So you’ve driven into frigid water while searching for the trailhead. Nice work, bucko.

Or you took a shortcut on the trail, counting on cracked grey ice to hold you. That worked for about five seconds.
 
Quick! Figure out which frigid body your body is in, and what to do about it:
 
If you’re in over your head and drowning, it’s a LAKE. There might be some ice fishermen around. They won’t respond to just any old call for help, though, if they’re holed up in an ice shack, working on their second 6-pack of Miller Lite. Try yelling: “Hey, great spot for muskies here!”
 
If you’re being swept downstream and drowning, it’s a RIVER. Try swimming to shore if the current isn’t too strong. Otherwise, stay alive until the river spits you out into one of the Great Lakes. There’s a slim chance you’ll be spotted by a freighter, taken aboard, and impressed into service on a slow boat to China.
 
If you swallowed several mouthfuls without purifying the water and are dying of dysentery, it’s a RIVER. Maybe you’ll survive. Next time, treat the water before falling in.
 
If you’re stuck, thrashing and bubbling as you go down, it’s a SWAMP. Remain absolutely still. Watch out for alligators. They usually go for the head first.
 
If there’s an undertow and a salty tang to the water, it’s the OCEAN, and you are wayyyy off route. In your next life, buy a better topo hiking map.
 
For more absurd advice on surviving the backcountry, check out The Dumb Zone: A Snarky Look at Your Obsessive Climbing Disorder at Amazon.    

Length
Choosing the right length of your belt knife is a life-or-death decision. A really long blade, which experienced woodsmen cleverly call a “sword,” lets you swagger through the forest saying “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
 
A short blade makes it hard to trim firewood without accidentally cutting off your thumb. A medium blade lets you do both, but not very well. You should carry all three sizes, so you think you’re prepared for every possible situation.
 
Material
Historians say most knives found on the American frontier looked like large kitchen knives. Hmm… they were “found” there? Somebody must have thrown them away. But why?
 
Ask any cook: with a drawerful of expensive knives that don’t cut worth a darn, your default knife that actually works is the Kmart blue-light special from 1992. It’s made of tin, with serrated edges.
 
So American frontiersmen went around wantonly discarding worthless expensive kitchen knives in favor of the blue-light special. And when those frontiersmen bit the dust, their sons inherited the blue-light knives. They aren’t sold in stores anymore, so you’ll have to scour eBay, flea markets and garage sales.
 
This is your main knife. Keep it on your belt at all times… although if you’re crouching over a cat-hole you just dug in the dirt, make sure your main knife doesn’t get anywhere near your main parts.
 
Jackknives
Many of our forefathers carried jackknives. So did our foremothers, who used theirs for deboning turkeys, stitching quilts, and performing emergency C-sections. Your early forays into the bush probably won’t include those fun activities, so let’s stick with masculine jackknives with tools for:

• skinning, stuffing and mounting a wild boar
• trimming unruly box hedges around your campsite
• fixing that one stupid Christmas light that keeps winking out, making the whole string go dark
• opening beer cans

​Be sure to buy a jackknife with a hole in one end. That lets you hang it around your neck with twine as an emergency lanyard, along with a forged I.D., if you stumble upon an annual meeting of grizzly bears.
 
Speaking of grizzly bears (the greatest fear of beginning campers, even in Colorado’s Great Sand Dunes): don’t even think of waving your puny knife in the grizzly’s face. The bear will just snort derisively, pull out a pistol, and shoot you dead.
 
If worse comes to worst
Is that grizzly reaching for his pistol? Are you hopelessly trapped by a raging forest fire? Or is a nearby camper playing an out-of-tune guitar and singing “If I Had a Hammer”? Grab your main knife and perform ritual seppuku to hasten your final exit. If it was good enough for samurai warriors, it’s good enough for you. 

For more advice to keep you (barely) alive in the wilderness, check out The Dumb Zone: A snarky look at your Obsessive Climbing Disorder at Amazon.

Bears love surprises. Mother bears, especially. Mama Bear would throw a surprise party for her cubs’ first birthday if only she could break into the dollar store for party hats. Cubs under one year old are called “cubs of the year,” and Mama can’t wait to get those dang babies out of her hair.
 
Cubs of the year are really dumb. Yeah, they look so cute rolling around and play-fighting with each other, but they can’t figure out how to pluck a wild berry off a bush for lunch. Mama Bear has to show them. They don’t even know how to shit in the woods yet. Mama Bear has to show them that, too. Every time.
 
Getting back to surprises: it’s not just mama bears – all fully grown bears love surprises. You would, too, if you had to forage for 20,000 calories a day on a vegan diet. Sooo monotonous. Bears nap and meditate a lot of the time, but taking a break from “taking a break” gets old real fast. 
 
So surprise the heck out of them as you move with stealth through the backcountry:

• Walk carefully to avoid breaking twigs.
• Take care that you don’t stub your big toe on a rock and shout out cuss words.
• Don’t talk, sing, or (heaven help us) yodel like one expert recommends. Even cute little chipmunks will savagely turn on you for yodeling.
• Avoid “bear bells” on your walking stick, pocket radios broadcasting NASCAR races, and loud farts.

 
When you spot a bear, stay downwind of it. Remain behind trees and bushes as you advance slowly. Get as close as you can. Then jump out and yell “Surprise!” Throw your arms out wide and wait for your new friend to come give you a big bear hug.
 
Bear Encounters of the Worst Kind
Some bears never got the memo about fun surprises. Grizzlies can be especially cranky. Their “greeting” consists of charging you at lightning speed, knocking you flat and chomping into your skull.
 
If it turns out you’ve surprised a grizzly, forget diplomacy. Sprint for the nearest tree. Throw your pack, your walking stick and your dog in the bear’s path. That should buy you at least one one-thousandth of a second.
 
Is it a grizzly? Or a brown bear? Or a brown grizzly?
It’s hard to tell a grizzly from a brown bear, which isn’t always brown. Sometimes you can’t tell until they’re right on top of you. So keep your Field Guide to Wild Bears handy, with a Post-It Note on the “grizzly” section.
 
For more absurd advice on surviving the backcountry, check out The Dumb Zone: A Snarky Look at Your Obsessive Climbing Disorder at Amazon.