The Man, The Myth, The Smoke Infused, Caffeine Laden, Leather tote'n son of a couple hippies.
I once raced a moose down a mountain road because it refused to yield the right of way. I made the executive decision to speed up. The moose made the same executive decision. Thirty-five miles an hour later, we were running side-by-side like two idiots in a nature documentary no one asked for. Eventually he got bored and peeled off into the trees. Sure to tell his buddies that he whooped me in the quarter mile. But we all know, that moose be lying.
That's pretty much life in the Inland Northwest. Black bears wander through camp like they pay rent. Tom turkeys sit in wait till you get off work and back you into your own truck. You either love it and make some humor out of it, or you move somewhere flat and boring.
I love it.
My name is Travis, aka Squintz, or just Murrill. I grew up in a tiny Montana town right off I-90 on the Clark Fork River, eventually drifted down to Arizona and then back up into the Idaho Panhandle, and somewhere along the way started making leather goods and coffee for people who live the wildland life. The same people who shoo away black bears, outrun ungulates, slept in the dirt, and start busting their backs long before the sun comes up.
BUILT, NOT BOUGHT.
My mother is a keeper of knowledge, she can do just about anything. She makes the things she needed or wants, be it cups, bowls, leather belts, tapestries, wood burned art on fungi she pulled off fallen timber, ooh or built a house, drive heavy equipment, work a saw-mill, or mining 🤯. She is the epitome of a self sufficient bad-ass. Plus nobody tells her she can't do something anyway. There is too much to list about what she has done for me, but I will say she has instilled a work ethic, curiosity for the world, an ability to see the good in situations, and a; you can learn how to do anything attitude. I am grateful for that.
My father worked the land as a logger, tree planter, wildland firefighter, You could say he was a forest conservationist if you wanna be fucking formal about it. He also was a biker, hot rod enthusiast, a real blend of 50's greaser and 70's hippie biker. It took some growing up to understand his wildland culture. I was about 17 when I was formally introduced to it. Cutting line, dragging chokers, mopping up, chasing spot fires, burning whole mountainsides.
I'll never forget the time I fell eight feet through a slash pile with a lit drip torch in my hand, trail of fire following me down. I had about 10 seconds to get my feces coagulated and figure out how not to die in a flaming hole of shame. I wrote this so obviously I got out, but with some radio guidance from the boss on the mountain and the help of the crew working alongside me, but I tell you, that earned a four-finger pour back at camp. What can you do? You jus laugh about it and move on. That's how it works out there.
At that time I was running up and down the basketball court every day, playing football, and was a mountain trekking fool. Needless to say I thought I was in pretty good shape.
I was sorely mistaken. The physical and mental demand wildland firefighting puts on you, is brutally intense and that is putting it lightly. That is a story in its self, maybe another time.
What I got out of that life on the mountain was a sense of worth, a deeper connection to the land around us, unrelenting work ethic, and a brotherhood that is unmatched.
That kind of work rewires you. It builds bonds that don't break. It teaches you there are no shortcuts worth taking. It burrows into your blood and it stays there. They stood for me when I needed a purpose and I will always stand for that culture in return.
SCATTER BRAINED
I've been obsessed with a lot of things: basketball, axe throwing, motorbikes, archery, music, construction, BBQ, whiskey, coffee, leather. My brain runs like a duff fire: slow, underground, popping up somewhere unexpected with a new idea. I have accumulated what most people would call a massive cache of useless knowledge. I like to call it junkyard parts.
Leather found me through an Army veteran I know, part Native American, he wanted a tomahawk with a leather wrapped handle, a fitted sheath, turkey feather dressing. I built it. He came back for a Bowie knife sheath. I built that one with a cant system, Chicago screws, adjustable positioning, modular mounting so you could dial in the angle exactly where you wanted it and lock it down. That was the moment everything clicked. Modular tactical leather work. Father-in-law commissioned multiple holsters and I was hooked.
Then came a Bergen ruck for my wife. A chest rig for my brother-in-law's fly fishing setup. Then requests for versions without the fishing attachments. Eventually you look at the pile of gear you've made and realize you either call it a hobby or you call it a business.
I called it a business.
COFFEE.
There was a good friend of the family who was a massive part of our family's life. He and my parents used to sit around his kitchen table and play cribbage like it was a competitive sport, and drank coffee the way some people drink water, like it was just part of being conscious. He had a green Tupperware container full of brown sugar. That was the go-to instead of your standard white sugar. Dark, coarse, molasses-heavy brown sugar that dissolved into black coffee like it had always belonged there.
At the time I didn't really think much of it, but as I grew up and started drinking coffee I realized that no one I knew used brown sugar. I tried it once and never looked back, and so went the journey of trying to understand how this, and why that worked, and what made coffee the way it is.
Coffee has been around for 100's of years, so it goes without saying that coffee permeated my life when I was young without knowing, and more directly as I got older. In the smoke of every campfire, in the thermos carried to every logging job, and every long day outside. Nobody celebrated it. You just made it, same as you laced your boots and sharpened your tools. Coffee is an essential tool of the trade.
One of the first dates I took my now wife on was a walk along the Clark Fork River. I brought coffee. I brought brown sugar. Turns out she was a black coffee drinker. Win. She'd worked behind an espresso bar long enough to understand the craft without becoming pretentious about it. I am fairly certain the brown sugar is what kept her around all these years.
Between a childhood full of fire camp mornings and a wife who could explain what was actually happening in the cup, I went deep into coffee the way I go deep into everything — completely, until I knew it cold. From siphon brewers to cowboy coffee. I came out the other side with strong opinions and zero patience for the performance of it. Coffee can be a personality and it can be an aesthetic. I favor the four in the morning brew that locks you in for the day. I nerd out about the details, so you don't have to. I take the Specialty coffee knowledge and bring it to a place of simplicity and create good dam coffee without the fuss.
WHAT'S SPIKE CAMP OUTPOST.
It's what happens when someone who grew up in the smoke and the slash gets tired of throwaway culture and watching craftsmanship get trampled by cheap garbage that doesn't last. Full-grain leather built to outlast the person who buys it. Coffee roasted for people who use it like fuel.
I'm a maker. I want to know how things work and I want to build things that work even better.
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