by Hap Klopp
Peter often tells this story—it’s one of his favorites. That’s the thing about customers; they love to tell other potential customers what they think. They often are your best salespeople.
You can be known as anything, but to be known as the best outweighs everything else. Someone once said that if you buy the best, you will never be sorry. Likewise, if you produce the best, you will never be sorry. There is always a market of people who want the best—who are not satisfied to settle for less.
And even those who are willing to settle will always choose quality if given a choice. Quality works. People intrinsically understand quality, even though it is in essence undefinable. Quality strikes a raw nerve, like an emotion, because quality is from the heart. Quality is real.
My search for the highest-quality goose down brought me not only to China, it also led me to the Hutterite colonies in Montana. The Hutterites are a religious sect that decades ago moved from Germany to Canada and parts of the northern United States to avoid religious persecution. Theirs is a simple life, isolated from the real world by choice. They dress in clothing of a long-ago era: the men in all black, the women in long dresses and bonnets. Except for periodic business with the outside, they keep to themselves, eschewing modern-day life.
The Hutterites live a farming life, producing much of what they eat. When a colony grows too large, a new one is set up in a nearby area. Each colony aims to be self-sufficient—fueled in large part by all the free labor. They eat in communal style, and their homes are simple bungalows. Private property does not exist; everything is owned by the colony.
As part of their self-contained life-style, they raise geese for food. The down is a by-product, which they sell. It is a higher-quality product than Chinese down because the Hutterites let the birds grow 30 to 40 percent longer before killing them. The feathers are a bit larger and fuller, which make the down thicker and work as a better insulator.
I met the Hutterites through one of my relatives, who lived in Montana and years earlier had done some business with them.
When we arrived, they were slaughtering pigs for chops, bacon, sausage, and the like. It was very authentic—blood, innards, the works. It wasn’t pretty. Some of the men, all were in black, stopped their work and came to greet me. Others continued to work on the pigs.
It was 10 a.m. when they invited me in and we sat down. I remember the time because that’s when they broke out the homemade wine. It was not a Latour, but it wasn’t bad. Just a bit early.
I was with the elders, a mostly bearded group of men who had a penchant for speaking among themselves in a German dialect. I tried to follow—I know a bit of German. As soon as they saw I understood a little, they went into a more obscure dialect. At first I felt like an outsider, but then they turned their attention to me. They asked in English what was my opinion of the world goose down situation. They were testing me as a businessman, and—I quickly learned—as a friend.
I told them what I knew, I was honest, and slowly the obscure dialects began to disappear. They smiled—not in general merriment, but directly at me. We had a few more glasses of wine, and they agreed they could sell me some down.
It was almost mystical, like I had been dropped back in time to do business with those from another era—on our monetary terms. I was drinking homemade wine with the bearded elders, and from the room next to us I could hear women singing religious songs in a Germanic tongue. Though women and children were not allowed to talk to me, I saw several peek in at me, the outsider, before they were reprimanded and sent away. The singing next door, I learned, was for a wedding. I was not invited, though I would have loved to have seen it.
The elders offered to take me on a tour of some of the colonies prior to the afternoon discussion of prices.
It was agreed, and we undertook our tour. I drove, since they had few cars. We went to a cafeteria in one of the other colonies. That was where I was pulled aside by some of the more curious young men-they wanted to know about the San Francisco 49ers. Though they were insulated, somehow they still received information. They related to 49ers because the quarterback was Joe Montana, and they lived in Montana. When they brought food, I expected a hearty meal—a natural food treat. Some of it was, but there were also Twinkies and Hostess Ding Dongs. The Hutterites liked junk food! Despite the incongruity, it made sense. The junk foods they used were loaded with preservatives, and the Hutterites made few trips into towns or cities. When they bought food, it had to last. Thus Twinkies.
We returned later to the negotiations and had a spirited time. Quite spirited. We finally settled on a price and terms and celebrated with another glass of homemade wine. This was no mere business transaction; we were friends. I liked them, and they liked me. We could help one another—it was a reason to celebrate.
We kept in touch and visited periodically. It was always the same, a gathering of friends. They even suggested that my wife and I come live there for a while, but we never did. I don’t look good in all black, and Margot just isn’t the bonnet type.
But that was the beauty of it—they respected who we were, and we respected them. Differences were celebrated even as commonality—the down—caused us to meet.
The Hutterites to me were an adventure, the same as Mt. Everest is to the world’s great climbers. It was a pursuit of quality—quality down, a quality relationship, and a disciplined focus on mutual goals.
Discipline is not a bad word. Discipline is not about some schoolmarm with a ruler slapping your fingers, and it’s not about the boss threatening to fire you. Discipline is an internal art. It’s personal.
For instance, someone in the Walt Disney Company had a dedication to quality and the discipline to carry it out. His concern was that when light bulbs blew out in lamp poles at Disneyland and Disney World, it would be unsafe and did not match the Disney image. That person’s attention to detail and expectation of quality led to a computer monitoring system that forecast when a light bulb had ten hours left in it. Now all the bulbs are monitored, and when they reach the ten-hour point, they are replaced. That’s quality and discipline.
Quality doesn’t come easy. It is the product of absolute focus. There must be a gripping, a tightening of the muscles in pursuit of quality. It is a never-ending quest.
Stanley Marcus of Neiman-Marcus fame tells the story of a friend who knew that most people do not have enough resilience or perseverance to produce a quality product. The man made some of the best ice cream imaginable. One time when Stanley was with his friend, a handful of people asked for the friend’s recipe and he gladly gave it away. Stanley was incredulous and asked, “Don’t you realize you are giving away the secret of your success?”
The man just smiled. Finally he said, “Stanley, when they see how costly this is and how hard it is to make, they’ll never copy me. Never.” This parable can be translated to apply to virtually all business today.
As soon as you start producing to price points, there is a tendency to cut quality. When that happens, you don’t stand out. The only way to get noticed is to cut prices further, demanding lower costs on your part and most likely lower quality. It’s a downward spiral to nowhere. Sometimes cheap is expensive, and expensive is cheap. If you want to revolutionize your market, design first and price later.
Don’t misunderstand me—I recognize there is a good market based on low price points. Some companies have done quite well pursuing that strategy. I would argue, however, that the ones that are successful at lower price points are those who also present good quality and give excellent price/value relationships—not those whose sole concern is low price.
Yes, there are limits to the size of top-quality markets. They are, however, steady and reliable markets where there is very little competition.
Quality is what engenders loyalty. The people who lose customers are those who pay no attention to quality. I remember the instant I knew I had to change auto repair shops. I was driving along the freeway, and I happened to glance at the side of the ro
ad—the break-down lane. In it was my “skilled” mechanic and his car, a Porsche. He was not working on it. He was yelling at it, cussing it, kicking its fenders. Hell, I could do that.
Someone who is good at what he does—someone who understands quality—would do more than yell. He would examine, measure. Measure, of course, below the bottom line. For the mechanic the bottom line was that the car didn’t start. What he should have measured was the efficiency of the car—how it worked. In business efficiency means not only speed but also attention to details. From efficiency comes quality. From details comes efficiency.
Thus, details. Jean Claude Killy knows a bit about precision, about speed, and about attention to details. Killy, the winner of four Olympic gold medals in skiing, showed some friends of mine one day how a champion pays attention to minutiae. They were at Vail—in the back bowls, carving through untracked powder snow. The ski patrol opened it specially for them.
On the first part of the hill, Killy’s skiing appeared impeccable. But he was unhappy. “Something is wrong,” he said. “Can we try skiing on some moguls and packed snow so I can figure out the problem?” They did. They all flew down the mountain, Jean Claude leading the way. At the bottom of the run everyone was exhilarated—faces flushed, eyes aglow. Except for Jean Claude.
He said again, “Something is wrong.” He asked one of my friends, “Do you have a dime?” Killy took off his right boot, took out the leather liner, and removed the plastic foot bed. Under the heel of the foot bed he put the dime—raising the heel a tiny bit. He reassembled the boot and put it back on his foot, declaring the alteration “Perfect!”
And they went off skiing again. In the words of my friend, “You would never have believed it, that a dime could make any difference. But I swear it did, because he was skiing even better than before.” Details—any little edge.
Killy knows how to get a little edge—attention to details. He also knows how to get a big edge—hard work. Combine the two and a large dose of inspiration, and you have the makings of a champion.
Quality is as much an abstract feeling as it is a quantifiable aspect of a product. It is like a warm glow where the spinal cord touches the brain—a surreal yet physical feeling that says, “This is good.” As Robert M. Pirsig wrote in Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “Quality is not a thing. It is an event.”
Indeed it is, and the Ruby Mountain Heli Ski Company of northern Nevada runs some great events. It is an owner-operated company, not some division of another division of some conglomerate. And it is prosperous.
They fly small helicopters (they call them “ships”) up into the mountains. There is a pilot, a guide, and three to four passengers. The idea is to create intimacy—a connection of experience among a small group of friends. The intimacy is maintained when the people go skiing, with the same ratio between guides and skiers.
The runs are sensational—1,500 to 2,500 vertical feet through light, knee-deep powder in the midst of the spectacular Ruby Mountains. It is one of those spots in the world—and there are many, if you just look—where nature seems to be almost a temple to perfection. Quality is certainly the feeling given off by nature at her grandest.
But it doesn’t just happen—the Ruby people must work hard to get the skiers on the hills. The ski runs for the paying guests begin from 6:30 a.m. to 7 a.m. The guides’ day begins earlier, at the first sign of light—5 a.m. or so. They go out by helicopter and check the safety and viability of the ski conditions. When there is concern about potential avalanches, they ease their doubts by throwing explosive charges to set the avalanches off. They scour the hills for the best and safest conditions. The customers generally have no idea of the two hours of preparatory activity. To them the adventure is magic.
But the owners of Ruby Mountain Heli Ski understand what it takes to make magic. They understand quality. In heli-skiing, safety is the first thing. Always. All skiers are fitted with a homing device to help find them in case of an avalanche. And all are trained in avalanche survival, even if they have already been trained elsewhere.
Safety is always on the owners’ minds, but it is not the only concern. They want to maximize the skiing for their customers—they aim to create great adventures. For the customer it “just happens.” But the people at R.M.H.S. know that nothing of quality ever just happens—it takes hard work, dedication, and, of course, attention to details.
When the sky is not safe for flying, in fog or blizzard conditions, they use snow cats, mechanical vehicles that can transport people up the steep hills in the worst of snow conditions. From a cost standpoint it is much more costly to maintain both helicopters and snow cats to take skiers into the mountains. But on bad days there will be no waiting for the skies to clear. The skiers won’t get quite as many vertical feet of skiing in using the snow cats, but they still get a tremendous amount and won’t have to miss a precious day. Of course, it more than earns back the cost to the Ruby Mountain people because the skiers have the adventure of their lives and tell everyone they know about it. Positive word-of-mouth advertising is always the strongest advertising.
They even offer alternative lodging to satisfy different personalities. They operate out of an old farmhouse in Lamoille, Nevada. It’s a small town, not near much other than the Ruby Mountains. The farmhouse is cozy—a warm, mountain throwback to a simpler time. When you look around, you expect to smell an apple pie baking in the oven—it feels that way.
Most who go heli-skiing with Ruby stay at the farmhouse and enjoy the hearty meals and the collegial atmosphere.
Some might find too much camaraderie confining. Some wish for some time alone during this most spectacular adventure. The owners have arranged it so those souls can stay at a nearby motel as an alternative. The choice is yet another nice touch—one of individuality. The owners of Ruby Mountain Heli Ski understand more than just business. They understand people.
They understand that quality is not a halfway proposition—it is a full-time occupation. To get it requires honest effort—100 percent commitment. Partway doesn’t cut it. You have to go all the way. When you do, the rewards are enormous.
Quality sells. Quality works. A reputation for quality is incredibly marketable. But of course, it doesn’t stagnate—quality, like life, is fluid.
For quality to sell there has to be a strong subjective agreement among your customers. For instance, I once told one of my board members who ran a major U.S. pizza chain that I knew how to instantly double his business. Needless to say, he was curious. I acknowledged his company had superb locations, tremendous advertising, and great prices. But, I explained, there was one thing missing—good pizza. Customers came once because of the MBA stuff—location, advertising, and prices. But they would only return if the company got down to the basics of what the business was really about—a quality product. Make a good pizza, I said, and you’ll get the customers to come back and buy a second pizza.
Not long thereafter he sold the company to a conglomerate for a handsome profit—leaving the worries of quality to the new owners.
Going all the way for quality really means exactly that. All aspects of your business must be focused on quality. If they aren’t, somewhere, inevitably, there will be failings. The way a receptionist greets someone is just as important as the way a production worker performs. From the logo to the company cafeteria, it all counts toward creating an aura of quality.
Somerset Maugham, in The Mixture Before, said it well: “It is a funny thing about life. If you refuse to accept anything but the best, very often you get it.”
At The North Face a major, ongoing discussion was whether we should use the word “high,” “higher,” or “highest” in our business definition of our quality. Over the course of our company history, this was perhaps our most famous discussion. It always came up, perhaps because I always brought it up.
Despite its repetitive nature I encouraged the discussion every time we held a long-range planning meeting. Some advocated “high” or “highe
r” because they wanted precise, quantifiable, and reachable goals. A few of us always argued for “highest” because we knew the only thing that kept us in business was constantly having higher quality than our competition. We had to be the best.
As a goal the highest quality represents a moving target that can never be quantified or reached. This can be frustrating to some. But to those with vision it is a tremendous guiding beacon. What it says is, if a product can be made better, it must and will be made better by us.
This can sometimes be disruptive to continuity and short-term efficiency. At The North Face if a new technology or new material came along that was better than our own, we would change. There was a short-term cost. But the long-term reward was stability and growth.
Our entire focus was quality. It was our religion, and we were evangelists. We knew it was what differentiated us from our competitors. We wanted our dealers to know it too, so one year we put together a seminar based solely on quality—quality of the future. We called it Future Q.
We invited our dealers from all over the world to come to Berkeley to talk about quality. This was more than meeting with dealers; it was corporate scholarship. We felt we could learn from our dealers, and they from us. We wanted an exchange of information and ideas.
I saw the seminar as a chance to nourish quality. To talk about it, think about it, dream about it, and experience it. We knew that from the discussion would come an improved reality.
It was wonderful—a celebration of life at its most potent. We had meals based on the concept “Future and Quality.” We had speakers, such as Peter Glen and myself. We played games. We had fun.
We divided the participants into groups and sent them into San Francisco on an “Idea Search.” They were to come back with the best ideas they saw in retail. They were to find ideas they could take back to their companies, ideas that cost no more than $25 to implement.