Bulls and Blood. Dust and Mud.

I'm looking at nothing but a line of denim clad rear ends.

No, I'm not at some Cougar watering hole, I'm at a rodeo, and I'm five years old.

With my Mom and Dad growing up around the Flathead Lake area, vacations and family events, often took place in the state where they grew up. Sure, we had the occasional trek to my Aunt and Uncle's ranch in East/Central California, and trips to the coast where I also had family. But luxurious vacations involving many miles and lots of dollars were not in our budget.

I remember just bits and pieces of those trips, traveling to small towns to meet up with friends from their youth. I remember blowing up gopher holes with big firecrackers outside of a hotel room in the high desert. I remember sitting on the back of a horse the size of a Star Wars ATAT. And I remember the rodeo.

But all I could see were the butts.

Fortunately, Dad spotted my predicament, and lifted me up on his shoulders so I could see. I leaned forward into the wind to get as close to the action as I could. Finally, I could see over every one's head and the smile couldn't get any bigger. There I was, snow cone dribbled on my shirt, barbecue sauce at the corner of my mouth, grit in my teeth, the smell of blood in my nose and I was on my Dad shoulders seeing an actual cowboy doing more than chasing a steer into the barn. Yee Haw!
The rodeo has been a part of the American landscape for many generations. It's abhorred and revered but you have to remember from where it came, a time when we subjugated the land and it's animals, using them as tools of work, courage and faith to settle a land and provide for future generations. The rodeo arose from working practices of cattle herding in many lands, not just the United States, based on the skills required of the cowboys. These skills go back as far as man and horse joined, in the Spanish traditions of the vaquero.

Early rodeo-like affairs of the 1820s and 1830s were informal events in the western United States and northern Mexico, with cowboys and vaqueros testing their work skills against one another. Later in the century, with the expansion of the trains and the introduction of barbed wife (yes that was a typo, that's supposed to be wire!) long cattle drives were fewer and many cowboys took jobs with the Wild West shows such as those organized by Buffalo Bill Cody, which featured riding and shooting and roping skills galore. As a child at my first rodeo, what clings to my memory is sight, sound and smell. The clouds moved past so quickly, so fast that a young girl on a fast horse can almost catch up. Barrel racing. Six legs, three barrels, two hearts and one mind. As a youngster I was never much into horses, the plastic horse I was given for Barbi ended up as a pack mule for GI Joe and had a little accident back in enemy territory and had to be shot.

But as a young adult, I took a different look at the animal and around my home are the many traces of them. I had a girlfriend who lived in the foothills in Nevada. I'd visit during college and after and remember waking up to wild horses in their front drive every morning. There, right outside their kitchen window, no more odd in their apparition there than a Robin or a Sparrow.
The rodeo that day long ago was one diorama of action after another. After the barrel racing, there was the tie down roping, a blur of motion and hoof, a strong cowboy wrestling with a stark white calf the color of Christmas morning. Even as a child, I was at home there in the dust, the noise, the smells of hay, manure and hard work. I still am. Cows, horses and men, women, all were squinting into the glare of the sun and the wind, their hearts beating with the adrenalin rush of the buzzer, as overhead a raptor rides the updrafts. Coyotes watch from afar, making their living as gypsies that follow those that follow the trail.

As always, there were the rodeo clowns. As a kid I hated clowns, still do. But not these. For they weren't mere clowns, the buffoons of childhood parties and nightmares. These were amusing athletes, distracting the bulls or a bucking horse when a rider was down, exposing themselves to the greatest of dangers while protecting the cowboy, yet entertaining the crowd. As a kid I just thought they were "clowns that were actually cool". As an adult, I look at these bullfighters, for the word clown is not used much, and stand in awe of a skill and level of courage that's underappreciated by those outside those arenas.

Of course there was the rodeo food. There's not too many places on earth where you can experience every kind of critter known to man, barbecued, deep fried, roasted, seared and dusted with chili powder on bun, bread, plate or stick. As a kid it was food euphoria, as an adult biting into a seared sausage on a bun, homemade lemonade in hand, I knew indeed what the seventh deadly sin tastes like.
Nowhere except the Rodeo.

The bull riding was a crowd favorite, as we watched a superhero in a hat climb about a heaving, breathing beast in a chute. You never knew what to expect from a bull. They were capable of anything. Of any height or twisting moment, only to be remembered in dazed incomprehension in the aftermath of the taming, eight seconds of heaven that so quickly could turn into hell. The bulls never stood down, never dissapointed. They were man's subject, but they were also God's creation, set alive and in motion, capable of all things, for He had created them out of the hot breath of the desert and the wild wind of the Plains.

It wouldn't have been a rodeo without the saddle bronc riding. This is one of the "classics" of the rodeo, and grew naturally out of ranch cowboys breaking wild broncos to use as working cow horses. Like bull riding, it's a short event, to keep intact the spirit and health of the horse, but it's powerful, the cowboy attaining power over an animal that refuses to sacrifice grace. A communion of man and animal under the blessed sky.

I notice the hands, muscles corded, ropes digging into flesh. If you work around horses, you learn about rope. It's heft, it's feel, lying across your hands, burning into it. You learn that rope has it's own life, a feel and responsiveness that connects you to something. A bale of hay, a horse. It's a transference, from the guile of your mind and the laughter of your heart, through a rope, onto a horse's flesh, a subtle wordless tool that communicates your intent just as sure as if you had spoken. I watch another barrel racer, a mane of hair flying, rider and ridden, connected by a tether of purpose, the horse flying with joy, happy to be connected again.

The air is rife with sound, of man, of animals, hands muscles, sweat and breath of both man and beast coming out in puffs of sweet air. Too soon, it was time to leave, sunburned and tired parents ready to take us back home. Home, rooted in dust and leather, denim and rope, a hundred years of memories in those men and women, hoofs and horses, the cowboy's way as steady and strong as history.
There was another thing I took home on that day. A lesson in not giving up. Some of the falls were brutal and had to be exquisitely painful. Some could be fatal. But I never saw anyone get up, throw a temper tantrum and walk out of the arena. They calmed their frustration, looked their adversary clearly in the eye and got back to the actuality of rodeo, not the dream of it.

The cowboy and cowgirl know not of quitting. They know of smooth muscled flanks and leather. Something you could see, touch and conquer. A symphony of testosterone, adrenalin and nerves. Of mighty courage that cleaves the air, like a bucking horse, displacing it and then filling the soul. Like the patriot, they didn't give up, they didn't apologise for what they believed, what they had done, or what they stood for. They moved past their fear, back into that relationship with the one thing that let them be part of something greater than themselves. Sure, there had to be fear, you could smell the dense coppery taste of it in the air. But it's only momentary.

Like the first American cowboys, they had the supreme confidence in their destiny, even if momentarily airborne. That unruffled belief in their own abilities and their knowledge of those creatures that God gave us dominion over. That unruffled commitment to a way of life that launches them out of the chute, off the back of a horse and out into the wild open blue. It's a place where the American Spirit of the West still lives, flowing on in the veins in the cowboys and cowgirls of today.
I've been back since, not having to be coaxed out of the car to admire the view, squinting into the sun so bright, looking across the landscape for my favorite cowboy, waiting for that movement that will kick start my heart. There's something about a rodeo in person that no words can describe, whether you are young or old. It's just something of our history, the landscape of the West that continues on, dependable and wild, like a horse that wanders down from the hills on the morning dew. Movement, motion and courage sounding out as prairie dust flies up with the stomp of a hoof, the sound of a buzzer breaking the lie of inertia.

Dog Day Afternoon

I took this picture of Barkley and could not think of a good caption for it after being up for work at 4 a.m.

Readers, want to give it a shot? I'm headed off to sleep.

Food and Fire for the Mind

"A house is not a home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body."
Benjamin Franklin

I have my "not good for me" vices. BACON. Coca Cola made with sugar. Macaroni and Cheese, Jalapeno Flavored Kettle Chips, Hostess Snowballs (especially the ones with F D & C Green Dye No. 69 for St. Patrick's day). Large, medium rare steaks. Zots candy. Beer. Fortunately, I walk a lot AND floss.But I do try and make most of my food from scratch, using real ingredients, fresh or fresh canned, not "store bought" canned. Fruits and vegetables are eaten with abundance, wild asparagus growing out back and a garden soon to supplement it all when I can.

So I will occasionally "tweak" a recipe to make it healthier. I love Southwest Cooking and wanted to make some enchiladas.

Canned enchilada sauce, for a lot of brands, is full of refined sugar, preservatives and some chemicals. Not to mention a couple bucks for some tiny cans.

How about making a sauce from scratch? I was looking for something other than traditional salsa, with a dark smoky richness, an almost undetectable hint of sweet and cheap to make. (Did I mention I have a Scottish grandfather?) It was made with bulk spices on hand that I use frequently, leftover chicken breast sauteed with green chili and onion, black beans, and low fat cheese (which yes, as you can see, doesn't melt as well but tastes just fine). Wrap it up in Trader Joe's whole wheat tortillas, served with salad and iced tea, this meal was less than $3.00 a serving, and healthy. (don't faint).

I shared with my best friend who is picky about their Southwest food but always willing to try something new. It was a hit. The response? "Excellent!, can you make these again?".

Enchiladas Range Style

click to enlarge the photos

The Hurt Locker

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." -
George Orwell

I was quite pleased to see that The Hurt Locker won Best Picture and Director over Dances with Smurfs, er, I mean Avatar. Avatar was a visual feast with a somewhat weak story I heard, but The Hurt Locker is all around an incredible movie, one that should have had a lot more attention when it was in the theaters.

For a woman of words, there are few that describe this film well. Taut, incredibly intelligent, going somewhere deep in the heart of the psyche, a place some people really don't want to go. Some will view it and not pick up all the noise going on, there in the silence, or the silence there in all the noise, but it was there and deeply felt. I don't say this often but it was film that literally took my breath away.
The main character, James, appears on the surface to be a one dimensional cowboy, find the explosive, break the rules, disarm it, yet he remained to the very end, endlessly enigmatic for the illusory contradictions that perpetually fray his very being. The others, contradictions perhaps, yet not, with an adherence to structured direction and a guarded camaraderie so steadfast as to be almost baseless. I found the film psychologically astute for I've seen some of the personalities, working along side of them in the field, and now at home, many transitioning back to jobs stateside. These are the individuals who lived such days.

I read reviewers that seemed to dislike the movie because of their personal feelings about the war. There were others that said "wooden characters". Flawed? Yes, Wooden? No. Those that say such things are people that obviously have lived life in the safe little aquarium of kum ba ya land.

But I'm not above picking apart any film. Certainly parts of me looked at it closely. Let's just say I know a fair bit about explosives (from the good guy perspective) . And of course, there were some deep inaccuracies there, but not so the layman would notice. I'm not shy about critiquing the technical aspects of movie as it's watched, even if sometimes only Barkley listens.

Of course there are the guns. I notice those gaffes as well. Sure there were a few technical "huh's?", but overall I would not fault the film for that. Likely bringing in weapons for filming was a challenge to say the least. But I noticed a few familiar faces. A Beretta 92 (distinguished by a rounded trigger guard and butt-mounted magazine release) which later somehow changes to a Beretta 92 FS.

A Glock 19 (carried by the "on screen too quickly" Ralph Fiennes).

An M4A1 Carbine (oldie but goodie) but hey, wasn't there was a buttstock exchange between the 3rd and 4th generation stocks in the same scenes and in one scene an ACOG scope was briefly replaced by a red dot sight, before switching back. I think I saw an M16A4 (but those might have been airsoft replicas) .Then, a great sequence with a sand blasted Barret M107 (below with the main character spotting). In that scene you saw how really difficult it is to sight and kill a target operating behind and around cover. (Though I think the 50 cal bullets from the M107 would have cut through that mud hut like butter). A contractor's weapon in the movie, used after an ambush, you get a good look at. It's a weapon that can be used to detonate IED's as an anti material rifle so it made sense to me anyway, that the characters picked it up and used it to their best advantage.

Then, of course the AKM rifles, carried by both insurgents and the Iraqi National Guard. There was an FPK/PSL sniper rifle. an M2HB mounted on an Army Humvee and a host of things this gal isn't trained enough to recognize at one viewing. But still, a great view of equipment in action and handled well by the actors.

But all the gear wasn't wasn't what made this a "must see" movie, for me anyway. It was the psychological experience of being there with soldiers, good and not so good, brothers and enemies under the harsh sun. What made this film was not the technical aspects you could pick apart, but the real look into the adrenalin rushed, agonizingly difficult life of a soldier in a combat zone. It put a face on so many who really do not get the recognition for their service they deserve. There were a couple of scenes that really stood out for me, one in which James has a metal box of bits of the bombs he's diffused - "things that almost killed me".

His comrades are looking at it and one pulls out a wedding ring on a chain and queries why that is in there. James says "like I said, things that almost killed me."

Too often we forget that the people fighting overseas are more than soldiers. Flawed or perfect, they're still husbands, they're wives, brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers. Those we know and love, far from home.
Safe in our own world, we too easily forget the dangers these courageous souls face each day. We turn on the news and see news of an attack, another roadside bomb, another suicide bomber.I recalled another attack, this one hitting close to home. The massacre at the Radisson at Amman, Jordan, where I had just stayed just days prior, my survival not a matter of my fundamental beliefs, just timing.
Yet I almost hate to turn on some channels to only see another liberal diatribe against the war on terror. I agree with James Pavitt "The terrorist organizations are penetrable. I want every one of those SOBs looking over their shoulder." Honor requires difficulty. Keeping this type of terror away from our own shores will be on ongoing battle requiring resources and physical courage that are not limited by our past conceptions of what defines war.
John Stuart Mill said it best. " War is an ugly thing but not the ugliest of things; the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feelings which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. A man who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."

But the coverage again shifts from the weather back to another show with historical footage of an Al Qaeda attack. As photos of adults carrying dead children from yet another site of collective human failure fill the screen, I am forced to confront a harsher truth. that of all God's creatures, man can be the cruelest. Only man, blessed with the ability to reason, is capable of reasoned hate. Will Durant, the great historian, once said that, "barbarism, like the jungle, does not die out but only retreats behind the barriers that civilization has thrown up against it and waits there always to reclaim that to which civilization has temporarily laid claim." As civilized people, we can think of no cause that justifies the deliberate taking of innocent lives. But as the years pictures of attack after attack tell me that there are those that do.

As I poured a cup of tea, I searched the channel for something of a lighter mood. There was coverage on the tornadoes down in Mississippi. Watching footage of the damage reminded me that for all our advances in technology, we are still vulnerable to nature's awesome power. Having survived over 20 years in environments that were happy to kill me on a daily basis, I developed a early on respect for mother nature. As the Tao Te Ching puts it: " Heaven and earth are inhumane; they view the myriad creatures as straw dogs."
I can look out an airplane window and see the terrible power of nature, I can look on TV and see the damage that it can do. But I can also look and see something worse and even more dangerous: Man's inhumanity to man. Durant argued that, "civilization is not imperishable. It must be relearned by every generation." For that is the bleakest truth of all, the one truth we must never forget. The truth that sustains our continued efforts, be it in Iraq, In Afghanistan or in the bustle of a street on U.S. soil. The replayed image of a man holding his head in his blood soaked hands, in great pain, puts the war into my living room, as it should, lest I forget as I wing my way home.

I turned the TV off when I felt the tears well up, and quietly left my safe and warm room. I went out into the back field, remote below the lightening sky, listening to the audible celestial stillness of stars drifting past. I sat perfectly still in the quiet, watching the ink seep from the sky overhead while in the east all is blood and fiery sky.

I saw a hawk dive down black and clean as a shadow. It's wings cleaved the shimmering air and the rising air was the pristine lift that moved it forward, the perfect stream in which it swam, and dwindled and vanished, having killed not for hate or some warped ideology, but simply to eat, taking not any more than it needed. These are the days of doubts, of long dark nights, when even the devout wonder if we are keepers of more than this, if we will know safety and peace or simply inherit the wind and the dark.

Yet, knowing these "rough men" (and women, Mr. Orwell) stand ready for us, I know we have a fighting chance.

- Brigid

Hands On Turkey Dinner

It's Spring Turkey Season. I've actually met people who did not equate the wild turkey seen around their property and town as being something that was edible. They believed that ALL turkeys come from the grocery store.

Store bought turkey is a convenience and can be tasty, plump and tender, if cooked well. But wild turkey does not have to mean that it's gamey and tough, if prepared properly. Brining and marinating are two popular ways to prepare the wild bird.

Turkey with Red Chili Gravy -courtesy of Gourmet Magazine.. Food that any cowboy would come running to the table for. But dinner is the easy part. What about bringing HOME the Turkey.

In hunting Spring Turkey, there are many things to consider, such as weather, gear, and calling one in..

Weather - You don't have to be a meteorologist to know what bad weather means for hunting. Cold. Wet. As a rule, turkeys gobble best on those high-pressure Spring mornings, where it is clear and calm. Get on a ridge or a bluff if you are not in a "flat" state and you will likely hear the gobbles a mile or more in all directions.

Windy days are not a turkey hunters friend. If you'd been whipped around all night in a tree, would you feel like gobbling in the morning? Even if they speak up, you may not hear the calls in a stiff breeze through the trees. If it's forecast to be windy through the day, dawn is your best bet, as the wind often dies down a bit at that time. A friction call might also work better than a diaphragm in piercing a stiff wind. Remember that the wind limits your hearing as well, so if you hear the Tom, he's likely closer than you think.
Nobody likes hunting in the rain. The turkey's don't like it much either and are pretty quiet, even roosting like a teenager and getting up as late as possible. I've seen gobblers that didn't bother to fly down until after 8 am on a day with rain.

Gear - Unlike whitetails, turkeys have been found to see and assimilate some colors. Both the females and the subordinate toms react to the changing blues, reds and whites of a dominant gobbler’s head and neck during the Spring breeding season. For the female turkeys (hens) the color-pulsing head stimulates them for mating, for the beta toms, it suppresses the breeding urge (no thanks, you take the pretty one. ) Even so, laws are such that you must wear some hunters orange on your person when hunting turkeys. I've known people that turkey hunted in "street clothes" but if your clothes are not patterned to be in harmony with the local environment and you stick out like an elephant at a steel plate shoot, you might as well say goodbye to the hunt and go home. I like RealTree products, but I have also hunted in some generic brands from Big Box Mart. But whomever the manufacturer,is you want clothing that becomes part of the environment you are in that day.
Care of your hunting attire is also essential. If you are a female hunter, you are likely to be doing your own laundry. Having three brothers I know that "look I did the laundry for you and (insert one here) shrunk, dyed pink, ruined your favorite shirt" is a plot to get out from doing laundry again. It's OK. We know that, and we love you anyway. Call me old fashioned but I like taking care of my guy's stuff. But no matter who does the laundry in your house, use a soap free of scent. The turkey's sense of smell is nothing like a whitetails (it's their hearing,not smell, that is acute). If UV brighteners are utilized, the dyes present in some fabrics make the UV wavelengths stand out or "bounce",(look at me Mr. Turkey!), making them more visible to game. There are specific detergents that prevent this from happening; absorbing the UV so the clothes do not fade easily. When not in use, store your hunting clothes in airtight bags after thoroughly drying (I dry outside on a line) to keep them safe from dust, insects and household "man-like" odors.
These products are a favorite in my house, for both turkey and whitetail and can usually be had at a reasonable price.
Turkey Physiology Basics - You don't need ear lobes to hear like no one's business. Turkeys have amazingly acute hearing. Using small holes in the sides of their head, they can pinpoint the location of another turkey (or a hunter mimicking a turkey) with remarkable precision. As you go out to where you are going to hunt, remember, heavy footsteps, the slapping of body or hands against brush, or even that distinctive "click" of you pressing your shotgun safety can send the turkey running and ducking for cover. You may NOT see him again, that day. On the plus side, turkeys have a poor sense of smell. You don't have to study the wind to the degree you do with whitetail hunting. I don't have to worry my shampoo will be too much scent and if I put on some cherry lip gloss, it won't scare away the game.
A turkey has monocular vision (eyes set in the sides of its head). But they make up for the lack of 3D sight by cocking the head left or right to gauge distance between them, other turkeys and danger, including you. If you thought that grade school teacher had eyes in the back of her head, think again. A turkey can twist it's long, limber neck 360 degrees, literally giving it eyes in the back of its head. Their night vision is poor, which is why I set up while it is dark. During the day, the turkey sees more sharply than a human with 20/20 sight. These laser-like eyes are the turkey’s primary method of "home defense" and you can be assured he is looking for you.

Turkeys are fast, preferring to run. You think you've got the perfect shot, turn your head where he can see you for just a microsecond, and he explodes!. Ducking his head and tucking in low to the ground he'll dart off faster than a 67 Cuda. Turkeys have been clocked at up to 12 mph, and their lean, strong muscular legs, though making only for good soup stock, not eating, can catapult him into the air for flights up to 400 yards. Turkeys have been recorded at flight speeds up to 50 mph, and even after that short burst of flight, the turkey can set its wings and glide another half mile to elude you. This is one area I will caution the beginner. You do need to learn to sit still. Scratch your head, lift your arm and if they sense or see you -bye bye, bird. Turkeys are skittish from the moment they peck out of their shells, growing more so each day of life as they elude their many predators. A falling limb, the shadow of a hawk, that turkey you are hunting is burning holes in the brush with his sharp eyes looking for danger. It is not a hunting sport for the fidgety. You also might want to consider who you invite to tag along. On one hunt, right as we called in three nice Jakes (young male turkeys), the vegetarian girlfriend of one of the guys, who begged to go along, jumped up and yelled. "Run, Mr. Turkey, Run for your life!" Nice girl, but I didn't ever see her again agter that.

Calling - a mouth call is popular, but I certainly didn't take to it like a "duck to water" or even a "turkey to Spring". So mostly I have used a slate call. There's lots of good info on the web for choosing a turkey call., so I won't get into it here. It sort of goes without saying that when you make your call in Springtime, it's best to mimic a love starved hen. But don't rule out some gobbler clucking and yelping. That might work better than you think as you sound like a happy drifter amongst turkey society. A subordinate longbeard who's getting neither "lucky" or rich, looking for a buddy to hang out with may come to check you out. Or a dominant gobbler may strut over to kick your ass.

I once had a helpful fellow at my favorite large outdoors store sell me a hoot owl call, guaranteeing me it would get the turkeys to gobble. He also gave me some guidance on good places to hunt where I was going, close to town, but "off the beaten track" and open to the public. "A park service road would take you up to a perfect hillside spot to hunt, with lots of turkeys", he said. So I drove in a ways to hunt, deep into that forest in southwest Missouri, setting up on the side of an Ozark mountain. You want to sneak up as close as you dare to a roosted turkey, then set up and listen. If the Tom thinks he's Tom Jones and starts belting out love tunes and you hear no hens clucking, yelping or throwing their underwear at him, don’t call too early. Wait until the sky glimmers pink, then cast out a tree yelp and a few soft clucks to let the bird know you’re there. There on the side of that desolate Ozark mountain hillside, I did just that. As light broke the landscape I hooted. I waited. I heard another hoot. Then silence, then another hoot, and another, and another. Oh My Lord- it was an OWL convention! I never did see or hear a turkey, or see a turkey. Going back to area's only hotel, I ran into about a dozen empty handed hunters in the lobby grabbing coffee, hunters who apparently had the same idea to hunt this remote spot. I looked at them and said "hoot owl call? Salesman Bill at Bass Pro?" They looked at me and said "yup".
I had better luck closer to home, where I drew a nice Jake in with a slate call. Remember if he gobbles at you loudly, BE QUIET! He thinks you’re a hen, and he knows where you are. If you don't hear him trying to chat you up though, cluck and yelp just a bit more to get his attention over to where you and your trusty shotgun are sitting. If it's too quiet, relax. Listening carefully for thumping wings as he heads down out of the tree. As he lands, throw out a little cackle his way. He might wander over to check you out. Once he starts walking your way, you may not have to call again.

Allow the turkey to approach within 30-35 yards. Do not raise your shotgun quickly, so not to spook him. Bring the shotgun up slowly and smoothly and take aim for the turkey's head or the eye. Body shots often result in a wounded bird or a big mess to clean up to prepare him for the pot. Be sure of your target. Do not shoot through brush, thinking you see a turkey. As in ANY shooting, clearly identify your target before getting near the trigger.

These are just a few tips I've learned. I'm always learning, never the expert, just someone that loves to hunt and shoot. Make a friend of a turkey hunter, someone to learn from. There are organizations such as the National Wild Turkey Federation, made up of men and women that know turkeys and hunt turkeys. If you don't know any turkey hunters, ask at your local sporting goods dealer. He or she should know some of the turkey hunters in your local area from purchases made and may be able to steer you towards individuals, clubs or groups that love to share their knowledge. Don't forget your state's Department of Conversation. They may also know those in your area that can teach you as many states have a hunter mentoring program. If you have a mentor, your chances of learning quickly and more easily are assured.

Breakfast at the Range Musings - Food, Pants and a Clown named Ronald.

On the drive home that takes me through the Western edge of the city on the freeway, I'm assaulted by billboards of a new breakfast sandwich from Burger King that looks suspiciously like a McDonalds Egg McMuffin. Then there's the McDonalds billboards which are annoying by their own merit, having seemingly replaced Ronald McDonald with a marketing campaign aimed at young gang members who wear pants that drag around their ankles. "I'm Lovin It'. No, I'm hatin' it.

Maybe I'm getting old. Tam called someone a "nice young man" recently and Shooty Buddy countered with finding someone at her quilting circle for the lad. Heh! At least that young man didn't wear those giant pants that you see on all the gangmember wanna be's. Come on, I'm not the only person over the age of (cough, cough) out here who wonders about those pants. Pants that Ronald McDonald would refuse to wear because they are silly. Pants that you could fit two teenagers in and still have room for a bass boat. They wear them so low, the waist is at the knee level and the pant's butt is dragging on the ground. Certainly not the wear for the effective criminal because you wouldn't be able to flee with any degree of velocity.

I see them in the city, I see them at some of the indoor ranges. Son, didn't your Mama teach you ANYTHING about muzzle control???

Then, I wondered as I continued to ponder breakfast. How do they BUY those pants" Do they take along the Loser from the "Biggest Loser", or a mature Kodiak bear and then buy pants that fit HIM?

" What you lookin at Sucka?".

But I digress, this is about breakfast sandwiches, not my rapidly aging fashion sense. So I'm not a fan of McDonalds, definitely not a fan of Burger King . Though I've been known to meet in secret places for a romp in the front seat of my truck with a Qdoba burrito.

I don't want to go out quite yet. But after totally skipping dinner last night, I was HUNGRY. I want something smoky, meaty and cheesy. Something made in an immaculate kitchen by someone who is not wearing dreadlocks. (Though bed hair is coming close this morning). Namely - me.

Smokey Pork Burger with Chipotle and Bacon (serves one)

1/4 lb. ground pork, don't worry about "lean", this isn't a breakfast for your health

1 slice bacon (cooked)

1/2 clove garlic, forced against its will through a garlic press

1/2 teaspoon chipotle in adobe, plus 1/4 teaspoon of the adobo sauce (another recipe will be up this week for the remainder of the can, found in the Latin food section of many markets).

Slice of a large tomatilla (rinsed and husked). I don't like raw tomatoes or anything resembling them normally but this adds a crisp tartness that will wake up the sandwich

1 slice Muenster cheese

Slice of Avocado

A couple of sprigs of Cilantro

Mix pork, chipotle and sauce, all but a tiny dab of the garlic, and a dash of salt. Form into a patty. Grill patty covered about 4 minutes, Flip and top with bacon slice, cut up into a couple strips, cheese, and cook 1 or 2 minutes more, until cooked through. (Note: you can do this on stove in oiled pan on medium heat).

Stir tiny remainder of garlic into a tablespoons of Mayo. Spread mayo on toasted bun, top with pork, tomatilla, avocado and cilantro.

Then gather your gear and head out to tell a clown what you think of him. But don't worry about your pants, for some strange reason they don't seem to be sagging much.

More Home on the Range Canines

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Photograph (c) Home on the Range and Company

Jayne: "See, Vera? Dress yourself up you get taken out somewhere fun."
- Firefly

Weekly Wisdom - Cowboy Style

There's two theories to arguing with a woman. Neither one works.

Never miss a good chance to shut up.

If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.

The best way out of a difficulty is through it.

Diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggie" until you can find a rock.

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

"A gun is a tool, Marion, no better or no worse than any other tool, an axe, a shovel or anything. A gun is as good or as bad as the man using it. Remember that." -- Shane

Talk slowly, think quickly.

Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.

And finally, never wear pants like this. You won't be able to sit on a horse and anyone that hits on you in a cowboy bar will be named Percy.

SNAP, CRACKLE, POP

After a week of road food, it was time for something tasty but a bit healthier.

Rice Crispy Chicken.

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All you need is a freezer bag and an oven.

I was going for inexpensive, and I have co-workers and friends that prefer the dark meat chicken pieces, so there it is. Skinless and boneless thighs and some legs. Chicken parts for five were purchased in bulk for less than $4.50. Crush a few cups of Rice Crispies type rice cereal in a 1 gallon freezer bag, (til smooshed, but not powder). Dip the chicken in two beaten eggs, shake off exess and shake them up in the same bag. Sprinkle with the garlic powder (probably a generous teaspoon in all) and the same amount of Paprika. I used no salt and pepper. Bake at 350 one hour. The smell after about 40 minutes was incredible and drew a crowd.

It's crispy like fried chicken, with a savory crunch but without all the fat or mess in the pan. With simple roasted sweet potatoes and Italian bread brushed with just a little butter and fresh garlic, then baked for the last few minutes with the chicken. It made for a fine plate, and a nice light meal.

Of course, if you have some extra hungry people who aren't minding their calories or their cholesterol, throw in a pan of HOTR Macaroni and Cheese as a side dish. Even with the side dishes, using bulk and store brand products, the meal was less than $3 a serving.
No matter how you serve it up, it will be gone in a flash.

Dogs, Guns and Things that Go BOOM.

Come on Brigid - Make it Blow Up Again!

Arriving back in town, it was time to get some errands done and check on Barkley. A stop for groceries and some gun cleaning supplies (this weekends post, the care of the Savage), plus a stop at the locally owned pet store. The Choosy Pet in Zionsville. The owner is a young man and his wife and he's one of our local shooters, so I had to check it out. (When a person loves AR15's and dogs they are all right in my book). If you are ever north of Indianapolis, in the little village of Zionsville, stop in.

http://www.thechoosypet.com/

Of course, I had to get some of the Home on the Range Inspired home made dog treats.
I also wanted to get a toy for the dogs, as Rangebuddy had been watching Barkley while I put in some travel time. There was a lot of really cool stuff there, for dogs and cats. A three and half foot tuff stuff dynasaur (the spines are squeekies) would have been a hit, but I went for something else. Doggie Explosives!

Hey Look Barkley - it's Mr. Grenade!

He spots it!

SIT, or you can't pull the pin! Toss the Grenade!!
MMM. Wasn't there some hip black dude on TV that said it.. . . . Dyn-o-MiTE!
Oh, I just left you a little land mine out by the back fence as well.
Thanks Brigid! We had a BLAST!