by Hap Klopp
And so it was when he was offered an attractive, tenured professorship at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. At first glance it had everything, both economic and professional rewards. But there was another part of his life equally important—his personal life. His wife, Janet Beach, is a very successful marketing executive, having been in charge of marketing at such companies as Levi Strauss and U.S. Sprint.
When Keeney was offered the job at USC, his wife had recently formed her own company in San Francisco, called U.S. Marketing Services. They also had a young son and a spectacular apartment in San Francisco overlooking all the bridges.
What to do? Keeney treated the issue like all the other decisions he analyzes. He put together a matrix of all the factors affecting the decision from his perspective and weighted them according to his values. Then he tested the spark. He went to Janet—who certainly had a vested interest in his decision. He asked her to also give her input. He logically expressed it and systematically plugged it into his matrix. She wanted to stay in San Francisco. He wanted the job. A dilemma, right?
Not really. They talked. They weighed their lives, their individual goals, and their shared goals. They thought about options and came up with a workable answer—he would accept the job, but only if he could do his work from San Francisco. They wouldn’t move, and he wouldn’t commute. He had a young son he wanted to spend time with, and he didn’t want to tear Janet away from her business—and he liked San Francisco too. He thought about such an arrangement from USC’s perspective and created ways to contribute his share to meeting the university’s goals. They presented their conclusion to USC. Different as it was, the school accepted it.
It was their friendship that made such a solution possible. If either one had been blind to the other’s goals, it could have caused difficulties. But they analyzed the problem. They looked at it from the perspective of each. And they were honest. They recognized that they have both dual goals and separate goals. Each was supportive on both counts.
Once I was skiing at Vail with a lot of notables from the ski industry. Somehow I ended up in a group of former racers, downhill-speed-skiing record holders and Olympic hopefuls. They took off down the hill, leaving me in a swirl of powder. I was apprehensive, but I took off after them. As I was picking my way down the hill I noticed they had stopped about halfway down to wait for me.
Until then I had been skiing at a relaxed pace, picking my line down the hill, and looking for soft snow to turn on, skiing conservatively. But seeing them waiting for me fired my competitive juices. I hated being left behind. I wanted to prove something. Boy, did I. I had this vision—I was going to show them. Instead of carefully skiing down to where they were, I would give it my all, let it go as it were, and fly past them as they stood impressed by my skills. Oh, to dream.
But life is often a bit different. I took off, all right. Zoom! I was flying. But just as I approached them, I started to rethink it. The seven metal pins in my left leg from a prior skiing accident flashed into my mind. I was an adequate skier; they were the best. Not a good idea, I thought. Slow down. I edged my skis into the hill, turning right. I did it at the wrong time. My downhill ski caught on a hard mogul and I was thrown in the air. I did a flip and, incredibly, landed upright on my skis. I came to a stop right in front of the group. I looked at them, acting as if I had planned the entire thing. I thought I had them fooled. Yeah, I thought, I can fit in with these people.
One of my friends skied up to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me away from the group. “You’re in way over your head,” he said, stating the obvious. “Why don’t you just free-ski down the hill by yourself? It will probably be best for all of us.”
I could’ve continued the but-I-planned-the-flip act. But I didn’t. He was being honest. He was my friend. And he was right. Friends do not falsely encourage you any more than they falsely discourage you. Friends connect with you and tell you the truth. They help you winnow fact from fiction.
Friends tell you when you are going wrong. When you go right, a friend is there and supports you. Friendship is the nature of life. An absolute connection like that of Helen Thayer and her dog, Charlie, can create magical moments of self-realization. A friendship is something to test the spark. If a friend truly has your interests at heart, nine times out of ten the friend, like Charlie, will affirm the vision.
It takes a tremendous understanding of reality to know when a friend with a concern about your vision may be right. The friend may or may not share your vision, but the true friend always understands even if he or she disagrees. True friends tell the truth.
The faith, trust, and eye-to-eye honesty of friendship is an absolute necessity for success. Concrete goals are fine, but they must be balanced by abstract rewards. As life moves on, you have to savor those rewards—they are the nutrients of the soul. They inspire you to tackle the seemingly quixotic challenges of leadership.
These rewards are like the feeling you get when you see a baby for the first time, or when you kiss your lover or sink a 20-foot putt. Such a reward is an intoxication of spirit—a joyful tattoo on the soul.
Those connections are a power source, like an electrical outlet that works both ways—both giving and receiving energy. It is that way for Helen Thayer and Charlie.
It is also that way, only more so, for Thayer and her husband, Bill. They are both adventurers. Theirs is not a one-way street. It is not as if one acts out dreams and the other supports those. They both go on adventures—sometimes together, and sometimes alone. They both dream, they both support, they both give and take energy. It is like perpetual motion, this love of theirs, giving more energy than it takes away—and it takes away plenty. Adventuring, after all, is not for the meek.
Another connection pursued by Thayer is one many adventurers pursue. Far too few companies, however, recognize this type of pursuit as an enormous opportunity. It is an immeasurable loss for those that don’t pursue these connections.
For her next expedition Thayer is planning to give something back in the form of a huge connection. Adventurers often do give something back, with articles and speeches. But her next adventure, to ski to the magnetic North Pole, will be much more. With a satellite linkup the Thayers (both will go on this adventure) will transmit progress of their trip daily to 100 schools in 40 countries. They will collect samples for scientific research, and students will be able to see the data. On their return all expedition equipment, in addition to slides and videos, will go into classrooms nationwide. The couple will also lecture at schools across the country.
The Thayers have recognized a basic truism of life: Giving is better than receiving. Sure, it’s a cliché. But it is applicable and proven. A huge connection is what makes a mind-set, a symphony—a religion. It works, especially in business. It brings prosperity—for the wallet and the soul.
The cold-fish, impersonal training of MBAs and lawyers doesn’t work anymore. Long revered in business circles, the detached executive and antiseptic style of management is obsolete. Maybe it worked for short-term money. Maybe it worked in a fascist system that never recognized the toll of wasted potential and shattered lives. Over the long run it never really worked, not in a way that could ally itself with basic humanity.
A company must recognize that success is not about products; it’s about people. People determine a company’s success. People, after all, make the products. To care for people is to care about what they do—to understand their psyche, to move beyond business into the realm of humanity.
Recognizing the soul of a company is one thing. Acting on this and making sure it is inculcated into every individual is another. Vision equals cause.
At The North Face in 1987 we had a problem—disposal of discounted product and seconds. The traditional method of dealing with such excess was to discount it, offer it to dealers, and hope. Hope someone would take it off our hands and that it would not too adversely impact on our profit margins.
My vice presiden
t of retail, Tom Applegate, came to me with a better idea: Hold a retail sale of the excess and give all the profits to the AIDS cause. It was a fabulous idea, one a detached executive could never back. Give profits away? How radical. Giving to AIDS in 1987 was even more radical. Homophobes even within our company fought against the sale. Plus some employees are always awful fearful of unorthodox thinking. Many companies use disagreements as an excuse to do nothing. We certainly had disagreement, but I had to decide if the company would take a stand.
We had four goals. We wanted to raise public AIDS awareness by advertisements, teach people that the illness could strike virtually anyone, increase awareness within our company, and also move merchandise to clear out our warehouse. The cynical would look at that last goal as our only goal. The cynical would be wrong.
At the time AIDS was shunned by most of society as strictly a homosexual disease, which it is not. Applegate reasoned, and he was right, that if the rugged image of The North Face got behind the cause of AIDS awareness, we could accomplish all four goals.
We sold almost $1 million worth of goods at a profit, which we donated. But even more important, from a business standpoint, was that we gained the loyalty and respect of a lot of customers. It was another way of getting people to identify with The North Face. It was our way of identifying with ourself. I had people at the cash registers ask if I could find more things for them to buy. They wanted to help out. What meant the most to me, though, was the reaction of my employees. For numerous reasons—the adventures we sponsored, the quality we created, the camaraderie of the group—our employees always identified with our company. After the benefit I heard my favorite words in the world: “You know, Hap,” I was told by numerous employees, “I’m proud to work for The North Face.”
Depending on a company’s orientation and type of business, less controversial issues could be used as a rallying point. In 1987 the AIDS issue was controversial. However, I felt good about taking such a stand. Not only was it right; it gave our company an image that made us all proud.
Controversy is not bad. It can be great if you are right. The world is full of controversy. Remember, lots of people are on the “wrong” side of issues. If you don’t stand for something, you stand for nothing.
It is possible to avoid controversial issues and still get involved. McDonald’s, for instance, has done a wonderful job with the Special Olympics as well as with their support of the Ronald McDonald foundation for children with critical illnesses. General Mills and the Rockefeller family have put together great art collections that are shown around the country. Mobil and Exxon have for years sponsored public television because executives at those companies realize that caring builds business.
People don’t want faceless companies. They want something to identify with, and when they find a company that they relate to, they will gladly wear a T-shirt splashing the company’s name across the front and back—advertising at no cost the good deeds of that company. If people care about what you care about and vice versa, you have made at the very least a visceral connection.
The public is becoming aware of issues, voting with their pocketbooks. Just look at the environmentalist movement, which is gaining strength around the world. Anita Roddick, managing director of the 620-store Body Shops, understands this. She also understands that a company can make a difference in the world, and she is among a growing list of entrepreneurs who are using their financial prowess to change things for the betterment of society.
Although she sells cosmetics, she appeals less to her customers’ vanity than to their concern for the environment and social issues. Hers is a green machine, a capitalistic engine rolling forth for causes such as Amnesty International, the rain forest, and recycling.
Capitalism and liberal causes can coexist, just as a business life and a nonbusiness life can. In fact, if one is to be successful, it is imperative to have one life, not two.
Unfortunately many businesspeople have divided their business life from the rest of their life. Many think of themselves as compassionate and caring individuals, even when the companies they lead are not. It is an attempt at a moral separation. It never works.
And many have also separated their private life from their business life. Nothing is worse—it sends a message that at work it is okay not to care. Those who attempt to justify the dichotomy—say they split their shoddy business practices from their private lives so as not to poison their home environment. But the concept of separation in reality creates a quagmire with no escape. It just gets deeper.
A lot of wealthy fat cats seem quite content despite their shoddy business dealings. But you cannot somehow count only part of your life on your moral scorecard. It all counts—the good, the bad, and the ugly. If your company is polluting the world yet you recycle at home, are you really making a difference? Yes, unfortunately you sure are.
A private and business life also must be one because each must make sacrifices to the other. They can be nurturing partners or cannibalistic.
From a business standpoint you must integrate your private and business life so you can viscerally know your people and they know you. If you want to lead them to greatness, you must be more than a cardboard cutout to them. Only in that way can you make that magical connection and deal with them on a basis of personal understanding.
Lute Jerstad was the second American to climb Mt. Everest. The story of how he made the final assault is a testament to trust.
As he sat in the final camp before the summit, he was tired, and he lacked oxygen. That night he tried to sleep, but it was nearly impossible. The wind whistled by his tent. He was cold, his bones ached like bad weather, and he was anxious to get to the peak. After all, this was Everest!
But the air was thin, and his movements and thinking were sluggish. He gave up on sleep and decided to melt snow over his gas stove for water to stave off dehydration. He turned on the jet of his gas stove, but then his mind wandered. Eventually he looked back at the stove and thought to light it.
Jerstad was lucky. He lived through the explosion of fumes that had filled his tent. But it was a horrible explosion and he was temporarily blinded.
Most people would have given up the climb and just felt lucky to be alive. Most would have sought medical help below. Not Jerstad. This was Everest. He had to make the top.
He pleaded with his Sherpa guide and explained he was blind but strong. “I can make it if you can help,” he said. He let out his soul—“this means so much,” he said. The guide agreed, and Jerstad put his trust completely in the Sherpa. Jerstad made it to the top of Everest alongside him. When they were at the peak, the Sherpa pulled out a movie camera and he and Jerstad filmed the view, filmed each other, and filmed the accomplishment.
Later, after descending the mountain, Jerstad’s vision returned. He watched the film, reveling once again in the conquest.
Trust. It’s an easy word to say, a tough thing to gain. It takes honesty. Jerstad knew the guide was no mere employee helping him toward a personal goal. The guide was his ticket to a dream, and in essence the difference between life and death.
Great things are never the result of legal contracts. Human connections make for great things.
Debbie and Mark Ferrari do great things. In the summer she’s a cocktail waitress. He works in a salami factory. Their connection is to each other and to the undersea world of South Pacific humpback whales. The Ferraris, with no formal scientific training, while swimming among the gigantic whales, have gathered startling information on mother and calf behavior, group behavior, male aggression, and sex identification. By following the gentle humpbacks year after year, they have stunned the world of marine science.
They connected with each other to work toward the goal of studying the animals, and they connected with the whales themselves to make their research more insightful than mere numbers and graphs. Just like Thayer and Charlie, the Ferraris prove a connection can be across species.
But the greatest connection one
can have is with family. Family is not necessarily blood relations; it is soul connections. The people you share your life with are family. In business your family must understand and support your passion for greatness. They must be excited. Otherwise they are a drag to it, and it to them.
Just as you must let your employees feel part of your family, you must let your family feel part of your business. Balance is the key to life.
I’m lucky. I’m in the adventuring business, and that is an easy, fun, and exciting thing to share with my family. Rather than tell someone you love about what you do, it is better to let them experience a part of it. It goes beyond the intellectual into the physical and emotional. Even if it doesn’t generate the same feeling for them, it’s important for them to understand it.
My family has skied together, flown in hot-air balloons, gone white-water rafting through the Grand Canyon, and explored ancient ruins in the jungles and backcountry of Peru and Guatemala.
My family also worked often at The North Face, helping out, attending functions, and acting as a sounding board. But that was the commercial side. There was another side I wanted them to experience—the spirit of adventuring.
When my children, Kelly and Matt, were in grade school (they are now both adults), we took them to the Mayan ruins in Tikal, deep in the jungles of Guatemala. There was my wife, Margot, my children, myself, and our best friends, the Deweys.
We flew in a battered old DC-3. It was an hour flight of green monotony—a Central American jungle canopy that went on like a great ocean. Suddenly out of nowhere, we saw the Tikal pyramids—200 feet high, cast of stone. Two of them. We began shouting. The flight was rough and noisy, but we were more so. And then it got even better. The pilot, a Guatemalan with two-day’s growth of beard, turned the plane almost sideways and we flew between the two peaks. It was incredible, as if we had just discovered Tikal ourselves.
