Guest Post: Learning To Hunt - Safely!

When I asked Mike if I could post his Learning to Hunt story as a guest post he said he'd like me to include this one, and when I read it I could see why. See what you think

The Most Important Lesson

Like most, as a young hunter I longed for my first buck. I didn't take a deer the first season despite numerous sightings. The deer were there. I just couldn't seem to get a clear shot. I saw only tails, or running deer instead of still deer offering their shoulders to me. As the second season opened, I wondered if I should take shots that I was not 100% sure of. I had a tag for antlered deer only, so I would at least have to make sure that the deer was a buck before I pulled the trigger. I resolved that I would take the first shot at a buck I saw. No more waiting for the perfect broadside pose. If I could just be sure it had antlers I would pull the trigger no matter what.

I had one glimpse of a departing tail opening day. My hunting companion bagged a nice six-point opening morning and so after that I was on my own, pitting my wits and knowledge of the terrain against the wily bucks I knew were there. The next day I saw three does trotting across an open field, but could not legally take them. By the afternoon of the third day I had buck fever. I thought I could see antlers in every clump of brush. Every fallen log was a buck in his bed to my eyes. I still-hunted away from home all morning. Without much thought, I crossed onto the next farm about noon. I did not doubt that access would be granted if I took the time to ask permission. We were on good terms with the neighbors and the area that I planned to hunt was cropland bordered by woods on one side and a brush-choked streambed well away from any livestock.

It was this stream that drew me over the fence line. I knew that any deer feeling pressured could duck into its gully to skirt the open field on one side and the open hardwoods on the other. I took a position overlooking where the gully ended. Any deer walking that brushy corridor would emerge into my view and either cross the field of corn stubble before me or work up the slope of open hardwoods on the far side of the stream. If a buck walked either of those routes my investment in cold toes and fingers would be well worthwhile. I chose to settle in for a long wait, watching the shadows grow as the afternoon wore on.

Just about the time I was thinking more of my damp seat and cold toes than watching the hedgerow, I became aware of something moving in the gully. A bird flew up at the far range of my vision. Then a moment later, the sound of a snapping twig reached me faintly over the gentle sound of running water. Long minutes passed without revealing the wary buck and I gradually became less alert, lulled by the gurgling stream and the motion of gently swaying saplings. The dappled leaves still holding to them occasionally drifted down to mingle with the berry bushes separating the watercourse from me.

Minutes had passed without any sign of life when a crackle of breaking brush at the near end of the gully shot adrenaline through my veins. There was something unmistakably moving just out of sight and coming my way! I saw the top of a sapling move as something out of sight brushed against its trunk. The yellow poplar leaves drifted against the thick hedge of briars below. The form under the saplings moved closer. Yes, I could see it now. The unmistakable gray of deer hair glimpsed between silver saplings and the screen of red berry stalks. A sneaky old buck must have walked straight down the streambed. The noise of his approach had been covered by the gentle gurgle of running water and muffled by the wall of brush.

My breathing became ragged. My heart pounded in my chest. I could feel every pulse in my shoulders and throat. My palms begin to sweat as my thumb reached for the safety on the rifle that lay heavily in my lap as the animal moved toward me. Oh if I could only see antlers!

I tightened my grip on the cold stock. I could see the shape of his body now. It was about 3-4 feet long, soft gray, 3 feet off the ground and moving slowly, steadily my way. He was nearly free of the saplings, which, at that point, had a few low branches. We were only separated by the screen of thick blackberry bushes. I thought about the powerful cartridge in the chamber and knew that the briar stems could not sufficiently deflect the bullet from its intended target. I would click off the safety, throw the rifle to my shoulder, and fire the instant I saw antlers. I contemplated the devastation a shot raking from chest to tail would create. Without a doubt the buck would slump in his tracks and I would have to drag him up the stream bank and out of those thorn bushes. Perhaps I should let him step clear? He was coming the right way. I realized that I was holding my breath. Then I saw the antlers.

I could not help but pause at the sight of them. I had dreamed of this moment for so very long. This was going to be my first buck, and, oh, what antlers they were! Powerfully thrusting through the thick berry bushes, the antlers shoved through the briar screen and broke into the open. With raking motions the rack moved toward me. I saw three long tines on each side and thick brow tines sweeping ahead of a gray hulking body almost as tall as the low sapling branches. I heard the briar stems breaking. I could even hear his breath and began to raise the rifle.

I never fired. I never finished clicking off the safety. In fact, I never even raised the rifle from my lap. I sat stone still with the kind of chill in my soul that I hope I never feel again. Long minutes later I was quite alone at the edge of that field. For what I saw as that matched set of perfect antlers was thrust clear of the briars, was that they quickly split apart and fell earthward when the man who held them stood up. This hunter, with rifle slung over his shoulder, had bent at the waist to move under the low branches and held his synthetic rattling antlers in either hand to push thorns away from his face as he climbed the stream bank. He never knew I was there. He never knew how close his tree bark camouflage had brought him to being a terrible statistic. As I look back now, more than a decade later, I do not recall seeing any red, or blaze clothing at all. What I do recall is that my hands shook as I took them off the unused rifle and silently thanked God that I had learned the most valuable lesson of hunting without tragedy.

I've taken eight deer from that same area in upstate NY over the ten seasons that followed. But two years ago I went deerless. I heard my buck working a rub, and caught glimpses of his gray hide moving away through the hardwoods in the last light of day on the last day of the season, but I let him walk into the shadows with my tag unfilled. I was 99% sure of my target. But 99% is not sure enough, because years before I had learned that safety is the most important hunting lesson of all.

Hope you enjoyed Mikes writing as much as I did.

Back to my inane prattlings very soon.

Your pal

SBW

Guest Post: Learning To Hunt

One of the really cool things about blogging is the way that your words become a calling card when reaching out to other people with similar interests. The last time I found someone who started to learn to hunt in 'middle youth' I met Holly the author of NorCal Cazadora and while we've never met up I've had a few hilarious and thought provoking conversations with her and enjoyed watching her journey unfold in leaps and bounds while my own has been a little more, erhm, sedentary.

While searching the 'tinterweb a few weeks back i came across this story written by Mike Skelly, simply entitled 'Learning to Hunt' I dropped him a line and he was kind enough to write back giving me permission to post it here as a guest post. Hope you like it too.

My name is Mike Skelly. And although I am a late starter, I love hunting. I grew up in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains in New York State, but I never hunted until I took it on myself to buy a rifle and get my first license as a 20-year old in 1990. Hunting has grown from a couple of weekends in 1990 to a year round obsession in less than a decade, and I cannot get enough.

I had a lot of learning to do. I hunted solo the first year. The closest that I came to getting a shot when I was still-hunting up a small ridge. As I neared the summit, I could hear something moving fast on the other side. A fat doe popped over the top and skidded to a halt about five yards away. I didn't have an antlerless tag, and I'm not sure who was more surprised. She was so close that I could smell her. Our eyes locked, and then she gave a snort and trotted away, while I waited in vain for a buck to follow.

The second year went much the same except that I linked up with some older hunters who took pity on me and offered to help teach me to hunt. We hunted on my parents' 63 acres of rolling fields and hardwoods and these fellows took two nice deer that I pushed to them with many hours of walking while they kept watch. I sure learned a lot about driving, but not much about shooting. Every time that I wanted to hunt the ridges, these guys assured me that deer always stayed in the valleys, and that I should push the swamps to catch them in their beds. I began to think something was up when the same thing happened the next year. I saw a few tails and a few does, but ended up pushing bucks to my companions while my tags went unfilled. They even helped me by filling my doe tag for me on opening day. What pals! After their tags were filled, I began to walk the ridges and without any surprise found good rubs and scrapes wherever it was hard going to get to. I found tracks, beds, and saw a few tails. And I learned where the bucks bedded, but could not sneak up on those ridge bedded bucks no matter how I tried. The one shot I had misfired because the rifle had iced over during freezing rain. Yes, I was already hooked on hunting enough to stay out for hours in freezing rain!

The third year I told the older guys that I wanted to hunt the high ground opening day, but they convinced me to try "just one sweep" in the valley. Sure enough, they bagged a buck and by the time it was dressed and hauled to the house, it was lunchtime. After lunch, I decided to go to the high ground, even though it was the wrong time of day. I figured anything that had been chased out of the valleys might have holed up on top.

It was unusually warm that day. I slow stalked up a steep, shale covered slope in bright afternoon sunlight. I knew that there was a shelf just before the summit and could envision a big buck laying on that shelf watching the valley below. By taking the steepest route I could not be seen from the shelf. I was about 30 feet from the top after a forty minute climb when I thought that I heard movement ahead. Instinct took over and I ran to the top, just in time to see what seemed like a perfect buck gracefully bounding away. Breathing hard from my up-hill run, I put my rifle to my shoulder as the universe slipped into slow motion.

The deer was one bound away from a stone wall at the crest of the hill. If he cleared that, he would be out of sight. I put my sites on him, and took up the slack in the two stage trigger as he gathered himself for the jump. He was in mid air, over the wall, with antlers held high and the sun shining on his coat when I placed the sites perfectly behind, and just below his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It is an instant that will live forever in my memory, a scene so classic it could have been taken from an advertisement for hunting gear, the perfectly placed shot at last instant for a grand trophy. There was only one problem. Click.

That's right, after unloading the rifle for lunch in the house, I had refilled the magazine but failed to fill the chamber! It took 2 heartbeats (I felt them) for the disbelief to be turned to determination. I ran up the last slope, and looked over the stone wall at the disappearing form of my high bounding buck. After chambering the first bullet from the magazine I fired twice more just as he entered brush. The first shot knocked a branch off a sapling between us, but the second sent hair flying beyond him. He kept going, but I was convinced that he was hard hit.

Tracking revealed enough hair to cover a squirrel, and a set of tracks that got lost in a maze of deer trails, but not one drop of blood. Fearful that I had wounded him, I prayed that God would give me another chance at the same buck later.

Two weeks later, I came down sick. Fever, chills, body ache. No doubt about it, it was the flu. I was too sick to go to work, but when fresh snow started falling, I all but crawled outside. It was the first tracking snow of deer season, and I was home from work. You can't pass up a chance like that!

I hunted away from the house on the ridge tops for an hour when I began to wonder what had possessed me to get so far away from the bathroom, then I crossed fresh tracks still filling with snow (about 30 minutes old). I gratefully followed them back toward home. Through thickets, and finally to a just emptied bed in heavy pines when I heard a stone turn on the stone wall I knew was 100 yards ahead of me. Running to the wall I saw a buck cutting broadside downhill. I fired just once. I was so excited that I actually had my first buck (I thought).

I was now within sight of my house and had always heard that you should let a deer lay down and stiffen up if you wound him. 20 minutes later the snow had stopped when I went out again. At the point my bullet had hit him I found exactly one drop of blood. My heart sank. What kind of a hunter was I? But so long as he was wounded it was my obligation to follow. He had lain down about 500 yards away and there was about as much blood as would fill the palm of your hand in the bed, and a few drops every few feet beyond that. I knew by the tracks what had happened. He was walking on 3 legs. Somehow my perfect broadside shot (on a running deer 70 yards away and about 40 feet down hill through hardwoods) had hit a leg that bled when he used it.

If it wasn't for the snow I would never have been able to track him. I followed him for more than a mile before I saw him jump up from a thicket. Determined not to let him get away even if I had to take a shot from the rear, I fired again. That put him down and I put a finishing shot into his brain to end the chase. He had put up a good fight and I still admire that game little buck. He was only 100 lbs. dressed, and had only a pair of wide forks, but I was as proud as if he had been a bull elephant! He was mine, and I did it alone, hunting where I knew was best. He had a strip of hair shaved off his back from hip to shoulder, and I am convinced that he was the same buck that I missed on the high ridges opening morning. God had given me another chance at the same deer.

The next year I humored my aged companions one more time, but after fruitlessly pushing the swamps in two hours of cold rain, we came home to see three doe run across a neighbor's yard. This time I had a doe tag in my pocket. I sprinted to where I would have a shot directed safely away from the houses, and waited for the trio to step into view en route to the woods. I filled my tag with a clean head shot when one paused to look at my friend standing helplessly on the porch open mouthed and empty handed while his rifle lay unloaded on the kitchen table. None of us got a buck that year, but the doe was good eating. Last year my buddies came back to my parents' farm to hunt, but this time I went up the ridges to wait for dawn. I watched the world turn pink, and sunlight creep down the hill toward me as squirrels played and a partridge fed through. At 8 AM I heard the unmistakable sound of deer walking just out of sight, on my left. A short stalk showed me the hind end of a medium sized four point buck following a doe about 50 yards away. I put my SKS's sites on him, but didn't want to take a butt shot. Just as I resolved to take the shot instead of letting him slip away. He turned to look at me and exposed a shoulder. BAM. He went down 5 yards from where he had stood and I had my second buck by 8:30 opening morning.

I told my friends where the doe had gone, and where she was likely to go when I pushed the thicket she was in. I saw three deer bound away (through cover, without offering me good shots) right where I predicted the escape route would be, but my buddies had chosen to ignore my advice and watch other routes. Although I pushed a doe and fawn to them later that day, they let them pass (I would have too), and they did not see another deer all season.

On closing day I took my antlerless tag back to the high ridges and made a perfect heart shot on a little doe as she and 2 others fed along 50 yards in front of me. She folded up so quickly that the others didn't even leave the area until I showed myself and walked toward them. It was the first time that I had filled both tags in one season and the first time that I had taken a deer completely unaware of human presence.

Lessons learned? Follow your instincts. Be nice to your buddies, but make your own choices. If you have put in the time to learn where the deer are, trust yourself instead of someone who thinks they know more. This year, I'm going straight to the top of the hill before dawn. God willing, I'll get a shot at the really big buck that I know is there, but if not I'll hunt to the low ground in the afternoon and give the other fellows a chance at whatever comes out of the swamp for them. I may not have got my trophy deer yet, but every deer is a trophy when you are learning to hunt.

Stay tuned for part two where Mike learns to hunt SAFELY

Your pal

SBW

I want One - A Not So Occasional Series Pt12.0

It's always good to get a new angle on things and just after i posted the 'I want one ' about these binos, quoting David Petzal a new copy of Field and Stream landed on the door mat. Whadda you know he was doing a feature on optics.

Last time he said

MYTH: Thousand-dollar binoculars are a waste of money.
TRUTH: I can’t tell you how many guides I’ve met who owned the clothes on their back, a pickup truck, and a pair of thousand-dollar binoculars. There’s a reason for that.

This time it was

'I don't know how many guides I've met who dressed in rags, lived on wallpaper paste and government cheese but who owned a pair of $2000 binoculars"

That's inflation for you, but it's good to see I'm not the only one taking recycling seriously!

See ya soon

SBW

Puff Pant - Sofa King Old

While I'm away here's one from the archives

It’s that time again: your pal SBW was forced off the sofa and the TV remote prised from his chubby little hand – “Off to the running club fat boy” said Mrs SBW.

And oh what torture it was, Greenwich Park is steep, way steep, and the guys from British Military Fitness had us hopping, (yes Hopping, you know travelling on ONE foot!) up the hill before we were allowed to run up the hill, it was murder. But as mentioned in a previous post at least it keeps the existential angst at bay.
I’ve taken to asking other victims, I mean participants, about their motivation. “ I just don’t want to be last” is quite a common one – myself I’m too busy not wanting this to be my last breath to care about anyone else.

After the hill-climb came the long jog, I’d have thought it was a long walk, but no we ran – well for most of it anyway. As we jogged we passed a rosy-cheeked young couple, enjoying the warm evening air, sitting on a park bench, happily drinking what looked like a bottle of whiskey. As people ran past they shouted encouragement. “You can do it” and “faster you’re winning”. I like to think of myself as the master of the witty retort, but all I could muster, through gritted teeth, was a “that’s easy for you to say” as my hart tried to leave my body.

The thought of tromping the hills of bonny Scotland with a pack and rifle in search of Red Stags and then later more of the same with a compound bow in my sub arctic search for the Elk of my dreams was all that kept me going. I’d rather die now than face coming home with no meat due to general laziness.

When I got home Bushwacker Jnr was eagerly awaiting my arrival: “Hey dad there’s a new film coming out, mum says you’d like it, its called Run Fat Boy Run!!

You’ve gotta love ‘em haven’t you? It’s not legal to use them as bear bait!
Bushwacker.
run fat boy run trailer
www.britmilfit.com/

Esplorazione For Beginners Pt6

As they say in french 'It' s toujours les grands grimpeurs qui meurent en absaling'

(Its always the great climbers who die abseiling - or it's a silly little mistake that causes disaster)

What was to be our last full day had started do well, we were taking so much exercise that we could feast on delicious fatty breakfasts and still be noticeably thinner by lunchtime. We'd done all of the lugging and carrying so we thought we'd do a little scouting in the morning, pop into the nearest town for supplies and a big lunch, a bit more scouting in the afternoon ending up at the bottom of the valley in time to fish the evening rise. Sounded so good didn't it?

We were on the hillside above the house when I heard the sounds which were to change our direction completely.

There was a series of dull thumps, like a big bag of spuds rolling down a stone staircase, and then the shouted

'BUSHWACKER I've broken my arm!!'

It wasn't the whiney 'oh oh aw aw i've broken my arm' of every day exaggeration, but the voice of stone cold certainty. When I got over to CHJ I could see that although not a medical man his diagnosis was spot on. His arm had an S bend in it and was dripping blood.

As we say in English 'BOLLOX!!'

I left him sitting on the path and went back to the house, gathered up everything I thought we'd need and we set off painfully slowly down the hillside. It must have only taken 10 minutes to get down to the car, seemed like ages.

As we drove cautiously up the track to the road CHJ's face was covered in the clammy sweat of a man burdened by pain. The road is made of potholes, we lurched in and out of them as slowly as we could. To make matter worse CMJ had to put up with my constant wisecracking and attempts to distract him.

Italian hospitals are really quite something; painted in a green that was never going to lift anyones spirits, each corridor came with it's own scowling bearded nun. The place was spotless, I kid you not i've eaten my dinner off things that weren't as clean as the floors in that place. One thing that I thought would lift CHJ's spirits was they had the prettiest nurses, but their shift had been meticulously timed to end as we arrived, so he had to rely on his natural stoicism.

It soon became clear that Italian hospitals were as cash-strapped as english hospitals, they just spend the money differently. His arm was re-set without anesthetic. Ouch.

I wasn't in the room but from the drinks machine at the other end of the corridor it sounded very painful. Double Ouch!

A very brave trooper, about to find out the horrific price of our flights home. Good job he's sitting down.

I certainly learned a few lessons in on the trip, but they'll have to wait for another post.

I'm in france for a few days grueling relaxation, back soon.

Your pal

SBW

PS Grueling Relaxation? WTF?

Kids, Parents and Ex Mrs SBW = grueling relaxation

SBW

Happiness Delivered By Spork

"PINK! You did buy the one that I did want"

TLB (The Littlest Bushwacker)

It's been a while since the inital 'un-boxing' The Light My Fire meal set has been with us for a while now, and I'm still very happy with them, (not quite as delighted as the pink sets owner though) so i thought I'd revist the LMF lunch boxes.

While I was living in Leeds I used the set and a microwave for all my hotel cooking, and have to report how handy it was to have the chopping board/colander. If the set has a downside it's that the main bowl it only really suitable for transporting dry foods, any sauce has to travel in the smaller tub which really is leakproof.

Keep well

SBW

PS If you're thinking of having kids, and are the kind of person who likes things 'just so' bear this in mind:

The 'I am 3' T shirt we'd hoped to turn into a duster couldn't be thrown away and had to be customized into an 'I am 4' T shirt. Such is suburban life.

Esplorazione For Beginners Pt5

Facilities were basic to say the least!

But the food was delicious!

This is a pecorino, but not as I'm used to eating it, in it's matured form. Here it's only a few months old. It made by our neighbor who was attacked by the wolf.

We saw plenty of signs that deer were feeding in the area, the dirt road in and out of the property was chris-crossed with tracks. Everywhere big enough and flat enough for cars to pass each other seemed to be a feeding station.

Your pal

SBW

Cree hunters of the Mistassini

I just watched this amazing film and thought you might like it too.It was made in by Boyce Richardson (who was being naomi klein before naomi klein was born) and is an amazing body of work. In 1974 he travels to meet the Cree hunters of the Mistassini, who he describes as " the last coherent hunting culture in North America".

"For thousands of years, the Cree Indians of James Bay inhabited the northern Quebec forests - originally gathering wild rice, and later hunting, fishing, and trapping. Traditionally, small groups of families spent the winter months together in the bush, subsisting on moose, beaver, deer, wild geese and caribou. In 1973 a film crew joined three families in their annual move to the north. In this film we come to know the Blacksmiths, the Jollys, and the Voyageurs: building a one-room lodge floored with pine boughs, hunting, trapping, preparing food and skins, and living together in the bush."

The you tube clip gives you a taste of it and you can watch the whole thing here.

Your Pal

SBW

Forager Jnr

They made us late for school as he climbed up on to the wall to check their ripeness, they made the trip home from school even longer as he'd climb up again to see if one days sunshine had been enough to make a difference.

In the end they were ripe and Bushwacker Jnr did get to harvest these plumbs from the suburban bush.

The sweet taste of perseverance?

Or just a bit OCD like his dad?

Your pal

SBW

I want One - A Not So Occasional Series Pt12

“MYTH: Thousand-dollar binoculars are a waste of money.

TRUTH: I can’t tell you how many guides I’ve met who owned the clothes on their back, a pickup truck, and a pair of thousand-dollar binoculars. There’s a reason for that.”

David E Petzal

Well it must have been a while back the The Gun Nut wrote that, because you aren't going to see a lot of 'high end' for a thousand bucks these days. This pair'll set you back £1500 which is the best part of $2500! Ouch.

Did I mention that they have a built in laser range finder!

I was mad about The Six Million Dollar Man as a lad and while lifting engine blocks with one hand and running a 60 mph are both cool, my favorite of his powers was where he'd 'close one eye to scope in on a target and be able to see how far away it was.

Obviously $5,997,500 is a lot of change but do they make the Der Der Deh noise or do you have to make that yourself?

SBW

Celebrity Feeds Rabbit To Coyote

Yawn, it's that time again. Another numpty has tried to cast themselves as a defender and guardian of all that's fluffy, cute [and delicious].The utterly meaningless Leona Lewis, (or 'The Butcher of Hallelujah' as music lovers know her) was, it's reported, enjoying a breath of fresh air between shops in LA when she saw a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with the rabbit on a lead. She asked him what the was planning to do with it.
Being hungry and homeless he gave the only logical answer '... probably eat it.' Appalled, not by his suffering but, by the idea of one of Disney's little creaures being dinner, she offered him $100 for it. Being poor not stupid he accepted.
That most trustworthy of news sources 'a friend' is quoted as teling whover passes for a reporter these days that the bunny-wunny is now living in Ms Lewis' garden where she fondly imagaines it to be safe from any culinary adventures.
Rumors that Ms Lewis is completely ignorant [of Cats, Dogs, Bob Cats, and Coyotes] are yet to be proved.
Question "Who are these people?" on second thoughts ...GROAN we're surrounded. Modern Life is, as they say, Rubbish
SBW

Thanks to Holy Moly who found the story

Here's a useful guide to hunting rabbits from BASC, who also get the picture credit

Esplorazione For Beginners Pt4

The First morning dawned clear and bright, two minutes was all it took to gather these Cherries from a tree outside the door and life was sweet. Literally La Dolce Vita, the sweet life.

The mists over the hills cleared and the temperature rapidly rose to 24C, hot enough when every step forwards is also a step up. Looking out over the narrow valley i could see that ours wasn't the only super steep hillside. All the way along the valley the hillsides are so steep and heavily wooded that possible shots would either have to be either well inside 50 yards or you'd be shooting over to the next hillside at something over 500 yards. The internets army of whitetail hunters all advise finding the game trails but taking great care not to walk on them. On this terrain everything that has to walk is walking on the same slithers of land. Goats (domesticated), Boar, Deer and porcupines all share the available opportunities for perambulation.

During one of our many trips to the car to collect household goods we were invited to visit the nearest farm where through our broken Italian (OK broken is the wrong word - it implies that it worked at one time). We found out that the matriarch of the nearest farm had recently been forced to take refuge in a chicken coop as a wolf had shown up looking for a chicken ready meal, and finding the menu extended he thought he'd eat her from the specials board. Yikes!

The surprise news was that a Hydro Road had been cut through the bottom of the valley, basically a very big pipe has been buried under the road you can see above, it runs down hill to a building the size of a double garage, where a small plant generates the local electricity supply. I wanted to go to another local plant where they have guided tours, but as you'll see that wasn't to be.

More Soon

Your Pal

SBW

Buying A Knife, That Could That Be THE Knife

In a recent email exchange with LSP (the lone star parson) he mentioned he was feeling a little 'under knifed'.Never being one to shy away from lecturing my friends I promised him a post with some of my ideas about what really makes for that most elusive of purchases -

'The one knife to rule them all.'

First up, it's only fair that I give you a bit of background to these opinions. I've owned and traded loads of knives over the years. I'm not a collector, but I am an enthusiast and my stuff is put to hard use.

Most production knives are way over priced, and the semi-custom knives I've owned weren't finished to a high enough standard for the money. I've never been able to justify the cost of a real high end custom but I've handled a few and while there are plenty of other things to spend the money on, yes I do covet one.

'Any job is easy if you've got the right tools' As the guy with a hardware store says. But 'easy' is an entirely relative term. Your favorite might be the most cack-handed thing I've ever held. My 'utilitarian' might be your 'plasticy'. Price too has an effect on perception, 'fantastic' at $20 might be 'substandard' at $100.You need a tool that fits your hand and your requirements. There I've made it sound easy haven't I? If only.

The traditional designs have developed as responses to different environments and needs. The flex in the blade of a fish knife isn't what you need when battening firewood. The 2 mm flat ground Lekeu is a perfect tool for daily use [and sharpening] in the Birch forests of the Sub-Arctic, but something a little thicker with a convex grind suited in the Sweet Chestnut forests of southern Italy. One of your needs might be resale value. I'm more a 'wont snap if hit with brick hammer' kind of guy. Only your choice is going to give you the confidence the 'right' tool gives.

That well known outdoorsman, philosopher and blogger of this parish Mr Albert Rasch heartily recommends the Randall Model 18 Attack and Survival knife, never owned one myself, but I can remember seeing one as a lad and thinking them the mutt's nuts. The handle is hollow giving you room for firelighting kit, a few bucks, or whatever you feel should be in your mini survival kit. It's a bit 'tactical' for my current taste, but may well be just the thing if you've got a lot of hogs to impale.

Inspired by the style of the Randall, but seeking something with even more drama, the producers and props buyers of the Rambo movies helped sales of small swords with a saw back, the Rambo knife was held in high esteem for a few years in the 80's, then came the inevitable backlash. Dour Finns and Sardonic Swedes honed their cold hard stares, and cast scorn on the big knives of 'Hollywood'. Around the campfire anyone who produced a blade longer than 4 inches was mocked as an inadequate .

The Scandinavian Tradition has it that a small light blade is all you need for most jobs, practice in it's skillful use will be of more help to you than the brute force of the 'sharpened prybar'. My favorite iteration of the concept is this Desert Scandi by Todd Hill who writes Primitive Point. Todd's people came to the US from Scandinavia, he has harvested the Mesquite for the handle from the area where he lives, and smiths the blade from scrap steel from the area's disused wood mills. Links it all together rather nicely don't you think?

On the east coast of the USA: That contemporary outdoor legend Tom brown jnr had a look at the 'one knife to rule them all' conundrum and, it would appear, decided to take the 'utility creates form' approach to design. He thought of the jobs he used knives for, part saw, part hide scraper, and part tillering tool for bow making, and tried to carve all those different knives out of one piece of steel. I admit it, there was a brief infatuation, but nothing happened. Phew.

On my side of the pond: a chap called Ray Mears looked out upon the feast of 'survival knives' and sighed, his travels had led him to the campfire of one Mors Kochanski. An ingenious chap, who thought you could thrive where others sought only to survive in the boreal forests of the northern hemisphere. In his company Mr Mears had become a believer in the 'not too long, scandinavian flat grind, not too thick, just make sure its 'double bastard sharp' school of thought. After a while he commissioned a knife of his own, called it a Woodlore, pronounced it the 'perfect bushcraft knife' and a whole industry was born, with most custom makers offering a variation on the design. The last time I looked the endorsed maker was able to charge the price of a new laptop for one.

Picture credit Jason Patel

More recently a cheerful young chap called Bear Grylls was wondering how to make the TV racket pay out [a little more] so he launched a shockingly expensive 'survival knife' and kerching! I'm told he really does have people queuing up to give him £350 for one. I rather like it, but for the money? Well there's fly rods, wool camo, guide fees, wining and dining northern tarts, ammunition, that new compound bow, child support, need I go on?

Of course all this had happened before, almost exactly a hundred years before. When George Washington Sears AKA ‘Nessmuk’ was writing about the outdoor life in the 1880's.

'A word as to knife, or knives. These are of prime necessity, and should be of the best, both as to shape and temper. The "bowies" and "hunting knives" usually kept on sale, are thick, clumsy affairs, with a sort of ridge along the middle of the blade, murderous looking, but of little use; rather fitted to adorn a dime novel or the belt of "Billy the Kid," than the outfit of the hunter.'

Not being unduly impressed with what was on offer, he had a chap make one to his design and the 'Nessmuk' we know today was born. They now come in 57 varieties from the littlest 'Neckmuk" by Guy Stainthop,

Rik Plam's faithful realization of Washington-Sears' line drawings,made from an old file,

this deep ground version by Dan Koster

and you can get a sense of the idea in Chris Reeve's 'Ubejane skinner'. Which also features a hollow handle a la Randall. Chris Reeve's knives are extremely impressive, being machined from a single billet of steel. He also makes a large range of tactical styled knives, but this is the one I'd go for.

A few years after G W-S was writing the unfortunately named Mr Horace Ke-Phart was afield, and thought a simpler style would be more suitible to his needs. In the first edition of The Book of Camping and Woodcraft, he outlines his thoughts [and echoes a few others].

“On the subject of hunting knives I am tempted to be diffuse. In my green and callow days (perhaps not yet over) I tried nearly everything in the knife line from a shoemaker’s skiver to a machete, and I had knives made to order. The conventional hunting knife is, or was until quite recently, of the familiar dime-novel pattern invented by Colonel Bowie. Such a knife is too thick and clumsy to whittle with, much too thick for a good skinning knife, and too sharply pointed to cook and eat with. It is always tempered too hard. When put to the rough service for which it is supposed to be intended, as in cutting through the ossified false ribs of an old buck, it is an even bet that out will come a nick as big as a saw-tooth…. Such a knife is designed expressly for stabbing, which is about the very last thing that a woodsman ever has occasion to do, our lamented grandmothers notwithstanding."

The American Bushman owns this glorious re-creation by ML Knives.

“A camper has use for a common-sense sheath-knife, sometimes for dressing big game, but oftener for such homely work as cutting sticks, slicing bacon, and frying ’spuds.’ For such purposes a rather thin, broad-pointed blade is required, and it need not be over four or five inches long. Nothing is gained by a longer blade, and it would be in one’s way every time he sat down. Such a knife, bearing the marks of hard usage, lies before me. Its blade and handle are each 4 1/2 inches long, the blade being 1 inch wide, 1/8 inch thick on the back, broad pointed, and continued through the handle as a hasp and riveted to it. It is tempered hard enough to cut green hardwood sticks, but soft enough so that when it strikes a knot or bone it will, if anything, turn rather than nick; then a whetstone puts it in order….”

His design is still being made today. I've never owned one, but chad is a big fan of the Bark River Knife & Tool Co. version, elevating it to his list of 'things that don't suck'. Should be worth a look.

By the 1917 edition of Camping and Woodcraft Kephart had found a production knife he liked, the Marble’s Woodcraft.

“For years I used knives of my own design, because there was nothing on the market that met my notion of what a sensible, practical sheath knife should be; but we have it now …. It is of the right size (4 1/2-inch blade), the right shape, and the proper thinness.”

Back to the present day: While Mors had the temerity to be able to do it all with a $10 knife from the hardware store himself, he took the time to outline a style guide for what he thought would make the perfect bushcraft knife. One of his students used the style guide to create the Skookum Bushtool.

Basically it's a scandinavian style blade, a full tang with a sturdy pommel welded to it, the the slabs of the handle are secured by hollow rivets. Not Cheap but VERY NICE, and even though the man himself is still using the cheap jobbie from the hardware store, it establishes Mors in the firmament of outdoor writers whose knife designs will still be made a hundred years or so after they've gone to the happy hunting ground. There are alredy lots of makers doing their own 'bushtool clones' and some of them are very nice too.

What is the best shape for a knife?

Is a bit like asking who is the most beautiful woman in the world, or which is the best car for over 100K, assuming you have to good sense to buy a knife designed for the jobs you do, what speaks to you?

Serrations and gutting hooks?

The bushcrafters tend to sneer at serrations, I speculate that that's because either

A: They use mainly natural materials, serrations come into their own on man made materials.

B: They enjoy sneering at everything not used by their heroes or in their favorite book

If you're going to be cutting a lot of multi stranded ropes of man made fibres, you could do a lot worse than carry a serrated blade. Where I do agree with the bushcrafters is that most of the time knife makers put the serration's is TOTALY THE WRONG PLACE. The part of the blade nearest to the handle is bit I use most, the bit with the control needed for the delicate tasks. If cutting manmade rope is one of your requirements, carry a rope cutting folder - I'd look at Spyderco first. When you need to saw wood a Laplander is only £20 and is a far better tool for the job than a serrated back to your knife. If I wanted a gutting hook I'd have one, but it wouldn't be on my main knife, it'd be a tool in it's own right.

Steel Recycled, Tool steel or trick steels (or how often will I need to sharpen it)?

Plenty of knives will take an edge, some knives will still have most of the edge after use. Easy to sharpen, usually equals easy to blunt, on the upside a few swipes a day and your good to go. On the other foot; the extremes of skill and diligence required to sharpen the super steels are repaid in edge retention. You pays your money you takes your choice.

There is some awesome steel just lying around out there, either free or yours for the asking. Road crews will usually give you old blades from their cutting tools, old files are also excellent. Todd from Primitive Point uses nothing but found steel and makes lots of soulful knives that look as though they'd last a lifetime. I have a 'Bushwacker Bushtool' on the way and it's made by Black Rabbit from a recycled file.

At the other extreme the VG10 the lamination that Fallkniven are currently using has A LOT GOING FOR IT, on my recent trip to italy I put an F1 to the test called 'one knife for everything', I harvested and debarked burls, cut roots, shaved parmesan, sliced tomatoes, split firewood, feathered fire sticks and ate my dinner with it. After five days use, it had held enough edge to slice tomatoes in one stroke before I fried them for my pre-airport breakfast on the last day. it's taken me a long time to get even half way competent at sharpening it.

Grind?

To read some people post about this you'd literally think it was a matter far more important than life and death.

I've never owned a chisel grind knife but I have used one in a kitchen, they rock for vegetables but I can't say what they're like for other uses.

Flat grinds are easy[er] to sharpen on a stone.

Convex grinds have some advantages, in terms of robustness and edge retention, but I've found learning to sharpen them a bit of a grind ;-). Here's the case for Convex made more cogently than I can write.

Currently I'm contentedly convex. Ask me again in a year.

Forged or Stock Removal?

Forged means beaten from a piece of steel that was another shape, a lot of fun/hard work at the anvil.

Stock removal means starting with a flat pice of your chosen steel and abrading away material until only the knife remains. things of great beauty and pieces of junk are made using both methods.

Handle Materials?

Um, Errrr, don't ask me. I like manmade materials for their inertness, I admire natural materials for their looks. It's that Angelina or Kate question again. Your choice will mean more to you than anything I could say.

Prices?

It only seems like yesterday when you could have something really great for $100 or £50, sadly due to the current climate, those days are over, in the UK at least.

Fallkniven are now getting to be pretty expensive, you get a hell of a lot for the money, but the prices are now aproaching that of the work of the more affordable custom makers. From the custom makers you usually don't get the super trick steel, but you do get a realisation of your Knife. These are the standard all production knives should be measured against. You get what you pay for.

Here are a few of my current favorite makers. Todd and Black Rabbit aren't included as they don't actively sell their work. YET.

Tai Goo

Wild. Out There. Recycled. This guy is truly a son of Vulcan. When you want to see forge work as high art Tai Goo's shop is where you go. Todd from Primitive Point is making a video of Tai at work forging some knives, keep a look out for it.

Off The Map Outfitters - you may know him as the blogger Backyard Bushman

He's been making knives for a while and recently seems to have hit his stride, developing quite a range of different styles. I love this shocking pink hiker but most are in more traditional handle materials. Get in there now while they're affordable.

Guy Stainthorp AKA Guy Cep

Some great work, I particularly like his 'bushcrafter' design - a little bit different to what others are doing and very well executed.

If time [on the waiting list] and money [a fair bit of it] were no object I'd be popping in to the Sheffield workshop of Stuart Mitchell for a 'stalkers set' much better, both in use and aesthetic than those silly gut-hook knives. His website just doesn't do his work justice. Use this search of British Blades to see more of his work. THE BEST.

On the subject of British Blades this link takes you to a HUGE list of custom makers from all over the world.

Some thoughts about features:

There's a current fashion for hollow rivets, so the knife can be lashed to a pole. They would have come in very handy in Italy when we'd harvested all the low hanging cherries and were under laddered. Just make sure the tubes are wide enough to clean easily.

The distill taper is surely the sign of the high end hand made knife, it means the tang is tapered away from the blade. You still get the strength of a full length tang, but the weight balance of the knife moves towards your index finger. Classy.

In summation: They all cut, some need more attention than others. You pays your money and you makes your choice. I've never found that ONE knife, but I've really enjoyed looking.

Happy Hunting

Your pal

SBW

Picture of roman god Vulcan found here

PS For more info on Horace Kephart visit Horace Kephart: revealing and enigma Fascinating.