Yeti Has My Heart, Just Not My Wallet
Would it still survive a bear attack? Most likely. Will I ever buy one? Probably not.
I’ve been a long-time admirer of Yeti. From their rugged outdoor roots to the identity wrapped around products that are built to last, the brand has always had a pull on me. Being constantly immersed in the outdoors, it’s hard to miss Yeti.
Slowly, quietly, they appear in the backs of friends’ vans, perched on surfboards, or in the hands of fellow adventurers staring at the morning swell like it’s a board meeting.
At first, it felt like a dream. A product that could last forever made from materials that actually deserve to be used instead of ending up in the great landfill of history. And then I checked the price and laughed nervously.
But I get it. If you’re making something built for the wild, you use the best materials. I read that the plastics in their famous coolers are 50% recycled. Good. Could it be 100% recycled? Probably. Would it still survive a bear attack? Most likely. Will I ever buy one? Probably not.
I’ve loved Yeti from afar, but my wallet has wisely stayed in its pocket. I’m all for investing in quality, and I try to keep my life minimal when it comes to possessions. The price-to-quality ratio has to make sense, and Yeti’s pricing is currently operating in another dimension.
Still, you cannot argue with their marketing. Yeti has built a brand that is aspirational without being unreachable. A year ago, I noticed a trend. Every holidaymaker in a new BMW or Tesla had two things in the back seat. A Dryrobe and a Yeti cooler. It became a status symbol for people pretending to live outdoors. Meanwhile, real dirtbag adventurers, the kind Yvon Chouinard would probably give a thumbs up, are still using a thirty-year-old cooler they found in their parents’ garage that does 90 percent of the same job.
I admire the principle. I just cannot get past the price.
What impresses me most is their storytelling. Yeti’s short films are something else. Not flashy edits of people doing insane things. Real stories with meaning. Hikers retracing their grandfather’s footsteps. Campaigns against trawling and salmon farming. Their Salmon: The Last Frontier film hits hard. They stand for rewilding, for people to get outside, and for products that last.
They stand for all of that, and they also stand for charging what feels like a small mortgage for a cooler.
Because of my frugal dirtbag tendencies, I am careful about what I buy. Things need to be repairable, durable, and environmentally conscious. For me, that’s why I have never bought a Yeti cooler. But my cupboard tells a slightly different story. Six or seven Yeti cups and mugs have made their way in. I can confirm, even at the lower end of their pricing spectrum, they are very good.
This summer, Yeti seemed to push into surfing, and I have been swept along. Surf film premieres, magazine launches, community events. I have been handed a Yeti mug so many times I am half expecting one to appear in my dreams. Free, yes, but I cannot shake the feeling there is a method to the madness.
They are seeding the product into the right hands. If enough surfers start carrying a Yeti cup, it becomes the visible sign of someone serious about the lifestyle. Suddenly, Yeti is not just a cooler. It is a cultural badge.
It is brilliant. It might work. But surfers are frugal. We know that you do not need much. Waves, mountains, and the occasional adventure are enough. That $450 cooler? Better spent on fuel, a wetsuit, or post-surf beers. In the UK, drinks get cold on their own anyway.
I admire Yeti. Their philosophy, their storytelling, and their dedication to the outdoors are second to none. Will I ever buy a cooler? Maybe not. Will I keep admiring from afar and occasionally pocketing a free mug? Definitely.
I am curious to see where they go next and whether their marketing will convince the weekend warriors to finally part with their money.
