My history of knifemaking-found some old steel

Rummaging through my attic-turned -home, I came across these three old knives. I made them way back, when I still lived in the forest, and they all have a story to tell. The first one on top was made when I still had no forge whatsoever. On the topmost meadow above our garden, at the edge of the dense woods, I loved to sit beneath a rowan tree, and beneath its roots I had found an old billhook knife. The handle was rotten away, and it was rust-eaten almost beyond recognition, but, the blade being very thick in the spine, still offered plenty of material to make a Bowie knife from.I took a hacksaw with a tile-cutting wire to it, and then the rest was done with a water - cooled roto - grinder and grit paper. I then fitted a piece of copper as a guard, and a handle out of yew and stag antler, which an acquaintance of ours gave to me. The tang is glued in and peened over an inlaid brass plate. The knife has so far seen some 15 years of hard use and is still in good condition. It measures in at some 16cm, the spine is 4mm thick.

The next one I made in the scagel style. I am still quite fond of those Scagel knives, even if I am somewhat less of the opinion that he invented "custom knives", for this was done all over the world in village smithys and frontier smithys alike. The blade is made (forged) from an old car bolt wrench, quite thin at 2,5 mm, and tempered in an urine concoction after the "Curicus and offenhertzig wein artzt" (1782), resulting in a bainite temper. It is very flexible, yet holds an edge extremely well. After 12 years of hard use I only but recently redid the grind, but only to change the edge geometry. The handle is made from stag antler, mountain pinion and leather washers. the mountain pinion is a piece of root that had been washed up a torrent in a mountain creek near "my home away from home", the place where I used to stay each year-a cabin high up in the Styrian mountains, the Ursprungalm. I brought it home as a souvenir, and then decided to put a bit of a sentiment into this knife.

Still below is the youngest of the trio, some 9 years old. It is made from an old wall anchor I found in the ruin of an ancient manor high above the Volme valley. It was winter then, and a snowstorm was blowing hard. Seeking shelter, I went into the ruin, and there it was, rusted deep. It shows no strucure, but the carbon content is high enough to make for a blade, that, tempered in the aforementioned urine concoction, cuts iron bolts. Some years ago, I removed the original scales, which were ebony, but so lousily fitted they cracked, and filed the tang and drilled it to accomodate a lanyard hole. Then I put some oak scales on from the last blank my father prepared before he became too sick to do any woodworking at all. Also a bit of a sentiment, if you so will. This is one of the blades I forged in winter, under a starlit sky, with the cat owls hooting and the ice howling on the lake. I treasure the memory even more than the knife itself, but more so since this time will never come back. It measures in at some 95 mm with a very sturdy spine, some 7 mm thick. I put a hollow grind on it, so that it cuts well enough, though it is a bit overbuilt. Never really sharpened it the whole time through, just some stropping is all.

Apart from the feeling that I must have done something right with the making of these knives, they make me wonder, and I ask myself: Do I have put those years and the armour the sentiment in these artifacts gave me for my heart put to good use? Sometimes it feels I wasted my time stargazing and dreaming. This is when I have to work at the office or have to make do with what´s left in my cupboard for food at the end of the month. But in general, I´d rather do it the same way again, and do not have real regrets. Yes, I can see more in a tree, or a squirrell, or  a bird, or a rock, than some Monsanto employee might. Bu they´re the ones f***** up the planet in a big style. Would not say that I don´t, but I guess my footprint´s a bit smaller on this earth. No, I do not regret, and even if it sometimes feels I can go not one step further, I take out those things I made long ago. And I play them in my hands, and remember the stars, and the winterwind, and the hunting owls. And even if it is a grim smile that is on my lips then, a smile it is. For even if those knives would not last, or be taken from me, noone will ever take the dream from me.

Forging a Bowie-my first "big" one

 I am normally not overly fond of big blades like bowie knives, and I think that one george Washington Sears (Nessmuk) or John Palliser are absolutely right in preferring lighter, thinner, shorter blades. Also, I cannot see why I should make knives making exclusively sense as a fighter. So I was not quite enthusiastic when a friend of Volker´s, Holger, wanted to forge a bowie for western reenactment for his birthday, and on his party at the Bethaus in Witten. He wanted to pay me for it, and I had a use for some cash;-), so I am a whore, too, sometimes;-). Got some Mercedes leaf spring from Henry´s, a friend of mine and making a living by selling old cars. he always has some wreckage around and is no stranger to some hammer bashing, too. 

Got the leaf spring, some one metre twenty long, and packed it in my backpack, Then it was ride my bike with the thing protruding out of my rucksack to Witten. The lane was quite crowded, and I got some really queer looks, I can tell you;-).

When I came to Volker´s smithy, there were already birthday guests, all dressed up. Had a cuppa coffee (thanks, Volker and Sylvia and Jochen!!!!) amidst all the guests. There was a lady in the chamber practicing the accordeon, and I loved her music. We had some talk and it turned out she was a studied musician who lost here eyesight only but recently and is now legally blind. It was quite a difficult time for her, but it turned out her musical ability actually ifr not profited, but changed. She cannot read the partitures anymore. She has to feel, and do it intuitively. Without knowing the facts, I found her music enchanting. We talked a lot about art in general, and the way it profits from feeling it, from intuition, not simple craft, and our conversation inspired me a lot. Sometimes you pass by people, and they influence you, simply by their presence. I do not even know her name, but I have a very great respect for this person.

I then met another old smith, Mielenko bednasch, A Russian blacksmith. he his over 75 years old and still takes orders. He showed me some of his works, and I was simply amazed. I will feature him in a separate post soon.

It was under these impressions that I started to forge my first fighting knife, quite a contrast at first look, but I believe that fighting implements should be (or shall be) not just fighting implements, not just tools to kill, but, as the Japanese have a saying, be a "one sword of life, one sword of death". This is the reason, in my opinion, that any warrior shall learn how to take the sword in hand to defend the crop he has sowed or to defend the weak. And, this is more important, if danger is warded off, he has to put the sword in its place on the wall and resume sowing his seeds, resume his art, and care for life, and heal. Every warrior should be able to heal, and to create, to counterweigh the destruction he has to inflict upon the aggressor. I believe weapons are the last means to protect the weak or oneself. If taken to hand, a warrior should not hesitate to destroy his enemy utterly, not as long as the bat of an eyelid should his reflection take, ere he kills. If he has to detsroy, he shall do it utterly, so that danger will never rise again. But if he destroys, he should build anew also. For any life he has taken he should plant new life, and resume to plough. Or to play music, or to heal, or to create in general.

Holger came, and I had some talk with him, and I showed him how to use the sledge, and he forged part of the edge alone. I corrected some of the dents, and forged the hind part of the edge. The blade came out a bit like the "Musso bowie", and I gave it some balancing. I just let it cool during annealing and played it some in my hand and I closed my eyes. I did some grinding and some more forging, keeping in mind the weight of the bolster and the scales and the drillings and fittings. It was agreat help to me closing my eyes while playing it. I then edge-quenched it and did the final grind. It now has a whippy feel to it, like a sword would, and it is an evil slasher as is. But then weapons shall be evil. It was a very mind - consuming work, and I did not sleep well that night.

I then gave it to Holger and tested it on nails and with a file, let it smash on a concrete floor from a height of 1,5 m, slammed it over a round piece of wood with the broad side up and put it in a vice, hitting the handle with a 1,5 kg hammer. Holger was impressed that it shaved ("just as it should", he said) and looked quite satisfied with his birthday present;-).

Then it was straight to the kitchen, where I delved deep into the delicious dishes Jochen, the cook of the Bethaus was not tiring to offer me. It was lamb in a delicious wine sauce, a cabbage porridge and potatoes in roasted with rosemary, seven different kinds of cheese, and table water as a drink, and coffee, and soft drinks and all I could dream of. I was very grateful, for it was a delicious experience. We had some good natured talk along my mealk, and Jochen and I discussed a great variety of things philosophical and biographical. It was late in the night, about 1 o´clock, when I left and rode home over a completely deserted bike lane. I had many things to think over, some violent, some gentle, some mundane, some philosophical, some hopeless, and some hopeful. I guess this is the stuff life is- simply and obviously made of.