Who Is This Guy?

A lot of you have met or talked to me over the years, whether it was at a smoking competition, a local festival, or over the phone discussing custom trailer builds. Some of you have read the short updates I post on our website, but we have never actually sat down over a plate of ribs to swap stories. In the digital age, a business can feel like an anonymous entity behind a screen. But barbecue is inherently personal—it is about fire, wood, time, and the person managing the pit. So, if you’ve ever wondered about the history of this operation, it’s time to pull up a chair and find out: who is this guy?

My name is Don Channel. I live in Guthrie, Oklahoma, a town with deep roots, incredible history, and a community that values hard work and good food. I wasn’t just drawn here by chance; I was born right here in Guthrie. Looking at the calendar, I am closing in on 60 years old. Since I haven't managed to stray too far from my birthplace in six decades, it is beginning to look like I am going to die here, too. I say that with a smirk, but the truth is, there is nowhere else I’d rather be. Oklahoma has a spectacular relationship with outdoor cooking—positioned right where the low-and-slow traditions of the American South meet the rugged, wood-fired legacy of the Southwest. Growing up in this environment, it was almost inevitable that the smell of split logs and melting fat would get into my blood early on.

Like a lot of you reading this, I have loved to grill and smoke meat for most of my adult life. For decades, it wasn't a commercial enterprise; it was just a hobby. But barbecue is a unique beast. It starts innocently enough with a cheap backyard kettle or an offset smoker from a local hardware store. You cook a couple of chickens, master a basic pork shoulder, and suddenly you are hooked on the alchemy of turning raw wood and tough cuts of meat into tender, mahogany-colored perfection. For me, that hobby didn't just grow—it got completely out of control.

In my early years, my smoking was strictly an experimental affair conducted in the privacy of my backyard. I would fire up the cooker on a Saturday morning, testing different wood profiles—trying to find that perfect balance between the sweet profile of pecan and the robust, traditional bite of oak or hickory. I played with homemade dry rubs, tweaking the ratios of brown sugar, coarse salt, black pepper, and paprika, keeping mental notes of how the flavors shifted under heat. My primary audience back then was my family. Cooking was a way to unwind after a long week of work, a regular weekend ritual that brought everyone around the kitchen table.

But as any pitmaster knows, you can't keep good barbecue a secret for long. The smoke drifting over the fence line acts like a beacon for the neighborhood. Before long, friends and extended family started dropping by right around the time the meat was coming off the pit to rest. They’d taste a slice of brisket or a competition-style rib, and the feedback was always the same: "Don, this is incredible. Next time you fire up that rig, let me know. I’ll buy the meat if you just cook it for me."

Now, I didn't mind that arrangement one bit. To a guy who loves to cook, the phrase "free meat" is music to the ears. It meant I could experiment on larger pieces of protein and try out new techniques without burning a hole through my own wallet. So, I started taking them up on it. I’d have a couple of briskets and three or four slabs of ribs going at once, tailoring the flavor profiles to see what my unofficial tasting panel preferred.

Eventually, a logistical problem presented itself: my cooker was packed to maximum capacity every single time I lit the charcoal. There wasn't an inch of grate space left for air to properly circulate. To solve the space issue, I got the bright idea of getting a bigger cooker. I upgraded to a larger offset model, thinking I’d finally have plenty of room to spare.

But all that did was accelerate the cycle. Because I had more room, I could cook for more people. Those friends told their friends, neighbors told their coworkers, and suddenly the new, larger cooker was just as crowded as the small one had been. Over a span of several years, I upsized my personal cookers multiple times, chasing that elusive extra grate space, completely unaware that I was laying the groundwork for a manufacturing business.

What really pushed my backyard hobby into the professional stratosphere was the premiere of the television show BBQ Pitmasters on the TLC network. When that show hit the airwaves, it pulled back the curtain on a subculture that a lot of casual grillers didn't even know existed. It wasn't just about cooking food for a backyard graduation party; it was a high-stakes, high-stress sport where teams spent thousands of dollars to compete for trophies, cash prizes, and ultimate bragging rights.

I sat glued to the television screen for every episode, watching legendary pitmasters meticulously trim briskets, apply complex injection marinades, and obsess over minute-by-minute temperature fluctuations in their massive pits. I watched closely, trying to catch a glimpse of their setups, analyzing their fuel choices, and hunting for any hidden tips or practical tricks that could make me better at what I was already doing in Guthrie.

One evening, while watching a particularly grueling episode where teams were battling torrential rain, sleep deprivation, and stubborn fires to turn in their entries on time, I looked over at my wife, Sheila. The cooks on the screen looked absolutely exhausted, covered in soot, sweat, and grease. I shook my head, laughed, and made a remark that would completely alter the trajectory of our lives:

It was a classic offhand comment, but I meant it. The idea of sitting down to sample the absolute best barbecue in the country, analyzing the nuance of flavor and texture without having to stay up 18 hours straight in the elements, sounded like the perfect gig. The only problem was that I had absolutely no connection to that world. I didn't know who the judges were, I didn't know how they were selected, and I had no idea what kind of governing body oversaw those massive professional cook-offs. I assumed it was an exclusive club you had to be born into or invited into by an insider.

As it turned out, I underestimated the resourcefulness of my wife. A short while later, Sheila was reading through the local newspaper and came across a small notice that caught her eye. Oklahoma State University was hosting an official barbecue judging class through their culinary or extension program. I told her to do whatever it took to get me into that school, and she got me enrolled.

Walking into that judging class at OSU was a massive turning point. That was where I discovered the existence of the Kansas City Barbeque Society (KCBS). To put it simply for folks who aren't familiar with the competitive smoking world: the KCBS is to barbecue what NASCAR is to stock car racing. It is the premier, worldwide sanctioning body for competitive barbecue. They govern hundreds of contests across the globe, implement a strict set of rules and regulations, train teams, and certify the thousands of judges required to evaluate contest entries fairly.

The class taught us that judging wasn’t just a matter of eating good food and saying, "Yeah, I like that." It was a highly structured, objective process. KCBS entries are judged blindly on three specific criteria: Appearance, Taste, and Texture / Tenderness. Learning the science behind what makes a piece of meat award-winning completely changed how I looked at outdoor cooking.

Once I completed the course and received my official judging credentials, I began to go to a lot of the pro contests and judge them. My wife always went with me, so the next year she got her certification. Cooking and judging contests was our hobby for a lot of years. We both eventually met the qualifications and passed the test to become Master BBQ Judges. Through that experience, we met a lot of the BBQ greats who kept inspiring me and giving me the drive to keep trying to take my cooking to the next level.

Being a Master BBQ Judge isn’t just a title you hang on the wall; it is a passport into an elite community of culinary experts. Through our years on the competitive circuit, Sheila and I had the absolute privilege of meeting, socializing, and learning from some of the true icons of modern barbecue.

One of the first greats we got to know was David Bouska, the mastermind behind Butcher BBQ out in Wellston, Oklahoma. David is a legend in the sport—a multi-time World BBQ Champion and an inductee into the prestigious BBQ Hall of Fame. David is a great guy that gives and gives to the sport and has a room full of trophies that he is walking on to prove he knows his stuff. Seeing his dedication to product quality and flavor consistency taught me a lot about the commercial side of the barbecue world.

Then there’s Danielle Bennett, known across the globe as Diva Q. Danielle is a tireless barbecuer, TV personality, author, and instructor who travels all over the world. When Diva Q rolls up, this girl puts on a show! Her energy is infectious, her knowledge of meat science is encyclopedic, and her approach to sharing the craft inspired me deeply.

We also spent time with Big Moe Cason, a self-taught pitmaster out of Des Moines, Iowa. Moe is a massive personality who has competed in hundreds of contests and starred on hit television shows like BBQ Pitmasters and BBQ Pit Wars. The man has barbecue sauce in his veins. He is an old-school purist who cooks with authentic ingredients, and talking with him gives you a true appreciation for the heritage of outdoor cooking.

And, of course, there’s Johnny Trigg, the undisputed king of ribs and the list just keeps going. Johnny is an old-school Texas legend who showed the world that you can dominate the turn-in table using simple, time-tested methods.

Being around these legends wasn't just entertaining; it was educational. As a judge, I was evaluating food blindly, but after the boxes were turned in, I could walk the grounds and talk to teams about their equipment. I saw the limitations of the trailers and cookers they were using. I listened to complaints about draft issues, uneven hot spots, flimsy metal fabrication, and doors that leaked heat and moisture during long cooks. All of that real-world feedback was swirling around in my head, fueling a quiet desire to innovate.

As the years rolled on, the public started to convince me to open a restaurant. To me, owning a restaurant is like owning a milk cow. You are connected to the same time same place everyday and I already had a job and didn't need another one.

However, I did want a compromise. I wanted to cook for the public on my own terms, so I eventually did have a bbq trailer built and we did events and festivals every weekend for years. We rolled into a town on Friday evening, fired up the pits, and spent the next 36 hours slicing brisket and pulling pork shoulders.

We made fantastic money and built a massive local following, but commercial catering is an absolute grind. Because it was a family operation, I didn't just volunteer myself—I dragged my wife, daughters, and sons-in-law into the mix. They were spending their weekends loading wood, prepping side dishes, washing massive grease trays, and standing on their feet in the sweltering Oklahoma heat.

Eventually, the inevitable happened: I made my wife, daughters and sons in law sick of bbq. They wanted their weekends back. Realizing that the business was starting to strain the people I cared about most, I eventually sold it so we could get our life back. When I sold it, I sold my pit with it.

With the commercial trailer gone, I found myself back where I started: a guy at home on a quiet weekend. But a real pitmaster cannot stay away from the woodsmoke for long. Within a few weeks, the itch returned, and I missed having a heavy-duty rig sitting in the driveway.

I didn't want to buy a mass-produced, thin-gauge retail smoker that would rust out or lose heat the moment a cool Oklahoma wind blew through the yard. I wanted something substantial. I called my friend and had him build me another pit. I laid out a blueprint based on everything I had learned as a Master Judge and a commercial caterer: heavy-duty steel pipe, counterweighted doors that sealed tight, a fine-tuned baffle system for perfectly even heat distribution, and an oversized firebox.

He built me a stunning custom pit. I brought it home, pulled it into the yard, and bare got to use it until a guy came along and wanted to buy it. The guy walked around the smoker, felt the weight of the steel, looked at the precision of the welds, and made an offer I couldn't refuse. I figured I could always have another one built, so I took his cash, shook his hand, and watched him tow my brand-new pit away.

I called my buddy back up, asked him to build me another identical pit, and brought the second one home. History, as it turns out, loves to repeat itself. Within a few weeks, another guy saw it, fell in love with the industrial-grade craftsmanship, and bought it right out from under me. After we went through that scenario a half dozen times, I decided we may be onto something here and that is how Blowin' Smoke Cookers was born and it gets bigger every year.

We didn't set out to build the cheapest pits on the market, nor did we want to build flimsy cookers that look pretty but perform poorly. From day one, the core mission of Blowin' Smoke Cookers has been rooted in my experience sitting at the blind-judging tables for the KCBS. When you spend years analyzing the microscopic differences between a grand-champion piece of meat and an average one, you learn that temperature stability is absolutely everything.

If your smoker fluctuates wildly because the metal is too thin to hold a thermal charge, or because wind leaks through the door seams, the collagen in a brisket won't render smoothly. The meat will tighten up, dry out, and turn tough. If your firebox isn't drafted correctly, the wood will smolder instead of burning cleanly, coating your food in a bitter, black creosote soot that ruins the flavor profile.

We engineered those problems out of our designs. Every single cooker that leaves our shop is built using heavy, structural steel that acts like a thermal flywheel, holding rock-steady temperatures even if the Oklahoma weather drops below freezing mid-cook. We precision-cut our doors so they wrap seamlessly around the pipe body, creating a natural metal-on-metal seal that keeps the moisture and clean blue smoke locked inside where it belongs. We custom-tune our airflow designs so that air pulls smoothly across the grates, eliminating the drastic hot-and-cold zones that plague cheap offset smokers.

Today, Blowin' Smoke Cookers is growing faster than we ever imagined, expanding its reach and stepping up output year after year. We build everything from backyard offset patio smokers to massive, custom dual-axle BBQ trailers with integrated prep stations. But despite the growth, we haven't lost that original backyard spirit. I am still the same guy from Guthrie who fell in love with fire and smoke decades ago. We build these pits with pride, passion, and decades of hard-earned experience because we know you aren't just buying a piece of fabricated metal—you're investing in an heirloom tool that will anchor your backyard gatherings for generations.

Thank you for being a part of our story. Now, let’s fire up the pit and get some smoke in the air.