Special of the Day

Saturday Night Special

Saturday Morning Special

Venison Maple Sausage with Perfect Hash Browns. If you like yours the popular casserole type way (you know the dish; sort of a bastard offspring of a potato and a can of cream of mushroom soup), these aren't for you. They are thin, crisp and buttery on the outside, soft and tender in the middle, seasoned with simple salt and pepper. Add in some fluffy scrambled eggs and some maple and sage infused venison sausages and you have the perfect breakfast.

If you want to add something to them to spice them up, well, Home on the Range usually has something around here. Turk brought these over a while back, with four specially selected ones for myself and my friends. You'll have to guess which ones are for whom.

There is a POINT System? - a HOTR guide to romance

Love is an Exploding Cigar We Willingly Smoke -

Lynda Barry

Like IDPA, if you ask some women, romance and marriage have their own point system.

Frankly I don't keep track, it's like that whole Weight Watchers thing. My heart goes "kaboop", there's the smell of bacon or black powder in the air and I don't think about points.

However, I am also told that having been raised in a very testosterone laden household (all including Mom, LEO, soldiers or special ops). I don't "think like a girl" .

But today some male buddies were talking about the female "point system", totally in the dark as to why some things they did made their spouses go from all happy and warm and "look my clothes fell off" to a a "fine" and a door slam. "Just what is this whole keeping points thing", they asked.

So, in another installment of HOTR romance tips here is the point system as we know it.

HOUSEHOLD CHORES

You make the bed (+1)

You make the bed, but forget the matching useless pillow shams (-1)

You cover the rumpled sheets with that nice tarp you brought Bambi home in so the blood stains will dry out (-100)



SHOPPING

You make a special trip to the store when she's not feeling well and buy her something she needs (+1)

It's a girly product such as white nail polish (+2)

It's nail polish for her to touch up the sights on her XD (+5)

It's raining (+10)

You return without the item but with this month's issue of Big Racks. (-10)

It's not a magazine about hunting (-300)

HOME PROTECTION

You check out a suspicious noise at night (+1)

You check out a suspicious noise, and its the wind (0)

You check out a suspicious noise and it is something (+5)

You put a load of buckshot through it (+10)

It's her chihuahua (-50)

THE LIFE OF THE PARTY

You stay by her side the entire party (0)

You stay by her side for a while, then leave to chat with another friend (-2)

Named Trixi (-10)

Trixi is a professional pole dancer (-20)

Trixi is showing you her new implants (-40)

Your woman notices you now have your own pole (-600)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

You take her out to dinner (+2)

You take her out to dinner and it's not the flaming chicken wing place or a sports bar (+3)

Okay, it involves flaming chicken wings(-2)

and sports (-3)

And it's all you can eat night (-3)

It's a flaming chicken wing place, it's all you can eat night, your face is painted the colors of your favorite team and the gift you got her is a "We're No. 1" giant foam finger (-200)

DATE NIGHT

You take her to a movie (+1)

You take her to a movie she likes (+3)

You take her to a movie you hate (+6)

You take her to a movie you like (-2)

It's called 'Mutant Zombie Hookers" (-8)

You lied and said it was about kittens and starred Julia Roberts (-25)

THE BIG QUESTION

She asks, "Does this make me look fat?" (-5)
Sorry guys - You lose points just by playing

You hesitate in responding (-10)

You reply "Not as much as what you wore to work today?" (-35)

Any other response (-20)

COMMUNICATION

When she's had a bad day at work, you listen, pour her a glass of wine and give her a hug. (+4)

You listen, through two glasses of wine and tears. (+50)

All while you are missing Mythbusters (+500)

Which you are able to watch if you turn your head just so and pretend to focus on her face as you look past her into the living room, until she catches you . (-500)

So now you know what the point system is. But trust me gentlemen if you find the right woman you wont' have to worry so much about that. For in a truly good relationship there are only some things that matter.


The Home on the Range Woman is Easy to Please

We want a man who makes us laugh when we're down and laughs himself, easily and often, a man who listens and thinks, asks questions and responds.

We want a man who can rub our shoulders after 500 rounds and takes out the dog so we can sleep another 10 minutes and who knows the answer to any question involving cake, whipped cream, or ammo is yes.


We want a man that understands that we're not a stereotypical woman. We don't keep points, we don't keep score. We can fix our own house, and load our own ammo, or climb a tree blind. We don't need him to fix us or support us financially, we simply need him to just be himself when he's with us.

We want a man who can cook a roast, clean a gun, who takes care of his family if he has one and whose face lights up when he talks about us, his wheels or his wheel gun.

We want a man who knows commitment doesn't always mean vows or a contract, sometimes it's just that shared understanding that you are ready to love and defend without obligation but with your very last breath if need be.


We want a man who cherishes many things, his landscape, his loved ones, his freedom and his faith.

We want a man who knows that love is not a pie, that sex is more than exercise, a man that knows that the honor we hold, as friends, as family, as patriots, is very much like a full time job.

But if he owns an ammunition factory that makes .38 special rounds? OK. It's +1000 points.

Something in the Wind Tonight

I'm looking at the radar here. Soon, perhaps, some thunderstorms are going to roll through, but hopefully the bat phone will not ring tonight and I'll be inside and under cover.

Of all the subjects I stressed in teaching the occasional flight student I had, weather was the main one. Making the wrong decision about weather has more dire consequences than any rushed preflight, or choice of the wrong airport cafe "special" just before a 3 hour flight. So I drilled it home, teaching it with great detail. Sometimes when the weather is foul, that's about all you can teach, Sitting in the classroom off of the hangar with my student, we'd pour over charts and terminology, hands waving in the air to outline a point, driven by the wind that was increasing its tempo outside.

Even as a child I was fascinated by weather, by the unpredictable forces of the unknown, of the fire in the sky, the way the clouds gathered in clustered groups of gossip, then disbanded. Growing up at the base of mighty Western mountains, we didn't have the tornadic weather that I now see on the Plains, but the mountains fueled some wild summer storms. The first time I remember seeing a really severe storm, I had to venture out to take a look. I ran out in the back yard, out of my Mom's reach, chasing it like a groupie, the viscous rain trickling like a stream through my red hair, the moisture seeping into me, making me feel completely fearless. I was looking for something, hoping for the first marks of rotation, the sky twisting into itself in cotton like coils, too young to be afraid of the dangers that sort of weather wraps itself with. There's such strength when air masses collide, and though I have no specific memory of that storm, only what's brought back through a picture my Mom took, I can see it in my minds eye.

I became enthralled with it. As a kid I would lay on a blanket in the yard, or just on the grass, my eyes fixed beyond a point I could comprehend, watching heavenward. Searching for something that hadn't happened yet. A twist of a tornado, so far only seen in a book, a crackle of thunder, the soft, draping comfort of virga. Waiting for the rumble of something within me.

We had more snowstorms than thunderstorms so when we got a good one, it was as if the clouds had gathered for some boisterous party to which I was invited, lightning popping in celebration, the lights flashing like a thousand flashbulbs from ancient cameras, every clap of thunder shaking me with laughter. I was frankly smitten with the sky, happy to be invited and like a lingering house guest late at night, reluctant to leave. Only when the lightning started would my mother yell at me to get in the house, with the stern sound of worry only a parent can have. I would start for the house, reluctantly, like a child chastised by a nun in school, head down, movements slower than conditions warranted, then faster, running as if the rain had washed away my chastisement, cleansed me of the cloak of shame that others wished to place on us.


Even when I was grown, I'd sit by the window looking out at the horizon searching for that first sign of disturbance in the sky. As the storm built, so did my interest and I'd smile with each gust of wind against the eves. If the winds were such that there were no flying projectiles, no lightning to strike me, just heavy rain, I'd put on my rain gear and go out in the wild, delighting in the feel of cold rain on my skin as my lungs drew in the cold air, cleansed of the smoke of the past regret. Liquid crystal drops kissed my face. I laughed into the wind and was not cold.

Learning to fly was usually weather that was often laden with both snow and high winds off the mountains. Many days, like today, were spent sitting in the hangar, waiting for the rain to abate, clustered like Maytag repairmen around a ready airplane. Winter storms were the most lingering and strong, coming from the West with the speed of a tanker truck, pushing everything out ahead of their path. On days like that, it was best just to go home and dream about flying. For weather in an airplane is a whole other matter. Weather will kill you without a moment of hesitation and more than one airman has poked his nose into the face of Zeus, daring a fight, and been smote for the attempt.

When flying a plane, wind is the essence of your day. You want enough headwind to give you some good lift on takeoff, and not so much crosswind to cartwheel you when you come back. Only pilots, sailors and and those truly in sync with nature seem to pick up on the inertial energy in the wind. So many things get blown away in a stiff breeze, so many things swept out of your mind with the wind in your face in an open cockpit. Repressed longings, fruitless desire, ghosts of sad reflection, a hundred thoughts never formed and a thousand words never uttered. Wind in your wings, in your face, sweeping your head of any emotion other than the moment, until all is blown past you to tumble to the earth below.

So on a storm tossed day, like today, when it too dangerous to go out, in any airplane, we simply sit in the hangar with a cup of coffee and our flying stories, watching the clouds build and the thunder roll. Watching the atmosphere of the heavens, contemplating the atmosphere of our lives, as the surface of the earth, the surface of our skin heats, particles of warm air rising with breath. Watching the storm build, rich offering calling for some bolder hearts than ours.

As a tiny child, during the fiercest of Storms coming off the mountains, I was told that it was God bowling up above, and I looked with glee upwards trying to get a glimpse of a tumbling pin in the celestial abyss. Now I know better, and can spout off all the meteorological terms with the best of airmen. But it's not the science that fascinates me, it's the weather itself.

Because the summation of the skies is a visible affidavit of all that's powerful and mighty in the atmosphere, in ourselves. It's a cold blowing truth that there's something within all of us that can be gathered up, strengthened. Something commanding that can change the form of a life. The weather brings components of force, some deep innate working in our selves. Lightning cleaving the sky as a machete, the smell of cordite in the air lingering like gunpowder. Thunder echoing as a a brace of artillery booming under a gunmetal sky, the power of the sky a transcendent weapon that can form or scar, however we view it, the landscape of our world.

There's another line of thunderstorms moving in, so there would be no flying for us on this day off, the other recreational pilots gone home. The building is silent but for the gust of wind against the door and I'm left in the hangar, alone in the gathering wind, under a sky worn and gray, ripe with deep recognition. For just a moment my grown up self was whisked away in a storm of time and space, and all that was left was a child cold and tired, wishing there was someone there with her to call her in, to run into the arms of safety. But the airport is empty, and I am alone.

I feel the raindrops on my face, and find that though I'm still under cover, the rivulets are falling from my eyes, salty and clear, leaving crystal trails down my cheeks. I close up the hangar, walking out towards the parking area as light flashes around me, raising the hairs on my arms and illuminating my path. I walk on down towards my truck, toward the empty parking lot where the liquid sterling of the rain calls to me from a distance, the staccato beating of water against my world, the might of a Midwest storm. The storm is powerful and strong, as am I.

I look upwards and outward, I do not look back.

Do What You Love

Do what you love. Know your own bone;

gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.

-Henry David Thoreau

An Evening at Camp Chronograph

There's a lot of good information in various reloading manuals as to how much powder to put in a particular reload. But like anything where humans are involved, there can be a lot of "hit or miss" as well, especially in manufacturer's claims as to the velocity of a load in your gun.

Why?

Because they did the measurements with THEIR gun. NOT yours. Variations in bore smoothness, chamber dimensions, throat shape, headspace and other factors make your firearm unique, even if your buddy next to you is shooting the exact same make and model of firearm.

Knowing the velocity of your loads allows you to refine them for the best possible accuracy at distance as well as removes the guesswork from holdover while insuring optimum bullet performance on game.

I'll be honest. I knew almost nothing about such things when I was new at reloading, having started about a year and a half ago, after some instruction from a friend who is a master at it, and starting with a little single stage press. I have seen several chronographs since then and I can tell you, when it comes to buying the equipment, there IS a difference. Many of the chronographs are manufactured overseas. They are cheaper.

But as my Dad always told me, you get what you pay for.

Last week, a view of the IND blog group that shoot at Atlanta Conservation Club shooting (Caleb, we miss you), met and tried out a new PACT Chronograph. The brand was a friend's recommendation, after owning a couple of them.. Though there are several good chronograph brands out there, I'm glad I tried this one and NOT one of the cheaper products. Certainly PACT could make them overseas and cheaper, but they choose not to, and the quality is evident (not to mention keeping jobs at home for Americans).

In addition, you don't have to have a CSI ballistic lab to measure bullet velocity, all you need is a good quality chronograph. And unlike a TV CSI, you don't have to carry your gear around while wearing a $800 suit, solving all crimes in an hour, all the while looking like a supermodel.

I had four bags of "test" rounds to start with (three pictured) Two bag were Missouri Bullet Company bullets (I'm a happy and loyal customer), with different powder loads. Two bags were Roger's Better Bullets (a gift from a friend) also with different loads. All the ones I tried were .45 acp.

Why a Chronograph?

In simple, the velocity of a given round is a byproduct of the average pressure in that round. Simply put, velocity is the speed of the bullet. There is no free lunch here folks. Velocity reflects pressure and velocity and pressure translate into performance and safety for the reloader. If you compare the actual velocity of a particular charge to the predicated velocity you can determine if you're getting adequate ignition or if you are rapidly approaching the "Danger Will Robinson" zone on pressure even if you are below the "maximum" recommended load.

Taking One for the Team:

Being a chronograph is not without its risks. Chronographs are, by their very function, constantly in the line of fire when in use. They're positioned downrange, and most shooters will manage to nail at least one chronograph sometime in their years of use. I've been lucky and just winged a support arm once, for which cheap replacements are usually on hand. But because it is necessary to shoot between the supports and the diffuser on a chronograph, inaccurate shooting can readily lead to a bullet going through the chronograph instead of the empty space which it monitors for speeding bullets. Outside of taking a job as a target stand, there's not many jobs at the range riskier than that of the chronograph.For that reason, it's not a toy. I wouldn't let a new shooter have a go at it, unless you have a couple hundred dollars laying around you want to get rid of.

For our night out, with IPDA coming up that the boys were going to shoot, we wanted to see if recent reloading was measuring up to speed for match performance, or should just be kept on hand for practice. It only takes a small variance in shot to shot velocity to make the difference between a load that goes "bang", and one that goes "Wow"

How they work is really pretty simple. Just like the opposite sex, you can usually manage to operate one even if you don't have a clue as to how they actually work. They are however, VERY sensitive devices and need to be handled with a little care (also like the opposite sex). The chronograph contains an extremely high-speed digital clock that starts running the instant you turn the chronograph on. This internal clock generates millions of quick pulses that are needed to calculate the speed of your bullet.

Most photo switches are mounted on this type of device, and it's their job to signal the chronograph when your bullet passes overhead. The first photo switch is activated by the shadow of the bullet passing overhead, and it signals the unit to "begin time" (counting the clock pulses). When second photo switch sees the bullet it signals the unit to stop counting the pulses.

Simple in theory but pretty amazing if you consider just how quickly and with what accuracy, these photo switches have to react. When the number of clock pulses is captured, the chronograph immediately and easily calculates and displays the exact speed of your round with a little microprocessor chip

It's a simple formula

velocity = distance/time

In this case, the average feet per second for a magazine from one bag was about 795.. It should have been a little higher, so these rounds for my P220 likely needed just a bit more powder. The round ejected quite nicely though, and accuracy was good.

But a higher velocity is not necessarily a good thing. For most shooting applications the accuracy is more important then the max velocity. If you gain 100 to 200 feet per second in most rifle cartridges, neither you or the target are likely to notice. For hunters, trajectory changes due to these small velocity increases are usually so small as to not really make a difference, and reloading for higher accuracy may even degrade accuracy. In a pistol load, intended for competition we might wish to fine tune them a little more. Why the chronograph is even more important.

But although velocity is what we are looking at here, it's relationship to pressure is just as important, not just for accuracy but for safety. Pressure does the work to move the bullet through the barrel and on to Mr. Target (if Mr. Target would quit MOVING around!)

If the pressure is too low, the bullet could stick in the bore or fail to generate enough velocity to do the intended task (sorry dear, I'm just tired tonight). If the pressure is too high, not only could your fine firearm be damaged, but there is a genuine risk for injury.

I'm not going to get in any greater detail here. I'm a beginner and I'm sure I have a few readers who are as well. If you want to read an excellent discussion of velocity variations, pick up a Speer Reloading Manual for Rifle and Pistol and check out "Why Ballisticians Get Gray" in the handgun section.

In the meantime, if you are getting serious about reloading or just want to check out the accuracy of those rounds you are depending on, not just for sport, but perhaps, one day, to save your life, get a Chronograph. Add a couple of patient friends and a few bags of your favorite rounds and fire when ready.


When you're done and home, you can compare your notes, recalculate what you wish to do next time and for myself anyway, worry about that one thing that all the supermodel forensic scientists on TV worry about.

Which of my favorite bath products remove GSR the best?

Sticky Business

click (or double click) on photo to enlarge

I was going to finish the post on the chronograph shooting this morning, but I got distracted.

Black and White - Scenes From a Saturday

A simple day, shopping with Joanna, some new toys and new ideas for the kitchen.






Homemade Rhubarb Pie - some things just aren't meant to be black and white

Notes From the Road - What is Happiness

"TELL ME, WHAT IS HAPPINESS?"
Iain M. Banks Use of Weapons (prologue)

On the road, I usually stop in a bookstore if there is one around. So many books. The bargain books are usually entertaining in and of themselves, leaving you wondering what prompted some people to pen such thoughts to paper. I could think of a few titles for books that would instantly be in the bargain bin (and you can probably add a few titles of your own).

Living Life Bacon Free!

Harry Potter Meets the Groovy Ghoulies

The Ninja Sword Way to Successful Negotiation

“I Could Pee on That” and other Poems by Barkley

Losing Weight through Sensible Eating and Regular Exercise

The Unauthorized Biography of Eliot Spitzer -Horton Hires a Ho

Things Are Going to Get a Lot Worse before They Sort of Plateau

My Little Ponies - Financial Freedom through Track Bets

But books, good books, have been part of my life since early childhood. I was lucky to have two parents who exposed us to books and music and the outdoors. Learning and discovery were elemental to them and reading and words became a quiet necessity of my life. Charlotte's Web, The Wind in the Willows, A Child's Garden of Verse, and my all time favorite, Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Books were my portal to comfort, during those inevitable awkward moments of growing up, a way of immersing myself in the world of an author. As a child, books helped me grow, stretching my mind even further. And through books and written words came friendships. I'd talk about what I read with my classmates, telling snippets of stories and passing around dog eared copies of Asimov and Heinlein and Niven and Herbert. We'd gather over our lunches, laughing about a recent share, Philip Dicks -Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. We'd sit until a teacher made us go back to class, voices raised in excitement for the vast reaches out there, limitless possibilities that, on the cusp of adulthood, we believe existed.

With that, the world opened up to me. I started recording it, in small notebooks of paper, ink drawings, loose photos, added onto their pages, a scrapbook of my life, recorded for eternity with nothing more than an old Mont Blanc pen and a camera.

Words dazzle and deceive because they are mimed by the face. But black words on a white page are the soul laid bare.— Guy de Maupassant

"Soul laid bare." The sense of vulnerability in those three words is beyond reach. From these recorded pages have come my own story, tales of the possibilities of life, my soul laid out for many of you to read. Opening up something within me that made some of you take your own pen and craft your own story. I believe in the magic hidden in people and things, and these notebooks, these words bring them out into the light.

But writing, as in reading, for me is not just intellectual but embracive. I love the way the spine of a book or notebook feels in the crook of my fingers. The book an aesthetic charm of endless possibilities. The smooth, hard end boards snug on either side of the pages sewn together, their edges flush and perfect. The smell of ink, the texture of a page as my fingers gently turns it. Between 1850 and the late 1980s, books were printed on acidic paper. Conservators can't keep up with the costly restoration. Soon, millions of books in thousands of libraries the world over will be lost when their pages disintegrate into dust. Already I mourn for the loss of something that we have no control over, that of the written word.

I love blank notebooks. To me, it's hard to think of anything that represents the clean slate of opportunities more than a pristine, empty notebook. Smythson’s of Bond Street has bound ones with thin, blue, delicate paper that looks like the air mail paper my parents wrote to one another on during the War. The paper is so thin, the ink bleeds through, yet with the ink comes pleasure. The smell of the ink as well as the as the scent of paper itself, is need as defined as the capturing of a personal experience. Experiences in danger of being lost in an errant click of a mouse. In today's evolution of the tools of our expression, we've lost the very things we can hold on to. Things that can still gather dust and be passed on, to a child, to a lover, to history. So I particularly like the Smythson's ones, the way my handwriting looks on the thin paper, words scrolled from a fountain pen, dense with weight, meaning something, to me anyway, even if two hundred years from now, the paper, and the one I wrote the words for, are only dust and starlight.

Tonight I sit alone and quiet, not feeling like meeting friends after a long week. I have a book, Iain M. Banks Use of Weapons. Once again, Banks takes us to The Culture, his galaxy-spanning civilization of humans, computer Minds, asteroid-sized Ships (some of the names he picks for his ships are worth the read in and of themselves) and annihilating weapons. Ah yes, weapons. Written in interwoven chapters, it is made up of two alternating narrative streams - one indicated by Arabic numerals and the other by Roman ones.

The stories are one of The Culture and one of a world not yet contacted by The Culture. The pre-contact world is the home of four children, a brother, two sisters and another boy, hidden from others. Of the two stories, one moves forward chronologically, while the other moves in the opposite direction; yet both are about the central, tragic character, Cheradinine Zakalwe. Zakalwe is a rogue, a military genius, an assassin, a sad case and an utterly sympathetic character all at the same time. A mercenary shaped by his experiences as the perfect soldier, he's taken, refined and utilised by the supposedly benign and pacific Culture for their nastier dirty tricks operations. The moral ambiguity and ethical contradictions of this are not lost on Zakalwe himself or on his Culture handler, the "Special Circumstances" operative Diziet Sma.

Gloriously grotesque, sharply observed, bleakly satirical and written with a revelation so perfect that you will only ask yourself how you didn't see it sooner. Anything, Banks is telling us, anything at all can be a weapon, and the failure of restraint in the use of weapons dooms us all. It's not the easiest book to get your mind around, some minds will find the interwoven stories confusing (but if you are reading this blog, you are not likely to be one of those). I can promise you this, after reading it you will never look at a small chair, especially a small chair painted white, in quite the same way.

I don't read a lot of "popular" fiction. I would rather be nibbled to death by ducks than read a Jackie Collins novel. I tend to read a lot of non fiction, of history. I like reading about long ago. I know more about my own life when I know more about the past. It's a sense of perspective; of days full of people that killed, tortured, struggled and suffered, agonizing for things that were of the utmost importance to them; working and living for reasons that may be well the same as ours. Now they've been gone some 500 years and all that is left to us is the essence and quintessence of their lives. To me history is more than a story, more than a book, it's the life, the heart and soul of ages long ago. It's the ultimate myth and inevitably ambiguous, but I do believe, like Lord Bolingbroke said, "History is philosophy teaching by example and also by warning." History not read is like ammo not used, someone once said, and without reading, for myself at least, the past is silence and the future is haze.

So for these many reasons, I hate being stuck somewhere with no book, no notebook or a laptop in which to record my thoughts Let the weather play God with my itinerary, let them send me to Elbonia. I've been stuck in places where my luggage did not arrive at the same time I did, and the only written word I could find in English was a ferry schedule for the River Styx. I don't care where I am, I simply need something to read and something to write in. Words in reserve, a buttress against the whims and dubiety of travel, of growing up, of life itself.

I intended to read tonight, but there is a new little notebook in my suitcase, I removed the film cover, the crackling sound awakened something in me. I stroked the oilskin cover for the first time, my future turning before me as I snapped open the elastic band to flip through the pristine pages, dreams waiting to burst out onto them. The pages were too perfect, it's almost hard to make the first mark upon the clean, fresh landscape. But then, with the thought of a face, of a hand at the small of my back, I began; splaying the words on lasting paper before they are lost in the ether. Words that are bequeathed to the page before they were forgotten, words that though not spoken, will take a corporeal shape in my heart whenever I close my eyes, even as they themselves, slumber between the closed cover that is their hiding place.

No Need to Worry Folks -

It's safe to get back on the ride.

A number of my readers had serious issue with my posting a non-bacon, beef or butter recipe last week.

Just so you know that . . .

(1) I wasn't kidnapped by aliens
(2) No one fell madly in love with me, resulting in marriage and my replacement by a tree hugger (as likely as the alien thing).
(3) I had that frontal lobe damage thing and started eating brussel sprouts for dinner.

I present. . . . .

I'm off to watch the new Resident Evil movie with some of my guy friends from the IND blog group. For some reason it's a spouse free night, as "that's not my thing" was cited.

Who wouldn't love Resident Evil, especially as the guys say it's in 3-D????

I'll be back for shooty or bacony goodness on Friday night.

Fowl Play - Adventures in Turkey Hunting

The sound jolts me out of a dream, a crack of thunder, breaking open a tree, but the sky is clear. I was on a hunting trip and snoozing; the sound ricochets off a brain half asleep. I recognized the sound.

Gun fire. From far off in the distance.

There I was, sound asleep and all over the Ozark mountain side there were probably big fat turkeys just waiting for me. So much for the "internal clock" of the hunter. I should have set an alarm.

The sleeping bag across the room was empty. Probably the source of the shot. It wasn't close, the sound light and far away, like cicadas heard from a distance. There was just enough light to shadow my face with the branches moving outside the window, patterns of light and dark that moved over me like the mosquito net I forgot to pack.

We were down south and I was hunting with a former coworker. I had permission to hunt a hundred acres in the middle of no where in southern Missouri, and figured it would be best to bring a friend, just in case rounding a bend I heard banjo music. We were good company, having shared a cockpit and having been shot at before, small quarters were no big deal.

The accommodations were choice for turkey hunting. We had a little cabin, with a small trailer next to it (the guest quarters?). A friend kept it up for deer season, the rest of the year it was empty, other than a few acres devoted to the crop of the year. There were probably hundreds of little places like this back here in the hills, with shadowed windows and the same dim light overhead that dissolves like water, running down the slanted metal roof. Some would be well maintained, providing a permanent home for those that left the conflict of the cities, others crumbling and dark, trash and junk vying for space in uncut grass with a car with no engine.

Ours was a bit old, but it was clean, neat and draft free. Even better, it had electricity which was a plus as it powered a refrigerator we could put our game and provisions into. There was no running water that weekend, but it appeared that there may have been at one time. We had a creek to clean ourselves up in and enough jugged water to clean up hands while we precessed the birds, and for drinking. Water was necessary, if only to provide a splash into a mug of Jameson, raised over the evenings fire, as rabbit roasted on a spit and jacketed potatoes baked in the ashes.

There was no bathroom. My shower consisted of standing buck naked out in front of the cabin when no one was looking, with a brush and some unscented soap and pouring a gallon of cold water over my head. If that won't wake you up, nothing will. We did have an outhouse and there were a couple of sofas inside the cabin where we could lay out sleeping bags if the floor was too hard. For decor, there was a plastic plant and a mount on the wall that was either an undernourished one-antlered whitetail with mange or what was left of the hopey changey unicorn.

My in-laws had moved from Texas to these parts, so I knew my way around these hills, though the landscape had changed some in the ensuing years. My partner in the hunt was from up north. He was a skilled hunter, much more so than I, but was unfamiliar with both the terrain and the critters that live in these parts.

I'm always surprised as to the number of people who have never hunted turkey. I usually meet up with Rangebuddy at Cracker Barrel for breakfast each month and last weekend I mentioned turkeys. He said he'd never gone. He's hunted all kinds of things, whitetail, elk, but turkeys, never.

I guess to some, when they think turkey, they think of little domesticated turkeys, drowning as they raise their heads in a good rainstorm. Let me tell you, the wild turkey is a worthy adversary to any hunter, and prepared properly, some mighty fine eating.

My friend came home empty handed that day, the Tom already on the run when he got the shot off, but I knew a better spot for day two. We'd got in very late the night before, neither of us were at the top of our game that day. But though I'd missed the dawn reveille, I decided to go and scout.

And I found him. I almost missed him, sensing rather than seeing, something that appeared to be just a stump, surrounded by small pieces of brush, until he moved.

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 walked back out, encountering R. and told him it was a prize turkey but there no way to get to him (this bird was MUCH to wily to be called out of his prime spot with a call) R. said. . "I can do this' and crept up to the tree line. Before I could say a word, he dropped to the ground without a sound and slithered into the tall grass.

I tried to say something that he would hear without spooking the birds, waving my arms around from inside the tree line like I was doing the dance of the seven veils, but he was gone. At least the birds didn't see me.

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.

I could only sit and watch, waiting too long to help but willing to share in the defeat. He was out in the field half an hour. He must have crept, then waited, crept and waited. I saw nothing and heard nothing. No sign of life at all, just a gathering of turkeys and the old tree that I slumped against like bored lovers, as the burnished morning died in afternoons arms

I didn't want to think about what we'd have for supper if he missed.

I had no watch, but he'd been in there a long while. I figured if he needed help he'd have called out, but I was starting to get worried. Suddenly he popped up like whack a mole, only yards from the birds, bringing up the shotgun cleanly, silently and smoothly and got off a perfect shot. Down went the monster turkey while the hens scattered into the oblivion of grass.

He came out of the field with his 29 pound prize shaking his head

"B, why didn't YOU try that".

"Simple", I said and laughed. "Copperheads".

"WHAT ! ??"

"There's copperheads up here, I don't mind stepping over one with tall boots on but I don't care to French kiss one."

I wish I could have had a camera for the look on his face, but we had a good laugh and went back to camp. We didn't see any copperheads, but I did get a nice Jake the next day and as we cleaned up the camp, doing a few small repairs by way of thanks for the use of the place, we were already talking about coming back.

For I did want to come back.

We were tired, we were bug bitten, but when I looked into the window of the cabin as I came back in, my own 20 pound turkey flung across my back, face covered with camouflage colors and blood, red hair down my back, I looked, for just a moment like some Celtic princess of the succinct and deliberate violence that is the hunt. This was as far removed from picking your turkey out of a grocer's freezer case as it gets.

And boy, was it grand.

Once you go, Spring hunt or the more challenging Fall, you'll wish to go again. When you think turkey you won't think of a frozen carcass in the freezer case, you'll think of those mornings sitting at the base of a tree in the dark, thinking of the glory call of the wild turkey, as you take in the sound with your own breathing. The woods move to the dawn wind, and the turkey is somewhere above, all nerve and wing just waiting to challenge you. A whoosh and a gobble, his rallying cry, dawn songs, the precision of a worthy adversary.

The sound of a wild turkey gobble is something you will never forget, a throated cry unwinding from above, you calling back with your own call, answering that cry that rises from a place deeper than dreams. Even the first time hunter understands this. As you hear the sound you wait. Wait as if it was your very first time, each hunt a day wherein remembering excludes experience, each experience predates recalling, the skill and the fear, the taut secret muscles that guide and control your firearm, as within you, other muscles poise, slumbering yet ready to run if you have to, or simply walk up and claim what is yours.

You don't shoot as they come down from the roost, that's like shooting a bedded deer, so you wait. You tighten up, afraid to move, wound up like a clock, every muscle and nerve and tendon ready, dry trees talking, the wind urging you on, the earth telling you to wait. He's coming for you, and you are ready.

It's Turkey Season.

Be on the Lookout

click to enlarge if you dare

Armed with a simulated weapon and wearing what appears to be a possum on his head. . . .

Carnival Ninjas.

Keeping the small town carnival safe from an overabundance of metal waterfowl and paper targets since the days of our grandparents.*

*Not to be confused with the more overtly dressed "mall ninja". According to legend, the Mall Ninja was introduced to society with the introduction of the first picatinny rail.