Brian Koch started Ultimate Upland in 2010 to be the most comprehensive resource for upland hunting enthusiasts. Since then it has grown into a community where bird hunters congregate and share their love for the sport. Koch strives to be the hardest working bird hunter in the country and aims to reach hunters and fans with detailed accounts of Ultimate Upland adventures.

Three decades ago my dad put a shotgun in my hands. We’d setup on the old farm hill with the hand trap and shoot clays until our shoulders were sore and cases of pigeons emptied. Then we’d go down in the pasture, pick up the unbroken clays, return them to the top of the hill and shoot some more. I’ve never had a professional shooting lesson but believe I’ve had the best shooting instruction available anywhere.

And a few years ago my nephew Zach began getting that same instruction on the same farm hill from the same man, his grandpa. The hand trap has been replaced by battery powered which is now towed up the slope with a lawn tractor. But the lessons are the same: be safe, shoot often, have fun, but listen and learn from a man who has put more rounds down range than most small armies. Needless to say, Zach has grown comfortable with a gun in hand.

As part of our Off-Season Odyssey I thought it would be interesting to pit pupil against pupil. As we drive cross country on Zach’s spring break we’ll stop whenever time allows to shoot sporting clays and hone the shotgunning skills sowed by my dad. After eight hours driving we get our first opportunity to stretch our legs and burn some powder at a clays course in Illinois.

Zach has sprouted into a young man. His reactions times will be faster, his vision better. He’s on the front end of life, the upswing. Whereas I’m fighting to stay on the right side of the hill, he’s coming of age. Needless to say, I have concerns. This is the first time I’ve had a shooting stick in hand since the close of wild bird hunting season. I don’t want to be outshot by my nephew. It’s too early for that. But the possibility is real.

It’s apparent these friendly shooting matches are just a microcosm of the purpose for this road trip. As much as I hope to broaden Zach’s horizons, there is also a growing desire to define my own legacy. There has to be something that an uncle can still offer, some nugget of experience, of expertise, that can still awe a teen. Maybe that’s besting him in sporting clays, exploring amazing new places or just driving infinite hours to stick to a self-imposed itinerary on a road trip few would attempt in this timeframe.

After the first couple shooting stations, I’m grateful some of the symptoms of youth are still at hand: small lapses in focus, and a reluctance to try the proven path. It’s these things which keep me at a small shooting advantage. But there is also foreshadowing of rounds to come – stations where my nephew whips me handily and forces me to lug the dreaded shooting bag to the next. Each round of sporting clays we shoot, the margin of victory is tight, but more importantly we both improve our own scores.

Whether it’s shooting at the foot of the Rockies, off-roading at Big Horn Canyon, peering over the rim of Crater Lake or bouldering at Devil’s Tower, I find comfort in remaining relevant. And watching Zach grow up seems less a threat than a privilege.

We complete the 6,900 mile Off-Season Odyssey loop returning to the exact same sporting clays course where it kicked off ten days earlier. A legacy of shooting that began over 30 years ago with my dad’s passion for the shooting sports has come full circle as well. What Zach will do with his love of the outdoors and shotgunning is up to him. But I expect he’ll pass it along in his own way and own time and the legacy will continue. And one day, hopefully in the very distant future, he may actually be able to best his uncle’s score.

So what’s an angler to do when the winter wind blows and the water temps chill you to the bone?  Yes, there are steelhead to chase.  And if you don’t mind standing in a cold river all day, knowing you might never hook, much less land, a fish, then be my guest.  But what if your body just aches for some warmth and some sunlight?  Then you find an excuse to take the family to the Bahamas.

My mother-in-law’s 80^th birthday was a fine excuse.   And Long Island, one of the “out” islands in the Bahamas, was the perfect place to spend a long week.  I’ve visited more than a half-dozen islands in the Bahamas, and I have to say Long Island is one of my favorite islands simply because it offers so many ways to spend a day in the sun.  Our family consisted of three serious anglers and three non-anglers.

Long Island is the ideal place to stalk some bonefish, cast to small tarpon or strap on some hiking boots and hike to the Columbus Monument on the north end of the island.  Then, there are those deserted beaches to comb, collect shells and snorkel, or perhaps you would just like to lie by the pool, drink a Kalik beer and read a novel.

The locals are open-hearted and friendly and the food is good ol’ Bahamian down home cooking.  This must read like an advertisement and that’s really not my intention.  Next time I go to Long Island, I’d love have it all to myself.  But if you do go, my favorite place to stay is Winter Haven, in Clarence Town. A rental car may be included in the room rate, which allows you to travel from one end of the island to the other.  On your way to Sheep Beach, don’t forget to stop by the Goat Pond Bar and say hello to Suzanne for me.

After four years of constant use, intrepid excursions around the world, and endless encounters with the bottom of truck beds, duffle bags, and carry-ons, this trucker jacket speaks for itself.  Displayed next to a brand-new trucker — fresh from the factory floor — the beauty and character of age is made distinct and compelling.  The oil finish cracked and patterned, the moleskin collar softened and lightened in color, the buttons brazen and fatigued; all reminders of the memories made while worn.  From the Great Wall of China to the rocky wind-torn shores of Washington, the Oil Finish Trucker Jacket yearns for more.

This Saturday marks Fishing’s Opening Day in Vermont. As the day of reckoning for countless unsuspecting trout draws near, New York City writer, editor and veteran angler David Coggins weighs in on a day he’s had marked on his calendar since fishing season ended last October.

Serious anglers are known for a sense of imagination that borders on exaggeration, and, just as often, for salty personalities. But in fact, they’re improbable optimists. At the root of every cast is an act of possibility, one more chance, as the late great Robert Hughes wrote “for a jerk on one end to feel a jerk on the other.” As opening day arrives, that time is at hand.

That in April many rivers aren’t at ideal water levels just underscores the fact that it’s a time when it really is about “being out there” (a phrase usually trotted out when leaving the river empty-handed).

Like another rite of spring, the beginning of the baseball season, the angler is overwhelmed with what the season might bring, the fishing equivalent of your team winning the World Series.

You get your waders out of storage, you might put on your lucky shirt, you fit together your rod with care and a sense of occasion. Out on the river there may not be a hatch, but those who loathe nymphing (you know who you are) may even toss in a bead-head Prince nymph without complaint. It’s a day for open-mindedness, for the slow pace, for the long view.

That time you tipped over the canoe? Let’s not think about that. What about when you lost a big, really a mammoth, brown trout on the Madison? Again, not the time to dwell.The pursuit of fish humbles us all. So on this fine day, disregard the frigid water, enter the river and cast your line. After all, anything’s possible.

George Barnett’s Polaroid photographs recount tales as timeless and storied as the woods themselves.  At only 20 years old, the Kentucky native offers furtive glimpses of not only the mystery found in nature, but also the inherent maturity.  Over the last 6 years of captured memories, Filson has become George’s weathered travel partner; a central subject in his work as well as his means of toting cameras and equipment.  Follow George on a trip through Antigua, Guatemala.

“The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure.” - Chris McCandless

Traveling is a very important thing in my life, and is essential to my photography. Documenting places I go and people I meet all go hand in hand with my vision. This adventure was a week long visit to Guatemala, a beautiful place with so much to see.  Whether it’s the active volcanoes puffing out ash or the local women making textile blankets. Everywhere you look, there’s something unique happening.

I usually left the house with the Filson small field bag with one camera, one pack of film, a wad of cash and my passport, hoping to find something special to capture. The landscapes were surreal and endless, the lakes were wide and blue, and the volcanoes scraped the skies.

As I began to take these pictures and stuff them in my bag, I realized how amazing this place was and how blessed I was to be there and exist in that moment. Every day when I arrived home, I’d spread the photos from that day out on my table and would instantly reminisce on the memories made that day. So many great humbling things happened that week in Guatemala. Realizing that some people — including myself — take so much for granted, if we don’t have an internet connection or a new pair of shoes we act like our lives are ending. Yet I see these families, these young kids who had close to nothing and they all shared one of the most hospitable personalities and huge smiles. It was refreshing to experience this.

On the last day of the trip was the much anticipated hike up on the Pacaya Volcano. It’s a six mile round trip consisting of very steep terrain left by dried lava rock and piles of ash. The walk was a bit of a challenge and it felt at times as if we were walking on a different planet. Eventually, we made it up to our destination which was in itself an unbelievable sight, 2,500 feet above sea level. The overload of sight and sound from the volcano sent chills down my arms. The trip was ending, time to pack up the duffle with handmade blankets and some of the freshest coffee in the world, and head home.  The trip was an eye opener, and I gained an incredible appreciation for the people and places of Guatemala.  I was honored to capture it with my camera.

Where will my bag of cameras take me next?

Words and photos by Judith O’Keefe

The weather was dreary, a typical March day on the North Umpqua River.  A friend and I made the five hour drive over the mountains to meet up with John, a well known author, fly tier, longtime friend and — most importantly — frequent visitor to this legendary and challenging river.

John was a gracious host that morning, leading us to some of the easier runs, offering tips and allowing us to fish the run ahead of him.   We saw one fish roll late morning, but no one hooked up. The climate on the west side of the mountains is known to be wet, but by noon it had begun to rain in earnest, so we decided to take a break and pay a visit to John’s good friends, Frank and Jeanne Moore.

I’d met Frank and Jeanne in 2002 at a sport show and, at that time, Frank had extended an invitation to visit their home and fish with him on the Umpqua.  I was flattered by the invitation and eager to spend some time with these two, but had never found the time to make the drive over.  I didn’t know much about Frank back then, other than he was known as a “living legend.”  That title is thrown around loosely these days, but I was to learn that Frank Moore had earned it through his skill as a fly fisher, his willingness to mentor others and his successful and ongoing conservation efforts.

The Moores’ log home sat perched on a ridge above the river.  When we arrived, Frank was outside chatting with friends who were fishing a forest pond in front of the house.  The six of us stood around for 10 minutes talking about fish and fishing and the rising river.  Apparently, those west side folks are used to getting wet and didn’t seem to notice the rain.  Frank asked if we’d eaten lunch and when we said we had not, he invited us in to sample Jeanne’s grilled cheese sandwiches. Besides, he had a couple of old photographs of the river he wanted to show us that would help to illustrate a story he was telling.   A hot meal sounded perfect and I was interested in hearing the rest of the story.

As we peeled off our saturated outerwear and waders on the front porch, I eagerly anticipated a warm room and hot food, but I was unprepared for what I experienced when I walked through the door.  Steam rose from the kettle on the wood cook stove as Jeanne stood with her back to us, spreading butter on bread.  The walls of the great-room were filled with mementos, beautifully framed photographs and artwork.  I imagined that each had a story to tell.   I was right.  Three hours flew by as we talked about the past and the present.  I learned a lot about the Moores, who recently celebrated their seventieth wedding anniversary.   Frank grew up fishing in southern Oregon and, after the war, he and his bride moved to the North Umpqua to run the legendary Steamboat Inn and raise a family on the river.   Not only were the ensuing years filled with creating a world-renowned destination, but Frank also spent considerable time and effort that resulted in regulations that curbed the effects of logging on the river and surrounding environment.   At age 90, I’m told that Frank can still out-cast most fly fisherman, with casts that reach 100 feet when the need arises.  I’ve heard Frank called a Spiritual Father, Grand Old Man of the River, The Great Frank Moore, and yes, a Living Legend.  Indeed!

While stories of an adventurous life spent on the river were truly awe inspiring, Frank’s sincere appreciation of the natural world is what really impressed me.  We all fish and spend time outdoors for our different reasons.  If I were asked to sum up my reasons in one word, that word would be “connection.”  So I understand why Frank and Jeanne chose to spend their life on the beautiful and remote Umpqua River, and I deeply appreciate their willingness to open their home and their lives to fellow fly fishers.  My life is richer for the experience.

‘In Your Words’ explores the incredible stories we’ve received from Filson fans across the globe.  Send us your own experiences with our clothing or product here for a chance to be featured on the Filson Life blog.  Scott, a photographer from Texas, spent time in the snow in New Hampshire and shot these photos of his Filson Briefcase for us.  

I’m sure the title submitted for this story will be my daughters’ title one day because my briefcase is most likely going to outlive me.

I’m very fond of my Filson Briefcase.  It feels like something my father would have owned and that makes me like it even more.  I was in New Hampshire earlier in the year for work and it snowed 30″ in one night!  I have never seen so much snow!  To mark the occasion, I decided I would pretend I was on assignment with Filson.  Here’s a few frames for all the bag lovers out there.  If you’re not a bag lover I’m sure you know one who is so share!

Thanks for making great products,

A Happy Filson Customer,
Scott

Maine-based Rhon Bell of Backwoods Plaid, details how to best prepare for those temperamental Spring camping trips.  Rain or shine, you’ll be ready.

Your destination may be an old family camp or possibly you’re roughing it in the backcountry. Either way, you’re hopefully far enough from the bustling city so every element of light pollution is filtered from the evening sky. As you lay back  in the dirt against your duffle and point up to the constellations, the chill of Spring nightfall has you zipping up your jacket just a bit more and standing up your collar to cut the breeze. This time of year can be a challenge to pack for. Mornings can be bitterly cold, depending on your location.  Short-sleeves might suffice while working in the afternoons, but as that sun begins to find it’s resting place on the horizon line, you’re reaching back into your truck for your Field Jacket. I’ve found that Filson gear below provides true comfort in between the melting winter snow and the rising summer sun.

1.  Antique Tin Cloth 5 Pocket Pants: A relatively new offering that lives up to the Filson name – tough, cool, comfortable and good-looking. The Antique Tin Cloth offers wind and moderate rain protection while outdoors. Strong enough to resist abrasions in the thick of the woods by day and presentable at night for dinner around the fire pit, or at the local watering hole.

2.  Alaskan Long Johns, Midweight: Layering this “three-season” pair of long johns with the Antique Tin Cloth pants has always been perfect. When temperatures change, you’ll always be glad you layered rather than having opted for one heavier pair of pants. In fact, friends often find me kicking around camp in the long johns alone.

3.  Alaskan Guide Shirt: By far this ranks as my favorite outdoor shirt from any company. Dirt wipes right off, it’s tough as nails while remaining supremely comfortable. I like to pack a fresh one for each day I’m at camp, but I’ll admit to wearing one for more than a couple days straight while on canoe trips. If you get warm, the cut is loose enough to roll up the sleeves and unbutton the shirt to manage your body temperature while staying protected from the elements.

4.  Mackinaw Blanket: Wool is an option you can hardly ever go wrong with. Plaid is a close second. Feeling rustic? Keep the sleeping bag at home. The Mackinaw blanket will be the warmest option, whether tossed over your shoulders by the evening fire or cot at camp.

5.  Tin Cloth Field Jacket: Stands up to anything, whether splitting and hauling fire wood or the winds and rain while motoring down a large lake to find your favorite fishing spot. Several large pockets keep your essentials at hand. One roomy rear pocket holds your map. The partially lined, Made in USA jacket is perfect for every Spring outing.

6.  Large Filson Duffle: Enough room for days of clothing, food, blanket and boots with plenty of left over room for essentials that make your trip worth remembering, like a good camera, flask (or two), an atlas, and a favorite book. The quality craftsmanship of the bridle leather, stitching, brass zippers and rugged twill will never disappoint – year after year… after year. Because if you’re going into the wild – you “Might As Well Have The Best.”

Justin Chatwin is a Canadian actor with the heart of an American adventurer.  He took time off from the set of Shameless and embarked on a Southwestern road trip with little more than a motorcycle, a good friend, some Filson and a pair of long johns. Below, his road letter from north of the border…

Dear Filson,

Thank you for defining and redefining the Adventurous American man. Not only do I wear your jacket and carry your duffel, but I have also slept, swam, and rolled in the dirt of east Texas in your jacket. And your garment gets even better looking.

Filson is strictly for the man who’s okay with wearing the same thing for 10 days straight.  We did four.

My friend and I, ruffians at heart, threw some long johns and baby powder (don’t ask) into our Filson rucksacks, saddled up on our metal steeds (named Charlie Crowe and Bobby Valentine) to cover 1,800 miles in 3 days. In our matching trucker jackets, we set forth from LA on highway 8 to Tuscon, AZ. Within 4 hours,  we had passed black smoke burning from bizarre Salton Sea canyons, my rear light had melted off from the heat, and my friend had baby barfed in his helmet.  We were free at last.  God’s Country. The western States border run.

The next day and 600 miles later, we awoke from the grueling ride feeling more like we had spent the night in Tucson prison rather than the Congress hotel.  And so began to charge across America playing outlaw in our heads with Charlie and Bobby as we rode through golden fields and the historical towns of Tombstone, AZ (Don’t stop, justrent the movie) and Bisbee, AZ (stop there, no movie, and it’s the best town in AZ). We passed through the site where Geronimo surrendered and into Mexican Border Patrol territory.  We hung a right onto a little road called HWY 9 near the New Mexico border to get gas. A little woman was closing the gas station:

“What you boys doing on this road?”
“Just getting some gas”
“Glad you caught me because we close early here.”

It was 4:45.

“Nothing but trouble on this road boys.”
“How far is it to El Paso?”
“Bout 3 hours.  Nothing but border patrol and drug cartels on this road after dusk”.

We sobered up from playing outlaw real quick at sundown in a little town called Columbus.  Not only was the town’s water tank matte black, but so was the Chevy Yukon with shiny rims that began to do laps around the block, eyeing both Charlie and Bobby.  We escaped out of there so fast, our bikes began to spit up oil.  Fear, the great motivator.  Hell Paso, the black stain of America.

The next day in Marfa a tiny cactus thorn and a flat tire set us back. But a goat farmer named Alan McLain and an old bearded Harley enthusiast named Moondog (need I say more) set us forward.  Two great men with a few missing teeth who are dedicating their later years to the service of others. Not only did they have a spare tube that fit Bobby Valentine’s tire, but we also got three cans of goat cheese, a lesson in changing a motorcycle tire, and a 45 minute ride in Moondog’s F-350 where he blasted his new Tiesto record.  Very unexpected.

Our last day, we took the advice of two Mexican Harley owners named Pedro by following the low road into Austin.  Although the flat slowed us down, a 30 mile patch out-running a highway patrol sped us up.  No need to say more.

On a four day trip from Los Angeles to Austin, I had one of my two waxed jackets, a couple long johns and a few pair of undies.  All in one small duffel.  We felt like we were truly living. Truly present.  Felt free.  Felt like men.   Outlaws on the run from nothing at all except our own personal responsibilities.

In the end, my girlfriend wouldn’t touch me with my jacket on because of the things I had caught in it along the way.  A jacket’s like a bike: Every trip, every tear, every dent has a story.

Nick barfed again this time for five minutes and this time from sheer exhaustion.  But we were alive as we rolled into South by Southwest and raved to Justin Timberlake till 5am.  Moondog would have been proud.

Filson’s a brand with history. American made, with a story, an adventure. Whether it’s fishing, camping, or motorcycling, Filson defines the American man for me. I’ve ran over my waxed Filson jacket with my motorcycle, slept on it in Africa, Denver, Alaska, and many strange women’s houses.  From the black smoke of the Salton Sea to the vast skies of Marfa and and the back seat of Moondog’s truck, Filson is along for the ride.

Sincerely,

Justin Chatwin

• Handkerchief (if you get stuck out in cold weather your nose will run like a faucet!)
• General purpose rag
• Hand Towel
• Emergency toilet paper
• Neck or Face scarf
• Tourniquet
• Bandage/Ace Bandage
• Patching material for torn clothing or backpacks
• Strainer for silty water
• Protection while grabbing hot pot handles
• Dish rag
• Bandanna (who would have thought?!)

A typical cotton bandanna only weighs an ounce, so for a small amount of weight, you get a lot of function. If you need to clean and re-use it, just rinse it in a stream, lake or river. To sterilize it or to remove grease, boil it in water for a couple of minutes and you’re ready to go.

Also, carry your bandanna in a zip lock bag or other waterproof container to keep it dry until needed.