Are you going to skimp on quality with these guys staring you down? Especially the guy on the left.

Have you ever wondered if you could land a Super Cub on the side of a mountain if you absolutely had to?

Or wanted a hot car that didn’t shit the bed because it’s computer controlled fuel feed system went on the fritz every time you accidentally spilled beer into the radio?

Or worn a classic silver and black watch that worked even when you used it every day for 15 years in a life that included sailing, shooting, skydiving, bar fighting, the occasional bout of sweet love-making on summer grass, and running around in various dusty, dry, wet, hot, and cold environments?

If you ache with a mad lust every time you see the best equipment being used out on the fringe, you’re probably going to dig our obsession with quality.  Just like the pros are OCD about press checks, we’re addicted to high quality.  We’re out to make cookies using the best organic and Paleo ingredients in the most environmentally friendly way we can to help as many pipe-hitting Paleo athletes as possible stay ripped and hard.

If you dig this, we dig you.  You’re obviously someone who gets it.  Who is all about quality.  Who doesn’t mind working the extra time to get it right.  Who is on the planet to charge, to get after it, to feel the intensity of experience.  And you’re going to love our no-compromise, high quality, generally bad ass cookies.

A true prankster, this guy was probably eating Paleo Treats while planning and executing this one…

The Green Anarchist

“Am resolved therefore to continue on my present course: to compose somehow the one good novel; to try to be good to my wife; to run Cataract Canyon in a kayak; to raze more billboards; to build that solid house of rock and wood far out somewhere where my sons and grandsons can find at least a temporary refuge from the nightmare world of 2000 A.D.; and to be ready, with rifle or [?], for the apolcalyptic showdown which yet may come–I hope–in our lifetimes…”

-Edward Abbey, 13 December 1966, postcard to Al Sarvis, from “Postcards from Ed”

That’s what I want. That’s what you should want.

Just got back from a liberty trip through California, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada, touring some of our nation’s treasures. Managed to get in a Willie Nelson concert in Flagstaff, a night at Zion National Park, and a night at Joshua Tree. Did some scouting for post-Revolution hole-up sites; don’t worry America, you’ve still got room to hide a few highwaymen.

One man, one journey, one pumpkin. 3 rounds. Welcome home, amigo.

There’s a story behind this that you may never know. But it’s goddamn funny.

That about sums up the PaleoTreats outlook on life. We get where we’re going in as straight a line as possible and we deliver all the energy we can on-target. This may be Greek to you, if it is, follow ol’ G-dubs advice and search the internets (sic). Look for .17 and Chuck Hawks.

Paleo Treats deliver as much good clean energy to your body as efficiently as possible, allowing you to continue on with your caveman life.

On a side note, if you’re into eating Paleo, you probably know that feeding your dog that dry garbage made of corn rejects and packaged in 50 lb increments with a shelf life that outlasts the Revolution…well, you get the idea. Start feeding your dog raw meaty bones and supplement with some good frozen patties. If you were to trade places with your dog, you know he’d do it for you.

Yes, I’m telling you what to do, because you’re probably doing it wrong right now. Now, in the immortal words of BH, Get after it!

A little known fact about Paleo treats; they pretty much won WWII for the Allies. The Axis relied heavily on Paleo treats, using it to fuel the Blitzkreig (normal humans cannot move as fast as the Germans did on PaleoTreats.)

German units quickly eat paleo treats as they roll through Europe

As the Americans island-hopped across the Pacific, they gradually cut off the supply of coconut milk the Axis forces were using to make PaleoTreats to fuel their elite units. Without this vital nourishment, Hitler and his nefarious gang of rogue nations were unable to sustain their onslaught.

A German officer orders Paleo Treats that will never arrive, due to American units cutting off supplies of coconut milk in the Pacific

Once the Americans discovered the closely held secret of PaleoTreats, they immediately scheduled D-Day. In June of 1944, once all the new rations had been distributed, America and her allies pushed forward, beginning a killing spree that lasted the summer, ultimately liberating the quittingest nation in the world and saving the planet in the process.

As a side note: Once Americans were being fed properly on a Paleo diet with PaleoTreats, the number of enemy shot dropped dramatically: Americans got close in caveman style and began pistol-whipping (the new version of paleo clubbing) Germans to death.

Tags: Allied Forces, America, Axis forces, Blitzkreig, coconut milk, elite units, hard hittin’, killing, paleo, rogue, WWII

Terry Tate grew up a small white boy in northern Florida. This first known picture of him shows his haunting scrawniness.

Luckily for Terry, he found PaleoTreats. He remained well under average weight until his late teens, when he first stumbled upon a PaleoTreat while rooting through a dumpster. From his very first bite, he knew he had a new mission: to office lineback.

Here’s a video of Terry’s latest work:

I first read about Dorothy Ainsworth while searching through old Mother Earth News articles. She instantly vaulted into my hero catalog, and I thought of her almost as soon as we kicked off Paleo Treats.

Having drifted in and out of “functional fitness” for the past few years, I’ve seen and met all kinds of fit people, folks who’d crush me on heavy workouts. These workouts were designed for people who need to be fit for their job, seldom do people have jobs that keep them fit.

It’s not often that I hear of someone who’s work makes them hard; most of us work on being hard so we can perform our work at max potential. Dorothy is one of those people who doesn’t need to work out; she lives a true active lifestyle. She’s cut down trees, got on a handsaw with intensity, lifted hundreds of logs into place, and done it all without many of the modern conveniences used in heavy construction.

Good on ya Dorothy!

Inspiration for competition.  This human can drop the hammer when it counts.  The announcer says this is “the greatest performance in the history of British distance running.”  I ain’t a big history buff when it comes to British distance running, but if this race ain’t the greatest I’ll be pretty dadgummed surprised.  It’s not often you see someone who can put together both strategy and ability.  Most of the time we see an excess of one or the other. When they come together, you get magic.  I’m pretty sure Kelly Holmes had a Paleo Treat right before this race:

13 February 2001.

Journal entry: “Tomorrow we will attempt to make San Juan del Sur. We have spent the evening talking with ‘Harmony’ and ‘ Slipaway’. The weather reports they have given us are not good. We are running low on food, and the wind is still high. This moment seems very serious now, with our lives hanging in the balance.

This is why, though we do not admit it now in our time of fear, that we travel. This search for the crystal clear snap decisions that decide our mortality. For the moment when the words we say and actions we take matter. This emotion is one that cannot be found at home, one that should not be found anywhere normal humans have the ability to perceive. This is the moment before battle, before struggle. This time smells like…VICTORY.”

We didn’t know it then, Jason, Bruce, and I, whether or not we would be victorious. Jason was a friend of mine from Scotland, where he had sailed for the British National team. Bruce was a New Zealander we had picked up in southern Mexico, and I was captain and owner.  “Apocalypso” was a J22 I had outfitted as a cruiser.

We were off the coast of southern Nicaragua, well into our second week of heavy wind sailing in a small boat.  We lived above deck at least eighteen hours a day. The other six hours we spent below, trying to sleep in a cabin built for spinnaker storage. We stood three hours on, three hours off watches during the night and stayed up during the day. The log entry for the next day is written in shaky script. “2-3 foot wind swell. Uncomfortably upwind. Still slamming, slept 2 hours last night. Yes!!!”

The next day: “Approaching Tamarindo, Bay of Fonseca. Hard going, no sleep for Nik or Jason, boat leaking portside at the bow, re-threaded jib sheets, still 15-20 knots on the bow.”

We anchored in the Bay of Fonseca that night, trailing bright blue phosphorescence as we ghosted by the El Salvadoran Navy base. We stayed on anchor that night and the next, resupplied and got moving again.

We left at 8 o’clock on the evening of the 9th, on an ebb tide. We had a gentle wind behind us through the night, warm with the smell of the earth and tinged with salt from the sea. It took us across the border and into Nicaragua the next morning, then died. We jumped in the water to wash off the night, got out, dried off and sat around waiting for the morning onshore breeze.

After 20 minutes of no wind and the boat drifting, we decided to start our four-horse motor. I was yanking away on the cord when I heard Jason yell “Breeze On, get the reef in!” I looked up to see a dark spot on the ocean heading for us, and Jason and I hurriedly dropped the sail down to our first reef. From that point until I sailed into Costa Rica, we had at least one reef in.

That day, the 8th of February, was the beginning of a heavyweight beating that would last a full seven days. Those weren’t nine to five days, with Comfort reaching out warm hands to you every evening; those were seven full-on days of man pitting himself against Nature, of struggling to survive, of thinking about living every second. Those were some of the best days of my life.

I don’t have a sense of that time, or sequential events, just a palimpsest of memories.

I remember sailing less than one hundred meters off shore to avoid the seas that build beyond, of having to sail through a half mile long plume of smoke from a fire on the shore, and listening to Les Miserable five times in a row because I could neither leave the helm nor wake up Jason to change the CD. I remember cracked brown lips, sores from sitting in salt water, sun poisoning; little white pustules on my arms, and thick, salty hair.

On the morning of February 14th, 2001, we set off for San Juan del Sur, leaving our emergency anchorage. We had decided the night before to go for it. The reports we had were of 70-knot gusts of wind two miles off shore, and 15 foot seas. The only food we had left were protein shake packets, which had to be mixed with water. We had one gallon of water for three people. We did not know how long our trip would take; we had no charts.

When I told Slipaway and Harmony, two forty-foot boats that had emergency anchored near us, of our shortages, they told me to come by in the morning and accept a package of food and water. I declined.

I would do this on my own, with my own body, with my own provisions, with no outside help.  Jason and I had a bitter argument about it, but I was the Captain and the final call was mine. We left with no help.

All three of us dressed in all our foul weather gear–Jason and I had full suits, Bruce had only a jacket. We pulled up the sail in 25 knots of wind, Bruce and I hauling in 200 feet of anchor line, fifty feet of chain, and the 20-lb anchor. We had our deep reef in; Jason drove, Bruce and I hiked out. As soon as we left the shelter of the anchorage into the full 35-knot force of the wind, we were knocked down. We had our smallest sail up, and 300 pounds of flesh hiking out. The only thing we could do was point higher and yell over the luffing snap of the sail.

That day is still clear to me. The beating sun, the scattered clouds whipping overhead, the spray coming off the bow wave, the feel of the waves as they passed under the boat. We sailed close to land, where the ocean changes from deep water to shallow reefs and waves like watery whales humped up. We could easily see houses on the shore, the trees around them permanently bent under the constant overseer’s lash of the wind. I remember incredible igneous rock formations; huge twisted arthritic fingers reaching out of the sea. I remember the blue of the water, with the white foam in streaks on top, and the icy feel of Poseidon’s touch when we dug into waves.

When we arrived at the harbor entrance it was 3 o’clock. It had taken us all day to cover 20 miles of the heaviest wind we would see on the trip. As we tacked up the harbor towards the shore, the fishermen gathered on the decks of their 60-foot boats to watch us. As we passed them, our lean, gaunt faces peering out from under the hoods of our jackets, they screamed and whistled in admiration. They knew the fury of the ocean. I have never been more proud.

Nik, Jason, and Bruce after 10 days of low rations and water.

Apocalypso sailing out of Acapulco, before the heavy weather hit.