Blue Cord Retreat

06/13/2026

We’re sitting in the quiet now.
Camp’s gone still. The kind of still you only notice after something real has moved through it. Our veterans—and Leo—are on their way home, boots traded for boarding passes, leaving Idaho behind with full hearts, tired bodies, and those hard, honest smiles you don’t fake. The kind earned, not given. The kind that comes with bear hugs that linger a little longer than usual.
We feel it. The absence.
But more than that, we feel the weight of what we were trusted with.
Out here, in these steep mountains and along these cold, boulder-choked rivers, something shifts. This land doesn’t fix a man—but it strips things down. It quiets the noise long enough for a man to hear himself again. For some, that’s the first step back.
This was never about the bear.
It’s about the bear-sized weight carried long after the uniform comes off. The things that don’t stay overseas. The battles that follow you home. Out here, those things get named. Shared. Sometimes even set down, if only for a moment.
And in those moments—around the fire, in the timber, in the silence between stories—brotherhood takes root again.
They didn’t just come for a hunt. They left with something harder to find: connection. A new kind of family built through shared experience, trust, and truth that doesn’t need polishing.
We don’t say goodbye.
We don’t believe in it.
It’s just “till next time.”
And every man there understood exactly what that meant.
We’re grateful—to the veterans and Leo who showed up and did the hard work, to the families who let us borrow their husbands, fathers, and partners, and to the people who stand behind Blue Cord Retreat and make this possible.
We walked away changed too. Reset in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve stood in these mountains and felt it for yourself.
If you know, you know.
If you don’t—come see.
We’ll be here.
In the bear woods.
—Pancho, Pixie, Mike, Keith

06/11/2026

Man, this spring bear hunt was something else.
We met people from all over the country, spent time with some incredible men, and shared a lot of hard miles and good laughs. Like Aaron said, “When I think of spring, I think Easter eggs and cargo shorts… but not here in Idaho.” And he wasn’t wrong. We saw everything from 75-degree days to snowstorms, and every bit of it tested us.
But I wouldn’t change a thing. None of this was our plan—it was God’s. And He showed us that even in the toughest conditions these mountains can throw at you, if you keep the faith and stay the course, time will eventually give up its bounty.
For some, this was their first spring bear. For others, it was their first time laying eyes on these steep, unforgiving mountains, crossing boulder-choked rivers, or landing a brook trout. Every moment mattered.
Here at Blue Cord Retreat, it’s not just about the hunt. It’s about the smiles, the release from the daily grind back home, and the bonds built through shared struggle. Long days on stand, pushing through the suck together—those are the things that forge real relationships.
These mountains don’t care about your feelings. They demand grit, determination, and commitment. And I’m proud to say every one of our veterans and law enforcement officer showed exactly that. Every single one harvested their first Idaho spring bear.
We thank You, Lord, for Your mercy and grace over this hunt. Watch over these men as they travel home to their families. May they return reset in mind, heart, and soul, and strengthened in their walk with You.
We don’t say goodbye here—just “’til next time, gents.”
Hell of a hunt. Stay safe.

—Pancho, Pixie, Mike, Keith

06/10/2026

This bear stew is more than a meal—it is a story of resilience, skill, and deep respect for the land. Slow-simmered to perfection, tender cuts of wild bear are enveloped in a luxuriously rich, savory brown gravy made from scratch, its depth of flavor earned through patience and care. Each spoonful carries the earthy sweetness of carrots, the gentle bite of celery and onions, and the hearty, nutty texture of wild rice that ties everything together.
Golden potatoes soak up the robust, full-bodied sauce, while fresh green onions add a bright finish that lifts every bite. The aroma alone is captivating—warm, comforting, and deeply satisfying—inviting you in with promises of something truly special.
Harvested by a combat veteran and prepared with intention, this dish reflects hard work, dedication, and a profound connection to both nourishment and healing. It is rustic yet refined, bold yet comforting—a meal that honors tradition, perseverance, and the spirit of giving that defines Blue Cord Retreat.
Every bite is rich, soulful, and unforgettable—crafted with heart, meant to be shared, and impossible not to savor. Pixie Hicks you cooked your heart and soul into this meal and thank you Aaron for sharing your harvest with the family…!!!

-Pancho

06/09/2026

Due to inclement weather conditions, we have canceled our meet and greet and NdN Taco dinner. We apologize for the inconvenience and will reschedule at a later date. Thank you to all who have reached out or responded to Pixie for time and directions. Stay safe. - Pancho

06/08/2026

There is something sacred about watching a man take his first Idaho spring bear.
No money changes hands out here. What we earn comes differently—through sweat, through struggle, through something deeper that can only be understood when you’ve been pushed past your limits and kept going anyway. The mountains don’t give anything freely. They test you. They break you down. And if you’re willing to endure, they give something back.
The Nez Perce National Forest doesn’t care who you are. The country next to the Selway and Bitterroot wilderness is as unforgiving as it is beautiful. Steep ground, brutal conditions, and bears that will outthink you, outlast you, and expose every weakness you bring with you. There are no shortcuts here. You earn every step, every opportunity, every success.
That’s why it matters.
Because the men beside me—combat veterans, law enforcement officers—they understand that kind of fight. They know what it means to carry weight most will never see. Out here, there’s no noise, no pretense. Just effort, discipline, and the quiet understanding of what it takes to keep moving forward.
I couldn’t be more proud of these men. Not just for the harvest, but for the dedication, the grit, and the mindset they bring to the mission at hand.
Until we meet again on the high ground.

—Pancho

06/08/2026

You put in the work for this harvest—long days, longer nights—the same way you did downrange. That kind of grind, that kind of discipline, doesn’t fade. It showed up when it mattered most.
When time wasn’t on your side and the odds were tightening, you didn’t fold. You stayed steady, stayed focused, and pushed through—just like we did in combat. That resilience is who you are.
I’m damn proud to call you my brother.
Congratulations on your Idaho spring bear harvest. That bear really was “one more ridge over,” and you went and proved it. You got it done, and you did it with class.
You’ve earned your place among the Blue Cord Retreat family. That bond doesn’t go anywhere. You know where to find us—anytime. You call, we haul.
Love you, brother. Until we meet again on the high
ground.

-Pancho

06/07/2026

Good morning from bear camp.
We’ve got one more Veteran to tag out before we wrap this camp and get ready to do it all over again for round two. It’s been a powerful season already.
This morning I woke up to messages asking how to help—and that means more than you know.
If you feel called to support, donations help us cover the real costs behind these camps—fuel, food, and everything it takes to give our combat veterans a chance to reset, breathe, and reconnect.
Venmo:
Cash App: $bcsri19
PayPal: https://www.paypal.me/BCSRI
Website: www.bluecordretreat.com
Thank you for standing with us and making this possible.

-Pixie

Outdoor therapeutic retreats designed for Combat Veterans seeking renewal.

06/07/2026

We needed this reset.
After long days on the mountain, we took time to gather ourselves at Red River Hot Springs—quiet water, clear heads, and a chance to just breathe. Rest and reflection were exactly what these veterans, and all of us, needed.
Back at camp, we shared a hard-earned meal… but it wasn’t the same. We felt the absence of one of our own, Mike Koontz. A brother to us—not just a volunteer at Blue Cord Retreat, but family. The kind of man who fills a place with purpose… and yeah, the kind who can work magic over a smoker and bring everyone together.
Mike, we miss you. We’re standing with you and your family through this. You already know—you’re never alone in this fight. We’re here, always.
Tomorrow, we get back to it. One more mission: helping our final veteran hunter fulfill a dream—harvesting an Idaho spring black bear. That’s what this is all about.
If you’ve got a moment tonight, say a short prayer—for these men and women, for safe hunts, for full hearts… and for one of our own who needs it most.
Lights out early. We’ve got work to do.
Until next time,

-Pancho & Pixie

06/06/2026

On June 6, 1944, they didn’t storm beaches for glory. They went because it had to be done.
Cold water. Heavy gear. Machine gun fire ripping through the surf before they even reached the sand. Men cut down in seconds. No cover. No mercy. And still they moved forward.
They were farmers, mechanics, clerks, kids who hadn’t seen much of the world. But that morning, they carried the weight of it. Every step up those beaches was paid for in blood so others wouldn’t have to live under tyranny.
They didn’t fight for headlines or history books. They fought because freedom was on the line—and failure wasn’t an option.
D-Day wasn’t just a battle. It was a line drawn in the sand. And they crossed it knowing many wouldn’t come back.
Because of them, America stayed free. Because of them, millions who would never know their names lived without chains.
Remember them not as legends, but as men who did what was necessary when the world needed it most.

06/06/2026

30 years ago today, at 17 years old, I stepped into a world I didn’t understand. I thought I was choosing a path. Truth is, that path was shaping me the whole time.
It took me across the world and into places that taught me lessons I didn’t even know existed. What mattered to me was simple—service. Serving my country. Serving the men beside me. That was everything.
Not garrison. Not the routine. Deployment. The mission. The brotherhood forged in places where the enemy was rarely seen but always felt. That’s where I found something I never had before—a family. A purpose bigger than myself. Something I was willing to fight and die for.
Some of my brothers did.
And even now, as I write this, I feel that loss like it just happened. The smells. The tension. The switch flipping on. Locking in. Harnessing controlled violence and executing with precision. Completing the mission.
You don’t find that back home.
And when I came back, I was lost.
Grief. Survivor’s guilt. A darkness I didn’t know how to face. I went down a road that almost killed me. I tried to bury it in alcohol, tried to contain the part of me I thought was a monster. It didn’t work. It made everything worse.
Then someone stepped in and reminded me of something I had forgotten.
That I’m still here.
That I don’t get to waste what others paid for.
That I needed to get up, lace my boots back up, and keep moving forward—just like I did with my brothers.
It took me 13 years to figure that out.
Now I have purpose again.
Through this organization, taking veterans into the bear woods, chasing apex predators, enduring the suck together—it brought me back. Not to who I was, but to who I’m supposed to be. I run these missions with men I’ve been to war with. We do it for something bigger—helping other veterans reset their minds, their hearts, their souls.
My wife stands beside me in this. When I doubt myself, she pulls me back in and reminds me why we’re here. What the mission really is.
Today, I’ve got 171 days of sobriety.
Life isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. Every day is a lesson—about where I’ve been, where I’m going, and what it takes to get there.
I don’t forget where I came from. I don’t forget what I survived. And I don’t take for granted what I’ve been given.
Thirty years ago, a 17-year-old kid stood alone in the dark.
Today, I stand in bear camp—with my wife, my daughter, and my brothers—still embracing the suck, still moving forward, still serving.
I was broken down. Rebuilt. And put here for a reason.
And for the first time in a long time—
I’m content.