined him there on the occasional bluebird day until around 2019, when he moved back to Texas. Last year, John called me from Texas. “Steve,” he said calmly, “I’m calling to tell you that in thirty days or less, I’ll be dead.” At ninety-two, he had lived a full life. We reminisced about the Ski Geezers, the laughter, and the shared trails. He passed shortly afterward, just as he had predicted.

Now, at eighty, I find myself exactly where those original Ski Geezers were when the daily ritual began to fade. I still ski regularly at Deer Valley, though I no longer have a standing crew. I catch companions perhaps half the time. Time, that relentless patroller, keeps sweeping the mountain. And as I stood before that small stone monument today, a quiet, ironic thought surfaced: I wonder if anyone will one day plant a similar marker for me—another faded name on the long, winding run we all eventually ski alone.