Chapter 15 … The Defiant, the Vigilant, and the Resolute

I met Charlie Page on the day of my job interview at Vermont. A gangling puppy-dog of a man, Page had worked both as a logger, but also as a technician for Jotul, the Norwegian stovemaker. He was effusive in his praise for Vermont Castings and was hoping to land a position in the technical department. His enthusiasm was the sole extent of my due diligence before accepting the position as Customer Service Manager. A month later, on my first day on the job, I went into the Men’s bathroom and found myself next to Page at the urinal.

“Hey! You got the job!” I said, delighted at encountering a familiar face. “Congratulations!”

“I hope you didn’t take that Customer Service position,” he replied. “That department is a mess!” 

I knew nothing about the woodstove industry, other than it was jump-started during the First Arab Oil Embargo of 1973. A bunch of bright, educated ski bums in the Mad River Valley—looking for ways to be employed educated ski bums—had a competition to start woodstove companies. Vermont Castings, whose product combined the airtight efficiency of Scandinavian stoves with the traditional American aesthetics of a Franklin stove, emerged as the eventual winner. Duncan Syme, a Yale grad ten years my senior, was one of those ski bums. Here’s the company’s origin story:

Murray Howell shows off the Vigilant woodstove.

Two guys meet in a bar in Crested Butte, Colorado. It is 1970, and the United States is embroiled in the Vietnam War, trying to comprehend the assassinations of not one, not two, but three of the country’s most charismatic leaders. The two guys are in search of their paths in life. Wouldn’t it be great, they muse after a few beers, to follow Joni Mitchell’s advice to “get back to the garden” and to find a way to do something significant … something real and tangible that they could create with their own hands?

Five years later, the two have taken different paths, but are now linked by marriage … brothers-in-law. Murray Howell has taken the proven path to wealth on Wall St. Duncan Syme in Warren, Vermont is barely eking out a living as an architect. Howell hates his job and wants out. Syme likes his profession and likes Vermont, but will need to invent gainful employment if he wants to escape the most hardscrabble existence.

Necessity becomes the mother of invention. Like many in Vermont, Syme can’t afford the skyrocketing price of oil, so he burns wood, lots of wood. What if? … What if you took the combustion technology from one of these airtight, efficient Scandinavian stoves and put it in the skin of the more traditionally-styled Franklin stove? He broaches the idea with Howell who, from his background in financial analysis, knows that the country’s problems with imported oil will not be solved soon. Count him in.

The Defiant woodstove, named both for its ability to defy the cold of winter and as testament to a legendary defender of America’s Cup, made its debut in 1976 and their fledgling company, Vermont Castings, prospered. So, for a while, did every other woodstove company in the country. When the inevitable industry consolidation occurred in the early 1980s Vermont Castings, fueled by innovative design and engineering, fanatical attention to manufacturing quality, and uncompromising customer service, was able to maintain its momentum while competitors slid back. By the mid-80s, Vermont Castings had become the worldwide leader in its category.

In an era when America forgot how to make things, Vermont Castings stoves were made by bearded, flannel-shirted Vermonters. While manufacturing facilities were proliferating in whatever foreign land had the cheapest labor, Vermont Castings built a state-of-the-art foundry and enameling plants in the shadows of the Green Mountains. While standards of quality universally were subjugated to the priorities of the bean counter, Vermont Castings stayed true to the exacting standards set by its founders. Best of all, they maintained the youthful idealism of their conversations in Crested Butte.

Murray Howell, sadly, passed away much too young in 1983. He missed the entire ride, but he was there for the best part. After he was gone, the company’s trajectory was filled with bumps and twists, but always headed onward and upward, finding its center in the clarity of the original vision. 

Howell once said “I’m as creative as the sole of your shoe, and Duncan is as organized as a bowl of spaghetti.” With a roster of accomplishments that includes the Defiant, the Vigilant, the Resolute, and even the Vermont Castings Owners Outing, Duncan Syme has transformed that tangled bowl of spaghetti into a memorable and remarkable feast of a career. 

Air Don and The Chateau Morris

America, which had been so rudely shocked by the Arab Oil Embargo of 1973, was more responsive when the 2nd Embargo happened in the spring of 1979. Vermont Castings, the sleepy woodstove company located in an abandoned foundry in tiny Randolph, Vermont became a rocket ship— a cast iron rocket ship. For the next few years the challenge was clear, to keep up with burgeoning demand.

My tiny customer service staff of 5 by August of 1979 had grown to 65. The ones who thrived were those who could swim the fastest. Initially, the company sold direct to consumers, which was great for high profit margins and building brand loyalty, but was very limiting in terms of “keeping big machines running fast,” which business people like to do. In order to keep their state-of-the-art foundry and enameling facility running efficiently the company had to reach beyond those consumers willing to purchase a 400 pound woodstove through the mail.

This meant establishing a national network of independent dealers, and this became the job of the customer service guy … otherwise known as “me” … for no other reason than I was willing to take it on. Towards that end I was the one person in the company, other than the two owners, who were authorized to use the company airplane.

Why the company had its own airplane, a twin-engine Mitsubishi turbo-prop jet, no less, defied logic, but could be understood from the motto of co-founder Murray Howell, “Bigger, faster, higher, better.” Murray, in other words, was going to see how far he could take this cast-iron rocketship.

The company had a full-time pilot in the person of Don Larriviere, a soft-spoken, bearded, counter-culture kinda guy who lived off-the-grid in a log cabin with his wife, Cassie. The entire company, I should add, was counter-cultural. Beards and flannel shirts were the norm. The suits, personified by President Ronald Reagan had taken over the government and Wall Street, but here in the northwoods, the hippies were in control.

The Intrepid woodstove kept all the traditions alive.

Yikes! What a crazy time. While interest rates hovered in the mid-teens and “greenmailing” was the current craze in the financial world, Don Larriviere and I flew around the country in the chariot we deemed “Air Don.”

The acme of the absurdity came in 1983 when the national woodstove convention was held in New Orleans. This represented a great opportunity for me, as the creme de la creme of the nation’s woodstove dealers would be in attendance give me the opportunity to meet and evaluate many of them in the concentrated period of a few days.

Don and I and some key staff flew to New Orleans a couple days in advance of the convention. We would be headquartered at the Hotel Vendome in the French Quarter. Although we flew in a company jet, Vermont Castings was notoriously unpretentious in its travel ethics. Luxury, no; modesty yes. Ostentation, no; simplicity, yes.

The Vendome, now long gone, seemed an appropriate choice for our New Orleans home. It had some touches of elegance, but was clearly past its prime. A little frayed and shabby, consistent with our self-image. 

The function room on the top floor, however, was an entirely different animal, an ornate, palatial space with crystal chandeliers, a plush purple carpet conference table and small dance floor. “Holy shit,” I said, my jaw dropping to the floor, “Murray’s going to kill me.” Murray Howell was notorious for his disdain for trapping of wealth and pretention.

Meanwhile, the company jet, Air Don, was enroute to Vermont to pick up Duncan and Murray. Everyone else on the Vermont Castings shared my sense of trepidation, but in the meantime, had to admit that these surroundings, while incongruous with our company image, were pretty damn nice.

Prospective dealers lined up in the hallway to make the case for local dealerships. We had the luxury of being able to be selective, making the use of my time extremely efficient. The selected dealers were invited back for a hospitality event on Saturday evening. I selected the food and beverages from a roster of packages that struck me as extremely reasonable, particularly compared with those offered by the convention providers associated with the New Orleans Super Dome.

Duncan, Murray, and entourage flew in on Saturday morning and they came straight to the Convention center. This give me the opportunity to at least prepare Murray for the hospitality event. I didn’t want a scene at the event proper. He grunted his usual blunt acknowledgement, then set out to check out the competition. At least he had been warned. (Duncan, by contrast, was not a concern. While he presented the requisite counter-culture exterior, he could instantly revert to child-of-privilege mode.)

Murray arrived as the event was in set up mode. “Holy shit,” he said, mirroring my initial reaction. “Welcome to Chateau Morris. This has to be the fanciest venue in New Orleans.” The pregnant pause … lasted until he added “and why the fuck not, because we’re the best stove company in the world!”

It was a triumphant event. I seem to remember Duncan going crazy when he found out that platters of oysters and crawfish could be ordered from room service. The proverbial good time was had by all. Events like this end early, giving conventioneers the opportunity to go out for dinner on the town. The Vermont Castings staff, however, just hung out at the Chateau Morris. The food and wine was incomparable, the tab was on Murray and Duncan, and the service, everyone noticed was beyond impeccable.  The wait staff, all of whom were black, were unusually friendly and attentive, but also quite theatrical. Every table cleared or platter presented was done with a distinctly theatrical flair, a little flourish of song or dance. It was well beyond what any of us bearded rubes from the backwoods of Vermont had experienced, and it made an extraordinary night even more memorable.

As the evening reached its conclusion, I made a point of seeking out the service captain and telling him how impressed we were by the competence of his staff, but also their unflaggingly cheerful presentation. He smiled graciously, thanked me for the compliment and said “We all happy, because y’all Vermont Castings, and we all want to be in the movies!”

That’s how things were for Vermont Castings in 1983. Flying high.