Nov 9, 2024 5 min read

By Dave Bates

For the Observer-Reporter

As we entered Outback for dinner, a gentleman ahead of me in line stopped abruptly and stooped over in the aisle. Nearly rear ending him, I was confronted with an unexpected plumber’s butt. In addition to the waning full moon, his carry sidearm flopped out from underneath what should have been his cover garment. I side-stepped to avoid the impending muzzle sweep as well as the now-visible lunar surface.

He spun in the opposite direction and a large bowie knife on a dangling leather sheath whirled toward me from his off hip. I reeled a second time in retreat, wondering if Outback had become vastly more dangerous since our last visit.

As we made our way to the table, I scanned the terrain for what rabid Wallabee or Wombat might lay in wait. All of which caused me to give pause. Do I have enough knife? I looked down at my paltry 1.9 inch assisted open, tactical cutting tool and flushed red like an embarrassed schoolgirl. And me, without my Bowie knife.

Famed safari novelist, Robert Ruark, was fond of saying “Use enough gun.” While he was speaking primarily to dangerous game, I guess the same could apply to pocket knives? However, most of the daily chores of my pocket knife are reserved for opening packages, trimming strings from clothing, and trimming nails. If you’ve carried a penknife for any amount of time at all, you’ve probably gone through the various stages of bigger is better. Similar to hunting with sub-gauge shotguns, hunters tend to go with smaller bores over time. I guess the same could be said for everyday carry knives to a point. I have come full circle and reverted to my smaller roots.

As a lad of the 1970s, every dyed-in-the-wool southwestern Pennsylvania redneck carried a BIG folding Buck knife in a leather belt sheath. This was the perfect combination of large enough to fight off a battalion of Templar Knights but with the gentleman’s touch of being a folder knife. It was also on display in its leather scabbard, the quintessential badge of rural manhood. Noticeable for sure, it carried with it a degree of attitude for all the world to see.

I never had a sheath for mine and couldn’t have carried one to school or church or most any place without drawing undue attention, so I just carried my Boy Scout knife until I discovered better.

The next phase was the Barlow two-blade, like Dad carried. If it was good enough for him, then it was certainly good enough for me. One big blade for generalized cutting. A secondary blade kept sharp for detail work and especially splinter removal. Dad was a carpenter and always seemed to have a splinter to remove. Besides, Barlows were free. He would give me his discards when they were reaching the end of their useful shelf life. His looked like he sharpened it on a rock, which I believe he may have on occasion. His original knife lives in my desk and I use it as a letter opener from time to time. As one was lost another Uncle Henry or Case or Schrade or Buck multi-blade would take its place. I couldn’t count the number lost over the years.

Somewhere during the early 1990s, after earning a little disposable income, my quest for the perfect carry knife began. Lock-back folders were the order of the day. Spydercos and Smith & Wessons took the place of the three-bladed folding pocket knives of my youth. These were high-tech deals since they didn’t close on one’s fingers during a job.

Soon after came the flip knife or more properly, the “flick knife,” which was akin to a poor man’s switchblade. A thumb stud enabled the knife to be opened with a flick of the wrist. In most circles, at least those in which I hung out, it was considered “cool” to flick them open. With a little oil, some emery cloth and some practice, we got to be pretty good flickers. Albeit, some finger-tip skin was sacrificed in the name of cool.

These gave way to “assisted opening” knives. The assisted version was a step closer to being a legalized automatic knife and did offer a useful, one-handed operation, which was appreciated. Gone were the days of being unable to open my pocketknife because I chewed my finger nails and didn’t have enough nail to open the blade. How embarrassing. I still tend to live in the era of the assisted opener, much for the same reason.

While I’ve dabbled in the black arts of the switchblade, I was all too caught up in its illegalities to carry one on a regular basis. One of my former students bought me a really nice out-the-front automatic knife upon my graduation from the police academy. She came to me in class and said “I have a present for you, but mom and dad said I’m not allowed to bring it to school. You’ll have to come to the house to pick it up.” Coolest gift a kid ever gave me. Thanks, Kylie! Only in Greene County.

As I age, I am returning to my simplistic roots. My knives have reverted to their miniscule origins as my patience, experience and wisdom have grown. Well, the knives are smaller anyway.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com