I love my old three dot Buck 110. It was beat up and some blade loss but no loss of blade length when I got it, along with lock rock and some side to side play so I don’t feel the least bit bad about using it hard. It had been sharpened so poorly I had to spend some time with a worksharp belt sharpener to get it to the point where a stone would do the job. I was too lazy to use a mill file. I’ll use that old Buck to cut anything. Get home and break out the black DMT and hone it up again. I love a cleanly apexed coarse edge especially on this beater. There’s a certain freedom in that; Using it like I stole it without compunction.
When I use it up and it needs it, I’ll send it in for a re-blade and keep on using it like I hate it even though I love it like no other. It was the last Buck 110 I carried as a cop, on my duty belt in a single magazine pouch for a 1911 magazine of all things. Fits perfectly! It seen manhunts for escaped convicts, high speed pursuits, prison transports, domestic violence calls, wrecks, D.O.A.’s, O.D.’s… but it also helped during happy times too, but those don’t keep it awake at night in the dresser drawer. I reckon the thing could qualify for a PTSD retirement if I were still on the job, cause that last year or two was full of action. I digress.
I’ve pounded, sliced, pried (lightly and gently),… all kinds of knife no-no’s I’ve thrown at it and it keeps coming back for more like it has Stockholm Syndrome for me. It was with me the day I turned in my badge for good. It went with me every day to truck driving school when I decided to get my CDL and get away from cop life. It was in my pocket when I took my tests and passed. It went to Texas with me on that first job and I carried it every day driving the lower 48. It even likely saved my life one dark night at an Arizona truck stop, it changed the guys mind when he decided he didn’t want my wallet that bad after all. Not bad enough to get gutted like a deer for it anyway but that’s a story for another time maybe. I remember pulling over in the Rockies to whittle on a stick with it and missing home. It got used as a kitchen knife a lot, living on the road like that. Seeing all this wrote down makes me wanna dig it out and carry it more often. It seems to prefer the more calm life of driving trucks pulling tankers. Maybe we both do. It has a habit of kicking other knives out of my pocket. Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome for that old beater Buck?