Authors: Warren C Easley
I got the silent treatment the rest of the morning from Hannon, which was fine with me. He must have said something to Streeter at lunch, because after that neither of them said a word to me. Phillip had been right when he'd quipped over a beer one day that “being a fishing guide would be great if it weren't for the clients.”
It was well past six when we stopped fishing for the day and headed for camp. The wind that had blown steadily all afternoon now swirled upstream in short bursts that danced along the surface in rippling bands like schools of fish on the run. The river, like a moving oasis, cut a lush, green swath through the arid terrain, and the Mutton Mountains closed in to form the deep canyon that would tower above us for the next thirty-five miles.
We swung around a broad bend in the river and caught a first glimpse of our campsite. Named Whiskey Dick after an early fishing guide who lived on the river for better than twenty years, the flat area is dotted with cottonwoods and junipers, sage, and mesquite. Sought after by those who know the river, it is spacious and even boasts a solar-powered chemical toilet, compliments of the eco-friendly state of Oregon. The only drawback is its proximity to a train switching area located about a quarter mile upstream. On most nights, this meant more than the usual train noise.
We'd arrived before Philip, but I saw our raft tied off at the bank. Blake stood next to the stack of bright orange boat bags we'd packed that morning.
I quickly squared away my gear and headed toward the train tracks that parallel the river behind the camp, at the top of a steep, scree-covered bank. This was the last spot with cell phone service before we plunged further into the canyon. I scrabbled up, keeping a sharp eye out for Pacific rattlers on the warm rocks. I checked my messages first. None from Claire.
Damn!
I fought back the disappointment. It was nearly 6:30, and I decided to call Chad Harrelson on the off chance he'd heard something but hadn't gotten back to me. He didn't answer so I left a message.
I sat on the tracks and looked down at the river with my chin resting on my knuckles. The wind had completely died, and the river looked like a band of freshly polished silver in the afternoon light. I hardly noticed. This tripâthe fishing, the whole thingâsuddenly seemed trivial and silly, and the thought of trying to be courteous and helpful to Philip's clients loomed as an impossible task. I hoped, for Philip's sake, that I'd find the energy and civility to see it through. After a few minutes of staring off across the river, I suddenly noticed that the entire NanoTech group was standing in the camp looking up at me.
“Hey, Claxton,” Bruckner called, “Can you call out from there?”
“Yeah.”
The group scrambled up the bank, and in no time they were spread out along the tracks dialing and chatting away on their smart devices. That is, with the exception of Streeter, who was using a dumb phone like mine. Whataya know, I said to myself, a high flying executive who's as cheap as me.
I climbed back down to where Philip and Blake were preparing dinner. Philip nodded toward the river. “We've got this under control, Cal. Go catch some fish. There's some good water downstream.”
Part of the deal when I agreed to help my friend guide during the salmon fly hatch was that I'd get some personal time to fish. But I was in no mood for it. “Thanks, but I'll pass. Maybe I'll hit it tomorrow morning, early. Give me a job.”
After listening to their messages and making their calls, our clients gathered around a long table that served as a bar. Expensive Oregon and California wines, twelve-year-old scotch, and Portland micro-brews flowed along with raucous tales of the day's exploits.
During a lull in the fish stories, Hannon turned to Bruckner. “I saw you setting up a cot down by the bank. Looks like you're sleeping under the stars tonight, while Alexis gets the tent. This wouldn't have anything to do with your legendary snoring, would it?”
Daina took a sip of her drink, and Pitman and Streeter laughed nervously. They seemed wary of Hannon's cheeky comment, as if he were close to crossing some line.
“Snoring?” a deadpan Bruckner replied. “Actually, Alexis begged me to sleep in the tent in case something wild happens by during the night, but I love to sleep outside. How else am I to enjoy the stars and the sound of the river?”
At this point Alexis joined the group. The last to ring off up on the tracks, she'd been preening in her tent. She wore fresh makeup and tight, low-rider jeans, a scoop-neck turquoise sweater, and a pair of expensive camp slippers. “Begged?” she said with half a smile. “The only begging I did was for you not to drink too much tonight, dear. I'm afraid you'll fall in the river during the night.”
The smile on Bruckner's face cracked, and an awkward silence fell over the group. The sound of the river suddenly seemed much louder. Finally Daina broke the silence. “Cal, why do they call those disgusting critters salmon flies, anyway?”
I looked up from peeling potatoes, swiped my knife clean, and held it up by the blade. A gift from Claire for my last birthday, the clear plastic knife handle had a full-size salmon fly encased in it, like a bug suspended in amber. “It's probably because salmon love them for dinner, but maybe it's for the two rings around the neckâthey're bright salmon pink. You can see it here.” I pointed to the handle.
The group gathered around for a closer look. “Oh, I see what you mean. Two perfect salmon colored necklaces,” Daina said. “And look at those wings. They run the length of its body.”
Even Alexis was impressed. “My God, those wings are beautiful. They look like stained glass in an old cathedral.”
This broke the tension, and soon the group was back to fish stories.
After a dinner of pan-seared steaks, sautéed potatoes and mushrooms, stir-fried veggies, Caesar salad, and steaming homemade biscuits, Bruckner tapped his wineglass with his fork. Philip, Blake, and I were busy cleaning up, and my fellow guides were oblivious to what was playing out at the dinner table. I stayed alert to what was going on, curious to see what kind of team-building could possibly go on with this group.
“Folks,” Bruckner said, “can I have your attention?”
Pitman sighed like he'd just been asked to give two pints of blood. Streeter shot a glance at Hannon, and they both rolled their eyes.
This should be interesting
, I said to myself.
The sky had turned deep lavender, and a cool breeze sifted through the trees in the camp. The canyon rose above us, its western rim traced razor sharp by the sun's afterglow. The lower slopes, green with spring grass, led the eye up to a line of massive basalt outcroppings that reminded me of the abandoned dwellings of some long-forgotten cliff people. I was clearing the table as Bruckner began to speak to the group, which had gathered around a blazing fire in the ring.
Like servants everywhere, I'd become invisible to the group.
“You all know,” Bruckner began, “that NanoTech has grown exponentially over the last couple of years. Revenues doubled in the last year alone. The impact of the Diamond Wire Project will sharply accelerate this trend. We're at a crossroads, folks. The high tech industry's cluttered with companies that have failed, because they didn't know how to manage their growth. I don't want this to happen to NanoTech. This company needs to transition from an entrepreneurial, seat-of-the-pants company to one that's well organized and well managed.
“Sorta like goin' from an oily machine to a well-oiled machine,” Streeter said.
“You could put it that way, Andrew,” Bruckner replied above a patter of laughter, attempting to hold the serious mood. “And you also know that I've asked Daina and her company, Accelerated Management Development, to come on board to help us make that transition. I'd like to turn it over to her now for a little after-dinner exercise. Daina?”
As Daina stood to address the group, Hannon crossed his arms, Streeter leaned back in his chair and looked up at the darkening sky, and Pitman stared impassively into the fire as if she weren't there. Alexis didn't move. I couldn't see her face since she'd moved her chair just outside the light thrown by the fire, in apparent recognition of the fact that she wasn't a part of the management team.
“Thank you, Hal. I like Andrew's metaphor. What we're after here is a well-oiled
management
machine.” She paused as if searching for the right words, but I was sure she knew exactly where she was going. “A basic premise of the AMD approach is that development of management skills can be
accelerated
by identifying and proactively dealing with the issues that exist between management and employees at all levels in the organization. To this end, we've been interviewing people across your company. But tonight I'd like to focus on
this
group, the top management team.”
“Gulp,” said Streeter in mock horror, “I knew there was no such thing as a free fishin' trip.”
“Uh oh,” Pitman chimed in.
“Why us?” Hannon said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “We know where the management problems are. All we need to do is clean out the deadwood.”
“Stay with me,” Daina said, raising her hand, palm out. “Remember, good management starts at the top.” She smiled. “I'm sensing some tension in this group. So to get started, let's try to relax a bit.”
I watched in the darkness as Daina led the group through an exercise consisting of tensing and then relaxing every major muscle group in their bodies. Daina's dark eyes glowed in the firelight. Her voice was soft and soothing, and above the river noise, almost hypnotic. Before I knew it, I had gone from being a covert observer to a participant. Given the situation with Claire, I needed some relaxation.
Daina gently brought the group back. “Okay, I think we're ready to proceed now. One of the keys to good management is getting the issues between people out in the open. Issues can't be dealt with until they're identified. The next exercise is designed to do just that. We call it speaking truth to power.”
I listened with interest as she explained. Members of the management team were encouraged to raise any issue or complaint they had with the boss, Hal Bruckner. The only catch was that they had to mention something
positive
about him first. Bruckner's job was to listen and then repeat as closely as possible what he'd heard. That was it. Any follow-up as a result of the session, I assumed, was up to the individuals involved.
Daina had Bruckner move his seat to the center of the circle, and then she placed an empty chair in front of him. The group fell silent. Nobody moved.
After a long pause, Duane Pitman sighed, hauled his long frame out of his chair, and sat down in front of Bruckner.
Go ahead, Duane,” Daina urged in a soft tone.
“Hal,” he finally began, “you and me, we go way backâall the way to grad school at U-Dub. I've always admired your business savvy, your guts, really. You've never been afraid to make the tough calls. But, damn it, I'll say itâI'm
angry
that you and the rest of this so-called management team fail to recognize the value of my technical contributions to the business.” By this time, Pitman was leaning forward, glaring at Bruckner. “I deserve the same treatment as anyone else in this group.”
Bruckner's eyebrows lifted, and his body stiffened as if Pitman's words were striking blows. “That's notâ”
Daina, who was standing behind Pitman, cut Bruckner off. “Remember the rules, Hal.” She held up an index finger. “Just repeat what you heard Duane say, and shake hands. This is about
listening
to what people have to say to you, Hal.”
Bruckner reluctantly responded, although it took him a couple of tries before he was able to accurately summarize Pitman's words. The tension in the circle was now palpable.
“Thank you, Duane,” Daina said. “Who wants to go next?”
There was another long pause. Finally Mitch Hannon said, “What the hell,” and took the seat in front of Bruckner.
“Et tu, Brute
?” Bruckner said with a forced smile.
Hannon gave him a look that said he hadn't read much Shakespeare. “Hal,” he began, “I'm frustrated by your lackâ”
“Remember, Mitch,” Daina interrupted, “you need to start off with something positive.”
“Oh yeah,” Hannon responded. “I forgot.” Clearing his throat, he began again. “Hal, I, uh, think you've done a good job of starting up and bringing the company along, but I'm frustrated with the pace. We've talked about this before, and I know she's your baby, but I think you're holding us down. We're ready for the NASDAQ
right now
. We're sitting on a platinum mine.”
Bruckner struggled to maintain a neutral expression as his face tightened. He obviously wasn't used to this level of honesty, particularly in front of his entire management team. He managed to roughly paraphrase what Hannon had said, they shook hands, and Hannon sat back down.
Andrew Streeter followed Hannon. Streeter pretty much echoed what Hannon had said, although he tried to be more diplomatic. When he'd finished I noticed he glanced over at Hannon, who gave him an approving look.
More data on the pecking order
, I thought to myself. Streeter is Hannon's yes man. By the time Streeter finished, Bruckner's expression had relaxed, but his eyes were hard and flat.
Seemingly unfazed, Daina picked up the empty chair and put it in front of Mitch Hannon, whose body recoiled involuntarily at the act. “Okay,” she said cheerily, “who would like to speak truth to Mitch?”
The tension spiked again when Pitman immediately sat down in front of Hannon. He glanced over at Daina, who nodded encouragement. “Mitch, you, uh, do a good job of managing the sales and marketing group.”
“Thank you,” Mitch responded, a wary look on his face.
“But I resent very much your opposition to my last budget proposal. With all due respect, I think you simply don't understand the nature of technical work nor do you have a clue about the resources required to carry out world-class research and development in the high-tech arena.”
Before Hannon could respond, Streeter said, “Hah,” in a derisive tone.
Pitman shot him a withering glance, and Daina put up her hand. “Please, Andrew. Let them continue. Now, go ahead, Mitch. Just repeat what Duane said. Show him you heard what he said.”
Hannon looked at Daina and said, “Why should I have to repeat something I don't agree with?”
Bruckner jumped in. “Mitch, knock it off. Everyone's playing by Daina's rules tonight, even you.”
“Daina's rules are a load of touchy-feely crap,” Hannon shot back.
Bruckner glared at him and repeated, “Play by the rules, Mitch.”
Hannon expelled breath through pursed lips and managed to summarize Pitman's compliment, but he stumbled on the part about his lack of support on the budget. Daina intervened again, asking Pitman to repeat what he'd said. Finally Hannon got it right, and the two reluctantly shook hands.
It went on like this until most of the substantive issues and petty gripes between members of the management team had been flushed out. I had to hand it to Daina. The process was bold and innovative. On the other hand, it was apparent the fissures ran deep in this group. Maybe Daina hadn't realized just how deep.