What A Curved Stick Will Teach A Loud Man

I like gadgets as much as the next stubborn fool. Rangefinders that beep. Sights with wheels. Rests that cradle like a baby. All fine. All fun. Then every so often I pick up the Bear Super Grizzly and remember that most of what I thought I needed was just noise with good marketing. That little curve of wood tells on you faster than your buddy with a camera. It does not care about yesterday’s brag or tomorrow’s excuse. It only cares if you can stand still when the world gets quiet.

This hunt started because I ran my mouth. My pal said the oak flat on the far side of the swamp was bowhunters’ graveyard. Swirling wind. No cover. Deer that look through you like you are smoke. I said smoke is hard to hit and I went anyway. The Super Grizzly went with me because I wanted to feel honest again. I wanted to know if the problem was the wind or me.

I slid the boat across a run of tea colored water before sunrise and tied it to a root that had more stories than I do. The walk in felt like wading through the breath of a sleeping bear. Warm air from the swamp tried to rise and cold air from the night tried to push it back down. Leaves drifted in slow circles. The bow rode in my left hand with the string guard tucked into my palm. I had three arrows in the bow quiver. That number felt like a dare. It also felt like plenty if I kept my head attached to my shoulders.

The flat opened like a cheap curtain. Sparse cover. Oaks old enough to vote twice. Tracks everywhere and not a decent trunk to hide behind. I started to feel that little fizz you get when you realize the plan you sold yourself will need revision. I told the fizz to sit down and I did what a man should do when the world will not give him a blind. I became the blind. I stood next to a tree with the same lean as my spine and turned my body into bark. Knees soft. Breath soft. Face soft. The Super Grizzly rested against my leg and looked patient. If a bow can smirk this one did.

First visitors were two does and a button buck that had not learned the game. They walked so close I could smell acorns on their breath. My heart did its drum solo but my hands stayed quiet. That felt like winning even without a shot. The wind did its dance but I stayed on the down side and the deer kept feeding.

An hour later the woods went still the way they only do when a grown buck puts his mind in the room. Not a sound moved. Even the wind forgot how to talk. He came along the seam where the swamp breath fades and the ridge pull begins. The kind of deer that will never make a bow shop poster because his rack is honest rather than loud. Chest like a barrel. Ears nicked. Eye calm. He had no idea I existed and I wanted to keep it that way.

Drawing a recurve in open timber feels like stealing from a sleeping dog. You do it slow and hope the snore does not stop. I set the bottom limb against my leg and let my back do the work. The Super Grizzly came to anchor and stayed there like it was built to wait. The arrow sat where it should. I picked a place behind the shoulder and did not blink. The shot broke like a thought I had been trying to remember.

He kicked, ran a hook past a deadfall, and crashed out with the kind of finality that makes a man breathe again. I stood there and let the blood run out of my hands back into my arms. I listened to the flat regain its noise. Only then did I move. The arrow lay red in the leaves. The deer lay forty paces past it.

I do not do whooping. I do not chest bump trees. I put a hand on his neck and thanked whatever part of the world still allows men like me to feed ourselves with clean means. The bow leaned against a root and watched me work. Field dressing is not a chore to rush. It is a part of the hunt that deserves the care it demands. The blade moved the way it should. The cavity steamed in the cool. I set the liver and heart in a clean bag and tied it off.

Now here is where the Super Grizzly taught the loud man a quiet lesson. I had a choice. I could drag this animal to the boat like I was running from rain or I could honor the spot and eat here. Guess which one tastes better. I built a little fire in a sandy pocket where sparks would not wander. Pan on the coals. A little fat from the bag. Onion from my pocket. Heart sliced thin and in it went. I ate with my fingers and laughed at myself for ever thinking I needed anything fancier than patience and heat. I cleaned the pan with a piece of bread and watched smoke climb into the limbs like a prayer that does not ask for anything. Only thanks.

The pack out took a while because I gave him the respect of two trips. Boat rocked easy across the tea water. I loaded the quarters and sat for a long minute with the bow across my knees. I thought about all the shots I have rushed with modern rigs because the gear said I could. I thought about how this simple curve made me slow down and be a better version of the same stubborn man. The Super Grizzly does not punish you. It exposes you. There is a difference. Punishment makes you smaller. Exposure gives you a chance to get larger if you have the spine for it.

Back home I hung the meat and wiped down the bow. I rubbed a little oil into the limbs and checked the string with the same care I give the edge of a good knife. Friends came by and I told the story the way a man should. Straight. No embroidery. They handled the bow and smiled because it feels like a thing that belongs in real hands rather than behind glass. One of them asked why I bothered with a simple recurve when technology could make it easier. I said easier is not what I came for. Cleaner is what I came for. Presence is what I came for. A short walk back to myself is what I came for.

I will still shoot the fast stuff. I am not a monk. But when I want to be sure the hunt is about the right things I take the Super Grizzly. It demands a better posture from my body and a better posture from my mind. It puts the weight of the outcome where it belongs and gives me the gift of knowing when I get it right. That gift tastes like backstrap on a hot skillet and coffee you did not earn with money.

If you see a fool in red carrying a quiet bow and walking into a place the wind does not like, that is me. If I come out with an empty quiver and a grin, that is also me. The bow does not owe me anything. I owe it my best self. Some days I pay in full. Some days I learn what I still have to pay. Either way I eat well and sleep hard and wake up ready to do it again.

That is the truth a curved stick will teach a loud man. And I am still listening.

The Pack That Becomes the Camp

By Rick

There is a fine line between comfort and cockiness in the backcountry, and I like to dance on it until my legs burn. My buddies haul tents the size of small cabins and folding chairs cushy enough for a fishing lodge. Me, I cut ounces like I am shearing sheep. My pack is lean, loud red so I do not lose it in the brush, and lashed with everything I need to keep moving fast. If you think that means I go hungry or sleep wet, you have not seen what a man can do when pride weighs heavier than nylon.

This trip landed me in the wet bottom country where the ridges funnel all the rain. The ground was a soup of roots, mud, and swamp grass that would rather eat your boots than hold you up. Not exactly a recipe for comfort. But when the sky closed and the rain came down, my pack became more than straps and pockets. It became the only reason I did not end up sleeping in a puddle.

I had scouted a rise just high enough to keep me dry. The first job was shelter. I strung my Swiss Outdoors Rain Fly Tarp between two maples, pitched tight and low so the wind could not grab it. Edges pulled to the ground with stakes carved from green limbs. I threw my ground sheet under it, then heaped up dead leaves to level the soft spot I had chosen. You could hear the rain drumming above but it did not touch me. That tarp is worth every strap mark on my shoulders.

Fire was a trick in that damp. Every stick sweated water. But I know that every swamp has its secrets. I found fatwood inside a snapped pine root, rich with resin, and cut curls with my knife. Birch bark rides dry in my pack for this very reason. Flint, steel, sparks, and a curse or two later, the flame caught. The rest of the wood I split down small until the dry heart showed, and one by one I fed the flame until it was snapping and steady.

Once fire was alive I dug out supper. My food bag is not glamorous. Smoked sausage, a pouch of rice, a cube of bouillon, and a flask of whiskey wrapped in a wool sock. That is enough for a feast if you play it right. I boiled creek water in my titanium pot, dropped in the bouillon, then tossed the sausage in to simmer with the rice. Steam rolled up smelling like smoke and salt, and I swear it made the rain sound like applause. I passed the time with a long pull from the flask and a laugh at my own stubbornness.

By the time the stew was thick, I had stripped down to my base layer and let the fire dry my clothes. The tarp overhead hissed steady as rain poured down. I ate with my spoon straight from the pot, rice sticking to the bottom, sausage soft and rich, broth sharp with salt. No restaurant on earth sells that flavor. It only comes from being wet, cold, and grinning with satisfaction because you pulled it off.

The best part of swamp camping is the night sound. Frogs chanting, crickets buzzing, rain hammering, and every so often the splash of something sliding through the dark. It makes a man sit up, hand on his knife, and wonder if the bog is coming to collect him. But I stayed dry, warm, and fed under my tarp, fire crackling, whiskey heating my chest. Pride and stubbornness taste better than any dessert.

When morning came, the swamp had turned to fog. My gear smelled like wood smoke and wet earth. I packed it down neat. The Swiss Outdoors tarp folded tight, the food bag lighter, the pot blackened and proud. My pack was once again a load on my shoulders, but it carried the memory of a camp that kept me dry when the sky wanted me drowned.

That is what I tell people when they ask why I cut weight. A heavy pack will coddle you. A light one will test you. But if you pack right, it will still unfold into a camp that holds off the night. Mine did. It became a dry bed in the swamp, a fire in the rain, a kitchen on the mud. It gave me stories, and stories weigh nothing.

So yes, I will take pride over comfort most days. And I will keep hauling light, laughing loud, and proving that a man with the right pack can turn a bog into a home. Because in the end, the pack always becomes the camp.

Blisters, Whiskey, and Stories Worth Telling

By Rick

Backpacking will break you if you let it. Thing is, I do not break easy. The trail throws pain, cold, and hunger at you, and you throw steel and stubbornness right back. Out here it is not about looking pretty for photos. It is about proving you can drag your sorry hide through miles of rock and mud, then laugh at it around the fire.

One trip sticks with me. A ridge run where the weather turned mean and the miles stacked higher than the whiskey bottles we finished the week before. I packed what I thought was light, but light turned into stupid fast. Should have taken the MOUNTAINTOP 80L, a frame that rides right and can carry more weight than a mule. Instead I strapped on some bargain-bin special that sagged like wet cardboard. Did it ruin me. Hell no. I lashed it together with cord and made it work. The straps cut into my shoulders until I had lines like battle scars. But you do not quit over straps. You grit teeth, you adjust, and you keep moving.

Gear tells on you. My buddy brought a Gazelle T4 Hub Tent, set it up in minutes, and stretched out like a king. Me. I pitched the Swiss Outdoors Rain Fly Tarp low against the wind and stacked a wall of logs in front of my fire to throw heat back. The sleet still cut sideways, but between the tarp at my back and the blaze in front, I stayed just warm enough to grin through it. He sipped coffee inside his tent while I hunched by the flames like a wolf guarding his kill, proud that I carried half the weight he did. Sometimes comfort is worth the pounds, but sometimes pride tastes better than coffee.

Knives are never optional. That trip I carried the Mossy Oak Tanto. Ten inches of steel that looked like it belonged in a bad action movie. Did I need a blade that big. Maybe not. But when my pack tore open on the ridge, that Tanto cut through cord and fabric quick. Ugly fix, but it held for the rest of the run. I have used the Morakniv too. Clean, simple, sharp enough to shave with. I do not care what folks carry, as long as they carry something that will bite when it counts.

Fire that night was pure stubbornness. Wet wood, numb fingers, sleet still coming down. I struck a ferro rod with the Morakniv until sparks lit up the dark. Took me longer than I will admit, but when it caught I laughed like a madman. Flames mean you win. I had stormproof matches as backup, but sometimes you want to fight it out the hard way. Fire is not just warmth. Fire is proof you are still in the game.

Food keeps you sane. My stove was running low on fuel by day three. I stretched it, boiled water slow, and ate noodles that were more crunch than chew. Did I complain. No. I called it trail pasta al dente and washed it down with a slug of whiskey. You eat what you have, and you eat it proud. But I will say this: when Papa Gramps pulls out that Dutch Oven, the whole ridge smells like heaven, and you remember that weight is not always wasted.

Axes are worth the trouble too. I thought my folding saw would carry the load. Snapped teeth on wet oak halfway through the night. My buddy had the CRKT Freyr axe. That thing is part tool, part war relic. He split logs while I cursed my little saw. Sometimes you swallow pride and borrow steel. Sometimes you admit the old ways are the right ways.

And boots. Boots will either save you or destroy you. I once tried breaking in new ones on the trail. Big mistake. Blisters the size of silver dollars. Did I cry about it. No. I cut holes in the sides with a Buck Zipper Guthook and kept marching. Ugly, but it got me down the mountain. Out here you adapt or you suffer. Usually both.

The last night on that run we huddled under tarp and tent, rain hammering down, whiskey bottle passing back and forth. We laughed at the misery, roasted what little we had left, and talked about how dumb we had been to pack the way we did. That is the thing about backpacking. You curse it in the moment and brag about it after. Pain turns into stories, and stories are the only trophies worth keeping.

Backpacking is not about being comfortable. It is about dragging yourself through the mud and laughing at it later. It is about carrying steel that can take a beating, fire starters that will spark even when your hands do not work, and food that makes you grin through the grind. The miles will chew on you. The blisters will scream. The pack will dig. And you will still get up in the morning, shoulder the weight, and walk farther than you thought you could.

Because that is what we do. We walk, we suffer, we fight, and then we drink to it around the fire. The trail does not care if you whine. It does not care if you brag. It only cares if you keep moving. And I always keep moving.