‘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.  Matt from Seattle describes the versatility of his Padded Computer Bag.

There’s not much that can be said about this bag that hasn’t already been stated. This is my go to bag. I use it for work Monday through Friday, but it doesn’t leave my side when I leave for the weekend. I wear a suit and tie to work and I don’t look out of place one bit when I walk into a meeting with this bag! A tried and true Filson product just has that affect. Whether you’re on a construction site or in a boardroom, it says ‘I mean business.’

Filson and Apolis pooled resources to create the Philanthropist Briefcase.  Here’s a behind the scenes look at the development of this unique product.  Below, an excerpt from the Apolis article, read the whole story at Apolis.

“Our Uganda Project is a microeconomic program employing formerly displaced Ugandans in the rebuilding of the once-strong Ugandan cotton business. The result is a 17.5 oz organic cotton canvas that was grown, milled, woven and dyed in Uganda. Every 100 units of the Philanthropist Briefcase utilizes the entire annual yield of cotton for one Ugandan farmer.

With over a thousand units handcrafted in Seattle by Filson’s team the Philanthropist Briefcase is a great story of two worlds being connected and how true it is that we might as well have the best!”

The winter months had been rough.  Dark days veil the distance and wet wind pierces marrow.  The city skyscrapers hide among low clouds, mountains drown, windshields streak and stain with light played through endless precipitation.

Those days, one can’t help but wonder.

Thoughts of spring shoot up like dandelions, wild-eyed and full of promise.  In the Northwest, the first signs of warmth shatter cocoons and stagnant lakes ripple and teem with life once again.  On one of the first beautiful days this year, the Filson team took to the highway with a car full of shooting vests, shotguns, and shells, and returned with endless appreciation for this new season.

‘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.  David C., an over-road trucker with 22 years of experience, wrote us regarding his Filson jacket which has faithfully served him for over 2 million miles of travel.

I hope you can repair this old friend of mine.  I’m a trucker working with Werner out of Omaha, Nebraska.  I’m at 2.9 million accident free miles, and 2 million of these miles have been with this jacket.  It’s been in blizzards, chaining up trucks, working in -10 degrees or below.  Been in winds in Arizona, rains throughout South Florida and Louisiana,  dust storms — you name it.  It’s been through every state in the lower 48 and in Canada.

This coat has never seen a hanger.  It’s just been wadded up and thrown on the floor, on seats, or on bunks.  I even washed it a few times before I found out you weren’t supposed to.

The jacket’s been through hell and back.  Thrown off flat beds, hit with hail, flood waters, snow, ice, winds, for over 2 million miles.  I would like to get it repaired, so it’ll be with me when — Good Lord protect me — I make 3 million accident free miles.

I bought this jacket at a store in South Dakota which was going out of business in the 1990′s, I’d never heard of Filson.  I saw the jacket, and being his last day in business, the owner gave a me a good discount so I said ‘why not?’  It didn’t impress me initially, out on the road you go through coats like crazy, and I was hoping it’d last a season.  Man was I wrong!  It’s lasted me almost 20 years of everyday use.

This jacket is an old friend, hope you can patch it up.  If you knew all the miles, and things this jacket has been through, you would understand how it became an old friend.  Don’t care about looks, as long as you can fix the jacket with patches, sewing, whatever you need to do.

Rest assured, David’s jacket is being returned to him after a thorough inspection.  While unfit for repairs, Filson is replacing the jacket free of charge. 

Tyler Sharp is a documentary photographer, writer, and filmmaker based out of Dallas, Texas. Traveling extensively on assignment, he has filmed and photographed a myriad of cultures and landscapes, and slept under the stars in some of the most remote regions of the world.  Spend 6,000 miles in the saddle with Tyler as he details a cross-country motorcycle trip.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the idea of the great American motorcycle trip. With a mixture of adventure, freedom, and danger, there’s something ruggedly romantic about the concept of jumping on a motorcycle, and taking off on some forgotten country roads, cameras and camping gear in tow. And following the purchase of my first motorcycle last winter, I did just that. I planned a route, made some arrangements, and ripped out of town on my dream machine. I call her Night Wing.

Over the course of 4 weeks, I rode through 10 states, and clocked 6,000 miles in the saddle. Setting off from my home state of Texas, I rode east through Arkansas, and into Tennessee and Virginia. The rolling hills of the south were by far some of the most beautiful terrain, as the lush and fertile landscape stretched north up through the Smoky Mountains into the Shenandoah Valley. Cruising up the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia was breathtaking, and I had to stop on several occasions to let black bear or deer cross the road.

Rain was a factor during the first week of the trip, as I got caught in several storms, and had to pull over to stay dry (somewhat). Even with rain gear on, riding a motorcycle in a downpour is not a good idea. But as the storms passed, and the sun would set, the moisture of Tennessee and Virginia would take to the air. Despite it being summer, it was surprisingly cold riding at night. I would put on my mackinaw wool vest and the whipcord jacket over it to keep some warmth, and block the frigid evening air. I camped along the way, stopping at National Parks & Forests, having just enough energy each night to set up camp, and exhaustedly crawl into my tent for a seemingly dreamless sleep. Breaking down camp, loading and unloading the bike became harder each day, as the miles, weather, and solitude began to wear on me.

Pressing on, I wound my way through the forests of Western Pennsylvania, intersecting the Appalachian Trail at several points. I befriended the owner of a small historic hotel in a tiny town called Carsonville, who let me camp on the back lawn under a giant white oak tree. Given that a large portion of the surrounding area was public hunting land, I was glad to set up camp in a known safe zone.  From there I pushed to upstate New York, where a group of 35 other photographers awaited at an annual creative retreat called Phoot Camp. It was refreshing to spend a week in the woods with my friends exploring, taking photographs, writing, and preparing for our gallery show in New York City shortly after.

I stayed in New York City for two weeks, exploring the streets, shooting film, and meeting up with friends. The medium field bag is a mainstay in my Filson armada, as I am able to fit my SLR, several lenses, a Polaroid camera, my trusty Contax G2, some film, several journals, and a pair of sunglasses all in that modestly sized, and rugged carry all. It also fits nicely on the saddlebags of my bike, so that I could get to the cameras quickly whenever I rode upon a vista, saw a character in the streets, or spotted a black bear meandering across a rural road.

Reaching my point of metropolis saturation, I headed back to Texas, crushing the 1,400 miles to Dallas in three days. I was home for 48 hours to rest, re-pack, and gather attire to celebrate America’s birthday. Joining forces with my Dad, we rode through West Texas into New Mexico, stopping in Santa Fe and Taos to photograph and explore. Carrying ideal riding weather with us, we eased into Colorado to the Rocky Mountain National Forest, where his best friend hand-built the log cabin of his dreams. As we celebrated the 4^th of July, I had time to reflect on the fact that I had just ridden through a fifth of the states in our great country, and seen some of the best America has to offer. There are few places in the world where you can ride uninterrupted for that long, and experience such a diversity of landscapes, altitudes, and climes.

Being on a bike forces you to experience the landscapes you are encountering on a physical level, feeling each change of weather in your bones.  You are not just viewing the passing landscapes through a window, but riding openly through the very heart of them. I will never forget the scents of that trip; the earthy smell of fresh rain on green grass in Tennessee and Virginia, the cool, clean forest air of Western Pennsylvania, the arid juniper scrub deserts in New Mexico, the crisp pine laden breezes in the Rockies, and the methane stench of cattle farms in the Texas panhandle. They are all seared into my olfactory memory, which is the strongest of all our recollections, and it’s not likely they’ll fade anytime soon.

And as the motorcycle remains my main mode of transportation, I do my best to enjoy the open-air everyday in my comings and goings. But there is much less magic in city riding; with traffic jams, oblivious motorists on cell phones, and where intermittent weather is less of an adventure, and more of an inconvenience. Motorcycles were made to be out in the open, moving freely, unhindered by the congestion of urban roads and this is clear to anyone who has taken a distanced trip as I have. Knowing this, there is a constant pull in my soul to just tear out of town, take the back roads, and leave everyone else behind. And I still frequently do. Not necessarily to get anywhere, or to find anything, but just to ride. To borrow wisdom from a classic novel, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.” And so I travel, and Filson goes with me.

By David S. Lewis
Executive Editor, (614) Magazine

Funny thing about hunting, sometimes you know exactly what’s happening, and that what’s happening is working.  Assuming all things go properly, something delicious is going to die, and you’re going to get to eat it.

Other times, it is spring turkey season, and you and your bud will sit in a strange wooden shack in the middle of the forest and use various devices to squawk and scream at each other for what is probably no real reason at all.

My pal and hunting buddy, Andy, lives on a rural southeastern Ohio tree farm. Deer are in hog heaven here for 50 weeks of the year – and hogs love it, too.

Similarly, wild turkeys are abundant in Vinton County and on his farm every moment of the year – except, of course, the two weeks or so when they become the most interesting to everyone.

Andy had just bought his box call a day before the season opened. In the cabin, he’s fluent in Turkese.  As soon as we get to the blind, however, everything breaks down.  The noises emitted from that $12 chalkless hellbox are deafening, at least a hundred times louder than any turkey born after the Second Ice Age.  Sometimes it creaks like a barn door plugged into a Marshall stack; others it shrieks like Rhodan from the old Godzilla movies.

At no point does it sound remotely like a lady turkey, however.

I don’t do much better.  At one point a farmer’s turkey hears my gurgling, and hollers back half-heartedly.  We made small talk for nearly an hour, him gobbling a response to every flaccid rattle I produce.  I assume now that he knew the deal, in which I was trying real hard and he just chose to play along for my confidence’s sake.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have him quite so well ID’d: I grew increasingly excited and impressed with myself, waiting for him to stampede my location, until I realized that he wasn’t the turkey I was looking for.  (I later learned that the little jerk was trained to poop in a litter box.  Clever girl…)

The hours crawl by the days when you’re out in the woods, and I soon realized that I had only one day left.  Some friends on motorcycles had come by and ruined an entire day of hunting, and proceeded to make up for it with some poker and good whiskey.  Before long, I realized that I had one of two options: wake up in two hours, or make my way out to the blind now and pass the night there. It was raining, and I knew that any birds still in the woods would be interested in digging up some worms in the morning, so I hiked out around 2:30 a.m., en route to a turkey blind I would never find.

Andy’s property has been in his family since his grandfather, a Kentucky coal miner, picked it up in the early seventies, as the lay of the land reminded him of the central Kentucky steep hills and long wooded hollers of his youth.  Around 80 acres of land, most of it is either up or down hill.  I headed towards the very back of the farm where I knew the blind to be, wearing only a light jacket and Filson packer hat, as I had left my sleeping bag in the blind.  It was cool, especially with the pouring rain, but I knew I would soon be snug and the possibility of waking up to a randy gobbler was very real; the pines had shown the most promising sign, scratches everywhere and the telltale parallel lines on the dirt trail, the wingtip drags that tell you a dominant tom has been strutting.

My anticipation for the morning’s evaporated in an instant as the battery in the flashlight died and I was thrown into overcast darkness.

I had already been hiking for an hour, and with the clouds over head, there was absolutely no light available.  I stumbled off the trail, and while I could normally have oriented myself somewhat by the sound of the nearby creek rushing with water, the rain cascading down every hill was far too loud for that.  I knew I was in the area…but where was the blind? Frustrated, I finally found a tree to climb, and made my way into the crook of two branches coming out of the main trunk.  My muscles were screaming from three days of hiking, and — apart from my head which Filson’s shelter cloth had kept entirely dry — I was soaking wet.  But, at least I would be near the pines in the morning.  At least I’ll get in a good early hunt was my final thought before I succumbed to whiskey and exhaustion, and amazingly fell sound asleep as the rain fell heavily through the young leaves.

Also amazingly, I woke well after the sun was up; in fact, my jacket had mostly dried off.  Not as amazingly: I was nowhere near the pines I thought I had been hiking through.  I was nowhere near the blind.  And I was nowhere near any damn turkeys.

At least my head was dry.  One more weekend, turkey devils.  I’ve still got one more weekend.

Mikaela Cowles is a freelance writer at Making Language Count. A food gobbling, book devouring, travel loving girl, she helps individuals and business tell stories on the web and in print. Currently you can find her at Kenmore Air, where she details her many seaplane adventures.

Sometimes I just itch to get beyond the city, to leave the highways and the skyscrapers for places where life is slower and please and thank you are commonplace. As nice as it is to tailgate for a Sounders game or watch Felix pitch at Safeco, what I often really want is a place where a friendly nod earns you a smile. I want that small town feel, full of good food and even better scenery.

Perhaps this is why I am so smitten with the San Juan Islands. After all, these are the communities where if you don’t wave, you aren’t from there. Before Kenmore Air, getting to the San Juans was a chore. The thought of ferry lines and traffic often kept me home. Discovering the trip could be made in roughly 40 minutes changed the ballgame.

These are three of my favorite San Juan Islands flyaway activities, out where the salt water twists and the Olympic Mountains line the horizon. I hope you too enjoy them:

Whale Watching
There are few things as breathtaking as a whale breaching out of the water. The massive size alone is impossible to capture with a camera. While watching these beautiful creatures is often the highlight of any trip to the San Juan Islands, listening to them talk to one another is astounding. Most whale watching guides equip their boats with a submersible hydrophone, allowing you to hear the whales vocalize and echolocate beneath the surface.

Hiking
With an average 245 days of sunshine, hiking in the San Juans will never be a drizzling bore. The vast number of public parks offer your pick of high elevation gain treks, gentle shoreline strolls and a variety of ecosystems. Recently, nearly 1,000 acres of these stunning islands was proclaimed a national monument. Among the many hikes from which you can choose, I particularly enjoy Young Hill and Mount Finlayson, both located on San Juan Island.

Fresh and Local
I’m all for catching your own, but when you want a bite of local flavor right now, a fresh fish stand is the place to head. I like Friday Harbor Seafood on the main dock in Friday Harbor. They offer a year round selection of fresh fish and shellfish. I also enjoy Roche Harbor’s North Sound Seafood stand. This seasonal favorite specializes in shrimp, crab and smoked salmon.

P.S. Don’t think you’re limited to where your plane lands. The San Juan Islands Water Taxi operates between several of the larger islands, allowing you to easily island hop.

‘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.  Ralph from Switzerland discovered Filson products over 12 years ago and continues to rely on our product.

During my long travels throughout the United States in 2001, I came to know Filson products and it all started with the Highlander Boot.  An extensive fly fishing stop in Ennis, Montana lead me to buy a wading jacket, a fishing hat, a vest to store my flies, a bag to carry my fly fishing tackle and finally the trolley for travelling. The list of items is growing still. However, all items are still in excellent shape after heavy usage in good and bad weather conditions. All products are of true quality, style, and they please me each time when used or worn. For me, there is nothing else that can beat your endeavors in quality and style.

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.

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?