I don’t think of myself as a fashionista, though I do feel like I know what looks good. You are probably thinking to yourself, “No way! How could someone who looks as sharp as you not consider yourself fashionable?” I know. Weird. I tend to stay away from golf fashion simply because there is too much that can go wrong. Too many decisions. It’s like going down the cereal aisle at Publix. I stay pretty basic in that arena. Plus, I see a lot of guys wearing pink, which troubles me.

But, in the outdoor world, I do feel like I know a thing of two, and one of my favorite things is belt buckles. They are cool, go with just about anything, and can make even the most strident democrat look like a badass. They are subtle yet noticeable, might have some sort of outdoor motif, and can dress up an outfit without having to get dressed up.

I have a bunch of older belt buckles that I inherited from my dad, two grandfathers, and one great grandfather. They are way cool. I typically wear them to church or similar more civilized functions with narrower belts that I also inherited. They are sharp, and have an ancestor’s initials on them. But, those don’t really fit in as well when I am in Montana, Islamorada, or Patagonia. I want to look like I belong even if I don’t. Hence, my Las Truchas buckles.

Let me lead this next part with “I know this sounds strange”, but I have befriended a social media influencer. We have never met in person, so don’t worry about my marriage. But, we have talked a couple of times on the Gram so I could buy some of the buckles she has created. Maddie Brennamen lives in Colorado and is a designer-creative-fashion-person of sorts who runs Las Truchas Outfitters. Tie that in with the fact that she is an avid fly fisherman and outdoorswoman and you have a great combination. She teamed up with a blacksmith and together they have come up with some of the coolest buckles you have ever seen.

They are not big and obnoxious like you just won the rodeo, but they are also not small like the silver ones you wear to the yacht club convention either. They came up with a variety of belt buckles, at least one of which should be a part of your uniform. I used to wear a tarpon buckle every day until someone bought it off me on a recent trip. I had to go through the airport looking like an idiot holding my pants up. I just replaced it with a trout buckle and I have enjoyed the change. I’ll probably sell it off my body at some point in the near future and call them for another one. That’s how good these things look.

You can find said buckles on the Las Truchas Outfitters site. Google it. No, Maddie is not paying me for this review or to send you to her site. I’m just trying to help you out because you clearly need it. And if I can make just one person look better, even if just for an evening, then I feel like I’ve done my part.

If this has your mind drifting to your closet in search of the perfect adventure belt buckle, fear not. You can bring a piece of the adventure home with our handcrafted belt buckle, available in our adventure storefront.

I was recently asked to submit a story to my Alma Mater for a book they are working on. The first thing that came to mind was not the parties or concerts we attended or the things we did so much as one of my professors who made an impact in my life.

When I matriculated into Hampden Sydney College, I made the rookie mistake of signing up for an 8 am French course that met Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For some reason that hour of the day was a difficult one for me to make. Today, I’ve already run 4 miles, saved an orphan, and volunteered at the local fire station by that time. But, as an 18 year old, I was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Enter Madame Kline. She may be the toughest person the school has ever known.

Madame Kline taught French to the poor, hapless souls who wanted a couple of foreign language credits. She was diminutive in stature, standing maybe 5 feet tall with a back like Quasimodo, and might have been 75 pounds. She always wore old lady shoes, a cardigan sweater in August, and smelled like formaldehyde. She had a little yippie dog named Cookie that she was not afraid to slap across her office if you tried to pet it during a tutoring session. There is a chance it was as old as she was.

Madame Kline decided that I would be her special project. My mother spoke fluent French, so when my parents came to visit on parent’s weekend, they made a special effort to see one another and speak. I could never follow the conversation, but I’m pretty sure my mother said, “Pay special attention to this one.” Madame Kline kindly obliged. 

I spent countless afternoons holed up in her office, where the thermometer was set to a balmy 85. It was a sweat box. At some point during my illustrious education, I made the poor decision to go to a party on a Thursday night. I followed that with a second poor decision to skip her class the following morning. Madame Kline, always aware of my presence, or lack thereof, stopped class. She then proceeded to walk across campus to my dorm, climb to the 4th floor, let herself into my room, climb into my loft, and drag me out of bed. I had to suffer the indignity of dressing in front of an octogenarian. She then walked me back to her class with my ear in hand, berating me in a foreign tongue the entire way. Can you imagine a professor doing that today?! They’d be strung up! But that was a different day. By the time we made it back to her classroom, class was almost over, and she dismissed the other students., I was stuck in her office, sweating profusely, trying to ignore her dog while I learned how to conjugate verbs.

It was during that office visit that I noticed the faded tattoos on her arm and some of the memorabilia scattered around the room. When I said she was tough, she was tough. Turns out she had survived the concentration camps of World War Two. The Nazis put those tattoos there. And she had a lot of old black and white photographs standing on various surfaces.  I wish I had the gumption to ask her about her story. She had seen a thing or two and been through a lot. I was a joke as far as she was concerned. 

When I look back on my college career, it is often with a wince. I squandered a great education nestled in some of the greatest Civil War history our country has to offer. I drank too much beer, chased too many girls, didn’t open enough books or attend enough classes. If I had it to do over again I would. And I would start with Madam Kline. Here is a lady who had been through a world war, suffered through a concentration camp, and immigrated to the United States. I know nothing more about her than that. I am drawn to memories of her like a moth to a flame. She holds a prominent position in the lexicon of my memory. 

Today, her story lives on in the oral tradition of stories that float around our house. I use her memory to stir my children on to greater things. Though she was diminutive in stature, she is not in my thoughts. She is a giant. I wish I knew more of her story, because it is one worth telling.