I went on a short rugged grouse hunt with my father, today. Really just an armed walk. But the experience, as father-son time does, nudged my perspective.
He carried his old Stevens single-shot 12 gauge. It was old when his father gave it to him and used when the previous owner bought it, for that matter. No one knows if it has a 2 3/4 inch chamber or shorter. No one has ever cared. The trigger guard is not original but a near-enough replacement for a guy handy with tools. The original was destroyed when the firing of a Brenneke disassembled the entire gun into major components. As tape was already used to keep the forend on, the whole thing has been wrapped in the same camo tape for decades. The bead is a bent and mostly straightened fiber optic from Wally World. The original went missing and this was a replacement I bought him. That ship of Theseus should just be scrapped or buried in back of a safe. But it works. It's potted more game than any other gun in the family's posession. It has killed every non-human species to walk, slither, or fly in our state. It is a prominent feature in my memories.
It may look like it was obsolete long before it was ever junk but continues to do the work in the hands of a competent and confident man.
We trudged up the mountainside through the snow, rain, and mud. No packs, no large frame sidearms (mine was a pocketed plastic .22 snub with chewed-up stocks), no phones, no GPS. Just ourselves and what possibles fit in our orange vests.
Along we went, more interested in bonding than getting into thick cover and kicking up a bird, until he decided we'd reached a likely spot for dinner. My oldest was home with a cold so I was instructed to make the fire after days of rain and snow before that. So I looped out into the woods for squaw wood, birch bark, and limbs dry in the center. Back to our spot to baton into the limbs and add to the tinder he'd prepared. A raised eyebrow when a Bic came from my pocket rather than matches (a sin for which I was only granted dispensation as it had an O-ring preventing the valve getting squeezed open to waste butane and decades of single-match fires lit on-demand in worse conditions). Out came the ever-present pack of hotdogs that I swear have mever so much as printed in his clothes. And we roasted mild sausages over a small fire in the gentle rain while talking some more. No matter how the years go by, he can still be counted on to test my fieldcraft at any given moment. It's as inevitable as death and taxes.
We passed groups of people at the master trailhead. Some in the latest technical gear, some totally unprepared, none covered the ground we did. All saw a fat old man and his scruffy companion. That fat old man was mentored by a hardboiled veteran of 1970s N.Y.P.D. That fat old man more than once handed off a patrol rifle or shotgun to walk into an armed stand-off and talk a known subject out in safety back when sand was respected and hairbrained schemes could occasionally be gotten away with in that line of work. Has repeatedly euthanized running rabid fox and coyote with a bead-sighted 590 at long shotgun ranges on night shifts. Done solo wilderness S.A.R. He has grit, a hard-won practical education, and well tuned discretion. I'm honored to carry his name. Not even getting into the many other mentors I've had the privilege to be around in my life.
Getting home, I dug out the first and only survival manual he ever gave me. Well, another copy as the first was long ago worn to shreds. Clear introduction, short basics list, on to planning then proper dressing with historical regional context, on to a clear and concise orienteering section to prevent getting lost and enable self-extraction, then to fire, and so-on. It's structured in a very well planned order of skills. Brightly colored, fits in a pocket, and constantly talks about mindset plus practice. I was made to read it cover-to-cover with later discussion and testing verbally, in the yard, and in the field.
It has me thinking about a lot of other people I know. The one who borrows a rifle at the last minute every deer season after having sold the latest "perfect" and heavily researched bit of modernity. The local cop I wouldn't want responding if my kids needed so much as a spider squashed. The kid at work who researched a 43X and carry load to death with not so much as minute-of-B27 capability until I compiled educational material and structured drill packet for him. The many who've argued with me that batoning is a silly, useless parlor trick and an axe is used to properly process firewood; you know, the ones who never pack a hatchet. The countless hikers I've reoriented, guided, planned routes for when met in a bind, etc.
It's said that the more one knows, the less they have to carry. A couple duffers put in miles when more ostensibly equipped folks bailed early. One a man I'd want by my side if life ever faced me with true adversity. No matter what piece of gear he happened to have handy. A man who never told me what was up when I swung by his house with a greeting from someone I'd met and had recognized my surname. To this day, all I know is that my father left such an impression that, twenty years later, his son was given a firm hand on the shoulder, most genuine of smiles, and told, "you tell you father I said hello, asked how he was doing, and am happy to hear he's busily retired. I went through a dark time and he was always fair with me. He didn't have to be and I gave him little reason." All dad responded with was, "there was a good kid in there, he just needed a chance."
But very few people ever talk about the things that matter. Fewer put in the work and practice. Fewer still willing to at least try and perform on-demand. A rarity the one that will stand and deliver to the best of their ability when it matters.
The most detailed mental plan I ever made to get stabbed and have a subsequent truly effed up tangle, a friend did the best impersonation of a cover officer I've ever seen. Didn't care that he only had his paw wrapped around a pocketed 380 ACP for which there is still never a reload. Care enough to still call him friend because loyalty kept him on my side in a tight spot when the door of the Stop 'N Rob was next to his shoulder. He could have peaced out but instead planted his feet, watched over me, and made ready to visit unhesitating violence if the junkies did more than show me a closeup of their knives. I brought a bottle of XO cognac, which I bought when my youngest was born, to his house to share a tipple after that N.Y.P.D. cop bailed on her partner in a completely different but eerily similar spot. He asked why, I just played the video and he knew.
Not sure what I'm getting at with this. Probably doesn't warrant a thread. Maybe something about this being a performance board for one of the many skill-based pursuits that is usually only discussed in terms of gear. Living in a time when things are real, relationships strained, and character tested. Anyone can talk shop. But I spent my day with a man who has spent the effort building and maintaining such skill that you can count on him to perform with an old single-barrel and box of foster slugs. Any time, any weather, when the chips are down.
Still don't know why I opened a tab for this. Maybe to appreciate our mentors? To discuss specific moments when someone enganged in a moment of skillset before and over gear selection that should be remembered? Note some lowly piece of kit and the tale of tasks it has accomplished in the hands of someone capable? Or just typing to periodically make sure I'm not distracted by gear and keep doing the work.
Or maybe Dad ribbed me for walking too far and taking a few minutes too long to gather the wood and tinder. I got tested and points for improvement from someone I deeply respect, today. Perhaps I just want to make sure my monkey brain understands that's worth more than any amount of idle gear talk. Now to call Mom, someone somehow more stubborn and fiercly outcome-driven than even my father. Say hello and see what comes of whatever we have for a conversation.