Hey there, fellow wilderness wanderers! Jason Marsteiner here, the guy who runs The Survival University, a little outdoor survival haven tucked away in Colorado’s rugged wilds. Ever heard of flint knapping? It’s that old-school trick where you take a piece of flint, chert, or obsidian and turn it into a knife, an arrowhead, or some other hunter-gatherer masterpiece. Sounds cool, right? Well, I thought so too, until I tried it. Spoiler: I’m terrible. Like, “should I even be allowed near flint?” terrible. So, grab a seat by the imaginary campfire, and let me regale you with my tales of stone-shattering failure. Featuring a special guest appearance by Phillip Liebel, a flint knapping wizard from Texas who’s way better at this than I’ll ever be.
It all started on a crisp Colorado day at The Survival University. I was feeling primal, like some ancient craftsman ready to conquer the stone age. Armed with a chunk of flint and a hammerstone, I figured I’d bang out an arrowhead in no time. I watched it on YouTube, how hard could it be? I took a big swing, connected, and… a tiny shard flicked off, landing right in my boot. These aren’t harmless chips, folks, they’re razor-sharp little devils, so I spent the next five minutes gingerly unlacing my boot like I was disarming a trap, praying I wouldn’t slice my foot through my sock.
Enter Phillip Liebel, my flint knapping savior from Texas. This guy’s the real deal, a pro who grew up exploring woods, digging into his Cherokee roots, and turning flint into art. He’s been to The Survival University twice: once to teach a killer class, and once to hang out with David Holladay and a bunch of other survival instructors from all over. That hangout wasn’t a workshop, just a chill gathering, but it showed me Phillip’s the kind of dude who fits right in with the TSU crowd.
He’s taught here once before, and I watched in awe as he shaped obsidian like it was butter, not a brittle stone waiting to shred your skin. Me? I was over here flailing with my flint, but Phillip just grinned, probably because he’s too nice to laugh outright. He’s got this calm vibe, like he’s whispering to the flint instead of wrestling it. I, on the other hand, am basically in a cage match with every piece of stone I touch.
Let’s be real: flint knapping is awesome. You’re taking a pretty rock and making stuff humans have relied on for thousands of years. Knives that slice through leather, arrowheads that could down a deer, spear points that say “I’m tougher than you.” It’s like living history, except with more swearing (at least for me). When it works, it’s magic. When it doesn’t… like, say, every time I try, it’s a comedy show with a side of Band-Aids.
The shards are the kicker. They’re not just chips; they’re tiny blades that fly everywhere. I’ve had them nick my shins, lodge in my shirt, even land on my workbench, daring me to pick them up without drawing blood. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit but it’s a thrill, dodging those suckers, but it’s also why I’m not cut out for teaching this. Phillip, though? He makes it look easy, like the stone is cooperating just for him.
So, why do I suck so bad at flint knapping? Let’s break it down. First off, my aim’s a joke. I go for the flint, I hit my thumb. It’s a miracle I’ve still got all ten fingers. Second, I don’t get the finesse part. There’s this whole deal with angles and pressure and platforms, but I’m just swinging like I’m chopping wood. Newsflash: that doesn’t work with flint. It either stays stubborn or breaks everywhere except for where you want it to, and I’m left ducking for cover as chips go flying.
The mess is unreal, too. At The Survival University, my flint knapping sessions turn the place into a hazard zone, flakes in my boots, my hair, everywhere. Once, an obsidian shard landed in my lap, and I froze, wondering how I’d stand up without slicing something vital. My hands and shins end up looking like I fought a cactus and lost. Meanwhile, Phillip’s over there, cool as a cucumber, crafting perfection from flint while I’m one wrong move from a trip to ER. It’s hilarious, in a “why do I keep doing this?” way. I’m a legend in all the wrong ways. Those shards don’t mess around, and neither does my knack for screwing up.
Watching Phillip work is like watching a nature documentary, smooth, precise, almost soothing. He’s got stories, too. Tales of his adventures and how how he fell in love with this stuff as a kid. He makes shaping flint feel big, like you’re part of something ancient. Me? I make it feel like a slapstick routine. I once asked him, “Why does this flint hate me?” He just smirked and adjusted my grip, like a patient dad teaching a toddler to tie shoes.
He’s got the patience of a mountain, which is good, because I test it. My flint knapping attempts are chaotic, but I can’t help laughing at myself. There’s something fun about failing this hard. It’s humbling, and it keeps me coming back for more punishment with that unforgiving obsidian.
Here’s the thing: flint knapping isn’t just a hobby. It’s a legit survival skill. Stranded with nothing but a piece of flint? A pro could turn it into a blade or a point and save the day. Me? I’d be hugging my useless chunk of flint, nursing a fresh cut from a shard I didn’t see coming. It’s the kind of trick that makes you feel unstoppable. Unless you’re me, in which case it makes you feel like a walking punchline.
Still, I get why it’s worth it. There’s a rush in trying, even if I’m doomed to flop with every piece of stone that I touch. Plus, it’s a campfire flex. Imagine pulling out a handmade arrowhead and watching your buddies’ jaws drop. I’ll never be that guy, but I can dream.
So, that’s my flint knapping saga, a string of hilarious, slightly bloody missteps at The Survival University. I’m a lost cause with knapping, but you don’t have to be. Phillip Liebel’s swinging back into town this July 2025 to teach a flint knapping course right here at my place. Last time he was here it was a blast, now he’s back to show you how it’s done without the chaos I bring to the table.
Picture a sunny Colorado day, mountains all around, and Phillip guiding you through turning a rock into something epic. It’s hands-on, laid-back, and perfect for beginners or anyone who wants to level up. The Survival University’s got the space, the views, and the vibe to make it unforgettable. Spots are limited, so if you’re into ancient skills (or just want to laugh at my next attempt), sign up. I’ll be there, probably failing again with some poor piece of obsidian, but at least we’ll have fun. See you in July!
About the Author
Born and raised in the mountains of Colorado, Jason’s background in wilderness survival was forged through real-world experience. He has trained extensively in austere environments, from the forests of Missouri to the mountains of Colorado to the desert of Arizona, and even in the jungles of Costa Rica, relying on minimal tools to survive. He holds certifications in Wilderness First Responder (WFR) and SAR tracking and has taught countless students how to stay alive when 911 isn’t an option.
Jason doesn’t believe survival training is just for hardcore adventurers—it’s for everyone. Whether you're a day hiker, a city dweller, or a parent wanting to protect your family, the ability to act in an emergency can mean the difference between life and death. His goal is simple: to make sure you don’t freeze when it matters most and to get everyone back home safe.
When Jason isn’t teaching survival courses, he’s designing knives, mentoring, or simply spending time in the city just like you. Whatever he is doing, he is always honing the skills that turn fear into confidence.