There’s no outer limit to the absurdity of the questions we get at Cabela's, but the one I got today will likely be the reigning champion for some time.

We all first learned of this hallowed standard—the Black Belt—from TV and movies. And most of all, on the playground where it was spoken of in reverend tones. Did you know Ronnie’s dad is a Black Belt? That means he can kick as high as your head. He can break a 2X4 with a Karate chop. He can climb right up a brick wall. He knows how to kill you just by tapping lightly on your temple. And when he dies, they have to bury him in China.

All three of my shots in the season thus far had been more difficult than this one. Each of them had been at an angle and I had to shoot through gaps in thick trees. This Mule was completely in the open and a draftsmen couldn’t have provided a more precise right angle.

When people shoplift at Cabela's, we are not allowed to lay hands on anyone, follow them out of the store, or stand between them and merchandise. In fact, we are not even allowed to imply that someone is stealing or intending to steal. We can only offer to help them find what their looking for and hang around nearby. At Cabela’s, this loss prevention strategy is called Extra Customer Service. Well... I gave them Extra, all right.

I’m helping people supply themselves for hunting—a pursuit I can say I know a fair bit about—and I’d naively hoped that other people who go hunting might know something about it as well. Nope.

Weightlifting is just the repeated displacement of heavy circles, usually this is a vertical displacement, or it can be horizontal if pulleys are involved. The heavier the circle or group of circles displaced, the more successful the lifting session.

Last night, I had the privilege of losing the most one-sided match in the history of Taekwon-do. Master Arden jumped in on the sparring, and he was not phoning it in.

At 20 yards, he was easily in range, but there was no clear shot. Not even close. I worked along the edge of the perimeter to find a spot where I could enter the thicket with the least amount of noise and took a few more steps in. Watching his head, I only stepped when his antlers were brushing the undergrowth, hoping his noise would cover my own. It mostly worked.

My friend, Heath, fell out of a tree stand, one that I installed. I put the climbing pegs in myself, ratcheted the tree stand to the trunk, and attached a rope with prusik knots that made it possible to go from the ground to the stand and back down again while being tied off the entire time. Did one of my safeties fail? Standing in front of him laid out on a gurney in emergency, not sure if he’d ever walk again, I just shook my head, and asked, “Heath… what happened?”

I’m assessing whether or not I have internal bleeding in my liver. It’s hard to say, so I’m going to wait till morning and see if I’m more yellow than usual. How’d this happen? Well, I have my own personal Agent Smith. On the remote chance that you have not seen The Matrix, Agent Smith is an entity that the heroes of the film are not able to harm in anyway, even if they hit him. Whereas the damage that Agent Smith does to them is both significant and lasting.

I don’t hunt birds. I’m just not interested. As a kid, I would follow my dad as he hunted big game. He carried the .308 rifle, and I carried an old break action 12 gauge. If we saw grouse, I got to shoot them. But if we saw elk or deer, it would be dad doing the shooting. Consequently, I believed that the big game is serious business, and the birds are kid stuff. And I can’t shake this notion for the life of me.

I sure didn't appreciate this Karen calling me "weak," but it was the beginning of a whole new world of workouts for me.

I was sitting there musing about the Labor Day feast I’d be eating later on, thinking of what wine to pair with the ham dad was baking, when there was a sudden snapping of branches and stomping in the undergrowth of something huge barreling through the woods.

I shouldn’t have gone hunting today. But it’s the final day of the season, and I have one last tag I want to fill. Still, it looked like a bad idea right from the start.

Jephthah was a marvel. Hulking in his armor, sun glittering off his greaves, helm, and shield, he was impregnable.

The hood sprang open and slammed against the windshield, and I was hurtling along the highway full-speed in the center lane, surrounded by traffic, and the hood was perfectly blocking any view in front of me.

Shobi knew that he couldn’t allow the young Hebrews to perceive him as their ruler for very long. They would soon have the power to overthrow him. And, when they did, Nahash would likely side with them. At his age, the bonds of friendship would quickly eclipse the bonds of blood. So Shobi decided that tonight, while he was still firmly in control, he would cease to be a slave-master. He would become a different kind of Master.

It was wall to wall in there. The Ladies of Lulu Lemon were on parade, the Gym Bros were in full strut, and you could cut the pheromones with a knife.