I disembarked at Schwyz station with a bag that felt like it had swallowed an entire watch fair. Between glossy brochures, hotel chocolates, and a suspiciously bulky impulse buy from Zurich, my shoulders were ready to mutiny. My phone showed a comically high step count, the result of a week-long sprint across Geneva and Zurich as both journalist and tourist. My ankles felt like they were coming off at the hinges.

Which is why the view took me by surprise. The Alps weren't just scenic wallpaper, they were a reset button. Here in Ibach, where Victorinox has stood its ground since 1884, there was space to breathe, to think, and to focus on the kind of precision and durability that define not just their legendary knives, but their entire approach to making things that last.

Victorinox had arranged for a car to pick me up. After a winding drive through meadows that looked photoshopped, I found myself in a glass meeting room with Arianna Frésard and Basile Maeder—two of the brand's key figures in the watches division. Arianna, a veteran of Swatch and Raymond Weil, and Basile, once of Greubel Forsey, were refreshingly unguarded. Over coffee, we spoke about everything from India's gold obsession to their low-key hopes for the square watch format. Then I decamped to the banks of Lake Lucerne, where over a lunch of lake fish and potatoes, the conversation turned to Watches & Wonders, and eventually, to the sticky topic of Swiss-American trade tariffs; a matter that CEO Karl Elsener IV himself would reference later.

On the Wrist, With Intention

If Swiss knives are about preparedness, Victorinox’s watches are about restraint. “We’re not here to do fashion,” Arianna Frésard told me within minutes of sitting down. “If we bring gold into the design, it’s with purpose. It has to feel elegant, never flashy.” It’s a quiet defiance in a market that often prizes sparkle over substance.

Frésard, who’s been with the brand since 2013, carries the pragmatic optimism of someone who’s spent years listening to retailers and retooling collections with surgical precision. She calls India a market 'hungry for elegance', but clarifies, “we don’t adapt our brand to fit a region. We evolve our interpretation of what elegance means, without compromising who we are.”

Her colleague Basile Maeder, formerly of Greubel Forsey, is more direct, and certainly more French. “First you fall in love with how it looks. Then you bargain with yourself: does it feel right? Is the movement worth the price?” For him, material choice isn’t just an aesthetic question, it’s tactile. He jokes that stainless steel is their “home ground,” but lights up when discussing carbon composites and locally sourced titanium. “We used to import it,” he says, “but now it’s coming from just two villages over. The perceived quality shot up.”

They’ve also been watching the field watch space with a hawk’s eye. “Yes, we’ve looked at the Hamilton Khaki,” Frésard admits, “but that’s a 50-metre WR piece with no anti-magnetic protection and no date. For us, even at the same price point, we won’t compromise the Victorinox DNA. 100 metres, five-year warranty, real-world ruggedness.”

And it shows. The recent Journey 1884 collection doesn’t scream for attention. It whispers: triangle markers evoke alpine pine trees, the Swiss flag is subtly present, and the case shapes remain unapologetically classic. “We want our watches to make you feel good,” she says. “Not just look good. Not just expensive.” 

Of particular note is the freshly launched Swiss Army Collection, an aggressively-priced field watch aimed at replacing the FieldForce series while courting a younger audience. “We want to make sure we evolve,” Frésard said, “but without ever compromising who we are.” While brands like Hamilton lean heavily on nostalgia, Victorinox prefers practicality: 100 metres of water resistance, anti-magnetic protection, a five-year warranty. “When we lower price, we deliver less, but never by compromising on quality,” she added. The dial design continues their alpine storytelling: triangle markers echo pine trees, set quietly against the stark functionality of the whole.

As we drove back to the factory, I considered how much Arianna and Basile spoke about 'care'. Care in design, care in communication, and care in doing things the right way even when no one is watching. That ethos would echo again soon, once I walked onto the factory floor.

How a Victorinox Knife is Born

Back at Victorinox HQ, Marika Farkas, head of visitor management, took over. She led me through the labyrinthine corridors of the production facility, pausing often to explain not just the how, but the why. “This compacting machine has been running since 1983,” she said, patting it affectionately. There was a quiet reverence for tools, for process, for rhythm.

It begins with 2,400 metric tons of steel imported from all over Europe; majorly France and Germany. The storeroom opens up to massive coils of the stuff, gleaming and stacked in three-storey racks and earmarked for blades, screwdrivers, scissors, and more. Each tool demands a different alloy: hard steel for edge retention, softer blends for flex and torque. One steel roll alone can produce up to 16,000 stamped blades. These blades are cut with 50 metric tons of pressure, then shaped using water-fed triangular wheels. They're magnetically lifted, ground, and re-ground until they hit exacting thickness standards, undergoing multiple checks along the way. After that comes the Victorinox logo—stamped in with pride—and then a 1,050°C oven hardening that gives the blades their lifelong resilience.

Post-treatment, they're sharpened and checked again before being matched with their red shells, injection-moulded in the building next door. Elsewhere, on dedicated lines, other tools are milled: openers, wire strippers, mini-saws. Each is polished, inspected, and matched for the correct tolerance. The cross-and-shield emblem is affixed and examined under a microscope. And from there, final assembly begins. Simpler knives are machine-assembled; more complex models are finished by hand. Regardless of origin, all are manually polished and undergo a last, meticulous inspection. Then, and only then, they are boxed and shipped from Ibach to over 120 countries around the world.

Victorinox doesn’t rely on off-the-shelf tools alone. Some machines here have been running for decades, like the kiln used to fire the knives after they're shaped. Others are custom-built for the brand, designed for specific steps only Victorinox would need. I was walked through one of the automated blade-stamping zones—a symphony of sparks, clanging metal, and humming hydraulics. It was almost comically noisy. But what stuck with me most wasn’t the volume. It was the rhythm. Nothing wasted, no step out of line.

As the noise receded, the pace changed. Further down the line, hands took over. Knife polishing is still done manually. And some models (like the one I assembled myself) bear a discreet mark to signify hand assembly. I was invited to try it myself, walking through each layer and component under the guidance of a factory employee. Apparently, I was ten minutes faster than the average visitor. Not bad for someone who usually types for a living.  Marika mentioned that several of the team members I met had been at Victorinox longer than I’ve been alive. You could see it—in how they handled parts, how they spoke of the machines. The final stages of the assembly line feel less like manufacturing and more like finishing a work of craft.

Not far from the main floors, I stepped into a quieter section: a workshop built for apprentices. It looked more like a small technical college than a factory floor. Young students hunched over workbenches, filing, grinding, and polishing components. The only giveaway that this was Victorinox and not a trade school were the walls—lined with posters and framed photographs of alumni’s handiwork: generations of Swiss precision on proud display. This kind of embedded mentorship is one of the reasons behind Switzerland’s steelclad reputation for craftsmanship, and Victorinox has carried it forward without ceremony, without slogans—just through practice.

Even the rhythms of the workers are calibrated with care. At regular intervals, employees take movement breaks—simple yoga-like stretches done together. It might seem trivial, but when your job involves hours of fine-tuned repetition, a little breath goes a long way.

As we moved deeper into the facility, past the cacophony of steel presses and humming kilns, I found myself wondering where Victorinox fits into the modern conversation around tools. In a world of sleek, subscription-based gadgets and Apple-ified multitools designed more for flexing than function, their refusal to chase novelty feels radical. But it's not stagnation. It's selective evolution.

Case in point: the colour wall. Before heading upstairs, Marika brought me to a quiet room where the walls were lined with trays upon trays of finished knives. Thousands of them—every finish imaginable. Camouflage, candy pink, translucent purple, with everything from national flags to children's names printed on them. "This is a big part of our B2B business," she said. Hotels, airlines, outdoor companies, even banks come looking for branded keepsakes that actually last. Not another mug. Not another tote. A knife.

The Custodian

Eventually, I was led to one of the boardrooms to meet the man himself. The first thing I noticed wasn’t Karl Elsener IV himself, but his car—a quaint, custom-wrapped Smart Fortwo, emblazoned with the Victorinox logo, parked neatly by the entrance. A small but telling detail. Karl is a rarity: a CEO who signs knives for fans and still shows up at the repair room when the occasion calls. The scion of a family business, he could easily trade on legacy and coast. But Karl doesn’t coast. He speaks like someone who carries the weight of 140 years without complaint. He’s big on family, too—not just in business, but in life, often spending his days off hiking with his children and grandchildren. In many ways, he’s the perfect customer for Victorinox: an old-school European outdoorsman who values practicality with just the right amount of polish.

"We don't think in quarters. We think in generations," he said early into our conversation. It's a line that might sound quaint in a pitch deck, but in Karl's voice, it lands with the assurance of lived philosophy. His great-grandfather founded the company in 1884, dreaming not of global acclaim but of supplying the Swiss Army. From there came the Soldier Knife, then the Officer's Knife, and eventually, a little red tool that would orbit Earth in the pockets of astronauts.

Victorinox today is still family-owned, unlisted, and defiantly stable, unlike many other popular Swiss marques. Victorinox’s independence hasn’t gone unchallenged. Over the years, Karl admitted, there have been plenty of suitors—investors hoping to buy a slice of the brand’s global prestige. But for Karl and his siblings, the idea of selling has always been off the table. “Victorinox is a very positive brand with a strong heritage,” he said. “Of course, people think it would be a good investment. But for us, it’s not about that.” Instead, the family secured the company’s future through a foundation structure—ninety per cent of the firm is owned by a company foundation, the other ten per cent by a charitable trust. “We wanted to make sure Victorinox is never weakened during an inheritance. That the reserves built in good times stay within the company, and that no short-term shareholder pressure can pull it apart.”

He points to examples like 9/11 and COVID, which each delivered body blows to tourism and duty-free sales—the lifeblood of Swiss knife exports. During the pandemic, when most firms were downsizing or panicking, Victorinox doubled down on people. Staff were temporarily seconded to other companies. Salaries were maintained. Production never halted. "You build trust like that," he said. "With customers, with your people. Trust is the most long-term currency there is." 

He's also refreshingly candid about what hasn't worked. He recounts one particular experiment with good humour—a Swiss Army Knife embedded with an MP3 player. It launched in the early 2000s, targeting tech-forward users who might be tempted by a multi-functional gadget with digital appeal. But it flopped. "There just wasn’t enough surface area to justify the usability," Karl said, laughing. It was too early, too odd, and perhaps too gimmicky for Victorinox's core audience. "Collectors bought it. But for most people, it didn't make sense." Still, Karl doesn’t shy away from these moments. "Sometimes you experiment. You push a little too far. But that’s okay—we learn." It's not failure that bothers him; it's pretending you're too refined to risk one.

That spirit extends to leadership, too. Karl's style is starkly different from his father's. "He was hands-on. Very involved in the details. I try to delegate more—trust the people around me." He still signs off on key decisions, but his focus is cultural continuity. Every Christmas, he makes it a point to shake hands with each employee personally. "You don’t run a company. You care for it. That’s what my father taught me, and what I try to pass on. When you inherit a company, you're really inheriting people," he said. "Your employees. Your customers. Your suppliers. You're not the king. You're the steward."

In a business climate obsessed with disruption, Karl prefers durability. He isn’t interested in chasing trends—not in design, not in leadership. “It’s dangerous to think you’re a king just because things are going well,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “Victorinox has lasted because we never forget how easily it could all go away.” It’s a mindset every Elsener before him has had to adopt. His father—credited with globalising the brand and steering it through the post-9/11 and 2008 financial crises—knew the cost of turbulence. Now, a new storm looms. In early 2025, the United States imposed a fresh wave of tariffs: 10 per cent on most imports, but a punishing 31 per cent on Swiss goods like watches, knives, and luxury exports. For Switzerland’s most important trade partner, it’s a blow that heritage brands like Victorinox can’t ignore.

Karl’s own test lies in bridging tradition with an increasingly volatile world—and possibly navigating a sharply more expensive American market. “What I have learned in our 140-year history is that it’s important not to panic," he says. "To really analyse, talk to your partners, and look for a balanced solution. I feel we live in a world where people often run from one extreme to another. It’s important to stay calm, open channels of communication with the US government, explain our situation, and try to find a reasonable solution. Either you increase prices to consumers, or you absorb part of the customs through subsidiaries—you have to find the right balance.”

Back home, jet-lagged and surrounded by the detritus of travel, I found myself rifling through souvenirs and receipts. At the bottom of the bag, snug in a branded pouch, was the Swiss Army knife I had assembled with my own hands. It was a modest model—the old reliable red, not a collector's edition or some limited-run titanium grail. But it had a weight to it. In design, in meaning. It had survived my trip. It had survived airport checks and snack raids and a hurried afternoon spent comparing wristwatches at Zürich HB, and now, a gleeful unboxing of various impulse purchases made on my trip.

I turned it over in my hand. The blades folded smoothly. The spring was firm. The Victorinox cross gleamed faintly. Everything I'd seen—the steel pressed and shaped in a humming factory, the conversations about legacy and stewardship, the discipline of restraint in design—had led to this: an object that asks nothing of you but delivers in quiet, mechanical reliability. A piece of mountain steel and human intention, destined not for a display case, but for use.

After days of rushing through train stations, it was this one thing—simple, solid, red—that felt like it was made for tired hands and clear purpose. The world changes fast. But some things, like a well-made knife, remind you that consistency is a kind of freedom.