I can remember the exact spot.

We were hiking the Boulevard Trail in the Great Smoky Mountains on one of those perfect September mornings that makes you wonder why anyone stays indoors. The sky was impossibly blue, the air carried that first hint of fall, and every breath felt like it had been filtered through the forest itself.

The park rangers had warned us before we started out.

“The bears are up high,” one of them said. “The berries are ripe.”

Good enough for me. I like bears, and I’d just as soon let them enjoy breakfast without my company. Then I rounded a bend.

The trail disappeared into shoulder-high berry bushes, and there it was — a steaming, unmistakable sign that breakfast had only recently been interrupted.

I’ve spent enough time outdoors to recognize animal sign, but this wasn’t exactly advanced woodsmanship. Even the greenest first-time hiker would have known a bear had been standing right there only moments before. This realization immediately led to another.

I was carrying a handgun for exactly this sort of situation...but not the kind that would help me if the next thing I saw was 300 pounds of irritated black bear emerging from the berry patch.

Wrong Choice

At the time, I thought I had engineered the perfect concealed-carry solution. My little AMT .380 Backup rode inside the water-bottle carrier on my backpack’s hip belt. I’d cut and arranged foam blocks to secure a nylon holster inside the pouch. It concealed the pistol completely, protected it from the weather, and drew surprisingly fast.

For dealing with a homicidal backcountry manic, it was actually a pretty clever setup. For dealing with a bear that might materialize five yards away...

I distinctly remember wondering whether I should open a possible encounter with the pistol or the stout sassafras walking stick I habitually carried in those days. It wasn’t a comforting choice.

It wasn’t that I suddenly believed I needed to shoot a bear. In fact, the overwhelming majority of black bear encounters end with everybody walking away. The point driven home was much simpler: if I’m going to carry a firearm for emergency use, it ought to be immediately accessible AND reasonably matched to the threat.

That hike permanently changed the way I carry a handgun outdoors.

A Surprise

Not long afterward, my friend Ken Campbell handed me a Hill People Gear Kit Bag as a gift. The first time I strapped it on, I wasn’t convinced. It felt different. Maybe even a little awkward. But, by the end of the first hike, I wondered why I’d waited so long.

Today I own several chest packs, and I freely admit I’ve become something of an evangelist for them. They keep the gun accessible, distribute the weight well, work with a backpack, and don’t advertise what’s inside to every person I meet on the trail.

When I’m hiking in black bear country these days, I can comfortably carry a full-size 10mm pistol, and nobody gives it a second look.

Well...almost nobody. There’s always someone on the internet ready to explain that anything smaller than a .454 Casull is an invitation to become woodland cuisine. I’ve learned to smile and keep hiking.

Lessons

The funny thing is, none of this started because I was shopping for a better holster. It started because I almost stepped into fresh bear sign on a quiet September morning in the Smokies, and suddenly realized my carefully engineered carry system solved the wrong problem.

Sometimes the woods have a way of giving us exactly the lesson we need.

And if you’re curious about the chest packs I’ve come to rely on over the years—including why I think they’ve become one of the best options for concealed carry outdoors—you can read the full story over at GUNS Magazine.

The bear, thankfully, never did make an appearance.

Thirty or forty years ago, if someone tried to put a measure on the ballot to ban hunting, fishing, and animal farming, it wouldn’t have even made the local paper. It would have been laughed out of the room as an absurd joke.

But welcome to our modern “don’t call anybody an idiot” culture—where even the most unhinged ideas get treated like valid public policy.

Case in point: Oregon’s Initiative Petition 28 (IP 28).

The Narrow Escape

The Oregon Secretary of State’s office recently announced that IP 28 failed to make the November ballot. Why? Not because the political establishment suddenly found common sense, but because the campaign failed a basic technical review—they couldn’t produce enough valid signatures to meet the state threshold.

We got lucky. But “lucky” should make your stomach turn.

If it had made the ballot, who knows what would have happened once the urban, granola-eating voters in Portland and along the coast stepped into the voting booth?

A Disney-fied View of Nature

Think about what this initiative actually proposed. It sought to classify any intentional killing of an animal in Oregon—outside of self-defense—as a Class A misdemeanor. That meant:

• No hunting.

• No fishing.

• No livestock ranching or processing.

• No pest control.

Losing the right to hunt and fish is devastating enough for outdoor heritage and wildlife conservation. But imagine outlawing all animal farming. No beef, no poultry, no pork, no dairy processing, no rod and reel, no youth deer season.

In what world does this seem like a good idea? In my view, to the leftist, tofu-eating urban dwellers who have never spent a day on a farm, set a hook, or tracked game through the woods. It’s the product of a generation that views nature like a Disney movie and thinks animals are noble spirits wandering around waiting for a song, completely disconnected from the realities of food systems, ecology, and land management.

The Trial Balloon

Make no mistake: Oregon was a test case.

The activists behind this were throwing a trial balloon into the sky to see how far it would fly. They raised money, gathered over 100,000 signatures, and pushed state leadership into a panic. Even if it failed on a technicality this time, the template has been created. They will refine the language, gather more money, and try again—in Oregon or in your home state.

When Theory Hits Reality

It’s easy to flirt with big-government control and nanny-state ideology when it’s all purely academic. But ideology looks very different when it shows up on your doorstep to take away your job, your weekend pastimes, and your family’s food supply.

It’s the exact same dynamic as the “Defund the Police” movement. It sounded real progressive on social media—until the same folks had their cars broken into or homes burglarized, and suddenly they were begging for an officer on the street.

When bad ideas stop being abstract debate topics and start threatening your actual way of life, the illusion shatters real fast.

Time to Wake Up

This bad idea should have never seen the light of day, let alone come within striking distance of becoming state law.

Hunters, anglers, farmers, ranchers, and everyday consumers need to stop assuming common sense will always prevail. The opposition is organized, funded, and patient. If you care about traditional pastimes, working lands, and basic individual freedoms, it’s time to wake up, stay alert, and pay attention to what’s coming down the pipe next.

A funny thing happened today while I was trying to take a completely different picture.

I was in the backyard posing for a photo to illustrate an upcoming article. My wife was behind the camera, patiently trying to get everything lined up, when I happened to glance over into the hosta bed.

There, peeking between the leaves, was our dog wearing an expression that can only be described as, “Oh... were you looking for me?”

I immediately grabbed the camera from my wife.

To her credit, she didn’t object. She merely gave me that look—the one that says, “Apparently the photos I haven’t even taken yet are already disappointing you.”

No, no. This wasn’t about her photography.

This was about the dog.

Our miniature Australian shepherd was perfectly framed by the hostas, looking like she’d spent the last twenty minutes studying composition and waiting for the light to hit just right. I snapped the picture and texted it to a few friends and family members.

Within minutes my brother replied.

“Add a jungle boonie hat to her.”

Of course.

Without another thought I uploaded the photo to an AI image generator, asked it to add the hat, and in seconds my innocent little backyard dog had been transformed into what looked like a seasoned jungle scout, albeit more precious.

Then curiosity got the better of me.

I asked AI to age the image—to make it look like a worn black-and-white photograph from the mid-1960s.

The result was incredible.

It nailed the faded film, the scratches, the soft contrast... and then, completely unprompted, it added a handwritten caption:

Private Barker, Vietnam, 1968.

Excuse me?

I never asked for the caption.

I never mentioned Vietnam.

I certainly never suggested a name.

Yet somehow AI wandered into the exact same joke my brother and I would have made over a beer at the American Legion.

Either artificial intelligence has become frighteningly good at understanding context, or it’s reading my mind through Bluetooth. I’m not ruling either possibility out.

The whole episode reminded me of three things.

First, my dog is adorable. Yours probably is too, but mine is objectively cuter.

Second, my brother and I apparently share the same warped sense of humor. After enough decades, siblings stop finishing each other’s sentences and start finishing each other’s bad ideas.

And third, whether you love AI or hate it, you have to admit this is astonishing technology. I uploaded a snapshot from my backyard and, in less than a minute, created something that genuinely looked like it had been tucked away in an old footlocker for sixty years.

I understand why people are nervous about artificial intelligence. I understand why massive data centers have become controversial. Those are legitimate conversations.

But every once in a while it’s worth putting all of that aside and simply appreciating the sheer sense of wonder. If watching a computer convincingly turn your dog into “Private Barker, Viet Nam, 1968” in under sixty seconds doesn’t make you stop and smile...

...you’ve forgotten how to be amazed.

I try very hard not to be the guy who is always saying, “Back in my day...”

Every generation does it. Our parents thought we had it easy. Their parents thought they had it easy. Someday today’s kids will be rolling their eyes at whatever impossible luxury the next generation invents.

So I make a conscious effort to avoid that trap. In fact, for a writer, its almost a disqualifying trite meme.

-However-

I just stumbled across an Amazon listing for finger cots marketed specifically for mobile gamers.

Finger cots.

Not for handling chemicals.

Not for working in electronics.

Not for protecting a bandaged finger.

They’re tiny sleeves you wear on your fingertips so they glide across your phone screen while you’re playing games. Apparently sweaty thumbs have become a tactical disadvantage.

I just sat there staring at the screen.

Really?

Now, before anyone writes in, yes, I understand the technology. Capacitive touchscreens work better when your finger glides smoothly. Competitive mobile gamers want every possible advantage. Somewhere there’s probably a big-money tournament where milliseconds matter.

I get it.

But I still can’t believe we’re here.

The Obligatory ‘Back in my day…’ Stories

My generation wasn’t exactly raised in a sterile laboratory.

We rode in the rear window shelf of our parents cars because seat belts were only considered mild suggestions.

We launched steel-tipped lawn darts toward each other with a confidence that can only be described as reckless. Yeah, some of the accidents were spectacular.

If there was a water hose near the neighborhood Wiffle Ball field, everybody drank from it. Nobody asked where it came from. Nobody wondered if the neighbor had rinsed paint brushes with it ten minutes earlier. In fact, he probably had.

If your bike had working brakes, you were ahead of the game—not that it mattered when you landed badly off the makeshift jump ramp built from a filched piece of plywood and a cinderblock.

We came home when the streetlights came on, covered in dirt, mosquito bites and whatever mystery substances had accumulated during twelve hours of unsupervised adventure.

Again, I’m not claiming we were tougher.

Just...different.

Modern Problems

Every generation has its own version of hardship. Kids today deal with pressures we never imagined. Social media alone creates stresses we escaped entirely. I cannot imagine what younger people face today, completely smothered by a digital onslaught you can’t outrun.

But somewhere between legitimate technological progress and wrapping our fingertips in tiny gaming socks because Call of Duty Mobile is making our thumbs perspire...I feel like we’ve wandered into territory that deserves a raised eyebrow.

Maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe these little finger sleeves are the greatest innovation since sliced bread.

Maybe next year they’ll come with cooling gel inserts and Bluetooth.

Maybe there will be premium versions stitched from organic alpaca wool harvested under a full moon.

I don’t know.

What I do know is this:

If you develop chapped fingertips from playing games on your phone, it might be time to put the phone down for a little while.

Go outside.

Find a Wiffle Ball.

Play in the creek.

Drink from a garden hose.

But...maybe check first to make sure it doesn’t smell like weed killer.

We’ve learned a few things since then.

I have a confession to make: I once orchestrated a full military-style funeral for a beetle named Leroy.

And yes, this story is absolutely, 100% true.

Back in my police academy days—which was run with the kind of rigid, military boot-camp discipline that makes you sweat through your uniform even on a cold day—a drill instructor “discovered” a tiny insect carcass in the overhead light fixture of my dorm room. Despite suspecting it was planted by an instructor who took a special delight in tormenting recruits, my roommate and I were ordered to conduct a full homicide investigation and handle the victim’s remains with the utmost dignity.

Being the smartasses we were, we leaned into the bit entirely. My dad had been a funeral director, so I knew how these things were supposed to work. We built a tiny velvet-lined casket out of Popsicle sticks, set up a visitation in our dorm room complete with recorded organ music, and had a classmate who happened to be an ordained minister conduct a formal graveside service.

When the ceremony concluded, seven cadets stepped forward, each clenching a can of Raid insect spray. At my command, they rendered three perfectly timed volleys over Leroy’s final resting place.

The drill instructor showed up with off-duty staff just in time to witness the whole thing. Thankfully, he laughed, and for years, the videotape of “Leroy D. Bug’s” funeral was shown to incoming academy classes as an example of either teamwork or what happens when bored recruits have too much creative freedom.

If you want to read the full, unabridged saga of our investigation—complete with how we narrowly avoided getting court-martialed (or forced to sell paint at Walmart)—you can read the original story here in GUNS Magazine.

That ridiculous afternoon did something else, though: it sparked a lifelong curiosity.

As we were planning Leroy’s send-off, my roommate and I kept arguing about military protocol and what exactly constituted a “21-gun salute.” It turns out, that absurd prank led me down a historical rabbit hole about a military tradition that almost everyone gets wrong.

With our nation celebrating its massive 250th birthday this weekend, I figured it was the perfect time to unearth the history behind the noise. Let’s face it: a straight, dry breakdown of military gun salutes can read like a training manual. But when you anchor it to seven guys blasting bug spray into the wind, it gets a lot more interesting.

Here is what I learned when I dug into the history.

The Misconception: Three Volleys vs. 21 Guns

If you attend a military or law enforcement funeral, or watch a Memorial Day ceremony, you will inevitably hear someone in the crowd whisper, “They’re giving him a 21-gun salute.”

Usually, they aren’t.

What you are actually witnessing is a three-volley salute. It is performed by a ceremonial rifle detail (traditionally seven service members). Each fires one round on command, three times, producing 21 total shots. It’s easy to see where the math confuses people, but in strict military terminology, a “gun” refers to artillery and cannons—never shoulder-fired rifles.

The origins of the three-volley salute date back hundreds of years to European battlefields. Opposing armies would call a temporary cease-fire to clear and identify their dead. Once the field was cleared and the burial details finished, three rifle volleys were fired into the air to signal, “The dead are honored, and we are ready to resume fighting.”

What is a True 21-Gun Salute?

A true 21-gun salute doesn’t involve rifles at all; it requires a battery of artillery pieces or cannons. It is the highest ceremonial honor a nation can bestow.

Its roots lie in the Age of Sail. When a warship entered a friendly foreign port, it would fire its cannons into the open water to empty them. This was a literal demonstration of peaceful intentions—proving to the shore batteries that the ship was temporarily unable to attack.

Because shipboard gunpowder was limited, ships originally fired seven rounds. The shore batteries, with plenty of gunpowder to spare on land, would echo back three shots for every one fired by the ship. 7 x 3 = 21. Eventually, 21 guns became the international standard of diplomatic respect.

Today, a true 21-gun salute is strictly reserved for historic national occasions, the inauguration or funeral of a U.S. President, or welcoming foreign heads of state.

Why the Noise Matters This Weekend

As we celebrate the United States Semiquincentennial—250 years of a wild, enduring experiment in liberty—you’re going to hear a lot of explosions. The skies will be filled with fireworks, and at military installations across the country at noon, you might hear the measured boom of a 50-gun Salute to the Union (one round for every state).

Those reports are far more than noise. They are echoes of centuries-old customs designed to honor sacrifice and celebrate freedom.

As for Leroy D. Bug, his popsicle-stick casket has long since returned to the dust of the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy lawn, and I have no idea what became of that old VHS tape. But every time the Fourth of July rolls around and the ceremonial artillery starts to thunder, I can’t help but smile.

After all, not everyone gets full honors—and very few get their three volleys from a can of Raid.

Happy 250th, America! What’s the most creative way you’ve ever seen someone follow a rigid rule while completely twisting the spirit of it? Let me know in the comments!

If you spend enough time around the tactical side of the internet, you’ll notice a distinct trend. Everyone is utterly obsessed with speed. We track first-shot delivery down to the hundredth of a second on electronic timers. We practice lightning-fast reloads until our thumbs bleed.

We convince ourselves that if we ever find ourselves standing under the buzzing fluorescent lights of a late-night gas station, facing a guy with a bad attitude and a cheap Saturday Night Special, our sub-second draw stroke is going to punch our ticket to safety.

But after 25 years in uniform, I’m going to let you in on a secret: the most critical factor in surviving a convenience store stick-up happens long before your hand ever gets near a grip.

It starts with situational awareness, a few basic tactical rules of thumb, and knowing when to keep your blaster exactly where it is.

The late-night convenience store—or the “Stop ’N’ Rob,” as we affectionately called them on the midnight shift—is a statistically high-hazard environment. They are bright oases of cash and quick exits, usually sitting right off a highway or a main drag.

They attract two things in abundance: graveyard-shift workers just trying to make a living, and desperate predators looking for an easy score.

If you are a concealed carrier, walking into one of these establishments requires a complete mental shift. You aren’t just popping in for a giant fountain soda or a bag of beef jerky; you are entering a high-probability conflict zone.

Over on the main site, I’ve broken down a complete survival guide for handling these specific environments. It’s built on a mix of police experience and hard-earned street logic. We dive into the big rules that can actually keep you out of the morgue, including:

• The Pre-Flight Check: Why you need to look through the plate glass windows before your boots ever hit the pavement. If you don’t see a clerk, or if something feels off, your feet should be moving back to your truck.

• The “Target Indicators”: How to spot a robbery in progress or an ambush waiting to happen in the parking lot.

• The “Not Your Circus” Dilemma: The absolute hardest pill for most armed citizens to swallow. If a robbery kicks off while you’re standing by the coolers, drawing your gun might be the absolute worst thing you can do. If the bad guy just wants the twenties out of the till, letting him take the money and leave is a massive win for everyone involved. Cash can be replaced; your life can’t.

• The Counter-Ambush: If the situation turns violent and you must fight, how to use the tight, cluttered geometry of store aisles to your advantage instead of getting caught out in the open.

Look, practicing your draw at home is great. It builds essential muscle memory. But carrying a gun is a thinking-person’s game. Having the wisdom to avoid the fight entirely—or the restraint to let a low-level property crime play out without triggering a shootout—is what separates a truly prepared citizen from a statistic.

I put together the full tactical blueprint over at GUNS Magazine to help you audit your late-night habits.

Click here to read the full article on Surviving the Stop ’N’ Rob over at Gunsmagazine.com.

How about you? Do you have a strict set of personal rules for stopping at gas stations after dark, or do you just wing it and trust your gear? Let’s swap notes in the comments.

Summer is officially here, and depending on where you live, the weather has transitioned into that special kind of miserable where the humidity is thick enough to chew.

If you’re spending hours outdoors right now—whether you’re working a match, running a multi-day shooting class, mowing the back forty, or rucking a heavy pack—you already know that heat is a genuine safety issue. It doesn’t take much to go from “man, it’s sticky out here” to looking like someone pulled your plug.

For decades, the standard, well-meaning advice was simple: just pound more water.

But if you’ve ever spent an August at a place like Gunsite Academy, sweating through your shirt by 9:00 AM, you probably learned the hard way that water is only half the equation. If you just dump gallons of plain water into your system without replacing what you’re actually losing, you run out of gas, get nauseous, and hit the wall hard.

Naturally, this problem has spawned a massive, $6.7 billion “Big Hydration” industry.

Walk down any drink aisle and you’ll find shelves lined with brightly colored powders and neon bottles promising rapid hydration, cellular absorption, and “proprietary matrices” developed by scientists in lab coats. The labels boast about added B-vitamins for “energy,” exotic antioxidants, and rare trace minerals harvested from remote mountain peaks.

It’s marketing hype at its absolute finest.

I recently decided to bypass the marketing copy and look at the actual science of oral rehydration. Guess what? The premier medical rehydration formulas used globally to save millions of lives don’t contain rubidium or Tahitian swordfish extract. They contain three basic things: water, salt, and sugar.

When you sweat, the primary electrolyte you dump is plain old sodium chloride. Salt. And that little bit of sugar? It’s not just for flavor; human physiology absorbs water and sodium much more efficiently when glucose is present. It “greases the on-ramp” to get the good stuff out of your gut and into your system.

The trouble is, commercial sports drinks are formulated for consumers, not pure performance. A truly high-sodium drink tastes salty, so big brands compromise on the science to make it taste like fruit punch.

So, being a cynical gun writer with a pantry full of baking supplies, I decided to mix up my own five-cent range elixir based on standard rehydration science:

• 1 quart of water

• 1/2 teaspoon of standard table salt (for the sodium)

• 1/8 teaspoon of Morton “Lite” Salt (to catch the potassium)

• 1 tablespoon of sugar (to activate the absorption)

Now, I’m not going to lie to you—the sports drink military-industrial complex is not shaking in its boots over the flavor profile. Out of the pitcher, it tastes exactly like what it is: slightly salty water. It is not a delightful beverage to sip while reading light poetry.

But out on a hot trail or a blistering range day? It works exponentially better than plain water or the sugary, bright-blue stuff. To make it palatable, I just toss in a small packet of sugar-free pink lemonade mix.

It’s cheap, it’s unglamorous, and it completely strips away the marketing nonsense. If you want to impress your buddies on the range, just tell them you’re drinking a bespoke, proprietary solution of salinated dihydrogen monoxide with an added sucrose blend. They’ll probably try to buy a cup off you.

I wrote a full breakdown over at GUNS Magazine detailing the exact science behind fluid loss, why piling on extra vitamins is like overfilling the engine oil in your truck, and how to mix this up for your next range trip.

Head over to Gunsmagazine.com to read the full article and stop paying a premium for salty marketing.

What’s your go-to play for surviving a brutal summer range day? Are you mixing up your own concoctions, or are you still paying five bucks a bottle for neon-colored marketing? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

We shooters are an obsessive bunch. We will sit on the internet and spend three solid weeks arguing about the ballistic coefficient of a 6.5 Creedmoor bullet, or spend a small fortune on carbon-fiber tripods and custom bipods.

Then, we head out to a match, a prairie dog town, or a rural range, spend four hours laying belly-down in the grass to break a clean shot, and willingly serve ourselves up as a stationary, all-you-can-eat buffet for the local tick and chigger population.

It makes no sense. We obsess over “time on target” but completely ignore the fact that it is physically impossible to read the wind or pull off a crisp trigger press when a giant, blood-sucking mosquito is actively drilling into the side of your neck.

For years, rifle culture has been moving off concrete benches and into the field. Whether you’re shooting NRL Hunter, practicing field positions, or just stretching the legs on a precision rig, you are spending time on the ground. And let me tell you, the local insect population appreciates a prone shooter. You aren’t moving, you aren’t swatting—you are just a giant lump of warm blood.

That’s why my absolute favorite, unglamorous piece of summer range gear has zero M-LOK slots, no tactical laser-engravings, and costs about fifteen bucks a bottle.

I’m talking about Permethrin.

If you aren’t using this stuff yet, you are volunteering for a special kind of misery. Unlike DEET, which you slather all over your skin until you smell like a chemical plant and melt the plastic on your safety glasses, Permethrin is a chemical weapon designed strictly for your clothing and gear.

You spray your pants, socks, boots, and shooting mats until they’re damp, let them dry completely, and the microscopic molecules bond directly to the fabric. Once it’s dry, you can’t see it or smell it. But to a bug? It’s Death Row.

I became an absolute apostle for the stuff while hiking through Southern Indiana’s Hoosier National Forest—a place I affectionately refer to as “The National Tick Refuge.” More than once, I’ve looked down to see dozens of deer ticks scaling my boots. But the second they hit the treated fabric, they suddenly lose all enthusiasm for the project. They get a foothold, start climbing, and then dramatically swoon off my pants legs like they just realized they made a catastrophic life choice.

And don’t even get me started on chiggers. Those little demons operate on a delayed-action misery schedule. You leave the range thinking you got away clean, only to wake up 24 hours later discovering your waistline and sock tops have been turned into a science experiment in itching. Treated socks stop them dead before they ever get established.

With tick populations booming across the country, it’s not just about the itch anymore. Between Lyme disease and that bizarre Alpha-gal “red meat allergy” syndrome—where a single Lone Star tick bite can literally turn a cheeseburger into a life-threatening medical emergency—protecting yourself on the ground isn’t optional.

I just finished up a brutal, wet turkey season down here. Two weeks of crawling through damp woods and sitting against trees in prime bug weather. The final score? Nimrod: 1, Ticks: 0. (We won’t discuss the turkey’s score).

I wrote a full breakdown over at GUNS Magazine on exactly how to apply it, the gear you should be treating right now (hint: do your shooting mat), and a couple of safety rules you need to know—especially if you have barn cats running around, because wet permethrin and felines do not mix.

Head over to Gunsmagazine.com to read the full article and get your summer gear sorted.

How about you? Are you already a member of the Permethrin fan club, or are you still out there donating blood to science every time you shoot prone? Let me know in the comments.

I am, by nature, a cynical creature. Decades in law enforcement and the gun-writing racket will do that to a man.

So, when the folks at Remora Holsters first claimed they had a line of inside-the-waistband (IWB) gear that stayed perfectly in place without clips, loops, harnesses, rivets, heavy-duty welds, or an act of Congress, my immediate response was a deeply profound, Hoosier-grade snort of derision.

How, pray tell, is a piece of gear supposed to anchor a chunk of lethal machinery inside your waistband using nothing but gravity and good intentions? It felt like a blatant disregard for the laws of both physics and sensible gun carriage. Naturally, I had to prove them wrong.

To set up the ultimate failure test, I donned a pair of old, loose-fitting drawstring workout shorts. No belt, no structure—just flimsy nylon and disbelief. I shoved my trusty .38 Special snubby into the Remora holster, tucked the whole package inside my waistband, and whistled for Ivy, my miniature Australian Shepherd.

We set out for a brisk one-mile march. For the first two blocks, I engaged in what I call “the furtive touch”—the subtle, but highly noticeable to observant bystanders, paranoid pat-down every concealed carrier does when they’re convinced their blaster is slipping down their pant leg.

Yet, it wasn’t slipping. By block four, I had mostly stopped touching it. By the time we crossed the one-mile mark, my pants were still up, the .38 was exactly where I left it, and the dog was entirely unimpressed by my brewing crisis of punctured assumptions.

The Remora simply refused to budge.

The secret turns out to be a highly tactile, rubberized polymer outer skin. It acts like a microscopic non-slip mesh, grabbing hold of fabric or skin the second it’s compressed inside your waistband.

To really push my luck, I wore it through a full day of real-world “migration tests”:

• The Clinic Test: Sitting on paper-lined exam tables and getting jabbed with a round of vaccinations ahead of a brand-new, pending grandchild.

• The Muck Market: Navigating the crowded, humid aisles of a local plant nursery, lifting flats of petunias and buttercups to fix up my water garden.

• The Marshmallow Couch: The only time the rig shifted even half an inch was when I sank into my living room couch—a piece of furniture so soft it practically requires a winch to escape from. I don’t blame the holster for that one.

I even threw their matching accessory sleeve into the mix for a spare speed strip, and it pulled off the exact same friction-lock sorcery. The mag/speed strip pulls out smoothly, but the sleeve stays put.

Look, everything has limits. I wouldn’t try to pack a six-inch Colt Python this way, and it’s probably not the rig you want to wear to a Navy SEAL PT test. But for a lightweight snubby or a small automatic? It completely cracked the code. As it turns out, sometimes the best piece of carry hardware is no hardware at all.

I wrote up a detailed breakdown of the testing, the physics behind the grip, and how it stacks up against my old favorite DeSantis pocket holsters over at GUNS Magazine.

Drop by Gunsmagazine.com to read the full article and see the rig in action!

What say you? Have you ever trusted a clipless friction holster, or do you strictly stick to steel and kydex? Let’s talk about it in the comments.

Every year about this time, somewhere around the final days of Indiana turkey season, I hit the wall. It’s not because I’m spending too much time outdoors. Quite the opposite. It’s because I’m rolling out of bed at 3 a.m. while the last guy from karaoke night is still trying to remember where he parked his pickup.

Turkey hunters remain living proof of the old saying that “the early bird gets the worm,” along with lower back pain, questionable decision-making and the kind of sleep deprivation usually associated with hostage negotiations.

After a solid week of hunting, a man starts seeing things. Shadows become gobblers. Fence posts become gobblers. A black trash bag caught in a hedgerow becomes a gobbler right up until your hunting buddy points out you’ve been trying to call in landscaping debris for 15 minutes.

I’m not hallucinating yet, but I am operating under the dangerous delusion that voluntarily waking up this early qualifies as recreation.

This season has delivered the usual mix of misery and greatness.

One hunt started with a late-night text from a friend who claimed he had permission on “the best turkey property in western Indiana.” Those words remain the turkey hunter’s equivalent of a sailor hearing singing from the rocks.

Naturally, I said yes.

By the time I had gathered my gear, charged electronics, packed snacks, checked weather apps, updated mapping apps and verified I had enough battery packs to survive a lunar expedition, it was nearly midnight.

Three hours later, my phone alarm detonated beside the bed like a flashbang grenade. My smart watch joined in. So did the backup alarm on my tablet because experience has taught me one alarm is optimism while two alarms is planning.

My wife barely moved this time. After all these years, she has accepted turkey season the same way farmers accept hailstorms and fishermen accept lies.

Despite laying everything out the night before, I still left late.

There’s something about turkey hunting that destroys a man’s relationship with time. No matter how prepared you are, you always end up hurtling down a dark county road convinced sunrise is arriving 45 minutes earlier than scheduled.

I met my buddy at a rural intersection somewhere near the Wabash River. We transferred gear like a pair of nervous smugglers, then bounced down a field lane in his side-by-side at a speed suggesting he had either tremendous confidence or excessive life insurance.

By the time we parked, dawn was beginning as a salmon-tinged smear across the eastern sky.

We hurried across a muddy field and set up along a timber edge. My friend arranged decoys with the concentration of a museum curator while I collapsed against a tree trying to lower my heart rate below “medically concerning.”

Then he started calling.

He did well, too. Right before sunrise, he called in a hen that landed practically in our laps. She stared at us from point-blank range with the expression of someone questioning every decision that led her to this moment. You notice details when a turkey is standing six feet away. The color in their eyes. The texture of the feathers. The acorns on their breath.

Nobody tells you wild turkeys have breath capable of stripping paint.

The rest of the morning was classic turkey hunting. We heard distant gobbles. We repositioned twice. We became convinced a tom was “just over the ridge” approximately 11 different times.

We never got a bird into range. Oddly enough, it didn’t matter much.

That’s the thing non-hunters never quite understand. The older I get, the less turkey season feels like a competition and the more it resembles a collection of moments stitched together by exhaustion, optimism and fresh coffee consumed from dented travel mugs.

• The smell of wet leaves at daylight.

• Songbirds waking up before sunrise.

• Fog hanging low over a creek bottom.

• The thunder of a gobble echoing through timber so hard it vibrates in your chest.

Those are the things you remember long after the tags are filled or forgotten.

Our final hunt of the season happened on a property no one had hunted before. The landowner swore turkeys crossed his driveway every morning “like commuters.” Experienced turkey hunters know statements like that should always be viewed with suspicion. Still, we believed him because turkey hunters will believe absolutely anything in April and May.

We slipped into the woods before daylight and waited.

Nothing.

No gobbling. No scratching leaves. No wing beats.

We moved to a powerline cut and called again.

Still nothing.

At that point, the accumulated fatigue of the season finally caught me. My head grew heavy. My eyes drifted shut. I began accepting the possibility that another spring would end without a punched tag but full of good stories, cold mornings and enough memories to make me do it all again next year.

Honestly, there are worse reasons to lose sleep than chasing a bird with a brain roughly the size of a gummy vitamin.

In the middle of a yawn, I happened to glance left.

A gobbler stood 20 yards away staring directly at me.

At moments like that, I still wish I were hallucinating.

We’ll finish the story here.

Oh, the gobbler? As both my regular readers know, I am a staunch conservationist and refuse to harvest animals that show singular bad judgement or terrible luck.

Maybe next year…

I had one of those moments this morning where my brain sprinted three laps ahead of reality before the rest of me caught up.

The headline stopped me cold:

“Gun magazine found on Frontier Airlines flight…”

As the former editor of GUNS Magazine, my mind immediately went somewhere completely different than the average reader’s. For about three seconds, I genuinely thought we had entered a brave new world where somebody left a copy of a firearm publication on a seatback tray and the TSA responded by evacuating the aircraft like it was a live rattlesnake.

Honestly, in 2026, would any of us be completely shocked?

Then I clicked the story and realized they meant an ammunition magazine left aboard the aircraft, apparently by a law enforcement officer. Passengers were deplaned, rescreened, and the flight delayed overnight.

Problem solved. Crisis downgraded from “dangerous reading material” to “loaded feeding device.”

Still, the momentary confusion says something interesting about where we are culturally.

The word magazine used to require context. A magazine was something you subscribed to. It arrived in the mail. It sat beside your recliner until your wife threatened to throw it out because the pile had become structurally significant.

Today, depending on the audience, “gun magazine” may mean a publication, a detachable box magazine, or — if you’re a Hollywood-type — apparently any vaguely gun-shaped object including things commonly known as “clips,” “assault bullets,” “assault sling” and “fully semiautomatic ghost shoulder things.”

Language drifts. Terminology evolves. Fine.

But the deeper issue is how reflexively people now associate anything gun-related with immediate alarm. We’ve reached the point where a headline can plausibly sound like printed reading material shut down commercial aviation for a minute before your brain applies brakes.

And frankly, that may be the future.

Not literally. TSA agents probably aren’t going to confiscate your dog-eared copy of GUNS Magazine because it contains a review of a lever gun and an article about handloading .44 Special.

But culturally? The distance between “objects associated with firearms” and “objects considered socially radioactive” keeps shrinking.

This is worth paying attention to because once a society starts reacting emotionally to vocabulary itself, the vocabulary rarely remains the actual target for long.

Story Link: https://abcnews.com/US/gun-magazine-found-frontier-airlines-flight-passengers-forced/story?id=132856291

The floor of forest had been transformed into a flower garden of sublime beauty, complete with a miniature menagerie of critters scurrying around among the duff. I then realized that it had been a long time since I actually stopped and looked at the micro-scenery.

The day was a perfect example of type of weather that makes even grumpy old men kinder, with a brilliant electric blue sky occasionally punctuated by cotton-puff clouds. The temperature was also perfect—just cool enough to make sitting in a sunny spot on a hillside seem like a warm bath. After our dank Hoosier winter, the sun seemed to actually soak into my bones.

Strolling along the creek, I saw trout lilies poking their mottled leaves through the dried debris of the previous generation. A single overachieving plant had hoisted its inverted yellow flower above the masses of its brethren on a stalk resembling a shepherd crook. The tiny, succulent heart-shaped leaves of wild ginger stood nearby like a crowd of bystanders watching the flower show.

Farther along, bluebells were just getting started, lifting themselves from the ground like a slow-motion fireworks show. Spring beauties dotted the forest floor, scattered like stubborn remnants of snow that refused to acknowledge the change in season.

Next to a fallen tree, a lone Dutchman’s breeches plant displayed its strange little flowers—tiny pairs of pants hanging upside down on an invisible clothesline. The pale green, lacy leaves looked like they belonged in a carefully arranged flower display, not dropped casually along a trail.

Many younger trees had already leafed out, eager and optimistic. The older ones stood back, cautious, having learned a thing or two about late frosts and false starts. The wind had softened, losing its bite, though the creek remained indifferent, continuing its yearly work of carving new ground and back-filling its previous work.

On a whim, I decided to plop onto the ground and take stock of the smaller residents of the area.

At some point, I gave up walking altogether and sat down to see what was happening at ground level. Beetles and ants conducted small, serious wars over scraps of organic debris. A stink bug decided my forearm was a fine viewing platform. It was gently evicted. A tiny yellow spider, however, made a poor real estate decision and paid the price. Nature extends only so much grace.

Early spring might be the best deal going. Enough life to make things interesting, not enough to require chemical warfare in the form of bug spray. My biggest problem that day was finding the perfect spot to sit and absorb it all.

As I walked back to our host’s log cabin, their old dog was sprawled on the wooden porch swing waiting for a handout and a scratch behind the ears. Sometimes a dog’s life doesn’t seem too bad. I almost wondered if I had accidentally wandered into one of those idyllic backlit beer commercials.

If this all sounds like aimless rambling, I’ll plead guilty. However, I’ve finally learned such aimless minutes—wandering, lingering, refusing to be productive—aren’t wasted. They add up to make your life longer. In fact, I’m counting on it.

At this rate, I figure I’ve got a real shot at reaching 150.

Photos by author

There’s a new kind of censorship happening—and most people won’t notice it until it’s already done its job. I stumbled into it by accident.

The Guns Podcast US Facebook page was flagged as “Not being recommended.” At first glance, that doesn’t sound like much. No violations. No strikes. No threats of removal. In fact, according to Facebook, the page fully complies with “community standards.”

So what’s the problem? Turns out it doesn’t meet their “recommendation guidelines.”

Let me translate this into plain English: You’re allowed to exist—but you’re not allowed to grow.

For a new page, that’s a death sentence. If Facebook won’t recommend your content, it won’t reach new people. And if it doesn’t reach new people, the page is effectively buried before it ever has a chance.

At first, I assumed it was a fluke. Maybe something triggered the algorithm. Maybe it would resolve itself. It didn’t, so I started digging—and what I found should concern anyone in the firearms community.

This is happening more and more. Firearms-related pages aren’t being banned outright or publicly punished. They’re simply being…sidelined. Disappeared. All of it quietly. Systematically. Without explanation. No warning. No transparency. No appeal that actually leads anywhere.

Just like the stories I heard from Czech citizens about what happened under communist rule when somebody upset the local Politburo chief. White vans pulled up at midnight and suddenly that person, and their family, didn’t exist anymore.

The Worm Turns

This week, things escalated. The GUNS Magazine Facebook page—an established brand with thousands of followers and strong engagement—was hit with the exact same label: “Not being recommended.”

It’s becoming apparently this isn’t just about new creators or small pages anymore. It is happening to legacy brands with built-in audiences. Pages that have followed the rules. Pages that are the shooting community online. Just like that, their reach is cut off. No announcement. No policy update. No public statement. Just a quiet flip of a switch.

This Isn’t Moderation—It’s Suppression

If Facebook came out tomorrow and said, “We’re banning all gun-related content,” there would be backlash. Headlines. Political pressure. Public debate, so they’re not doing that.

They’re doing something far more effective: they’re letting gun content stay visible—just not discoverable.

This distinction is important because it allows Facebook to say, “We’re not censoring anyone,” while ensuring that new users never organically encounter pro-firearm content in the first place. No recommendations. No algorithmic lift. No growth.

Over time, that doesn’t just limit voices, it erases them.

Facing Reality

Here’s the hard truth: there is no real workaround.

If you run a firearms page, you can’t just “adjust your content” to comply. The content is the point. Removing firearms from a firearms brand isn’t adaptation—it’s surrender. And, while there are alternative platforms, none of them come close to the reach of YouTube or Facebook. Therein lies the trap: Big Tech doesn’t have to ban you when they control discovery. They just have to make sure no one new ever finds you.

Call It What It Is

This isn’t an accident, it’s not a glitch and it’s certainly not “Content neutral.”

It’s a quiet, calculated shift that disproportionately affects one community—without ever having to say so out loud, which is exactly why it works.

Because by the time most people realize what’s happening, it’s already too late to stop it.

If you know the name Ruger, you probably think of William B. Ruger—the engineer, the innovator, the driving force behind one of America’s most recognizable firearms companies.

But Ruger didn’t do it alone.

My latest piece for Guns Magazine takes a closer look at the man most people overlook: Alexander McCormick Sturm.

👉 Read the full article here:
https://gunsmagazine.com/our-experts/guns-insider/other-guy-at-ruger-alexander-sturm/

More Than Just “The Money Guy”

It’s easy to reduce Sturm to a footnote—the wealthy backer who made Ruger’s vision possible. And yes, he did put up the original capital that launched the company in 1949.

But that’s not the whole story.

Sturm wasn’t an engineer. He was something rarer in the gun world: an artist, writer, and brand builder. He designed the iconic eagle logo that still defines Ruger today and helped shape the company’s identity from day one.

That matters more than people think.

Because companies don’t just succeed on engineering—they succeed on vision, presentation, and belief.

A Short Life, A Lasting Impact

Sturm’s story is also a reminder of how fragile success can be.

He died in 1951 at just 28 years old, just as the company was beginning to take off.

And yet, his fingerprints are still all over Ruger—from the branding to the early messaging to the partnership that made it all possible.

Even the company name itself ensures he’s never completely forgotten.

Why I Wrote This

I wrote this article because too many stories in the firearms world get simplified down to a single “hero.”

Real history doesn’t work that way.

Behind almost every success story is a second figure—the one who believed in the idea early, funded it, shaped it, or made it real in ways that don’t show up in product specs.

Sturm is one of those figures.

Takeaway

If you’re building something—whether it’s a company, a podcast, or a personal brand—this story should hit home:

• You don’t have to be the technical expert

• You don’t have to be the loudest voice

• But you do have to bring something essential to the table

Sturm did exactly that.

And Ruger wouldn’t exist without him.

If you give it a read, I’d appreciate your thoughts.

Every now and then, something happens in the firearms industry that makes you stop and say, “Wait… we don’t do that here.”

That’s exactly what’s unfolding right now between Beretta and Ruger.

I recently wrote a deeper dive into this unfolding situation for Guns Magazine, breaking down what’s happening between Beretta and Ruger—and why it matters beyond the headlines.

If you haven’t been following it closely, here’s the short version: Beretta quietly built a significant stake in Ruger—enough to get attention—and then started pushing for influence. Ruger didn’t take it lightly. What might have stayed behind closed doors in most industries has instead spilled out into public view, complete with accusations, press releases, and the early signs of a proxy fight.

That alone is unusual. The gun industry has long operated more like a fraternity than a battlefield—competitive, sure, but rarely openly hostile. Disagreements tend to stay private. Companies don’t typically air grievances in public, and they definitely don’t posture like this.

So why now?

Because the ground is shifting.

Ruger, like much of the industry, is coming off the high of pandemic-era demand and facing a much tougher market. Sales have cooled. Growth isn’t guaranteed. And when that happens, investors—and competitors—start asking harder questions.

Beretta sees opportunity in that. Whether you view their move as strategic, opportunistic, or outright aggressive probably depends on where you sit. But one thing is clear: this isn’t a passive investment. It’s an attempt to shape the future of a competitor.

And that’s the bigger story.

This isn’t just about Beretta vs. Ruger. It’s about what happens when an industry that’s traditionally insular starts behaving like every other modern corporate sector—where shareholder activism, consolidation, and power plays are part of the landscape.

If this continues—and I think it will—you can expect more of it:

• More scrutiny of leadership and performance

• More outside pressure from investors

• And fewer of the old, unwritten rules about keeping things “in the family”

That’s a fundamental shift.

The firearms industry has always been a little different. Slower to change. More relationship-driven. Less willing to air internal conflict.

This situation suggests those days may be ending.

And if that’s true, what we’re watching right now isn’t just a dispute.

It’s a preview.

If you want the full breakdown of what’s happening—and why it matters beyond the headlines—you can read my original piece here:
https://gunsmagazine.com/our-experts/guns-insider/beretta-battles-ruger/

Suddenly, one stopped me cold: it was for “electromagnetic blocking hunting clothes.”

Naturally, I clicked.

Dubious Concept

I’m not going to name the company because—spoiler alert—I think the whole concept is pure snake oil and I’d rather not spend the rest of my life answering emails from lawyers. But if the ad showed up in my feed, there’s a decent chance you’ve seen it too.

The premise goes something like this: the human body emits tiny electromagnetic signals. According to the ad copy, big game animals are sensitive to those emissions. Therefore, if you wear their proprietary garments—made with some sort of mysterious techno-fibers that supposedly block your electromagnetic “signature”—animals won’t detect you.

The implication is that deer, elk, and whatever else you’re chasing will stroll right up and practically feed out of your hand, or something like that.

Now let’s slow down for a moment and consider a few inconvenient facts.

First, yes—the human body does emit extremely small electrical signals. But they’re incredibly minute. In most cases they can only be measured with laboratory equipment that’s physically attached to your body.

We’re talking about signals so weak they require medical instruments.

Second, there are animals that can detect electrical fields. Sharks, for example, famously use specialized organs called the ampullae of Lorenzini to sense the tiny electrical impulses produced by prey animals.

But sharks live in saltwater, which is a fantastic conductor of electricity.

Whitetail deer do not.

Missing Evidence

I’ve searched around and found no credible scientific literature suggesting that mammals—particularly terrestrial ones—are detecting human bioelectric emissions while walking around in the woods.

Which brings us to the practical test: real life.

Because if deer could sense your electrical aura from across the woods, I can think of at least one morning where they should have vacated to the next county over.

Years ago I was sitting at the base of a tree in the dark waiting for turkeys to wake up. It was one of those quiet, still spring mornings where the woods haven’t quite decided whether they’re ready to start the day.

I wasn’t scent-controlled. Not even a little because turkey hunters generally aren’t nearly as obsessive about scent as deer hunters, and I had likely been drinking coffee, sweating on the hike in, and generally smelling like a human being.

Then I heard footsteps. Two does walked in and started feeding. They kept getting closer.

And closer.

Eventually they were within five feet of me.

Five feet.

I could hear them breathing.

At that point I’ll admit I became a little nervous—not because I thought they’d detect my electromagnetic signature, but because two sets of sharp deer hooves could absolutely rearrange my otherwise flawless profile if they spooked.

Fortunately, they fed around me for a bit and eventually wandered off. No panic. No alarm snorts. No reaction whatsoever.

If deer can detect human electrical emissions, those two clearly skipped that day in deer school.

Stand Still, Laddie

In forty years of big-game hunting, I’ve learned a few things about why animals spook. Number one, by a wide margin, is movement.

Humans are terrible at staying still. Modern humans might be even worse. Between fidgeting, checking phones, shifting positions, and generally being uncomfortable, we move far more than we realize.

Animals notice that.

The second big factor is scent. If the wind betrays you, the game is over long before you ever see the animal.

But if you remain completely stock-still and the wind is in your favor, an amazing thing happens.

Animals just do their thing.

They walk past you.

They feed nearby.

Sometimes they get uncomfortably close.

None of that requires special electromagnetic underwear, which brings me back to the Facebook ad.

Hunting companies have been inventing clever ways to separate hunters from their money for a long time. Some innovations are legitimate. Some are incremental improvements. Some are mostly marketing. And, occasionally, something comes along that makes you pause and think, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Electromagnetic-blocking hunting clothes fall squarely into that last category.

If you want to improve your odds in the woods, here’s a radical suggestion:

Sit still.
Watch the wind.
Pay attention.

Those three things will do far more for your hunting success than any space-age fabric ever will—and they’re still free.