That Time Yvon Chouinard Invited A Taco Bell Dishwasher To His House
If you find value in this story, consider making a donation to the [HS]2 program. It prepares a group of first-generation and/or low-income students of color to succeed in college by empowering them with STEM-based skills, a family of driven peers, and a space to see the light and power in their own voices. Even $1 helps by demonstrating broad support to larger institutions considering donations.
“Go ask him to sign a different book,” my dad said, pointing at a compact guy in shorts and a fleece jacket. “Bet he hates the idea of signing that book for the highest bidder.”
About a hundred people were gathered at the Climbers’ Ranch in Grand Teton National Park for a silent fundraising auction. It was the summer of 1993. I’d been standing there for a couple hours with everyone else, munching burgers and shuffling around to avoid the campfire smoke. No one paid him any mind and there was no sense of magnetism. The unremarkable guy was the founder of Patagonia.
I was washing dishes that summer at the Taco Bell in Jackson Hole, taking every available shift to race past forty hours so I could start earning time-and-a-half pay. So much so that my dad told people his son smelled like bean burritos even with a shower. Every dollar mattered. I lived for my mountain bike and, as the saying goes, rode mine like I stole it. Everything I did was in pursuit of better gear or to replace what I broke.
Those days, Patagonia clothes were what I walked through on my way to the action sports gear at stores. My dad and uncle wore their stuff. So did my high school English teacher Peter.
Peter and I had a challenging relationship. It wasn’t his fault. I was an indifferent night owl and he taught old books first period. The only one I remember from his class (The Scarlet Letter) still stands out as the most boring book I’d ever read. I was one of those pain-in-the-neck students he had to deal with. I knew it then and acknowledge it now.
Despite that, Peter made his mark with one class that year.
He came in one morning and told us we were skipping the normal syllabus stuff so he could read out loud from a new Patagonia catalogue, which he claimed had great contemporary writing. Peter spent his summers as a back-country Outward Bound Instructor and basically lived in the woods whenever possible. There really was something special that day, something that wasn’t there when he talked about the classics.
Peter’s class came back into focus that evening at the silent auction. Browsing the carabiners and climbing shoes spread out on card tables, I came across a copy of Climbing Ice by Yvon Chouinard. A white sheet of printer paper beside the book noted that its author was the founder of Patagonia and he’d sign it for the winner. Peter would like that. Not a single bid was written down.
Maybe it was the idea of a bargain that appealed to me, but I could spare a few bucks even for Peter. I wrote down a low-ball bid and told my dad, who looked a bit surprised given my report cards. In almost no time a guy approached the table and scribbled down a new bid. I waited a few minutes before walking over to see what he’d countered with. It wasn’t much so I upped him by a dollar. Every dollar mattered.
Bidding picked up fast as the evening drew to a close. I went back and forth, writing my final bid down of $40. It felt reckless, but didn’t last long. People kept writing more bids. All I could do was commiserate with my dad and wait to see who won it.
I don’t remember how much the winner paid. He accepted it from the announcer and walked over to Chouinard for his autograph. That’s when my dad egged me on.
“Seriously?”
“He’s standing right there. Go tell him what happened.”
Patagonia wasn’t Patagonia yet and Chouinard wasn’t Chouinard. But he was noteworthy in a local way, kinda stern looking and I washed dishes because talking to random people bothered me. My dad goaded me on.
“Mr. Chouinard?”
“Yes.”
After introducing myself, I told him about Peter, how much Patagonia’s writing meant to him and getting outbid.
“Valley Bookstore always keeps a few copies in stock,” he said. “Go pick one up tomorrow and come out to the house. I’ll be happy to sign one for him.”
“To your house?”
“I’m in the phone book. Let me know when you’ll be out.”
I vaguely remember saying thanks, shaking his hand and telling him I’d talk to him later. As soon as we got home, I grabbed the Teton County phone book. Thumbing through the pages, I went straight to the C’s in the white pages, found the Ch’s and…
Chouinard, Yvon… Moose 733-xxxx
The next morning, I jumped in my 1984 forest green CJ7 Jeep and drove over to the bookstore for a copy of the book. This was before cellphones so I drove back home and called his number. Chouinard answered, I got an “Oh yeah” and a vague offer to meet at his house after lunch.
There is no town of Moose. It’s just a spot with some houses on either side of the road. I turned left onto his street and eased along in second gear, searching for the address. There it was on the right side. It looked like every other house out there: brown, two stories and a yard full kayaks. Unremarkable except for the mountain behind it.
I turned off the Jeep and walked across the yard carrying the book, feeling somewhat ashamed that I hadn’t bothered to open the cover much less poke through it. Definitely should have done that. Too late now.
Chouinard answered the door and ushered me inside. From what I remember, the main floor was essentially one large room with a loft above the section over the door. The entire rear wall was two full stories of windows that looked straight out at the Grand Teton. A kitchen was somewhere on the right. Against the left wall, a large stone hearth. Not a fireplace, but a hearth made from river rocks that stuck out into the room. A big colorful bird sat in a large cage.
We talked about Peter, school, and blacksmithing. That’s where everything started for him and he had a son my age learning the ropes. I should give it a try.
There was no sense of hurry or that he was doing me a favor. At some point, though, it felt like I needed to wrap things up. We’d talked for more than an hour. He signed Peter’s book with an offer to take him climbing. The whole thing was so casual that I wrote his number in my address book because he seemed like someone I’d call again.
The rest of summer passed without another memory between that afternoon and the start of school. I was so excited to give Peter his book. The look of astonishment on his face is something I can still remember. He stood there with the book open, alternating his gaze from the inscription to me. Maybe it was the gift that surprised him. Maybe it was who gave it to him.
I haven’t talked to Peter since graduating, but Chouinard’s ordinariness stuck with me.
A few years later, a piece of my Patagonia gear had a broken zipper and his company fixed it for free. Their famous Don’t Buy This Jacket advertisement was punk rock. When people started talking about the environmental and social impacts of clothing manufacturers, Patagonia had a Worn Well used-gear marketplace and published more about their supply chain than anyone. Women had leadership roles. I cracked up reading that he drove a used Subaru he’d bought with 160,000 miles on it from an employee. They put their money where their mouth was and stopped selling clothing to financial firms over a difference in corporate values.
Chouinard’s book Let My People Go Surfing is arguably my favorite business book, in part because it highlights how much credit his wife Melinda Chouinard deserves for building the company culture. The values Surfing espoused reminded me of the best parenting books I’d read too, right down to the cafeteria menu and how they chose it. My son heard so much about Patagonia that he was game for a summer road trip to Ventura in 2018 so we could visit the original blacksmith shop and surf at the pier.
I don’t consider myself someone who has heroes. But there are people whom I admire. Yvon is one. People will remember him (and Melinda!) for a lot of things like giving away the company. To me, he’ll always be the guy who reserved the special sauce for the Taco Bell dishwasher.
If you find value in this story, consider making a donation to the [HS]2 program. It prepares a group of first-generation and/or low-income students of color to succeed in college by empowering them with STEM-based skills, a family of driven peers, and a space to see the light and power in their own voices. Even $1 helps by demonstrating broad support to larger institutions considering donations.
