- Joined
- Oct 24, 2002
- Messages
- 59
As in previous installments on Bladeforums, I have attempted to bring real world knife test results to you, the knife enthusiasts of the world. This time, Marty and I decided to test some camp knives during a camping trip into Alaskas bush country. To this end, Marty selected an Al Mar Sere Operator in 154CM, and I chose a Rinaldi TTKK in D2. Granted, the Operator is not designed to be a camp knife, but Marty wanted to test its versatility and compare it to the TTKK, which is designed for camp chores. Marty also bought a new tent from Cabelos to see if it could live up to the Alaska guide tough claim.
We packed our gear into backpacks and secured them to our Honda four-wheelers before heading up a trail into the Kenai Mountains. We had enough food and provisions to last two days, and enough beer for twice that long. I carried an S&W .44 magnum for bear protection, while Marty kept a small .38 special snub nose in his jacket pocket. When I first saw Martys tiny gun I laughed asked him what it was for. He told me it was his bear gun. Marty, I said, If you shoot a bear with that puny thing it will only make him madder.
He shook his head and said, Oh, I dont intend to shoot a bear with it.
My curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask, So why do you call it your bear gun?
Well, if a bear attacks hes gonna grab the slowest guy, right? I nodded in agreement. And since you can run faster than me, all I really need to do is slow you down enough so that Im ahead of you.
And how do you think you can slow me down, I asked.
Shoot you in the leg, of course, Marty replied with a twisted grin. After that I kept one eye out for bears and the other on Martys jacket pocket.
We made good time and managed to reach the trailhead before sundown without serious mishap. Well, I did learn a curious thing about four-wheelers. If you run a four-wheeler into a large puddle of water at full speed it tends to stop abruptly while the rider continues forward for a considerable distance. Fortunately a large clump of Devils Club broke my fall and I averted serious injury. Once again fate offered me a chance to test a knife, and I used mine to extract several Devils Club needles from my hands and face.
Marty and I had a long discussion about choosing a camp site. He maintained that my choice appeared to be in the middle of a bear trail. I agreed, but advanced the theory that it was better to know where the bears would be, than to run into one by accident. In the end we played rock, paper, scissors and I won so we stayed on the bear trail. Marty set up the tent while I made a fire and prepared our evenings meal. The knives saw constant use, and before long we were trading the blades back and forth to see which we preferred for which task. The Operator performed well, but we both concluded the TTKK was the better camp knife for food preparation and fire chores. After dinner, Marty and I sat around the campfire drinking beer and comparing knife notes. We recalled some of our favorite blades from years gone by. I carried a particular fondness for an old Dozier Pro Guide, and Marty liked an original production Blackjack Knives Trailguide. Soon our conversation turned to our test knives and we both wondered which would be the better skinner, fillet, or throwing knife. Since we didnt have anything to skin or fillet, and wed learned our lesson about mixing beer with knife throwing during the drinking test, we decided to test edge retention. Starting with hair popping sharp edges on both knives, we began to cut stuff. Several hours and several beers later, wed cut up our playing cards, Martys new Grisham novel, a couple of credit cards, Martys new leather belt, my baseball cap, an old wasp nest (that turned out not to be so old after all), and most of our emergency rope. The TTKK and its D2 blade turned out to be the winner, holding its edge a wee bit better than the Operators 154CM steel.
All that cutting and drinking made us awfully tired, and so we doused the campfire and prepared to call it a night. Marty removed his jacket and hung it on a branch near the tent while he brushed his teeth and washed his hands. I took this opportunity head off what I thought could be an unintentional tragedy if we ran into a bear by sneaking Martys .38 special out of his jacket pocket while he wasnt looking. I quickly stowed the gun in the tent under my sleeping bag near my own .44. When Marty retrieved his jacket he noticed the pistol was missing. Dang, I think my .38 fell out of my pocket. Did you see my gun anywhere, Kliff? Marty asked.
Discretion being the better part of valor, I did what any good friend would do in such a situation, I lied. No, Marty, I havent seen it. Ill help you look around the campsite for it. Of course a thorough search with flashlights failed to turn up the revolver. Dont worry, maybe youll find it tomorrow, I told him.
Giving up the search, we entered our tent and quickly fell asleep. I dont know what time it was, but I awoke with a start. The tents interior was darker than my father-in-laws soul and colder than his handshake after I married his daughter. Something large was pressing against the side of the tent, indenting the fabric far enough to press against my face. I immediately concluded that a bear, a huge grizzly, was trying to rip its way into our tent. Blind and still beer addled, I did not realize Marty had crawled outside to relieve himself, and not wanting to alarm him unnecessarily, I groped around near my sleeping bag until I found my Rinaldi TTKK. Pulling the blade from its sheath I stabbed at the center of the large indentation hoping to inflict a stinging wound that would send the bruin packing. A blood curdling scream filled the night.
Unbeknownst to me, Marty had exited our little shelter to find a place to take a leak, his own alcohol debilitated senses sent him wandering aimlessly in the darkness until he circled back to the side of the tent. Since I had cut up his belt earlier, his pants fell around his ankles as he relieved himself. When he finished and bent over to pull up his pants he became dizzy and fell back, butt first, into the tents wall. This created the indentation which hit my face and precipitated my aforementioned response. When I heard the scream I knew immediately it came from Martys throat. Of course, I still thought Id just stabbed a bear through my tent wall, and had so enraged it that the bear had attacked Marty, who for some reason I could not fathom at the time, was outside with the bear. To make matters worse, Marty had no idea I had just inflicted the wound to his rear end, and so he also assumed a bear had attacked him from behind.
Oh, God, Kliff, a bears got me, hes chewing my ass off. Help! Marty yelled in follow-up to his terrible scream. I am ashamed to admit that for a long moment, I considered my options. Among them I included the possibility of staying inside the tent with my mouth shut. That way I would not be adding my voice and presence to what must already be a disturbing situation for the bear. I could only make matters worse, I thought to myself, so stay out of the way and let Marty handle it. Also, if Marty did not handle it, the bear should be satisfied with Martys carcass to gnaw on and leave me alone, right? The other option, of course, was to find my .44 magnum revolver and drive the bear off with a well placed warning shot, and failing that, I could empty the gun into the bear and hope for the best. The long moment passed when I heard Marty yell, Kliff, its got me pinned down, Im a goner, tell Prudence I love her and dont let the bear eat me so she has something left to bury.
I thought Id found my .44, but instead my hand closed on Martys .38 special. Using the TTKK, I cut through the side of tent and leaped through the opening, all in one motion. One word of advice from someone who now knows, always get out your sleeping bag before leaping. The bag entangled my legs and turned my leap into an ungainly belly flop, which dislodged the revolver from my hands and sent it off into the darkness. The TTKK came in handy once more as I used it to slice away the confining sleeping bag. Free to maneuver, I regained my feet and tried to locate Marty and the bear. Without the gun I knew I stood little chance of fending off the bear with only a knife, but I pressed on into the gathering twilight in the general direction of Martys moans.
Expecting to find a large brown bear consuming my hapless friend, you can imagine my relief when the increasing light revealed Marty caught not beneath a bear, but one of our four-wheelers. Apparently in his mad dash to escape, he had crawled beneath the four-wheeler and become hopelessly trapped. Since he was lodged face down, I could see the wound to his buttocks was bleeding freely and its shape did not resemble a bears teeth or claw marks. In fact, the wound looked very much like a knife wound to my well trained eye. In a flash, I realized what must have happened and what I had to do to rectify the situation. I pushed the four-wheeler off of Marty and started yelling, Hah, get out of here bear. Thats right, run away or Ill cut your nose off. I made stomping sounds with my feet as though I was chasing a bear into the woods.
Marty rolled over and looked up at me and then around the campsite to make sure the bear was gone. Oh, thank you, Kliff. You saved my life. You saved me from a horrible death. I helped him to his feet and back to the now useless tent. Even in his adrenaline induced state, Marty looked at the tent then at my tattered sleeping bag, What the Hell happened? Did the bear go after you too?
Uhh, Im not sure, everything happened so fast. Maybe. I went to collect my emergency first aid kit from my backpack. When I returned to Marty, he was dabbing blood from his butt wound with one hand and holding his .38 special in the other, Im sure it was unintentional, but the muzzle seemed to be pointing in my general direction.
Umm, Kliff, why was my gun on the ground over here? Marty asked in a calm voice that belied the little facial tick he always displays when displeased about something. I checked this area last night and I didnt see it then.
I, I dont know, I stammered. You must of missed it last night. We were pretty drunk you know. I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look innocent.
Wheres your .44 magnum? Marty asked.
I left it in the tent.
So you came to my rescue without your gun and drove that bear off using only your knife? Marty continued with what was becoming a very annoying interrogation.
Yes, yes, I guess I did that. Again the muzzle of his revolver wavered in my direction for a moment before Marty dropped it to his side.
I think youre taking these knife tests a little too far, he said.
Yeah, maybe I am, I agreed. Now let me take a look at your wound. As far as Im concerned, Marty took entirely too much enjoyment from bending over and sticking his butt in my face.
Yeah, you must be a hero or something, he said as I applied a large bandage to his wound. At that moment Marty reminded me that wed eaten baked beans the night before. Fortunately, it started to rain. Hard. This provided me with an opportunity to claim the rain muddied up the ground and erased the bear tracks and that is why Marty couldnt find any.
It was slow going back down the mountain trail, since Marty couldnt sit on his four-wheeler seat, and had to stand on the foot pegs the whole way. A couple of times we thought we heard a bear off in the woods, and each time Martys hand went to his jacket pocket and he would look at me with that twisted little grin. Eventually we made it back. Now if I can only persuade Martys doctor that bear bites look very much like knife wounds I should be fine.
Unless Martys wife, Prudence, catches me. I dont know what it is about that woman, but she has it in for me.
We packed our gear into backpacks and secured them to our Honda four-wheelers before heading up a trail into the Kenai Mountains. We had enough food and provisions to last two days, and enough beer for twice that long. I carried an S&W .44 magnum for bear protection, while Marty kept a small .38 special snub nose in his jacket pocket. When I first saw Martys tiny gun I laughed asked him what it was for. He told me it was his bear gun. Marty, I said, If you shoot a bear with that puny thing it will only make him madder.
He shook his head and said, Oh, I dont intend to shoot a bear with it.
My curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask, So why do you call it your bear gun?
Well, if a bear attacks hes gonna grab the slowest guy, right? I nodded in agreement. And since you can run faster than me, all I really need to do is slow you down enough so that Im ahead of you.
And how do you think you can slow me down, I asked.
Shoot you in the leg, of course, Marty replied with a twisted grin. After that I kept one eye out for bears and the other on Martys jacket pocket.
We made good time and managed to reach the trailhead before sundown without serious mishap. Well, I did learn a curious thing about four-wheelers. If you run a four-wheeler into a large puddle of water at full speed it tends to stop abruptly while the rider continues forward for a considerable distance. Fortunately a large clump of Devils Club broke my fall and I averted serious injury. Once again fate offered me a chance to test a knife, and I used mine to extract several Devils Club needles from my hands and face.
Marty and I had a long discussion about choosing a camp site. He maintained that my choice appeared to be in the middle of a bear trail. I agreed, but advanced the theory that it was better to know where the bears would be, than to run into one by accident. In the end we played rock, paper, scissors and I won so we stayed on the bear trail. Marty set up the tent while I made a fire and prepared our evenings meal. The knives saw constant use, and before long we were trading the blades back and forth to see which we preferred for which task. The Operator performed well, but we both concluded the TTKK was the better camp knife for food preparation and fire chores. After dinner, Marty and I sat around the campfire drinking beer and comparing knife notes. We recalled some of our favorite blades from years gone by. I carried a particular fondness for an old Dozier Pro Guide, and Marty liked an original production Blackjack Knives Trailguide. Soon our conversation turned to our test knives and we both wondered which would be the better skinner, fillet, or throwing knife. Since we didnt have anything to skin or fillet, and wed learned our lesson about mixing beer with knife throwing during the drinking test, we decided to test edge retention. Starting with hair popping sharp edges on both knives, we began to cut stuff. Several hours and several beers later, wed cut up our playing cards, Martys new Grisham novel, a couple of credit cards, Martys new leather belt, my baseball cap, an old wasp nest (that turned out not to be so old after all), and most of our emergency rope. The TTKK and its D2 blade turned out to be the winner, holding its edge a wee bit better than the Operators 154CM steel.
All that cutting and drinking made us awfully tired, and so we doused the campfire and prepared to call it a night. Marty removed his jacket and hung it on a branch near the tent while he brushed his teeth and washed his hands. I took this opportunity head off what I thought could be an unintentional tragedy if we ran into a bear by sneaking Martys .38 special out of his jacket pocket while he wasnt looking. I quickly stowed the gun in the tent under my sleeping bag near my own .44. When Marty retrieved his jacket he noticed the pistol was missing. Dang, I think my .38 fell out of my pocket. Did you see my gun anywhere, Kliff? Marty asked.
Discretion being the better part of valor, I did what any good friend would do in such a situation, I lied. No, Marty, I havent seen it. Ill help you look around the campsite for it. Of course a thorough search with flashlights failed to turn up the revolver. Dont worry, maybe youll find it tomorrow, I told him.
Giving up the search, we entered our tent and quickly fell asleep. I dont know what time it was, but I awoke with a start. The tents interior was darker than my father-in-laws soul and colder than his handshake after I married his daughter. Something large was pressing against the side of the tent, indenting the fabric far enough to press against my face. I immediately concluded that a bear, a huge grizzly, was trying to rip its way into our tent. Blind and still beer addled, I did not realize Marty had crawled outside to relieve himself, and not wanting to alarm him unnecessarily, I groped around near my sleeping bag until I found my Rinaldi TTKK. Pulling the blade from its sheath I stabbed at the center of the large indentation hoping to inflict a stinging wound that would send the bruin packing. A blood curdling scream filled the night.
Unbeknownst to me, Marty had exited our little shelter to find a place to take a leak, his own alcohol debilitated senses sent him wandering aimlessly in the darkness until he circled back to the side of the tent. Since I had cut up his belt earlier, his pants fell around his ankles as he relieved himself. When he finished and bent over to pull up his pants he became dizzy and fell back, butt first, into the tents wall. This created the indentation which hit my face and precipitated my aforementioned response. When I heard the scream I knew immediately it came from Martys throat. Of course, I still thought Id just stabbed a bear through my tent wall, and had so enraged it that the bear had attacked Marty, who for some reason I could not fathom at the time, was outside with the bear. To make matters worse, Marty had no idea I had just inflicted the wound to his rear end, and so he also assumed a bear had attacked him from behind.
Oh, God, Kliff, a bears got me, hes chewing my ass off. Help! Marty yelled in follow-up to his terrible scream. I am ashamed to admit that for a long moment, I considered my options. Among them I included the possibility of staying inside the tent with my mouth shut. That way I would not be adding my voice and presence to what must already be a disturbing situation for the bear. I could only make matters worse, I thought to myself, so stay out of the way and let Marty handle it. Also, if Marty did not handle it, the bear should be satisfied with Martys carcass to gnaw on and leave me alone, right? The other option, of course, was to find my .44 magnum revolver and drive the bear off with a well placed warning shot, and failing that, I could empty the gun into the bear and hope for the best. The long moment passed when I heard Marty yell, Kliff, its got me pinned down, Im a goner, tell Prudence I love her and dont let the bear eat me so she has something left to bury.
I thought Id found my .44, but instead my hand closed on Martys .38 special. Using the TTKK, I cut through the side of tent and leaped through the opening, all in one motion. One word of advice from someone who now knows, always get out your sleeping bag before leaping. The bag entangled my legs and turned my leap into an ungainly belly flop, which dislodged the revolver from my hands and sent it off into the darkness. The TTKK came in handy once more as I used it to slice away the confining sleeping bag. Free to maneuver, I regained my feet and tried to locate Marty and the bear. Without the gun I knew I stood little chance of fending off the bear with only a knife, but I pressed on into the gathering twilight in the general direction of Martys moans.
Expecting to find a large brown bear consuming my hapless friend, you can imagine my relief when the increasing light revealed Marty caught not beneath a bear, but one of our four-wheelers. Apparently in his mad dash to escape, he had crawled beneath the four-wheeler and become hopelessly trapped. Since he was lodged face down, I could see the wound to his buttocks was bleeding freely and its shape did not resemble a bears teeth or claw marks. In fact, the wound looked very much like a knife wound to my well trained eye. In a flash, I realized what must have happened and what I had to do to rectify the situation. I pushed the four-wheeler off of Marty and started yelling, Hah, get out of here bear. Thats right, run away or Ill cut your nose off. I made stomping sounds with my feet as though I was chasing a bear into the woods.
Marty rolled over and looked up at me and then around the campsite to make sure the bear was gone. Oh, thank you, Kliff. You saved my life. You saved me from a horrible death. I helped him to his feet and back to the now useless tent. Even in his adrenaline induced state, Marty looked at the tent then at my tattered sleeping bag, What the Hell happened? Did the bear go after you too?
Uhh, Im not sure, everything happened so fast. Maybe. I went to collect my emergency first aid kit from my backpack. When I returned to Marty, he was dabbing blood from his butt wound with one hand and holding his .38 special in the other, Im sure it was unintentional, but the muzzle seemed to be pointing in my general direction.
Umm, Kliff, why was my gun on the ground over here? Marty asked in a calm voice that belied the little facial tick he always displays when displeased about something. I checked this area last night and I didnt see it then.
I, I dont know, I stammered. You must of missed it last night. We were pretty drunk you know. I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look innocent.
Wheres your .44 magnum? Marty asked.
I left it in the tent.
So you came to my rescue without your gun and drove that bear off using only your knife? Marty continued with what was becoming a very annoying interrogation.
Yes, yes, I guess I did that. Again the muzzle of his revolver wavered in my direction for a moment before Marty dropped it to his side.
I think youre taking these knife tests a little too far, he said.
Yeah, maybe I am, I agreed. Now let me take a look at your wound. As far as Im concerned, Marty took entirely too much enjoyment from bending over and sticking his butt in my face.
Yeah, you must be a hero or something, he said as I applied a large bandage to his wound. At that moment Marty reminded me that wed eaten baked beans the night before. Fortunately, it started to rain. Hard. This provided me with an opportunity to claim the rain muddied up the ground and erased the bear tracks and that is why Marty couldnt find any.
It was slow going back down the mountain trail, since Marty couldnt sit on his four-wheeler seat, and had to stand on the foot pegs the whole way. A couple of times we thought we heard a bear off in the woods, and each time Martys hand went to his jacket pocket and he would look at me with that twisted little grin. Eventually we made it back. Now if I can only persuade Martys doctor that bear bites look very much like knife wounds I should be fine.
Unless Martys wife, Prudence, catches me. I dont know what it is about that woman, but she has it in for me.
