“Ammunition, a few pounds of tobacco, dressed deerskins for moccasins, etc., are carried in a wallet of dressed buffalo-skin, called a possible pack. His ‘possibles’ and ‘trap sack,’ are generally carried on the saddle mule while hunting, the others being packed with furs.”
The image of the American frontiersman is familiar among most modern sportsmen. After all, these intrepid heroes have been seared upon the minds of generations through storybooks, cinema, and television. Look no farther than Jermiah Johnson, Jedediah Smith, and Grizzly Adams for obvious examples.
The persona that comes to mind is both iconic and universal — a bearded, barely civilized mountain man wearing buckskin, toting a muzzleloading rifle and a razor-sharp belt knife. Most likely he’s also carrying a smallish (dare we say) purse-sized “possibles” bag slung over one shoulder.
It makes sense. Some variation of this durable, weatherproof container has been in use since the dawn of time. While the contents have varied through history, they’ve always included survival essentials and even a few creature comforts to make life a little more enjoyable.
But one man’s necessities are another man’s superfluous baggage, and time changes what we carry afield. Thousands of years ago, a possibles bag probably included a bone awl, a stone knife, maybe a flint knapper, some dried meat and berries for sustenance, and a bow-drill for making fire.
With the advent of gunpowder, loadout gear evolved. A 19th-century mountain man’s bag usually included lead musket balls, patch cloth, a powder horn, bullet mold, a tinder box stuffed with charcloth, tinder, flint and steel, some rudimentary gun-cleaning equipment, a compass, whetstone, pipe and tobacco, jerky or pemmican, and a needle and thread.
So what exactly is a possibles bag? Believe it or not, historians don’t always agree on the definition. For the purposes of this article, we’re talking about any small shoulder bag that holds sporting or survival equipment. The contents should improve one’s odds of staying alive in rough, wild country where a casual approach could prove lethal.
To further muddy the waters, contemporary choices aren’t always limited to the shoulder bags of yore. Today’s options often masquerade as backpacks or gym-style duffle bags. What’s more, they’re usually intended for a specific purpose – i.e., the fly-fishing sling pack. Either way, a modern possibles bag encompasses the same general idea as an earlier version — an accessible container for stowing important gear.
For over a quarter of a century now, my answer to this conundrum has been Filson’s (small) Field Bag. This robust, leather-trimmed, waxed canvas satchel is durable and holds everything for a day in the woods or on the stream.
Filson’s Field Bag features a bridle leather shoulder strap and closure tab, and brass hardware. There’s a large main compartment, a smaller snap-front pocket, two side pouches, and a rear slit pocket for storing flat items, like maps or plastic bags.
Personal preference factors heavily into any gear selection, and possibles bags are no exception. Some of the kit riding in my satchel varies from season to season, but other items stay there perpetually.
The permanent paraphernalia includes a waterproof canister of strike-anywhere matches, a weatherproof lighter, folding knife, whetstone, compass, gun wipes, a cigar cutter, a game strap, bottle opener, several gallon-sized Zip-loc bags, a tourniquet, and a small, emergency sewing kit. All told, a fine mishmash of creature comforts and essential gear.
During fishing season, I’ll add a fly reel, nippers, some spare tippet, a few snacks, and my leather pipe bag. When autumn rolls around, I trade the angling items for a box of shotshells, some light leather gloves, and shooting glasses.
Patina is the mark of experience, and that mantra applies to sweaters, gun cases, and possibles bags. Nothing says neophyte like spotless gear. But everything starts out unblemished. To mitigate that undesirable squeaky-clean look, an old friend suggests a solution:
“Let’s say you just bought a new shooting hat,” he instructs. “Obviously you can’t show up at the gun club wearing that because everyone will assume you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Here’s what you do,” he continues. “Buy a big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Drop the hat into the bucket and swish it around till it’s saturated with grease and breading, then throw it into the kennel with the dogs. After they have their way with it for a few hours it should be properly broken in.”
Sage advice, that.
The callous hand of time can be almost as effective as a pack of hungry hounds, and my possibles bag has amassed no shortage of blemishes and battle scars over the years. In fact, it was getting so ratty recently that I sent it back in to Filson for a complete overhaul. They ran it through their industrial stitcher and shored up some thin spots in the fabric, so it should be good for another 25 years.
To complement the coffee stains and cigar burns on my Field Bag, I added some customizations to reflect my personality, including pewter pins of leaping brook trout, English setters, and a button showing my allegiance to the Ruffed Grouse Society. I also affixed a spur from the first turkey I called in. Superstitious or not, none of these talismans could hurt the outdoor mojo, right?
Possibles bags are time-honored pieces of sporting gear and an enduring example of the traveling sportsman’s adventures afield. As we teeter on the edge on another hunting season, what will you fill your bag with this fall?
It’s worth considering. After all, autumn is THE season of possibilities.