Following the Feather: The Story Behind FARA

I’ve often embraced the mantra: sometimes the path of life unfolds in front of you, and sometimes you create the path with your choices. And often, it’s the seemingly most inconsequential decisions that have the biggest impact on your life. I don’t know where I picked that up—maybe I made it up—but I think most of us can look back at the arc of our existence and agree with the basic tenet.

I grew up in Oregon, raised by Beatnik parents in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, living off the land and off the grid. Eventually, they moved us to Eugene so we could get a proper education. That’s where I went to both high school and college. I studied biology and chemistry with a special interest in the micro-mechanisms and biochemical underpinnings of evolution. Somewhere along the way, I met Trisha Wookey. We formed a bond that’s lasted to this day.

After college, I spent a year traveling through New Zealand with two close friends—a trip that would plant seeds that wouldn’t bloom until years later. At 23, I moved to Montana to spend a winter chasing powder at Big Sky Resort. My dad grew up in Montana, and many of my relatives still lived there. It felt like a good way to spend a little more time “on the lam” before pursuing a PhD in microbiology.

We were “lifties” at Big Sky—working the chairs, living lean, and slowly getting to know the locals, the ski patrollers, and the mountain staff. It was 1995, and backcountry skiing was just starting to take off. I needed a pack to carry a shovel and probe. I didn’t have any money, but I did have my mom’s old sewing machine—the one I’d used to make stuff sacks for my New Zealand trip. How hard could it be to make a backpack?

I bought some materials from a ski patroller named Andy Tuller. With his encouragement, I stitched together a modest, functional pack in my dorm room. It felt like a throwaway decision at the time. But then… people noticed.

First, I made one for a friend. Then another. Then someone offered to pay me to make one. That’s when it clicked: maybe this was worth paying attention to.

Trisha came out to Big Sky that same season. Despite some relationship breaks, we always seemed to find each other again, like two magnets. She had learned to sew as a kid and had coached me through those early stuff sacks. She landed a job with Dana Designs, a Bozeman-based backpack company, as a seamstress—and gained serious skills on industrial sewing machines. At that point, the idea of starting our own backpack company began to feel real.

We sought advice from Dana Gleason (who would go on to start Mystery Ranch), and he encouraged us to go for it. It felt crazy—I was still planning to pursue a PhD—but this new path had a pull we couldn’t ignore.

We followed it. We called our new company Wookey Backpacks, bought a Juki 415 industrial sewing machine, and started building prototypes in our garage. One of those prototypes became the Wookey Shovel Pack—our signature design. From 1996 to 2005, we ran Wookey Backpacks. We were young, scrappy, and figuring it out as we went. Eventually, we closed shop and sought roles in the gear industry.

By chance, we both landed senior design jobs at Macpac, a technical outdoor brand in New Zealand. We moved there in 2005 and stayed until 2008. We learned a ton about process, design systems, and offshore manufacturing. We always said: Wookey was our undergrad; Macpac was our PhD.

But the call of Montana was strong. We came back just in time for the housing crash. With no house, we moved into a storage unit (with a shower!), pulled out our old machines, and launched Wookey Design Studio, a contract design firm.

Business came fast. After a few years, we upgraded to a commercial space and enjoyed some of the most fulfilling years of our lives—steady work, creative challenges, low stress.

But that itch came back.

People would say, “It must be great being your own boss,” but the reality was we had 3–5 clients at a time. That meant 3–5 bosses. We never chased glory, but we knew the work we were doing was generating real revenue—millions, in some cases—for the brands we designed for. We began to wonder what life would have looked like if we had stuck with Wookey.

In 2015, my Timbuktu messenger bag failed, so I made one for myself. A year later, I had a custom-built piece, made from coated materials with a laser-etched hawk graphic from a Witchcraft Album Cover on the TPU lid. It was slick—and people noticed. I made a couple more over the years, but client work kept us busy, and I never considered going commercial with it.

Then came the pandemic.

Like many people, we found ourselves with unexpected time. Work vanished, and creative energy filled the space. I returned to that messenger bag idea. I began sketching again—messengers, slings, backpacks, duffels. The designs took on a futuristic tone, influenced by sci-fi films but intentionally rough around the edges. Clean, ultra-minimalist gear was everywhere. I felt like zigging when everyone else zagged.

By late 2020, amid all the uncertainty, we felt something stirring. A rebirth. A desire to reshape our work and brand into something that reflected who we’d become.

Work picked back up eventually, but everything felt different. The world had shifted. It only took one difficult client experience to convince us to change direction—and commit to something new.

In early 2023, we founded FARA.

FARA isn’t an outdoor brand. It’s urban, future-retro, and rooted in intention. The designs are meant to move with people through creative, everyday lives. The feather icon—now notched—was part of my early sketches and became our core symbol. To me, the feather represents hope, rebirth, guidance, spirituality, and above all, good fortune.

I once read a dry Peter Drucker management book. One concept stuck: “Good fortune favors the prepared mind.” Most people see luck pass right in front of them and don’t even notice. But if your mind is open—prepared—you might catch it.

That, paired with my long-held mantra about paths and choices, became central to FARA’s identity. My dad always said that finding a feather in your path was a sign of luck and a reminder to pay attention to life’s interconnectedness.

So here we are: at a new beginning. A remaking of ourselves. We’re building the gear we want to carry, designing for the world we want to walk through. And this time, the customer is us.

Written by Sky Sterry, co-founder of FARA.
Follow along as we continue to build gear for the road ahead → Instagram @fara.feather