The Stockman.
It was a late afternoon, and the Texas sun was still high in the sky, not to mention hot. Being a northerner, I was still getting used to the Texas climate. I'd been stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, for all of three weeks so far, and we'd had our 1600 hours formation,( that's 4 o'clock for you civilians,) and been cut loose for the day. Some fishing along the shady banks of Sallado creek that flowed through Ft. Sam seemed like a nice way to spend time.
I'd parked my VW back by the shoulder of the road, and walked in to a deep pool in the creek, being wary of snakes in the underbrush. The nice thing about the army, we got a briefing from the company medical officer on arrival about the local hazards, and snake bite had been listed on the number one cause of leg amputations in South Texas. Being a native Marylander, I was looking for rattlers under every bush. They must have all been on vacation up north, as I didn't see a single one. I set about wetting a line in high hopes.
I was at it a while, with only a few little fish that I tossed back, but kept at it. Fishing is a nice way to de-compress from a busy day, no matter if you catch anything or not. I'd heard tell that some fisherman don't even bait a hook because then they just may catch a fish and have to do something about it. The sudden weight on my line gave me a start, and I started to fight with something unseen. I reeled in, and came face to face with my first Gar. It was a memorable experience. Being from Maryland, I was used to fish that looked like fish. Not a mutant critter that looked like a cross between a crocodile and an eel, with a little bit of fish around the edges. Needless to say, the first meeting was startling.
"What the hell?" I found myself exclaiming out loud.
I heard an amused chuckle behind me, and turned. Another fisherman had come down to the creek, although he looked like he belonged out on the range. A battered Stetson that looked like it had been up the trail many times sat on his head, and scratched up cowboy boots took care of any rattle snake worries. He had a tanned and deeply seemed weathered face that looked like it had seen about a half a century of outdoor life, that at the moment had a good humored smile.
"That son, is a Gar. Don't try to get your hook out, just cut the line and let it go. There's lots of them in this crick, and they're a right pain in the ass."
I took his advise, and reached into my pocket and took out my Buck 301 stockman. I'd been carrying it about a year at this point, and liked that pattern. Setting the pole down, I held the line and opened the sheepsfoot blade. Since the stockman's sheepsfoot blade humped up kind of high, it was easy to grab and pull it open. I cut the line and set the toothy gar loose. Good riddance.
"They told me that everything in Texas has thorns, spikes, or fangs, but I din't know that went for the fish as well." I said.
The cowboy chuckled again at my flustered attitude.
"Well, it's just Texas. You'll get used to it. You got the right knife for it though." he said motioning at my stockman. "Is that one of those new Buck pocket knives?"
"Yes, it's a Buck. It is handy to have three blades in one package."
I held it out to him, and he took it and looked it over carefully, then handed it back.
"Not bad, not bad at all. Now if they just made it a little bigger." he remarked as he dug into the pocket of his jeans. What he took out was my first view of a really big Case. It was over 4 inches in closed length, and has great old stag that had a patina of age. The stag was worn smooth by much handling, and had turned a buttery yellow around the bark. He handed it to me, and I pulled out the master blade. It was a deep bluish gray from years of use, but in good shape. The Buck 307 wrangler was still in the future, so I'd never seen a large frame stockman before.
"Wow." I said. It seemed a little bit to say for such a nice knife, but it had surprised me as much as the Gar. Back east, I hadn't seen much in the way of stockmen. Most knives seemed to be the standard two blade jack in the lower bracket of the three inch range. Most Buck knives at that time were the old 110 folding hunter that had taken over the folding knife market. This was my first sight of a real cowboy knife. It had made an impression.
So we stood on the banks of Sallado creek and talked knives, fishing, and the matters of life. He shook out a filterless Camel cigarette and I filled my pipe, and we smoked while we talked. We even got some fishing done.
It's been the better part of a lifetime ago, but I still remember the weight and mass of the 4 1/4 inch stockman. Heck of a lot of knife in one package that will still fit in a pocket. But that old stag was drop dead beautiful.
It was a late afternoon, and the Texas sun was still high in the sky, not to mention hot. Being a northerner, I was still getting used to the Texas climate. I'd been stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, for all of three weeks so far, and we'd had our 1600 hours formation,( that's 4 o'clock for you civilians,) and been cut loose for the day. Some fishing along the shady banks of Sallado creek that flowed through Ft. Sam seemed like a nice way to spend time.
I'd parked my VW back by the shoulder of the road, and walked in to a deep pool in the creek, being wary of snakes in the underbrush. The nice thing about the army, we got a briefing from the company medical officer on arrival about the local hazards, and snake bite had been listed on the number one cause of leg amputations in South Texas. Being a native Marylander, I was looking for rattlers under every bush. They must have all been on vacation up north, as I didn't see a single one. I set about wetting a line in high hopes.
I was at it a while, with only a few little fish that I tossed back, but kept at it. Fishing is a nice way to de-compress from a busy day, no matter if you catch anything or not. I'd heard tell that some fisherman don't even bait a hook because then they just may catch a fish and have to do something about it. The sudden weight on my line gave me a start, and I started to fight with something unseen. I reeled in, and came face to face with my first Gar. It was a memorable experience. Being from Maryland, I was used to fish that looked like fish. Not a mutant critter that looked like a cross between a crocodile and an eel, with a little bit of fish around the edges. Needless to say, the first meeting was startling.
"What the hell?" I found myself exclaiming out loud.
I heard an amused chuckle behind me, and turned. Another fisherman had come down to the creek, although he looked like he belonged out on the range. A battered Stetson that looked like it had been up the trail many times sat on his head, and scratched up cowboy boots took care of any rattle snake worries. He had a tanned and deeply seemed weathered face that looked like it had seen about a half a century of outdoor life, that at the moment had a good humored smile.
"That son, is a Gar. Don't try to get your hook out, just cut the line and let it go. There's lots of them in this crick, and they're a right pain in the ass."
I took his advise, and reached into my pocket and took out my Buck 301 stockman. I'd been carrying it about a year at this point, and liked that pattern. Setting the pole down, I held the line and opened the sheepsfoot blade. Since the stockman's sheepsfoot blade humped up kind of high, it was easy to grab and pull it open. I cut the line and set the toothy gar loose. Good riddance.
"They told me that everything in Texas has thorns, spikes, or fangs, but I din't know that went for the fish as well." I said.
The cowboy chuckled again at my flustered attitude.
"Well, it's just Texas. You'll get used to it. You got the right knife for it though." he said motioning at my stockman. "Is that one of those new Buck pocket knives?"
"Yes, it's a Buck. It is handy to have three blades in one package."
I held it out to him, and he took it and looked it over carefully, then handed it back.
"Not bad, not bad at all. Now if they just made it a little bigger." he remarked as he dug into the pocket of his jeans. What he took out was my first view of a really big Case. It was over 4 inches in closed length, and has great old stag that had a patina of age. The stag was worn smooth by much handling, and had turned a buttery yellow around the bark. He handed it to me, and I pulled out the master blade. It was a deep bluish gray from years of use, but in good shape. The Buck 307 wrangler was still in the future, so I'd never seen a large frame stockman before.
"Wow." I said. It seemed a little bit to say for such a nice knife, but it had surprised me as much as the Gar. Back east, I hadn't seen much in the way of stockmen. Most knives seemed to be the standard two blade jack in the lower bracket of the three inch range. Most Buck knives at that time were the old 110 folding hunter that had taken over the folding knife market. This was my first sight of a real cowboy knife. It had made an impression.
So we stood on the banks of Sallado creek and talked knives, fishing, and the matters of life. He shook out a filterless Camel cigarette and I filled my pipe, and we smoked while we talked. We even got some fishing done.
It's been the better part of a lifetime ago, but I still remember the weight and mass of the 4 1/4 inch stockman. Heck of a lot of knife in one package that will still fit in a pocket. But that old stag was drop dead beautiful.
