There was a moment in 2024. We were sitting around a poker table with cigars lit, beers in hand, and chips scattered everywhere. Half the guys at that table barely knew each other, but it didn’t matter. They were talking shit like they’d been friends for 20 years.
No one was on their phone. No one checked out. Everyone was locked in, present, competitive, loud. And before the night was even over, guys were already saying it. We’re doing this again next year.
That’s when it hit me. This is what’s been missing.
Two years earlier, this wasn’t anything like what it is now. It was just my birthday. October 2022, and I hadn’t seen my Arizona crew in a while, so I wanted a weekend with the guys. Nothing complicated. Golf, steak, shooting, a few drinks. At first, it felt a little selfish, but the truth is the second you try to make something like this “for everyone,” it changes. Schedules get negotiated, preferences get balanced, and the whole thing starts to lose its edge.
So I made a decision. The guys were coming out, and we were doing what we wanted, when we wanted. No filters, no overthinking. The wives were welcome to come enjoy the trip, the dinners, the downtime, but this wasn’t their weekend to plan. This was ours.
Six guys showed up. Myself. Drummer. Betty. Thrower. Wheeler. Donkey. We played golf, shot, drove carts like idiots, and ate like kings. Nothing formal, no scoring, no trophy, just a group of guys unplugged from everything else and doing exactly what they wanted to do.
And it worked. No pressure, no expectations, just a weekend that felt different.
When we brought it back in 2024, something changed. We added poker, brought in a few new guys, and somewhere in the middle of that weekend it became clear this wasn’t just a hangout anymore.
These are guys who work hard, take care of their families, and show up where it matters, but somewhere along the way the world got lazy with labels. It’s easier to call everything “toxic masculinity” than it is to tell the difference between a solid friend and an asshole. We’ve never bought that. I’ve seen these same guys tear up at their weddings and light up taking their kids to their first movie. There’s nothing toxic about that. They just didn’t have a place where they could be fully themselves without it getting filtered, labeled, or toned down. Now they do, and you could feel it. No filters, no distractions, no watered-down version of who they are, just guys showing up fully.
By 2025, we stopped pretending this was just a weekend and gave it structure. We introduced The Mug, a 22-pound stainless steel trophy, heavy on purpose. You win it, you earn it, and before you take it home, you stamp your initials and the year into it.
Now it meant something. We added scoring, built an identity around it, and made it official. Not bigger, just better.
Today, it’s an annual event. First weekend of October in Reno, Nevada. It kicks off Thursday night with dinner, rolls into a full slate of competition, builds toward the crowning of a winner on Saturday night, and wraps with a survivors breakfast Sunday morning.
The wives are part of the experience and always welcome to join the trip, the dinners, and the downtime, but the core hasn’t changed. This is a weekend for the guys.
Around here, “Low T” isn’t about hormones. It’s about how you show up. Low energy, avoiding pressure, playing small. That doesn’t last here.
“No Low T” means you show up, you compete, you engage, and you’re present. You bring something to the table.
Multi Year Attendees






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