— est. a while back, in a shed out west —
Howdy. Venture Gear is a one-man canvas shop turning out the kind of hauling gear that holds up when the weather quits being polite. No logos the size of dinner plates, no zippers that give out on day four. Just waxed duck, brass, and bar-tacked seams.
Name's Roy. I spent twelve seasons on a backcountry trail crew — hauling pulaskis, crosscuts, and far too many rolls of wire up creek drainages where the mules wouldn't go. Every pack I owned quit on me somewhere between the trailhead and the job. Figured if nobody was gonna build one that'd last, I'd best learn to do it myself.
That was a good while back. These days the shop lives in a converted feed barn tucked up against the foothills. It's me, two Juki walking-foot machines named Gert and Shirley, a clicker press I traded a truck for, and a woodstove that smokes something awful when the wind comes out of the east.
Every piece that goes out the door gets my initials in the liner and a lifetime repair promise. You wear it out, send it back. I'll patch it, re-wax it, re-stitch it, and send it home.
45L ◆ 14oz waxed duck ◆ bridle leather straps
The workhorse. Roll-top closure, two bellows pockets, an internal sleeve for a frame sheet if you want one. Most folks don't. Runs heavy honest — 3lb 14oz empty — because the parts that matter aren't the ones you can see.
$ 385 ◆ batch-built
waxed shell ◆ wool liner ◆ copper grommets
Wraps a proper wool blanket or a light bag. Straps double as a shoulder carry. Been known to sleep six-foot-four fellas without complaint, though the complaint usually finds another reason.
$ 240 ◆ two colorways
waxed canvas ◆ leather loops ◆ tie closure
Unrolls flat. Holds needles, heavy thread, speedy-stitcher, awl, sailmaker's palm, a tube of seam grip, and whatever else you pack for the ninth-day emergencies. Goes in the lid of the Model 03 like it was measured for it. It was.
$ 95 ◆ made to order
scrap waxed duck ◆ brass hardware
Little fellas made from the offcuts so nothing goes to waste. Good for a compass, a firesteel, a folding knife, a spare pair of socks. Every one is a little different. That's the deal.
$ 48 ◆ when they exist
Heavy 14oz cotton duck from a mill back east — same folks have been weaving it since Coolidge. I wax it in the shop with a paraffin-and-beeswax blend I cook up on a hot plate. Smells like a church candle, mostly.
No laser cutter, no CAD. I've got a stack of heavy chipboard templates hanging on nails over the cutting table. Chalk the line, cut the line, mark the seams. Same way it's been done.
Walking-foot machines, bonded nylon thread, stress points bar-tacked eight ways from Sunday. If a seam's gonna fail it'll be the fabric giving up first, and that fabric doesn't quit easily.
Solid brass buckles, copper rivets, bridle leather from a tannery I've bought from for years. Final piece gets my initials inked in the liner, a batch number, and a tag that says so.
Here's the straight story. I build in batches of eight to twelve. When a batch opens up, word goes out to folks on the standing list — most of 'em friends, former trail crew, outfitters up in the high country. Sometimes there's a slot or two left over.
Currently serving existing customers. New orders by introduction only.
If somebody you trust already carries a piece of mine, have a word with them — that's how the list grows.
Repairs on existing Venture Gear pieces always get done, list or no list. That's the promise and it hasn't moved.
Shop's up in the interior foothills. Serving folks across the mountain west, mostly by hand delivery when the trucks are running that way.