I laid it down on a fallen oak tree as I caught my breath.

There are prettier rifles. Newer rifles. Rifles that shoot farther and weigh less. Rifles that come wrapped in camo and carbon fiber.

But mine.... Mine is made of walnut and steel.

She's not perfect anymore. The stock has scars from brush and falls. The bluing has faded where hands have held onto her November after November. If you walked by it at a gun show, you probably wouldn't give it a second look.

I never could.

Before the .30-30, I had a single shot .22 Hornet. At the time, it was the smallest legal deer round although I never had the opportunity to tag a deer with it.

Somewhere around 8 or 10, I guess Dad decided it was time for something bigger. I don't remember there being a ceremony. Don't remember a speech. One day, I simply found myself being handed the ol' lever gun.

Now, Dad has never been much for long speeches. He didn't need to tell me I was growing up or explain what that rifle meant. I had heard stories about it my whole life. He just handed it to me and somewhere down the road, I realized he was trusting me with more than just walnut and steel.

I can't tell you where the first scratch on this rifle came from. Probably came from pushing through laurel beds, being used as a prop, or just sliding around in the truck. I just know somewhere along the way, some of these marks started belonging to me.

My first deer with that rifle came on a chilly drizzly Georgia afternoon. I remember those old camo coveralls I was wearing more than I remember my actual age. Dad and I were still hunting when I spotted a doe slipping through the woods.

It was one of those moments where everything was happening at once. My heart was pounding. My mind was racing. Somehow, I felt like time had sped up.

Dad was right beside me.

"Take your time," he said. "Squeeze the trigger when you're ready".

I settled the crosshairs from that Tasco Pronghorn behind the doe's shoulder. I remember trying so hard to slow things down that I probably took way too long.

I finally squeezed the trigger.

The doe piled up within 75 yards.

Dad just laughed.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to shoot."

At that point, that rifle was no longer only carrying Dad's memories.

It had started collecting my own.

Since that hunt, that old rifle has ridden many miles on truck seats, leaned against more trees than I could count, crossed creeks, pushed through mountain laurel, and shared more November mornings than any hunting partner ever could.

Somewhere along the way, all the scratches stopped bothering me. They simply became reminders that this rifle was doing exactly what it was intended to do.

I've tried other rifles over the years. Ones that, on paper, were better in every way. Maybe "better" shouldn't always be measured on paper.

That's probably why, when season rolls around, I still find myself reaching for that ol, lever gun.

One day, Lord willing, I'll hand this rifle to Layla.

By then, I hope she's heard just about every story this old lever gun has to tell.

Maybe she'll understand why I kept reaching for it year after year.

And if we're lucky, maybe she'll end up having a few stories of her own to add.

Wood crackling.

Logs shift and throw sparks into the night.

Smoke matches you step for step.

The warmth on your face is comforting.

The flames begin to shrink.

The warmth fades.

You stir the coals.

Toss on another stick.

The flames find new life.

Nobody likes leaving a fire before it's burned down.

Now it's gotten late.

Your alarm isn't going to care how much sleep you missed.

But somehow, walking away when there are still coals glowing feels wrong.

You stir the coals.

Toss on another stick.

Watch the flames climb back into the night.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that campfires aren't the only things we have to keep feeding...

Sitting here watching the fire, I didn't think twice about grabbing another stick.

It wasn't a chore.

Nobody had to tell me to do it.

But I did.

I didn't want the fire to burn out.

So why do we expect the fires in our own lives to keep burning if we stop feeding them?

Friendships don't stay strong on their own.

Neither do relationships.

Not our faith.

Not our health.

Even our passions burn out if we stop tending to them.

Makes a lot more sense when sitting around a campfire, don't it?

I've caught myself assuming that the fire will keep burning strong even if I stop tending to it.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Maybe that's the point.

Fires don't care about your good intentions.

Midnight has crept up on me.

The woods are quiet.

The last stick falls and settles into the coals.

The fire breathes once again.

Honestly, I can't tell you exactly where it came from.

Before that, I went by "The Typical Sportsman" and while that seemed like a good idea at the time, the longer I used it, the more it felt like a brand that was trying too hard. It never really felt like me.

For a while I just used my own name.

Then somewhere along the way, the thought Mtn Nomad popped into my head.

I wish I could tell you there was some profound story behind it—that I stood on a ridge one morning and the mountains spoke to me.

The truth is... I don't remember.

I just remember that it stuck.

And the longer I carried that name, the more it started to feel like home and who I am.

Not because I live in the mountains every day.

Not because I'm some hardcore backcountry hunter.

But because every chance I get, I'm pulled back into them.

The mountains have a way of silencing all the noise.

Out there, nobody cares what truck you drive, how many followers you have, or whether you killed a 150"er last season.

The mountains don't hand out trophies for looking the part.

They simply invite you to show up.

That's one of the reasons this page exists.

I don't want to be an influencer.

I don't want to be somebody people envy.

I'd rather be someone people can relate to, learn from, and connect with.

I'm just an ordinary guy from Georgia who loves traditional archery, camp coffee, and wandering around some Appalachian ridges. Some days I'll come home with good stories. Some days I'll come home with my tail tucked. Either way, I'll probably learn something worth sharing.

That's what Mtn Nomad is.

That's who Austin is.

It's not about pretending to have all the answers.

It's about documenting the journey.

The successful hunts.

The failed hunts.

The gear that exceeded expectations.

The gear that didn't.

The mornings that started long before daylight.

The evenings around a campfire.

The miles that hurt.

The lessons that only the mountains seem to teach.

And even the parts of life that have absolutely nothing to do with the outdoors.

If you're here because you've ever found peace in a stand, sat quietly as the woods came alive, or simply needed to get away from the noise for a while...

Welcome.

Let's see where this road goes.

We've got some miles to walk.

— Austin