A Genuine Filson: The Search is Over

In the world of “Made in China” where cheap goods lend themselves to our meager budgets, we often find ourselves buying up gear at a feverish pace. Each year we travel off to our favorite outdoor stores to gaze across the racks of endless goods. They are designed and made to attract comers of all sorts; those with a genuine interest in gathering up new gear and others who simply think that they cannot survive the coming seasons without the latest in creative camo. And I, like many others, have found it necessary to buy gear that may have been of questionable quality in times of monetary austerity. But more and more I have begun to realize that even in those times of financial hardship the notion that you “get what you pay for” never fails to ring true. It is precisely this reason that I have made it my mission as of late to not let me fiscal woes interfere with a lifetime of gear; not to let my immediate circumstances lead me into a cyclical pattern of accoutrement and accessory buying. As a result of my recent travels, from coast to coast, I have made this practice my mantra.

My most recent purchase saw its roots during my first few months in Oregon; a place and culture defined by its rugged nature and a region in which the cloths of both hunters and ranchers often personify that image. The hard work of raising cattle across the undulating sagebrush and the arduous task of finding blue grouse along the ridges of the Wallowas requires the gear to match. For those tasks, for that lifestyle, men and women find themselves in possession of garments that continue to stand up to the weather and abuse.

I remember the first time I saw a Filson jacket. James had just come down from his ranch and as he stepped out of his tattered Jeep I saw a jacket that mirrored the wear and tear. It looked strong, almost impenetrable, impervious to whatever the world could throw at it. I looked over it and admired what I clearly saw as a jacket for a lifetime. The creases and crevices that lined its sleeves and chest were rigged yet soft, sharp yet smooth. And then, several weeks later I would run into another friend who himself was wearing a jacket marked with “Filson”, the discolored and worn brown buttons showing its age. I was immediately attracted to both, no doubt realizing that these jackets were different, unique in some indefinable way.

When I began browsing Filson catalogs I was astonished at the variety and enthralled by the makers. I found wool jackets I wanted to own, slicks and pants I couldn’t live without and hunting gear I relished. However, abover all, there was one item in particular that promptly grabbed my attention. An item that I knew I had to have, that I knew would continue me on my hunting journey. The item, the piece of gear I pined over was their “Pro Guide Strap Vest”. It was the upland bird vest I had dreamed about as the one that would carry me forth into my years of bird hunting across the west. It was the one I knew would find itself soiled with the mud and rain of the Dakota grasslands and the Idaho shrub-steppe; the vest that would drape itself over my shoulders as I climbed above the Oregon heavens in search of chukar and as I pushed along Montana's stream banks in search of quail. It would follow me into the Minnesota tree thickets in pursuit of ruffed grouse and cling to me as I climbed Nevada’s rocky hilltops in my quest for partridge. It would be the vest that took me and the dog into our formative hunting years and as luck would have it, there are to be no more “coulds or woulds”, for there is now no more thinking on the matter. There is no more wishing and hoping and dreaming. This past week, throwing prudence aside, I used a chunk of my tax returns to purchase the vest and made the dream, a reality.

The vest is now securely in my house and sits in the corner after having gone for its first test run today. It’s still new, rigged from its construction. It needs time to mold itself, wear itself in and I adamantly plan on helping it along the way. It’s a heavy material, ready for all the world can throw at it. But although I am happy to finally have this vest in my possession, as it sits here under the dim ceiling light I reflect on the first bird vest that was ever given to me. It was a gift from my mother and it served its purpose with my utmost gratitude. It followed me through two and a half bird seasons, the bag filled with birds large and small, blood flecks finding themselves littered across the pockets. From here I can see the Oregon dirt smeared across the back reminding me of the days sitting high up above Keating Valley looking out towards the Eagle Caps. I would often run the sagebrush with the dog for much of the afternoon but at some point, wanting to look back and gaze upon the most beautiful place I have ever known, I would sit down and rest in silence. The days when that stillness was accompanied by the heft of birds in my bag was all the better. It was a great vest for a great time.

But now I move on to a new era, a new phase in my upland bird hunting life. Times that will see my dog enter middle age and one where I will try my best to explore as much country as possible. With this new vest I mark the beginning of a new chapter, one where the gear I purchase will be a reflection of the dedication and respect I have for the wilderness and my desire to explore it. What I have made here is not merely a purchase, it was an investment. As James said:

“If you need justification, try this: over the lifetime of the vest, how many birds and hours of enjoyment (will you get back) per dollar? It should come at a cheap price.”

A cheap price indeed; I cannot wait for fall.