I grew up on ranches in the West and at the foot of the Rockies. My father was an old-school man. The first knife he gave me was an old Buck 110. He didn't say much about it, just told me, “Jon, a tool is your partner. You need to know every mark on it like the lines on the palm of your hand.”

So I got to know it. I skinned rattlesnakes with it, whittled tent pegs by the campfire, and hastily repaired a broken saddle strap before a blizzard hit. I've felt the frustration of cheap knives snapping at the worst moments and the silent trust that comes with a good blade in your hand.

These experiences became part of my very being. I know what kind of thumb stud lets you open it in one smooth motion while wearing gloves on a cold morning; I know what blade curve and thickness make gutting game clean and efficient.

Later, I went to college and studied mechanical engineering. But days spent drawing blueprints in an office felt suffocating. My hands craved real materials, not a mouse. On weekends, I returned to the garage and started tinkering with scrap steel. The first few knives I made were hideously ugly, but the way they felt in my hand was just right.

I started posting my designs on outdoor forums. With no money for marketing, I had to explain over and over why I designed the blade's belly with that curve, why I chose that lock mechanism, why the handle used micarta in that shape. Unexpectedly, people who actually lived by the knife—guides, ranchers, search-and-rescue teams—began reaching out. They said, “Hey, Jon, this thing you made feels right in my hand.”

“Feels right”—that's all I ever aimed for. My designs aren't about flashy aesthetics. They're born from necessity—from the desert sun, the mountain winds, and countless hours of real-world feedback. Every knife design is forged by my hands, my eyes, and my decades in the West.

It's not just steel. It's a tool. A companion. It carries my understanding and respect for this land.