Conquering the North Face
Page 8
When we landed, one of the plane’s tires blew out. The pilot smiled and said something like, “Still got three more.”
Dust swirled until the propellers stopped. We looked outside—bright and oppressive, as if under a magnifying glass.
We went out, merged together into a family trying new things with the warmth of an old movie. My family’s hotel room was small, 8 by 8 feet, and the four of us became very close. The four Deweys had rented the other room in the hotel. In essence, together we had rented the whole hotel. The entire experience had a rhythm, an easy cadence of warm familiarity. Deep below that it had a shout for joy—a great foundation for family.
We explored, basking in the moment. For three days we climbed ruins, went into temples, read hieroglyphics, and solved the mysteries of life. The conversation was mystic, speculation on the past and the future.
We saw monkeys, birds, and trees. We saw each other. We connected. In the plane on the flight out my daughter, Kelly, turned to me. “That’s incredible, what you do for a living,” she said. “That’s fun.”
5
JUMPING OFF THE FENCE:
Any Decision Is Better Than No Decision
There we were on the Zambezi River between Zimbabwe and Zambia. It was a beautiful day. The sun was up, and we were in the midst of some of the most spectacular scenery in the world.
We were at work. Every year, rather than hire an agency to shoot the photographs for our catalog, we would bring some employees to an outpost of the world and shoot it ourselves. It was a great chance to save money, test our products, and have fun.
There were eight of us that day who were going to run the Zambezi, a river that had only been run for the first time six months before. My group of four went ahead. We plotted our strategy.
First, we decided on a marker rock—something to give us a sense of direction. We then decided on a direction. The middle of the river looked fairly safe, but there were some large boulders on either side that could cause serious havoc. Off we went, laughing and whooping giddily—gliding and flying over waves. Our boat folded, twisted, and dropped as we crashed forward. This was serious. Each of us became silent, a mantra of frightened concentration.
Warm spray slapped our faces—a real blow but nevertheless a welcome bath in the equatorial heat. And every few seconds we checked for the marker rock. No problem; we were on course.
When we finished that section of the run, falling back in laughter and satisfaction, we waited for the next group. They just shot out. No direction.
Off they went toward the huge boulders along the side. “Stroke!” I yelled from shore. But no. They were frozen. They were headed straight at disaster. They seemed paralyzed. They had failed to make a decision, and so the river took over. It took the raft and slammed it against a huge rock. The raft was almost vertical, and we held our breath. For an instant we couldn’t move, and neither could they.
And then it flipped. A most amazing sight. The raft just flew up in the air, and people were thrown off it like play-school figures. We instantly mobilized.
“Rescue!” we all started yelling. “Rescue!” We shoved off and started to row toward the center of the river.
For a moment the only thing visible was the bottom of the raft. Heads popped up, but then we couldn’t see them.
We cut across the river, fighting the current. The current brought the other boat to us. Frantically we tried to count the swimmers. “There’s one! There’s another! I got him, I got him! Hold on!”
And then, “There are two missing!” Screaming, cursing, praying. “Even if the river sucked them down, they should be up by now!” someone yelled.
Finally it hit us. The raft. “Look under the raft!”
We dove in. And, thankfully, there they were. Safe, in a little cover of oxygen, under the raft.
When we finally reached shore, we realized what had just happened—life at its purest. We sat back, popped open some cold beers, and lit up a big old joint of Mountain Thunder, which is what they call the marijuana down there—for good reason, I might add—and just savored existence. For all of its terror, that experience made the trip worth it. There is something about flirting with death that I have always loved. You feel the nerves on the outside of your body. You tingle.
In an odd way, I suppose, that is why we do these things. In retrospect I would rather my friends had chosen the same line we did—in fact, any line was better than letting the river dictate to them as it did. The Zambezi, after all, is exciting enough without mistakes. But sometimes you just have to make mistakes. You have to make a decision and then react from there. You have to jump.
Even if you don’t make a decision, you’ve made a decision. Just because you stand still doesn’t mean the world does—time, like the river above, marches on at its ever-steady pace. And as specific events unfold, time sometimes seems to pick up speed. This acceleration of time is relative to the amount of stress associated with any particular upcoming event. If a deadline is approaching and your mind is stuck in the vapor lock of indecision, time seems to move even faster. If a crisis occurs, there is no time to analyze. It is time for action, particularly if you are the leader. To those stuck on the fence the paralysis is painful in its clarity.
Rick LeMoine could have been stuck on the fence. The truth was, he was stuck in a hurricane. Rick is the owner of Kenyon’s Market, a convenience store on Cape Cod. In August 1991, at the height of the tourist season—and with the national senior Babe Ruth World Series taking place in Rick’s hometown, Falmouth (thus even more tourists than usual)—Hurricane Bob took a nasty turn north from the Caribbean on a dead-eye path for Cape Cod.
Traditionally most hurricanes, as Cape Codders know, begin off the coast of Africa and then sputter harmlessly around the Atlantic Ocean. Occasionally they slam into the islands of the Caribbean. At worst they hit the southeastern United States—no farther north than the Carolinas. Bob knew nothing of tradition.
And so on Saturday, two days before the hurricane hit, Rick first heard of its existence and the probability that it was coming north. So did every other store owner.
On Sunday, Rick did what everyone did. He taped up his windows to protect the glass from shattering in the expected high winds. News of the hurricane also caused panic buying from the customers.
On Monday morning, when it was apparent that the hurricane was on a direct course for the Cape, Rick knew it was time to mobilize. This was a crisis. He talked to his partner, who owned another store nearby, about buying a generator. The cost was $1,200. His partner told him he was crazy to spend that kind of money when there was no guarantee the power would even go off. But Rick had a hunch.
He made a decision and bought the generator, and he bought and filled nine gas cans. Then he gave an electrician friend a case of beer, and the friend wired the generator into Rick’s lights. It was a small generator—it couldn’t handle his beer, ice cream, or milk coolers, but it could light three aisles in his store. Those lights would allow him to remain open.
The hurricane hit as scheduled, packing winds of up to 110 miles per hour. Trees were downed everywhere. Water swelled. One sailboat even slammed into the front porch of someone’s waterfront house. And, of course, the power went out.
Rick’s biggest concern was the perishable items in the store—ice cream, frozen meat, and so on. At noon on Monday, at the height of the hurricane, he took all the ice cream from his store to one of the local schools, which was being used as a shelter. While other stores were watching their ice cream melt, Rick was making points with the community.
Unlike most other stores, Rick’s store closed for only two hours—just so that Rick could check on the status of his own home. When the hurricane passed at about 5 p.m., Rick called a local ice company. He knew that power was out, meaning refrigerators weren’t working. Thus, ice. He made a decision, asking the ice company to bring all the ice they had to his store. He was told the ice company had plenty of ice, but not enough gas for their trucks t
o make it to his store and back. Rick made another decision. He was friends with the owner of a local construction firm that had a generator to run their gas pumps. He arranged to fuel up the ice trucks at the construction firm.
The ice truck stayed in his parking lot, running its internal freezer. At one point Monday evening 150 people were in the Kenyon’s parking lot waiting to buy ice. That night he sold 3,800 bags of ice. On a busy day in the summer he averages 300 bags.
He did another thing too. Unlike the owners of many stores that somehow managed to get ice, he left his price the same. There were so many people without power that in some locations, Rick heard, people were paying 50 cents just for a small scoop of ice. Even the ice company told him to raise his price. But he figured he was still making a profit; there was no reason to gouge. He knew he was in the grocery business, and the community, for the long haul.
When it was over, despite closing for two hours, the store had had its most profitable day. At the same time it had made a mark as one that doesn’t gouge and is responsible to the community.
Tuesday was even better. With all of his frozen hot dogs, hamburger, and sausages thawing quickly, Rick made another decision. He brought the gas grill from home and put it right outside his store. Initially it was to feed his employees. But as soon as he fired it up, a line of customers formed. It didn’t end until all of his frozen meats were sold.
The milk company on Cape Code traditionally makes its biggest run of the week on Tuesday. But the Tuesday after the hurricane the milk truck couldn’t sell any milk because the power was out to run any store coolers. The truck arrived at Kenyon’s Market hours earlier than normal. Kenyon’s was the last stop of the day, and the driver told Rick no one had bought anything from him. He expected Rick to say the same. But Rick had a better idea.
“Let me have your whole truck,” Rick said.
The driver didn’t understand. Rick explained. “Let me keep your truck on my lot and we can sell milk right out of it. After all, you have nowhere to go and your truck is refrigerated.” Rick had to call the executives of the milk company, and they agreed.
Rick made another decision. He called the local radio station, which by Tuesday was the Cape’s only link with the world. The station was into full hurricane coverage. It was so detailed, in fact, that hardly anybody in Falmouth knew anything about the short-lived coup in the Soviet Union, which was occurring the same week. So Rick told the station that he had a milk truck in his lot. The station, ignoring the Soviet coup, told its listeners about the Kenyon’s milk truck numerous times on Tuesday. It was yet another coup—a public relations coup.
Tuesday was even busier than Monday. In a crisis, with most competitors shut down and losing perishables, Rick LeMoine flourished. Sure, Rick lost some goods too. But not half of what he could have lost if he hadn’t made some quick decisions. And even with some of the losses—for example, the ice cream—the image of the store profited. And the tills of the store profited too—it was the most profitable two days in the history of the store. Rick showed why, especially in crisis, any decision is better than no decision.
Three days after the hurricane some men from the power company were working near Kenyon’s to get the power restored. As it turned out, some areas of the Cape lost power for seven days. But it was not to be for Rick. He walked out to talk to the men, who were packing up to go elsewhere. There was still no power at Kenyon’s. “Where are you going?” asked Rick.
To another part of town, he was told. They had been called by management. There was something more urgent.
“But how long would it take to get power on at Kenyon’s?” he asked.
About a half hour, he was told. They started to walk to the truck.
“How about a case of beer for each man if you do it now?” he asked. Rick pleaded his case. Ten minutes later the power at Kenyon’s was on, and he gave each of them a case of beer.
The first thing Rick did after that was drive to his partner’s store to loan him the generator.
Vapor lock is caused by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known. But decisiveness is the mark of a leader. By creating action where there is inaction, a leader leads rather than wallows. A leader radiates confidence, and confidence is decisive.
There is a saying: Lead, follow, or get out of the way. It’s a good saying. Make a decision. What’s it going to be—yes or no? Even worse than the word “no” is no decision. Leaders need to say “yes” more, but even a “no,” if done quickly, can be a motivator. The absence of decision is always negative—it reeks of fear.
Goethe said, “What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has a genius, power, and magic in it.” Boldness. Urgency. You cannot take 1,000 steps without taking the first one.
Fear of failure is in essence fear of risk. John Lennon wrote, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” If you are always planning, you are never doing. At some point you have to jump.
In some things, especially in the realm of adventuring, risk can appear to be no more than educated lunacy. Climbing Mt. Everest, for instance, may seem so, but climbers know what they’re doing. It’s still risky, but if the spark of genius hits you and you have tested it, you have to follow it. Or you have to let it go and move on to something else. One of the two—no middle ground.
The anxiety and agitation of tense muscles and even tenser brain tissue can only hold for so long. At some point with indecision it all explodes, and you cease being human with human emotions.
The consequence of indecision can be enormous. Worst of all, it is not a sudden catastrophe but rather a slow death, decades of misery contemplating what might have been, like the punch-drunk ex-fighter continually claiming, “I coulda been a contender.”
Dugald Stermer could have been that way. Stermer is a world-renowned illustrator—a one-man award-winning, politically influential artist. He has illustrated literally hundreds of editorial and advertising pages, including Time magazine covers, environmental posters, and the 1984 Olympic medals. When he was a young man at a career crossroad, Stermer didn’t hesitate. He didn’t have any example, any paradigm; he just followed his instinct. He figured he could create his own career path, one to make him happy.
He was attending art school, but art school for Stermer was too restrictive. He once said, “I would feel very uncomfortable if there wasn’t political or editorial content in much of my work.” So he quit art school and moved on to UCLA, where he meshed his political and artistic instincts into a freelance career as designer, illustrator, and writer. He made a decision and he jumped. There were times when it was all a maddening struggle with periods of grave uncertainty. But he made up his mind and forged ahead, convinced his quest was correct.
Stermer aims to educate. His latest books have dealt with extinction of plants and animals. Before his book Vanishing Flora came out he said, “Most of what we know about medicine, nutrition, and food has been derived from plants. And sadly, by the time the book comes out, 15 or 30 of the flowers in it will be extinct. We’re losing up to three species a day … even as the Amazon rain forest is destroyed. Gone before we’ve even had a chance to identify or to ever understand their qualities.
“The lesson is, finally, that a species may disappear from the earth, but it leaves behind an ecological void forever, and too often the man-made causes for its extinction also remain … a threat to every other living creature … including ourselves.”
If Stermer had not been strong enough to make a decision and stick with it, he might never have been able to work toward preserving nature, his passion. That would have been sad. The world would have been a lesser place for it. After all, as noted above, Stermer is no mere illustrator—he is a historian, recording our world as it may never be again.
You have to go at a goal like a fish attacks a fish ladder—one step at a time, without discouragement. You must have an inner confidence in order to radiate it, because expectation of failure almost guaran
tees it.
It happened to Karl Wallenda, patriarch of the great tightrope-walking family. For years and years his act was incredibly successful—he toured the world and thrilled thousands with his daring. But then one day something happened. Wallenda, before he was due to walk the high wire, became edgy. He wanted to know the wind currents, and he checked the wire himself—something he rarely did. He checked over and over. He was wary.
It was a time he should have said no. He should have realized what was wrong with his mental makeup that day. For the first time ever he lacked confidence. That day, Karl Wallenda fell to his death.
Unless you are undertaking a life-threatening adventure like Karl Wallenda, the world doesn’t end with failure. Rather, lessons are learned. Failure is often the inability to properly assess risk. What comes from failure is an education. A leader learns where the error was and doesn’t make it again. If you are not deterred by the loss, you will be smarter and more efficient.
The people who are afraid of failure just don’t get it. Failure is closer to success than it is to mediocrity. Failure isn’t bad; it’s good. It shouldn’t crush; it should inspire. Easy words, I know, but none are more true. Every great person has experienced failure in some fashion. It is the mark of a great person to be able to deal with failure—it often leads to success.
The great thing about coming out of failure is that you learn about yourself in ways that no other experience can teach. You learn about resilience and survival. Risk becomes easier. You are smarter and better able to assess risk. You have a depth of knowledge about your toughness in crisis. To go again and again is the key to your success—both as an individual and as a leader.