The knife that I’ve carried for 30 falls helps me remember every hunt. My father gave me a Buck Pathfinder on my 19th birthday. At that point, I was on a hard and wild road. My father, who had some experience with such roads, assured me that a fork lay in the pale distance not far up ahead. He spoke with a heavy heart and blunt words: “If you keep on like this, you’ll wind up dead or in prison.” There was no threat or hyperbole in it. Putting a straight knife with a 5-inch blade into your son’s hand at such a time might not seem the wisest course. But what he was really trying to give me was the woods again.