Reiff Knives has been very busy this year, releasing updated versions of their existing line up of outdoor and survival fixed blades, relaunching the Vicon Tactical Field knife, and now adding the brand-new bird and trout style knife the Drake.
Bird and Trout Style Knives
The Drake is a departure from Reiff’s usual robust fixed blade style, but it is a welcome addition to their family of outdoor adventure knives. Bird and trout style knives are compact lightweight knives that were originally designed for hunters and anglers to process small game animals and fish. The compact nature of bird and trout style knives allow for detail-oriented work when processing small animals and fish, with the bonus of being easy to carry.
While bird and trout style knives, may have originally been designed for hunters and anglers these compact fixed blades make excellent utility knives both around camp and for everyday use.
Premium Materials
With the Drake, Reiff Knives combines all the best features of bird and trout style knives and combines it with the premium materials and top-notch American made production quality to create a functional compact fixed blade that proves useful to sportsman and everyday alike.
The Drake is made from premium CPM-Magancut steel providing best in class corrosion resistance and edge retention. For sportsman this means less time maintaining and cleaning their blade and more time getting out their and doing what they love. Everyday users get the same benefit unhindered by wet environments or cutting corrosive materials.
Like all knives in the Reiff Knives line up the Drake is available in a variety of Micarta or G10 materials. Both materials are known for durability, having exceptional impact and chemical resistance and will hold up well in the harshest environmental conditions while providing excellent grip retention.
The Drake’s sheath is made from durable kydex with a removeable belt attachment and adjustable retention allowing the user to customize how they carry the knife to suit their individual preferences.
Versatile Design
The Drake’s design packs in all the elements that make bird and trout style knives incredible functional and versatile while remaining light and compact.
The Drake’s drop point blade is just is .1-inch thick. The thin blade stock combined with a full flat grind makes the Drake ideal for slicing tasks. The blade is just shy of 2.8 inches long allowing for exceptional control in detailed work but provides more than enough cutting edge to tackle everyday tasks.
The handle is 4.3 inches long, allowing users to utilize multiple grip styles and maintain control when it matters most. The thin handle is easy to manipulate in the hand and provides a good grip on the tasks it was designed to do.
The Drake weighs 1.6 to 1.8 ounces depending on handle material making it lighter than many folding knives – making it a lightweight addition to your hunting or fishing kit and an easy to carry companion for everyday tasks.
A Worthy Companion
While the Drake isn’t a robust do all survival knife, it is a welcome addition to any outdoors kit. The lightweight design and compact size make it easy to carry and provides unparalleled versatility in detailed tasks that larger fixed blades simply can’t perform. For those looking for a lightweight utility oriented fixed blade the Drake is an excellent option for easy carry and legality in many jurisdictions.
The Drake will be available for purchase directly from Reiff Knives starting August 28, 2026
This article is based on ORNL-5040 (Corrected), “The KFM, A Homemade Yet Accurate and Dependable Fallout Meter,” by Cresson H. Kearny, Paul R. Barnes, Conrad V. Chester, and Margaret W. Cortner, published by Oak Ridge National Laboratory in January 1978. The full document, including scale-accurate patterns, is in the public domain and freely reproducible.
There’s a piece of survival gear so effective that Oak Ridge National Laboratory spent years testing it, proved it in the hands of untrained families, and then gave it away for free. It measures nuclear fallout radiation about as accurately as the $600 commercial instruments of its day. No batteries. No electronics. A shelf life measured in decades.
You can build one from an empty Pringles can, some aluminum foil, a strip of drywall, and a roll of Scotch tape. That’s the Kearny Fallout Meter, or KFM. Cresson Kearny and his team developed it at ORNL in the 1970s to solve a real problem: In a nuclear emergency, almost nobody would have a working radiation meter. Civil defense gear sat in storage in the cities. Radio broadcasts would report averages from miles away. The people who most needed to know the radiation level around their own shelter would be flying blind. The KFM fixes that. You can build one in an afternoon. I did, and I’ll pass along the places I stubbed my toe, so you don’t have to.
An hour at 400 degrees F drives the water out of gypsum and leaves anhydrite, a desiccant that drinks moisture the moment it cools. Without it, humidity bleeds the charge off the leaves before radiation ever gets a vote.
How It Works
The KFM is an electroscope, one of the oldest radiation-detection instruments there is. The concept is simple. Inside a sealed can, two tiny leaves of layered aluminum foil hang side by side from insulating threads. You charge those leaves with static electricity, the same charge you build rubbing a balloon on your hair. Because both leaves carry the same charge, they repel each other and spread apart. The bigger the charge, the wider the spread. When gamma radiation passes through the air in the can, it knocks electrons loose from air molecules. Those charged particles bleed the charge off the leaves, and the leaves drift back together. The faster they close, the higher the radiation level.
You read the meter by looking straight down through a clear cover at a millimeter scale. Measure the gap between the leaves before and after a timed exposure, subtract, and look up the result on a chart. That gives you the dose rate in roentgens per hour. No power, no calibration against a radiation source. Built to spec, the geometry and weight of the leaves set the calibration permanently.
Step 1 starts at the scrap pile. Peel the paper facing off half a square foot of drywall and break the core into pieces no bigger than half an inch. The most important component in the build is one you’d otherwise throw away.
Skip the Soup Can
The original instructions call for a standard 8-ounce steel can, about 29⁄16 inches inside diameter. Good luck. Cans have gotten bigger since 1978, and the scale patterns in the old report no longer line up with anything on a grocery shelf.
Here’s my fix: a single-serving Pringles can. The diameter lands close to the original spec, and the part that sold me is that the clear plastic lid is exactly the rigid, see-through cover the design needs. No stretching thin film over the top (Saran wrap is far too flimsy), no hunting for a scrap of Plexiglas or sacrificing a piece of Tupperware. The can’s foil-lined interior does the job of the metal wall, so you don’t need to line it with anything. One container solves two of the hardest sourcing problems in the build.
Where the Pringles can pays for itself. The rigid, clear lid takes the millimeter scale directly, zero centered over the point where the leaves touch. No film to stretch, no Plexiglas to scavenge.
What You Need
Most of this is already in your house. For the meter: • One single-serving Pringles can, emptied and wiped clean — lid included • About 2 square feet of standard aluminum foil. Regular, not heavy-duty • 6 inches of doorbell wire or any thin insulated wire • About 3 feet of the thinnest, clean thread you can work with. Fine twisted nylon or unwaxed nylon dental floss is ideal. (More on thread below — I learned this one the hard way.) • A piece of drywall (gypsum wallboard), about half a square foot, to bake into your drying agent • Tape: cloth duct or masking tape for assembly, plus a roll of Scotch Magic Transparent Tape for charging. A little Band-Aid tape or other thin, flexible tape for small joints. • A wooden pencil, a toothpick, and two strong rubber bands • Glue, if you have it. One-hour epoxy is best; model airplane cement works. • Nitrile or latex gloves
For charging: a roll of Scotch tape, wide packing tape, or a piece of hard plastic (ruler, draftsman’s triangle, Plexiglas, etc.) plus dry typing paper.
Tools: 12-inch ruler, scissors, a large sewing needle, a small sharp knife, a hammer, pliers, and a small nail you can sharpen to a point. You can also use a small drill bit instead of making holes with the hammer and nail.
Step 1: Make the Drying Agent
Start here. It takes the longest, and it’s the single most important part of the build. Don’t take my word for it. When I first assembled my meter, I tried charging the leaves before adding any drying agent. Nothing happened. Not a flicker. Then, I baked a batch of gypsum, dropped it in, gave it 15 minutes to pull the moisture out of the can, and tried again. The leaves snapped apart on the first pass. That’s how much this matters.
Here’s why: The foil leaves have to stay bone dry. Humidity conducts electricity and bleeds the charge off the leaves before radiation ever gets a shot at them. The fix is anhydrite, a desiccant you make by baking the gypsum out of drywall.
Cut a piece of drywall about 12 by 6 inches. Peel or soak off the paper facing. Break the white gypsum core into pieces no bigger than half an inch. Spread them one layer deep on a pan or a folded foil tray, and bake at your oven’s highest setting, 400 degrees F or higher for one hour. (No oven? Heat them in a pan over a flame until the pan glows dull red.)
The moment they come off the heat, the pieces are anhydrite and they drink moisture fast. Seal them in a Mason jar while still warm — every minute of air exposure costs you drying power. Never substitute calcium chloride; it’s corrosive and will eat the foil.
Step 2: Prep the Can
Wipe the can clean and dry it. You’re not lining or wrapping anything; the foil interior is your chamber wall. You need four small holes for the stop-threads: insulating threads strung across the inside of the can that keep the charged leaves from swinging into the wall and dumping their charge when the meter gets bumped. Place them symmetrically around the can, an inch or so below the top rim. Two holes opposite each other for one thread, two more at 90 degrees for the second. The old report includes exact-scale patterns, and they’ll get you close, but on a Pringles can I gave up on the wrap-around template and just eyeballed the placement. It’s forgiving.
Punch each hole with a sharpened nail or use a drill, bracing a stick or wooden handle inside the can so you don’t crush it. Make the holes barely big enough to pass a needle, then work the needle around to fold the sharp edges back. Run one clean thread through all four holes to form two crossing stop-threads. Tie tiny wooden toggles (3⁄8-inch slivers of wood) to the ends on the outside to lock the tension, and tape over the holes to seal out air. One rule runs through this whole build: Never touch the parts of any thread that live inside the can. Skin oil wrecks the thread’s insulating value and drains your charge.
Making the leaves, from raw foil to finished pair: standard-weight foil folded to eight plies, squared, traced from the pattern, cut, and hemmed for the suspension thread. This is where most first attempts die. Read all of Step 3 before you make the first cut.
Step 3: Make the Aluminum Foil Leaves
This is the fussy part, and it’s where most first attempts fail. Read it all before you touch the foil. You need two identical leaves, each eight plies of standard foil. Cut a piece about 4 by 8 inches. Fold in half to 4 by 4 (two-ply), again to 2 by 4 (four-ply), and again to 2 by 2 (eight-ply), lining up the edges exactly on that last fold so one corner comes out perfectly square. Flatten the stack with your fingers until it looks like a single sheet. Lay your leaf pattern on the foil with one corner on that square corner, trace it with a sharp pencil, and cut it out. Along the thread line at the top, fold the edge up to vertical, then back down into a flat hem. That hem is where the suspending thread rides.
Now the thread, and here’s where I’ll save you some grief. I used the innards of 550 paracord for mine and regretted it. Those little strands cling to each other and fight you the whole way. Use the thinnest thread you can manage. Fine twisted nylon or unwaxed dental floss. Thinner is always better here. Cut an 8.5-inch piece, lay it along the thread line, and secure it with tiny pieces of Band-Aid tape or a dab of epoxy on a toothpick. The thread should exit both upper corners. Do not touch the inch of thread on either side of the leaf. Repeat for leaf two.
Step 4: Install the Leaves
Hang each leaf inside the can by draping its thread across the rim to the opposite side. The hem side faces out toward the wall; the smooth sides of the two leaves face each other. Uncharged, the leaves should hang side by side and touching, upper and lower edges level. Look straight down: You want to see a single thin line, no gap, no curl. If they don’t look right, remake them. This is the part that decides whether the instrument works.
Tape the threads to the outside of the rim only — never inside. Then, make the “seat:” cut a 1-inch length of pencil and tape it to the side of the can, just below where the lid grips, with its top about ¾-inch below the can’s top. That’s your ruler rest for taking repeatable readings.
Several inches of doorbell wire with a right-angle bend and two adjustment threads, one bare, one flagged with tape. After charging, the wire parks up near the lid. That gap is what keeps the charge from leaking back out.
Step 5: Cover Scale and Charging Wire
This is where the Pringles can pays off. The lid is your cover, so there is no film to stretch, and no skirt to trim. Cut the paper millimeter scale from the pattern and tape it to the top of the lid, centered over the leaves and perpendicular to them, with the zero mark directly above the point where the leaves touch. This scale transferred to the lid with no trouble. (The dose-rate table won’t wrap a Pringles can cleanly the way it did the original. Just print it and tape it to the side or keep it next to the meter.)
Make the charging wire from your 6 inches of insulated wire: Strip both ends and put a small right-angle bend at the bottom. Tie two 2.5-inch adjustment threads to a point about 2 inches down from the top. One bare, one with a small sticky flag of tape. Punch a hole in the lid ½ inch from the rim, directly above the centerline between the leaves, and push the wire through until its bare lower end hangs about 1⁄16-inch above the leaves. Finally, drop your anhydrite in. A single layer on the bottom, no pieces stacked, none tall enough to touch the leaves. Snap on the lid. When you’re not using the meter, store it in an airtight jar with extra drying agent; humidity creeps through over time.
Charged, the leaves repel and spread. Though, in this frame, the charging wire hadn’t been parked yet, and it was already bleeding the charge off. The gap was visibly closing by the shutter click. Consider it a live demonstration of the rule: lift the wire after charging, or lose the reading.
Charging the Meter
Two methods. Tape is faster.
Tape method: Set the charging wire so its lower end sits about 1⁄16-inch above the leaves, held by the sticky adjustment thread. Pull a roll of Scotch Magic tape from its dispenser and hold it an inch or two from the meter. Quickly unroll 10 to 12 inches. Holding the unwound tape taut and perpendicular to the wire, slowly sweep both hands to the side, past the wire, over about 2 seconds. The static charge jumps a spark gap to the wire and runs down to the leaves. You may see or hear a faint spark, and the leaves spread. Aim for at least 15mm. After charging, lift the wire up via the adjustment threads so it parks near the underside of the lid. That gap keeps the charge from leaking back out. Don’t touch the wire.
Plastic-and-paper method: Fold about 20 sheets of dry paper into a 4-inch square. Pinch the outside firmly and rub a piece of Plexiglas or a plastic ruler briskly on the inside fold, keeping your fingers off the edges. Pass the charged end slowly past the wire, ¼ to ½ inch away. Repeat until the leaves spread. This method dies above about 85 percent humidity. The tape method holds to about 90 percent. Above that, you need a dry-bucket.
The Dry-Bucket
A dry-bucket is a large plastic-covered bucket with a cup of anhydrite in the bottom and two bag-lined hand holes you reach through without breaking the dry seal. It lets you charge the meter when outside humidity would otherwise stop you. It takes about an hour to build. The original ORNL report walks through it in full.
Reading and Using It
Set the meter on a flat surface. Stand a 12-inch ruler on the seat, touch your eyebrow to the top of it, and look straight down. Read where the lower edge of each leaf falls on the scale and add the two numbers — that’s your reading. Never read a leaf touching a stop-thread and never use a reading below 5mm.
To measure a dose rate: Charge the meter and record the reading. Expose it for one of the timed intervals in the table, then read it again. Subtract the after-reading from the before-reading, find that difference in the table, and read across to your exposure time. That’s your dose rate in roentgens per hour.
Example: Before exposure, 17mm. After a 1-minute exposure, 5mm. Difference of 12mm over one-minute equals 9.2 R/hr.
Outdoors, hold the meter about 3 feet off the ground. If the difference comes out under 2mm, recharge and use a longer interval. If the after-reading drops below 5mm, recharge and use a shorter one.
What the Numbers Mean
A few reference points from the ORNL guidance for a healthy adult with no prior significant exposure: • 6 R per day can be tolerated for up to two months without losing the ability to work. • 100 R in a week or less is unlikely to cause serious sickness. • 350 R in a few days is likely fatal when medical care isn’t available. • 600 R in a week or less is nearly certain to be fatal within weeks.
The encouraging part the researchers stressed: Fallout fades fast. A spot reading 2,000 R/hr an hour after a nearby nuclear disaster drops to roughly 200 R/hr seven hours later and under 20 R/hr within two days. A shelter with 2 to 3 feet of earth overhead can cut your exposure enough that most people in hard-hit areas could ride out the first two weeks and then step out into tolerable levels. The KFM is the tool that tells you when that window opens, and how long you can stand in it.
The completed instrument. Everything that calibrates it — leaf geometry, leaf weight, can diameter — is locked in at assembly, so there’s nothing to zero, drift, or die. Storage is an airtight jar with spare drying agent.
A Few Critical Reminders
Your drying agent is doing its job if the charged meter, sitting idle, loses no more than 1mm over 3 hours. More than that, swap the anhydrite.
Keep every thread clean and never touch the sections inside the can. Contaminated thread drains the charge and gives you garbage readings. Thinner thread beats thicker every time. Again, skip the paracord guts. Build one now, in calm conditions, and practice charging and reading it before you ever need it. Then, build a second. In ORNL’s field tests, the families who succeeded were the ones who practiced.
For thirty-eight and three-quarter days, the ocean had mostly left them alone. Then, with the finish line close enough to see the lights on shore, the Pacific decided to test their commitment to the cause.
The four men of Foar the Brave had already called their families. They were three miles out, cruising in at three knots, and a jubilant crowd on the beach had a steak dinner waiting on the table. Joe and Ian ran a shift change and figured they would be standing on dry land within the hour. Ten minutes later, they were faced with the most intense fight of the whole crossing.
As they rounded the point, the current shifted and shoved them toward shore, where the waves stopped being swells and started sounding like a freight train. Ian looked over his shoulder mid-stroke and saw mist, a wave detonating behind him. He raised the alarm, “Hey, Joe!” And then a rowboat was surfing down the face of a breaking wave. They hit a reef, and the rudder cleat sheared clean off. Just like that they were rudderless, dead in the water, a hundred yards from the shore they had been rowing toward for over a month.
Foar the Brave crossed the Pacific in 39 days, 3 hours, and 19 minutes, and took second place in the World’s Toughest Row. To hear them tell it, none of that, not the forty days and not the podium, mattered as much as the last two and a half miles.
Foar the Brave conducting their final inventory before launching out of Monterey Bay in California.
The Team That Willed Itself to the Start Line
You are supposed to spend one to two years getting ready to row an ocean. Foar the Brave—the name spelled that way because they are, in fact, in a rowboat—came together late and pulled off in nine or ten months what most crews take twice as long to attempt. That alone tells you something about them.
The crew was an odd, perfect mix. Joe was the skipper and the driving force, a former Green Beret who had already rowed the Atlantic, a crossing that, he says without drama, saved his life. Ian, his old Special Forces teammate, was the Executive Officer, twenty-seven years in the Army and twenty of them in special operations. Steve came from the FAA, air traffic control, widely regarded as one of the most stressful jobs in the world, and would turn out to be the only man on the boat immune to seasickness. And John was Joe’s friend of thirty-odd years, a man who had never really been tested and wanted to find out what he was made of. He found out.
The training was its own proving ground. To be eligible, the team had to log a hundred and twenty-plus hours on the boat, one of them a continuous 36-hour row, and a mandatory 24 hours of it at night. Some thirty separate proficiencies, from deploying a para-anchor to man-overboard drills. Courses in seamanship, safety at sea, navigation, and first aid, all verified by a race committee in Europe through GPS tracks and drill videos. To build cohesion, they rented a house and rowed eight-plus hours a day for a month, grinding through the coursework together. All four of them had to complete this training together, and if anyone backed out and had to be replaced, they had to start all over from square one.
They also made a deliberate choice about why they were out there. Some crews approached the race like elite athletes, on the rowing machines by dawn, drilling their stroke for hours. Foar the Brave came for the adventure and the cause, and they never pretended otherwise. “That just seems like a lot of energy to use before we row for a month,” Joe says, only half joking. It is worth remembering how that bet paid off. Several of the boats that breezed past them early, national-champion crews among them, would finish behind them.
They packed for the long haul and packed heavy. Along with the required food and gear went a stash of quick calorie snacks like a bag of Skittles big enough to double as ballast when the boat needed leveling. Leaving Monterey Bay, they watched most of the fleet pull ahead, including a three-woman crew who were sure these four would never make it. They were wrong. The plan had been to row three at a time to punch off the coast, and when that did not click, they adapted, settling into a two-up, two-down rhythm that was theirs alone. It was not the textbook stroke of the champions, and yet it carried them across an ocean.
Life, Distilled into Two-Hour Blocks
The first week nearly broke them, and it had nothing to do with the finish everyone remembers. It was cold, and it rained, and they were in full foul-weather gear, shivering, fighting a super El Niño that pushed them back toward the coast while they clawed to get off the continental shelf. Thirty-to-forty-foot rollers, twenty-to-thirty-knot winds, a boat crawling forward at less than half a knot. “The first week was ten times tougher than the Atlantic,” Joe says.
Seasickness arrived around day three and stayed. Two men would be over the side at once while Steve, sick-proof and insufferable, filmed them and lovingly pronounced them weak. John, eating more than 5,000 calories a day, still lost fifteen pounds. The body burns something like 6,000 a day out there, and each of the crew came home nearly thirty pounds lighter. What set this team apart was that nobody stayed down. On other boats, rowers were out for days. Foar the Brave learned to be sick and get right back on the oars, and that refusal to quit put them in first place for a stretch.
John found the phrase for what the whole thing became. “Your life is just distilled down to a series of two-hour blocks.” Not tomorrow, not tonight, just the next two hours. The team had a blunter name for it, “F you, pay me.” You’re tired? F you, pay me. Didn’t sleep? Chaos at home? It’s one hour and fifty-nine minutes, and then you’re back on the oars.
And there was real chaos at home. Mid-ocean, Joe took a call from his daughter in Italy. Someone was trying to break into her hostel, the scene straight out of Taken, and he could do nothing but listen from a thousand miles out until his clock ran out and he could coordinate with his wife. And then went back to the oars. His daughter got out safe. Steve’s stretch was harder. His mother-in-law, his wife’s best friend, had a stroke on a cruise, was found to have stage-four cancer, and died on Steves’s birthday. The crew marked the birthday anyway, everyone working around the pain, because out there you could not stop.
The “F you, pay me” was not cruelty. It was the only mercy available. “I can feel empathetic once I get in there and come off the oars,” Joe says, referring to the two, small one-man cabins fore and aft of the thirty-by-four-foot boat that they called home between rowing shifts. “But right now I need you to get out here.” You carried your grief to your seat, and you rowed it.
Although the physical endurance was brutal and grueling, there were moments on the ocean that were profound and meaningful.
Ricky the Bird, the Flying Hammer, and Other Survival Tools
If the ocean was going to strip their lives down to nothing, the crew filled the nothing with each other, mostly by being relentlessly, lovingly awful to one another. This is not out of malice, rather, it is heartfelt way of coping with stress commonly used among the Military’s combat arms units, and First Responders.
For long stretches there was no wildlife at all. Then the flying fish came, thirty or so dead in the boat every morning. A bird started trailing them, so they flung fish for it to catch. They named him Ricky. He was probably ten different birds over the span of the voyage, and they were all Ricky. One fish caught John full in the face at freight-train speed, and he smelled fish in his hair for a day.
They razzed each other without mercy. Joe once threw a hammer into the cabin at a sleeping teammate, the “flying hammer,” a decision no one, including Joe, can explain. And then there was the infamous bucket. Going to the bathroom meant a teammate coming off the oars, and a five-minute production while the boat crawled and the miles refused to tick off. Ian, at one point, dispensed with the ceremony entirely and produced a technical marvel involving a gallon bag and considerable core stability on undulating seas, the first time billed as an emergency, the rest, by unanimous testimony, not.
It sounds like chaos, and it was, but it was also the mechanism. “I didn’t really know John,” Ian says, “and we gelled so well, so quickly.” The gallows humor got them through, and every one of them knew it.
Exposure to the elements and the saltiness of the Pacific relentlessly took its toll on everyone.
The Last Two-and-a-Half Miles
Which brings it back to the reef.
With the rudder gone, John and Ian on the oars had to physically turn the boat while it scraped bottom and work it north into deeper water, the single most important move of the whole expedition, because nothing else they tried would have mattered without it. It was the closest they came to tipping over all trip. A hundred yards from shore, hit sideways, John tangled in a safety line and aware that in water this shallow a capsize might not right itself. Steve and Joe were sealed in the cabins, able only to call out ideas over the crashing water.
Now they had no rudders and no backups, roughly two-and-a-half miles from a finish line thirty-nine days in the making, and the committee boat pulled alongside with a hard choice. They could fight to make it themselves, or take a tow and be disqualified.
For a moment, Joe quit. He will tell you so plainly, not that the team quit, but that he did, his lowest point of the whole crossing. Charlotte, the media operator filming it live, told him afterward that it was not his lowest point at all but his most triumphant pivot in mindset. A half-second later, when he said “okay, throw the drogue out” and started working the problem, the entire team began to dig deeper than they had over the last 2,798 miles. A lot of teams, she said, would simply have taken the tow.
The solution to their rudderless plight came from a single half-remembered slide in an eight-hour safety course, the one that said, if you ever need it, which you never will, you can throw the drogue out and steer with it. A drogue is basically a small parachute or cone that you drag behind a boat in the water on a line. They threw the sea anchor off the back, and suddenly they had steering again. It was clumsy, like rowing while dragging a bucket, but it was steering. And they rowed.
They rowed the last two and a half miles for six hours. John, at the helm, kept telling the guys the shore was a quarter mile off. It was not, and he knew it, but it was the kind of good lie that keeps a team rowing when the truth would sink them. Somewhere in there, John, who a week earlier had admitted he had lost his why, found it again, as if the ocean had called his bluff. And all at once he cared more than he had the entire trip.
Finally, they crossed the finish line on nothing but that. Stepping onto the pier, they had to hold onto each other to walk, because a month of sitting had stolen their legs, and they came off the boat unsteady and laughing and spent, with everyone on shore cheering.
“Anybody can be at the helm when the seas are calm,” Steve says. The last six hours were when they were not. “Whatever soup mixes up our personalities,” John says, “I honestly don’t think we come out of that cauldron if we didn’t have the exact mix we had. We couldn’t have planned it. It just kind of worked.”
While gone over the 4th of July, the team celebrated America’s 250th birthday in their own way.
The Why
They did not row across the Pacific for the podium. They rowed because Joe has lost soldiers under his command to suicide over twenty-five years, because the number of veterans still slipping under is unconscionable, and because a rowboat crossing an ocean is a very hard thing to look away from.
Foar the Brave is a 501(c)(3), and its fundraising goes toward veteran mental health and suicide prevention. Raising the money was brutal at first, ten dollars here, fifty there, but something about the mission reached people. A woman in a New Jersey bar talked to John for five minutes and wrote a check for twenty-five thousand dollars on the condition that no one ever learn her name. Small donors saved gas money to give ten bucks. “Those two ends of the spectrum,” Joe says, “are what regain your faith in humanity.”
The mission got real in the worst way mid-ocean. One of Ian’s friends, a soldier he had served alongside who was struggling with a divorce and a drifting sense of purpose, took his own life while the team was on the water. Ian recorded a video afterward and was overcome. Everything they were rowing for turned suddenly, unbearably concrete.
Ask them what they would say to a veteran closer to the edge than anyone around him knows, and the answer is immediate and unanimous. Call your buddy. Make the phone call. “Being brave enough to say, ‘Hey man, I’m done,’ that alone probably saves your life.” And here is the warning they want every friend to memorize. The word to listen for is not “done.” It’s “I’m tired.” It’s “I’m exhausted.”
“If you hear those words,” Joe says, “you need to get on a plane and go grab that guy in person. That’s past anger. Once you reach that point, it’s not going to be good.” Make it to the next day, they kept telling everyone watching. This too shall pass. It may take a while, but it gets better.
After finally making landfall 2,800 miles later in Kauai, the team has an incredible story to share. Compared to their demeanor in Monterey, they now carry themselves with a confidence and wisdom that only true hardship can impart. (Photo Credit: Nastaran Khademi)
Sometimes healing looks less like a hotline and more like a deer stand. Every year Joe and Ian run what they call the Rocky Ridge Recovery Center, a “hunting trip” on which, in ten years, not a single deer has died. There is bourbon, there is storytelling, and once there was a man who had not told his story in years finally screaming it into the dark while his brothers let him, until he stopped, said, “I think I’m good now,” and sat back down. That was the whole treatment, being broken, out loud, and accepted anyway.
They know they did not save everyone. But a childhood friend told Joe those videos seemed like they were about him, and got help. Another called and said he thought they had saved his life. A man Joe had not spoken to in thirty-five years texted to say he wanted to try the ocean row himself. “We only know of a couple people we know we’ve helped,” Joe says. “I hope there’s more.”
There almost certainly are, because the thing spreads. A 2023 crossing inspired a Ranger crew to row, that crew raised millions and inspired others, and Foar the Brave rowed this year on seats borrowed from them. “The cumulative effect of being the catalyst,” John calls it. You never learn its full reach, but every so often someone tells you that you were speaking to them.
The journey ended. The mission continues. Foar the Brave is already looking for the next team, veterans or a mixed crew, Atlantic or Pacific, to shepherd through the whole gauntlet, from the training to the fundraising to the lessons learned the hard way. They will help them get to the start line, which Joe swears is the hardest part of the whole thing. “This is not a burden,” Joe’s wife would remind him back when wrangling four grown men and their four complicated lives had him ready to quit before they had even launched. “This is a privilege that you get to do this.”
Two and a half miles from the end of the World’s Toughest Row, with no rudder and no reason left to believe, four men decided she was right.
If you or a veteran you know is struggling, reach out. Call your buddy. In the U.S., the Veterans Crisis Line is available by dialing 988 and pressing 1, or texting 838255.
Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands, a ring of palm-fringed coral in the central Pacific where the United States detonated some of its largest nuclear weapons, leaving a sunken ghost fleet beneath a turquoise lagoon.
Adventure Appeal
Bikini Atoll is the most storied nuclear landscape on Earth. Between 1946 and 1958, the United States conducted 23 nuclear tests here, including 1954’s Castle Bravo, the largest device the U.S. ever detonated, which vaporized islands and gouged a crater into the reef. The Bikinians were relocated before the first test and the atoll remains uninhabited, which has left it a strange paradise: empty white-sand islets, coconut palms, and a lagoon teeming with reef sharks and coral. The real draw lies underwater. The lagoon floor holds the “Ghost Fleet” of Operation Crossroads, target vessels sunk by the blasts, including the aircraft carrier USS Saratoga, sittable upright and divable, and the Japanese battleship Nagato, which led the attack on Pearl Harbor, resting upside down in the deep. Few wreck dives on the planet combine this much history with this much marine life.
Decades after the last detonation, Bikini’s lagoon teems with coral and reef sharks. A thriving ecosystem grown over one of the most heavily bombed places on Earth.
Survival Readiness
This is not a casual trip. Bikini sits hundreds of miles from the nearest services, and visits happen only through organized expeditions that handle boats, fuel, food, and safety. The wrecks lie deep, often beyond recreational limits, so diving here demands technical training, redundant gas, and disciplined planning; this is advanced diving in a place with no recompression chamber nearby. Residual radiation on land is low enough for short visits, but the islands remain unsafe for permanent habitation, and visitors are advised not to eat anything grown locally, as radioactive cesium persists in the soil and food chain. Bring everything you need and assume zero infrastructure — no clinics, no stores, no quick evacuation.
Getting There
Reaching Bikini is half the adventure. Travelers route through Majuro, the Marshallese capital, typically via Honolulu on the island-hopper flights that connect the central Pacific. From Majuro, the atoll is reached by long boat charter or chartered light aircraft as part of a pre-arranged expedition. There is no scheduled service and no turning up unannounced. Trips are weather and logistics dependent and can be scarce, so flexibility and patience are essential. Permissions are coordinated through the Marshall Islands and the Bikini local government, and expedition operators handle the paperwork as part of the package.
Local Perks
Though Bikini itself is uninhabited, the wider Marshall Islands offer warm Marshallese hospitality, extraordinary diving and snorkeling across dozens of atolls, and a living World War II and Cold War history. Majuro and Kwajalein hold war relics, museums, and the relaxed rhythm of island life. The Bikinian community, now living mostly on Kili Island and Ejit, keeps the memory of their homeland alive, and any visit carries a responsibility to honor their story of displacement and resilience. For travelers willing to make the journey, the reward is a corner of the planet almost no one ever sees.
The comeback a lot of people were rooting for looks like it’s happening. Aero Precision, Ballistic Advantage, Stag Arms, and VG6 have new owners, according to a company statement confirmed by internal employees. White Wolf Capital, the private equity firm that held the brands through their hardest stretch, is out entirely. A private family investment group is in.
The factory floor is getting spun back up.
The new group is not part of the firearms industry, per the statement, but the people behind it are described as firearm and outdoor enthusiasts, Second Amendment supporters, and backers of the military and veteran communities. They’ve chosen to stay private, and the company has asked everyone to respect that. Fair enough. The four brands now sit under one entity, Aero Ballistic Holdings LLC, and each keeps its own name and identity.
First, some background. Aero Precision and Ballistic Advantage were placed into general receivership in Pierce County, Washington, on May 5, 2026, with J.S. Held LLC appointed as receiver. Stag Arms and VG6 sat under the same ownership. Through the summer, court filings and trade coverage told the same story. Slowed production, thin inventory, and a pile of unfilled orders while the receiver worked toward a sale. Receivership is not bankruptcy, though, and the companies kept building and kept honoring warranties the whole way.
Now the stated plan is pretty straight forward. Just get these companies back to doing what they did well. Manufacturing is ramping back up, supply chains are being reestablished, and the teams are working through the backlog toward real availability. Core products return first, per the company, with new launches to follow.
For the self-reliant crowd, the practical read boils down to renewed availability. These four brands feed a huge share of the AR parts, barrels, and complete rifles that builders actually depend on. Ballistic Advantage, Aero’s barrel arm, is a known quantity on its own. Funded, full-speed production means proven components back on the shelf instead of stuck on indefinite backorder. That’s good for anyone who cares about American-made gear and a supply chain that doesn’t fold under pressure.
None of this erases the last few years, and the new owners know it. There’s trust to rebuild with customers, dealers, and vendors, and that doesn’t happen in a press release. But the brands made it through because a lot of people kept believing in them, and that counts for something. A full statement is expected later this week.
The Mountain Safety Research (MSR) XGK EX Stove is the type of product I’ve been tracking down for years. There’s a difference between gear that’s convenient and gear that’s dependable; the MSR XGK EX (eXpedition Gasoline Kerosine EXpedition) lands firmly in the second category. This isn’t the stove you grab because it’s quiet, lightweight, or easy to finesse. The XGK EX is the one you bring when you need something that works, no matter what fuel you can get your hands on or what the weather report left out. Built around a simple, proven design, the XGK EX will burn just about anything from white gas to kerosene and even diesel, which makes it a solid option not just for backcountry trips, but for travel or contingency use where fuel options are limited.
In a pinch, the XGK EX will even burn unleaded auto gas, though it’s not recommended for regular use. The first thing you notice is power. This stove doesn’t ease into a boil; it gets there fast, pushing a liter of water to a rolling boil in roughly 3 minutes depending on fuel choice. That same output makes it a workhorse for melting snow or running multiple meals without slowing down. It’s loud, unapologetically so, and not particularly interested in simmering your dinner with precision. But that’s not what it’s built for.
The XGK EX is about heat, reliability, and consistency. Where it really earns its place is in the details you don’t think about until something goes wrong. The Shaker Jet system allows you to clear carbon buildup with a simple shake, and the entire unit is designed to be field-maintainable with the included kit. Add in stable folding legs, a compact packed size, and a burn time that can stretch well over an hour on a single fuel bottle, and you’ve got a stove that prioritizes function over comfort. The XGK EX isn’t trying to be everything. It’s not the stove you take when you want a quiet morning and a slow cup of coffee. It’s the one you reach for when conditions are questionable, fuel is uncertain, and you don’t want to think twice about whether your stove is going to work or not.
Nuclear threats feel different today than they did during the Cold War. Back then, people-built backyard shelters and ran drills in school hallways. Today, the risk looks different. It includes the chance of a terrorist dirty bomb, an accident at a power plant, or a regional nuclear exchange between hostile states. The odds of any single event are low. But low odds are not zero, and the people who do best in any disaster are the ones who already know what to do before it happens.
That is the difference between fear and preparedness. Fear locks the body in place at the moment movement matters most. Preparedness replaces panic with a sequence you already know by heart, and none of it requires a bunker or a hazmat suit. It takes a working knowledge of how radiation behaves, a few key supplies, and the composure to use both.
Three scenarios drive what follows: a nuclear detonation, a radiological dispersal device (RDD) better known as a dirty bomb, and an accident at a nuclear power plant. They differ in scale and mechanism, but the survival logic underneath is identical. Distance, shielding, and time decide who absorbs a dangerous dose and who walks away.
The Fallout Rule of 7s: Radiation Decay Over Time
Understanding the Threat
A nuclear detonation is not one hazard but four arriving in close succession. The blast wave comes first, a wall of pressure that collapses buildings and throws debris for miles. Almost on top of it comes the thermal pulse, a flash of heat strong enough to start fires and burn exposed skin at a distance, and in that same instant the weapon throws off a short, intense burst of radiation. Then, over the minutes and hours that follow, comes fallout: radioactive dust lifted by the explosion and carried back to earth downwind. The first three effects finish in seconds. Fallout is the one you can still act against.
A dirty bomb works on a different scale entirely. It marries a conventional explosive to radioactive material, and despite the name it produces no nuclear explosion and no mushroom cloud. The blast does the killing, the same as any other bomb, while the radioactive component spreads contamination across a limited area rather than delivering a lethal dose. Its real weapon is disruption, and the casualty count stays low while fear and cleanup costs run high.
A reactor accident is different again. It can release radioactive material into the air or water with no explosion at all, forcing two practical questions: whether to shelter or evacuate, and how to live around contamination that may linger for years. Across all three, survival turns on the same three variables:
How far you stand from the source.
What sits between you and the radiation.
And how long you stay exposed.
Distance, shielding, and time. Remember those three words. Every decision that follows is just an application of them.
Acute Radiation Syndrome: Symptoms Onset Speed by Exposure Severity
Preparation Before an Incident
Preparation starts with a conversation, not a purchase. Decide with your family how you will reach one another if the cell network is jammed or dead, which it often is the moment everyone grabs a phone at once. Set two rally points, one close to home and one well outside your area for the case where you cannot get back. Pick an out-of-area contact, a relative or friend in another state, who can take calls and relay messages when local lines are saturated.
The kit comes next, and most of it is the same gear that serves any disaster: at least one gallon of water per person per day, a two-week supply as the goal, plus shelf-stable food, a basic medical kit, flashlights, a battery or hand-crank radio, spare batteries, and copies of your documents sealed in a waterproof bag.
A few items are radiological-specific. N95 masks trap the fine dust you would otherwise breathe while moving through a contaminated area; they do nothing against radiation itself, but keeping particles out of your lungs matters. Plastic sheeting and duct tape seal the windows, doors, and vents of a shelter room. Potassium iodide tablets, covered later, protect one gland against one threat. Disposable gloves and heavy garbage bags give you a clean way to contain contaminated clothing.
Decide where you will shelter before you need to. A basement is the strongest option in most homes, because the surrounding soil and concrete absorb radiation well. Without one, pick an interior room with no windows, ideally wrapped in concrete or brick. Engineers measure this with a protection factor, which compares the radiation you absorb inside a structure against what you absorb in the open. A below-grade concrete shelter can reach a protection factor in the hundreds. A wood-frame house offers a small fraction of that. Walk your home and workplace now and find the spots that put the most mass between you and the outside.
Shelter Protection Factor by Location Type
Immediate Actions After the Event
If you see a brilliant flash that could be a detonation, you have a few seconds to act, and your instincts will be wrong. Do not turn toward it. Drop flat, cover your head and neck, and get solid objects between yourself and any window, because the blast wave chasing that light turns glass into shrapnel. Shield exposed skin and your eyes if you can. The fireball is the one thing you must not stop to watch.
Once the shock wave passes, the clock that matters counts down to fallout. Near the detonation, the first particles can begin settling within 10 to 20 minutes, their timing set by distance and wind. Every second outside adds to your dose, so do not gather belongings or check the house. Get indoors and get to your safest room. For the first hour, the rule is simple and uncomfortable: stay put. Do not drive or walk anywhere unless officials specifically tell you to evacuate, because the road exposes you while the shelter protects you. Turn on that radio and listen. Emergency broadcasts carry real-time information on where fallout is drifting.
Stretch the same discipline across the first 24 hours. Fallout radiation fades fast in the opening day, yet it is also at its most intense during this window, which is why sheltering now pays off most. Step outside only when you truly must, and ration food, water, and battery power, because you may need to hold longer than you hoped.
Understand where the danger goes. Fallout rides the wind away from the detonation, so people downwind face the highest risk, sometimes for many miles past the blast zone. Wind and rain reshape that pattern constantly, concentrating contamination in some places and clearing it from others. A dense city behaves differently than open country, its tall buildings shielding some streets while funneling contaminated dust into others.
Removing outer clothing and gently washing with soap and water can eliminate up to roughly 90 percent of external contamination, making contamination one of the most effective actions a person can take after exposure.
Radiation and Decontamination
The most effective thing you can do once you reach shelter costs nothing: take off your outer clothing. Fallout settles on the surface of fabric rather than soaking through, so shedding that outer layer carries the majority of the contamination off your body with it. Pull off your shoes too, bag everything, and leave it outside the shelter area.
Then, clean your skin, and do it carefully. Shower with soap and lukewarm water and wash gently rather than scrubbing. Hard scrubbing drives particles into the skin or opens small breaks that let contamination in, the opposite of what you want. Cover any cuts or scrapes before you wash and tend to them afterward.
Animals need the same treatment, and people forget them. Fur catches fallout exactly the way clothing does, so wipe down or wash pets before letting them roam the house, and keep livestock away from water sources and feed that sat exposed during the event.
Your supplies need a quick triage too. Anything sealed, whether cans, jars, or capped bottles, is safe once you wipe down the outside, and water held in a closed container or covered tank is generally fine. What you cannot trust is anything that stood open during the event, produce from an outdoor garden included. Set it aside.
Medical Considerations
Acute Radiation Syndrome announces itself through nausea, vomiting, and heavy fatigue, and the timing tells a story. The faster those symptoms arrive and the harder they hit, the higher the dose tends to have been. Signs within minutes to a couple of hours point to a far more serious exposure than the same signs appearing a full day later. Worth knowing, even though you are not the one who should act on it: Do not try to diagnose yourself. A significant suspected exposure, a visible burn, or a blast injury from flying debris all warrant medical care as soon as travel is safe. Radiation sickness, in particular, needs trained personnel and proper instruments to assess, not a guess made under stress.
Potassium iodide deserves a clear-eyed explanation, because it is the most misunderstood item in any kit. KI floods the thyroid with stable, harmless iodine, leaving no room for the gland to take up the radioactive iodine that certain nuclear events release. That is the entire scope of its protection: one gland, one isotope, one category of future cancer risk. It does nothing for external radiation, for burns or blast trauma, or for any other radioactive material. It is neither a shield nor a cure and taken without cause carries real risks for people with thyroid conditions or iodine sensitivities. Take it only when public health officials specifically call for it, and not a tablet before.
Because radiation exposure falls off sharply with distance and is reduced by dense shielding and minimized time near the source, these three principles — time, distance, and shielding — remain the foundation of radiological protection.
Long-Term Survival and Recovery
The first day belongs to your shelter; the days and weeks after belonging to the people coordinating the response. Emergency agencies will announce evacuation routes and timing if it comes to that, and they will tell you when an area is safe to reenter. Neither call should be made on a hunch. Monitoring takes time, and a street that looks perfectly ordinary can still hold a dangerous level of contamination you have no way to sense.
Recovery is a community effort, plainly. Neighbors who know one another and pool what they have come through long emergencies better than people riding it out alone. The window to build those connections is now, in calm weather, when you can talk through how you might back each other up during an extended shelter or evacuation.
Do not underestimate the psychological load. Holding your composure is as much a survival skill as holding your position. Small routines carry surprising weight: eating on a normal schedule, sleeping at regular hours, checking in on the people around you. They quiet panic and keep your judgment sharp, and if others depend on you, the steadiest thing you can hand them is your own calm.
Recommended Gear and Training
A serious setup includes a few instruments worth their cost. A radiation survey meter reads the level around you in the moment; a personal dosimeter tracks the total dose you have absorbed over time. Round those out with an emergency radio for official updates, a water filtration system for when your stored supply runs thin, and a properly fitted respirator for any situation that forces you through contamination.
The training matters more than the hardware, and most people have the ratio backward. Learn basic emergency communications, including how to work a radio when the cell network is gone. Take a first aid course, and look into disaster medicine if you want to push further. Run your shelter plan with your family until everyone can reach the right room without a word of direction.
In the end, skill beats equipment every time. A person with real knowledge and a simple kit outperforms someone with a closet of expensive gear and no idea how to use it. Spend accordingly: Put your first dollars and first hours into understanding the material, then build out the equipment from there.
Conclusion
Almost everyone who survives a nuclear or radiological incident does so through a handful of plain actions: reaching shelter quickly, staying there long enough for the worst to pass, and decontaminating properly once they do. None of it depends on a bunker, a hazmat suit, or years of specialized training.
Preparedness is not paranoia. It’s the same mindset that leads people to carry a spare tire or keep a first aid kit in the car. Understanding shelter, decontamination, and fallout protection dramatically increases your odds if the unlikely ever happens. The goal here isn’t to prepare for some imagined apocalypse. It’s to make smart, informed decisions during the first critical hours and days when those decisions matter the most.
Top 10 Nuclear Preparedness Mistakes
Running outside to look at a flash or mushroom cloud
Driving instead of sheltering immediately
Sheltering near windows instead of an interior room
Skipping the removal of contaminated clothing
Scrubbing skin too hard during decontamination
Taking potassium iodide without official guidance
Returning home before officials declare it safe
Ignoring battery-powered radio updates
Failing to plan an out-of-area emergency contact
Storing emergency water and food in unsealed containers
Building a 72-Hour Radiation Kit
Three gallons of water per person
Three days of shelfstable food
A battery or hand-crank radio
A flashlight with extra batteries
N95 masks
Plastic sheeting and duct tape
Disposable gloves
Garbage bags
A basic first aid kit
Copies of personal documents in a waterproof pouch
11 p.m. I’m drifting to sleep from the glow of the television. A storm is erupting outside. Suddenly, the lights go out. Being the prepper that I am, it’s more of an inconvenience than an emergency. I wait for a couple minutes, wondering if it’ll come back on. It has been known to flicker in the past, coming back on within a few moments.
After a few more minutes, I get up and pull out the battery backups, one for each child’s room to plug in their devices and a lamp (they like a little light at night), the baby monitor, and our devices. I head downstairs and grab two of our larger battery backups to power the freezer and fridge.
Next, I like to watch something as I doze off. So I grab my laptop and login to our Network Attached Storage (NAS), also plugged into a battery backup, and watch some of the movies and TV shows that we have on it. No internet required. Finally, I can get back to sleep knowing essentials are powered, at least until the morning. I wake up later to discover the electricity was back and reset everything back to normal, but it’s a relief to know that we can still have our needs and wants met, even without the grid. When people think of a blackout, they think about bare-minimum survival. I want you to think bigger: keep your life as normal as possible, with or without electricity.
A portable power station runs a countertop appliance with no fuel and no fumes. Safe to use indoors, unlike a generator.
Preparing for “Normal”
I realize everyone has different budgets, needs, and potential restraints, but I also don’t want us to forget about our wants. If you want to make sure you have coffee, well it’s time to have a plan on how to boil water and make coffee when there’s no electricity. Let’s talk about a few ways that we can be prepared for power outages based on your specific budget.
Two 2,000-watt battery backups keep the fridge and freezer cold, protecting days of food until the grid returns.
Level 1: Basic Budget Friendly
Maybe you just don’t want, or need, to power a lot of stuff. Or maybe your budget doesn’t allow for a $500 battery backup at the moment. Let’s talk about how to manage a power outage at this level. Some basics would be things like:
Headlamps
Candles
A small battery charge for your phone
Lanterns
Solar path lights
Glow sticks
Extra batteries
Lighters/matches
These are easy to acquire and many of these items can even be found at the dollar store. Portable 20,000-mAh battery banks for your phone can run anywhere between $20 and $40, depending on brand. I believe I have seen some of these at $5 and below, too. This setup will give you some light and charge a device one or two times. This is a great setup for anyone to have on hand, regardless of budget. Place these items in a blackout bin, in a drawer, or, my favorite option, inside of a hanging door shoe organizer. I also suggest placing a lantern or headlamp inside of each room. I know we all have flashlights on our phones these days, but have you ever been caught in the bathroom without your phone and the lights go out? I have. Best just to have a light in each room, just in case.
A dual-fuel generator like this 6,000-watt Champion runs on gas or propane. Affordable and powerful, but strictly for outdoor use.
Level 2: Ready to Power Something
At this stage, you’re ready to power a few things with a generator or a large battery backup. There are many options to consider here. Is a generator right for you?
Pros:
Can power your whole house if you need to
Affordable for most people
Cons:
Takes gas/diesel/propane, something you need to store
Can’t be used indoors
Can be loud, even the quiet ones
Requires maintenance, kind of like a car motor
Gives off fumes, which means you need to keep it far enough away from your home
Is a battery backup right for you?
Pros:
Many have high enough wattages to run your whole home
Connects to solar panels to charge
Quiet
No fumes, can be safely used indoors
Cons:
Depending on what you want, they can be on the higher end
They usually only last about 10 to 11 years because of the batteries
Not ideal for places that don’t get a lot of sun for most of the year
A wood stove or fireplace earns its keep in an outage, heating the room and giving you a surface to cook on.
How much power do you actually need? The better question is: What do you want to power, and for how long? Watts tell you how hard a device pulls. Watt-hours — watts multiplied by the hours it runs — tell you how much it actually eats. Battery banks are sized in watt-hours, so that’s the number to chase.
Let’s do some quick math on a few things you may want to power:
iPhone Charger: 5 watts
Refrigerator: 150 watts
One LED lightbulb: 25 watts
All at once: 180 watts
That 180 watts is the draw only if all three run at the same instant. To size a battery, multiply each device by the hours it actually runs. 180 watts x 12 hours = 2,160 watt-hours (2.16kWh)
That’s the worst case, because nothing runs nonstop. The fridge is the big draw, and it cycles. Maybe 15 minutes on, then 30 off, so it runs about a third of the time. Your phone charges for a few hours a day. A light burns maybe five or six. Count the hours each thing really runs, not the hours it sits plugged in.
A lantern or headlamp in every room means you’re never caught fumbling in the dark when the lights cut out.
A realistic day looks more like this:
Phone charger for 4 hours: 5 watts x 4 = 20 watt-hours
Refrigerator cycling over 24 hours (runs about 8): 150 watts x 8 = 1,200 watt-hours
One LED bulb, 6 hours: 25 watts x 6 = 150 watt-hours
Total for the day: about 1,370 watt-hours (1.4 kWh)
The fridge does most of the work here, as it will in almost any outage. Once you know your daily watt-hours, you know which battery bank, or banks, to keep on hand. Then, round up. Size for more than you think you need, never less.
For example, we have small battery banks of about 300 watts for each of the kids’ rooms, that will power a small light and charge their devices for a night. We have two 2,000-watt battery backups to keep our fridge and freezer powered. We also have a generator that is a 6,000-watt dual fuel that takes gas or propane. The propane stores much better, but the run time is about half as long as with gas. Because we live in an area that gets a lot of sun year-round, battery banks make the most sense for us because we can always keep them charged with the power of the sun. When we lived off grid in Alaska, our solar setup was fantastic … in the summer. During the winter months, we had to use our Honda generator to power our batteries to literally keep the lights on.
Battery banks can range anywhere from $100 for 300 watts, up to $4,000 for 5,000 watts or more, and that’s not including the solar panels. The same can be said for generators, though. They have price ranges going from $400 for an off-brand Predator from Harbor Freight (which we have and is great, by the way). All the way up to thousands of dollars for a Honda (which we have also had and is also great). You could also opt for a whole house diesel generator that kicks on when the grid goes down, which can cost $5,000 and up, just for the generator, not including installation.
Now you just need to decide which options are going to be best for you and your practical needs during a blackout? How will you be able to safely store and rotate the fuel? Would a battery bank be a better option? Can you save for any of these options? Wait for sales? Find them used? Many options are available.
Solar excels in summer but falters in winter. Off-grid in Alaska, the author ran a generator to keep the batteries topped off through the dark months. Panels only help after dark if the energy is banked. Pair them with batteries, or you’ll have nothing once the sun drops.
Level 3: I Never Want to Know There’s a Power Outage
When we lived off-grid in rural Arizona, we decided to run down to the nearby gas station that was about 5 miles away. The lights were off. We thought they were closed, even though it was during normal business hours. We walked inside and discovered there was a power outage. The clerk said it had been out for a couple hours.
We had no idea there was a power outage because we were completely off-grid with our whole home solar system. Anything we wanted to power (minus the air conditioning), was run off of a DIY solar.
You don’t have to go the DIY route. However, if you do decide to go with a company, make sure they won’t simply tie the solar panels to the grid but provide no batteries. This would essentially provide power back to the electric company and reduce your bill but won’t give you any energy when there’s a power outage because there are no batteries. The solar panels themselves can give great energy during the day when there’s lots of light, but without the energy being stored in the batteries, you won’t have anything during the night.
Whole house generators will flip on when the power goes out. In the case of generators, you would need the fuel supply to be stored safely on hand. There are even whole house battery backups that can be hooked up to a switch that will automatically flip when the power goes out, and it will also adjust for certain breakers to be on or off.
A hanging shoe organizer turns any door into a grab-and-go blackout kit. Lights, batteries, and water visible at a glance.
Comfort, Cooking, and Cleanliness
When you’re tied to the grid, a blackout takes more than your devices. It takes your heat, your AC, your hot meals, and your hot water. Plan for those too.
For temperature, reach for what works with little or no power. A swamp cooler handles dry heat well. Battery-powered fans and blackout curtains hold the cool in or the heat out. And plain layering in winter all buy you comfort. A wood stove heats a room and lets you cook on top of it.
For cooking, the rule that matters is indoors versus outdoors. Indoor-safe: an alcohol stove or sterno. Outdoors only, never in a closed garage or tent: a propane stove, a barbecue, or a propane grill. Anything that burns fuel and isn’t rated for inside puts off carbon monoxide. And that is what hurts people in an outage, not the dark.
Don’t forget washing if the water heater is down. No-rinse shampoo and soap, the kind nursing homes and hospitals use, keep you clean with no running water. They are a smart thing to keep in your preps.
No matter what level you’re at, there’s a solution for you. I know people who live completely off-grid in the far north and even without a lot of sun in the winter, they simply decrease their energy needs (place the freezer outside, etc.) and aren’t bothered by it at all. You just have to find what works for your situation.
NOTES There’s a point in most camps where convenience starts to matter — not luxury, just the ability to keep things running without turning it into a project. The Lion Energy Summit fits right into that space. It’s not trying to replace a generator or power an entire setup, but it does a very good job of covering the essentials without adding noise, fumes, or another system you must manage.
At its core, the Summit is a 665Wh power station with a 530-watt inverter, built around a LiFePO4 battery. That matters more than most people think. It’s stable, safe, and designed for a longer service life than the typical lithium-ion options you see floating around. At around 18 pounds, it’s also light enough to move around camp without thinking twice about it, which is exactly where something like this earns its keep.
In use, it’s straightforward. Plug it in, and it works. Phones, radios, lights, laptops, even small appliances, it handles all of it quietly in the background. No startup routine, no fuel to worry about, no real maintenance. That simplicity is the entire appeal. You’re not managing power; you’re just using it. The pure sine wave output also means you’re not gambling with sensitive electronics, which is a small detail until it isn’t.
Where the Summit makes the most sense is in a car camping or basecamp setup. It’s enough to keep your essentials topped off over a couple of days, and with the option to recharge via wall or solar, it stays flexible depending on how far off the beaten path you are. It’s not built for high-draw tools or running multiple large devices at once, but that’s not the reason you’re bringing it along. Like a lot of good gear, the Summit works best when you don’t have to think about it. It sits there, does its job, and lets you focus on everything else. For camps where a little bit of reliable power goes a long way, it earns its place without taking up more space physically or mentally than it should.
Put your wrists together in front of you, palms facing, like you’re about to be handcuffed. Now imagine three fast wraps of duct tape cinching them tight. Most people, in that moment, feel something go cold in the chest. The body understands before the mind does: you are no longer the one deciding what happens next.
I spent two days in a room off Fremont Street in Las Vegas learning to undo that feeling. The course was billed as spy and survival skills, taught by a former CIA officer named Jason Hanson and a rotating crew of instructors, and it covered a sprawl of subjects: lock picking, lie detection, knife work, home defense. But the heart of it, the part that kept resurfacing across both days, was counter-custody. The unglamorous, deeply practical art of not staying caught.
It’s a strange thing to train. Nobody plans to be restrained. But the statistics don’t care about your plans, and neither do the people who do this for a living.
Knives are useful tools, and deadly if you know the right place to strike. This information will help you break free of a violent encounter.
Why Duct Tape
The first lesson is humbling, because it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with how cheap the materials are. Duct tape is the most common restraint used by criminals worldwide — not handcuffs, not rope, not zip ties. Tape. It’s a few dollars at any hardware store, it weighs nothing, and it wraps a pair of wrists in about 4 seconds. Criminals, Hanson reminded us more than once, are lazy and in a hurry. They are not going to tie the elaborate knot a Boy Scout would. They’re going to do the fast thing, the simple thing, and get you into a vehicle.
That laziness is the opening. In what the instructors called an “express kidnapping,” the wrists go in front, two to four wraps, because hands in front let someone drag you quickly. Behind the back is slower and more awkward, so it’s rarer than the movies suggest. And front-wrapped tape, it turns out, is a geometry problem, not a strength contest.
The technique they taught us they called the magic angle, and it works for anyone regardless of size. You raise your taped hands high above your head, almost like a steeple. Then, you drive your arms down and apart hard, elbows flaring out, as if you’re throwing both elbows at someone standing behind you. The motion has to start from the top. The mistake nearly everyone makes, the one I made on my first try, is dropping the hands to chest level and then pulling. No human is strong enough to tear tape that way. Started from overhead, the tape splits like it was waiting for permission.
I taped a partner. He taped me. We took turns failing and then suddenly not failing, and the cold feeling in the chest got a little less cold each time.
By securing and manipulating a firearm in the hands of an assailant, it can be disarmed and redirected.
The Clock Starts Immediately
The single most repeated piece of advice across the whole two days was about time. If you are taken, you try to escape within the first 24 hours.
The reasoning is grim and clean. Early on, you are physically closest to the place you were grabbed, which makes you easier to find and easier to flee toward something familiar. You are also stronger, better fed, and better rested than you will ever be again in that situation. Captors feed hostages poorly, if at all. Every hour that passes, the math tilts further against you. The version of you most capable of getting free is the one that exists in the first day.
If escape isn’t possible, the instruction turns toward leaving a trail. Bleed if you can. Leave hair, leave saliva, leave DNA in the vehicle and in the rooms you pass through, anything that gives investigators something to follow. It is bleak material to sit with on a folding chair in Las Vegas, and the room got quiet for it. But there’s a strange comfort in being handed something to do, even in the worst imaginable circumstance. Helplessness is the real enemy. The training is, at its heart, an argument against helplessness.
Once freed from restraints, you may need to pick the lock of the room that you’re in.
A Cord, a Chair, a Way Out
The deeper into the curriculum we went, the more the lessons rewarded a single idea: preparation beats improvisation. The people who get out are usually the people who set themselves up to get out before anything happened.
Consider the friction saw. A length of genuine American-made 550 paracord, around 7 feet, ends melted so they won’t fray, carried as a pre-made loop. Threaded between bound wrists so it rests against the tape and not the skin, with a loop slipped over each foot, it becomes a saw. You lie back and bicycle your legs, and the cord cuts through tape or rope in 10 to 20 seconds. The catch, and there’s always a catch, is that you have to be carrying the cord in the first place. The instructors wore it as shoelaces. They kept it in travel pouches. The tool is useless in the drawer at home.
The same logic ran through the chair escapes, the scenario from a hundred home-invasion stories: taped to a kitchen chair while the house gets ransacked. We drilled the forward jolt, driving the head down toward the knees to change the tape’s angle and burst it, and a separate move for the ankles, rotating the knees and toes outward into a hard V before dropping fast. None of it is exotic. All of it is the same principle as the magic angle, applied to a body in a chair. Speed and angle over muscle.
A word of caution that the instructors hammered, and that I’ll pass along: a partner held the chair steady every single time someone practiced the jolt. The technique works. It also puts your skull on a fast trajectory toward the floor. Train it with a spotter, on a clear surface, and not from some precarious perch.
Jason Hanson shares a story of his time in the field amid breaking free from his restraints.
Tales from the Field
What made the two days stick wasn’t the techniques alone. It was the way Hanson wrapped each one in a story, and the way the stories all seemed to carry the same small piece of wisdom: the people who do this work professionally win through patience and misdirection, almost never through force.
He described an operation to grab a cartel figure in a South American town, a man so beloved locally that the townspeople were his security. No shootout. The team staged a car crash at the exact moment the target stepped out of his vehicle, and while every eye, including the bodyguards’, snapped toward the wreck, they moved. A distraction. The whole thing turned on a distraction.
That became a lesson about ordinary life. Hanson told us about a woman approaching him in a grocery store parking lot asking for $5 for gas, and how his first instinct was to check behind himself, because the small ask is sometimes the setup. The professionals exploit attention. Knowing that, you guard yours. Check your six. Treat the convenient distraction as a question rather than an answer.
Even his warnings about staying free for good carried it. To truly disappear, he said, a person has to abandon every habit that makes them themselves, because habits are exactly what trackers hunt. The yoga class, the gun store, the particular coffee. People get found because they drift back to what’s comfortable. Whether you’re evading a surveillance team or just trying to not be predictable to the wrong person, the principle holds: Your routines are a map someone else can read.
No matter who you are, or what your age is, you are more than capable of breaking free of restraints.
Walking Out
I went into those two days as someone who’s spent a career thinking about how to survive when the systems we lean on fail, whether that’s a forest, a flood, or the slow grind of a long emergency. I came out thinking that counter-custody belongs on that same shelf, next to fire and water and shelter. Not because any of us expects to be taken. Because the cost of the skill is so low and the cost of needing it and not having it is everything.
You don’t have to attend a class in Las Vegas. Buy a roll of duct tape. Have someone wrap your wrists, in front, three times. Then raise your arms over your head and bring them down hard, and feel the tape give. It takes one afternoon to learn, and it rearranges something. The next time you imagine your wrists bound, the chest stays a little warmer. You know something now. You know you can get free.
