Roads Traveled

At the start of my trip West, I had a bit of a drive. The truck was running smoothly, I had water and supplies on board, one travel mug with coffee, one with Scooby Snacks. No GPS. I drive the truck with simply pilotage and signs, finding the GPS voice a nagging I didn't want and the directions sometimes less then accurate (recalculate this!)  Certainly, I get off course once in a great while, but sometimes those are the adventures we remember.

I was in South Florida on a layover with a copilot years back. We'd heard there was a boat show, so with an old, borrowed airport car, we headed out to find it. What we found were miles and miles of small neighborhoods in which NO ONE spoke English and boats were somewhat scarce. My Spanish is limited, just enough to get myself more thoroughly lost. I finally told my partner that the next business I see, I AM stopping for directions, no matter what.

There, on the next corner was a small used car lot. But not just any used cars, they had all, for lack of a more politically correct term, been "pimped out".  Low riders, enough pink and glitter and chrome to take out an eye quicker than a laser. I couldn't imagine anyone driving one of these in daylight with a straight face.  The name of the place? "Get Down Motors".

I said I was stopping, and I did, garnering a little attention as I did so, there not being a plethora of natural redheads around. The sales manager couldn't have been nicer, drawing me a map as to where I was going, chatting for a bit about a couple classic cars, that in their prior life might have inhabited the garage of our parents (minus the fur covered dashboard).

Roads traveled.

I thought of this on the long drive to start vacation and smiled, one that did not last long as up ahead,  in the opposite direction, a sudden flash of emergency vehicles.  Fire trucks. All lanes Southbound were stopped and as I slowed and got over to the right lane, I could see the burned out shell of an SUV. There was nothing left but a charred husk, the fire so intense it started a grass fire on the side of the road 30 feet away.

There was no other vehicle, it had not been hit, and it was in the right lane, not pulled off to the side.  Something happened fast and the vehicle was abandoned where it could be stopped. There was no ambulance or wrecker, I'd have seen it continuing South as I headed North.  I could only imagine - engine fire? Fuel leak? Spare can of gas in the back, (why people do that is beyond comprehension), windows up tight against the heat, fumes building and then poof? Spontaneous human combustion after a life of pork rinds and Big Macs? Many scenarios, none ending as planned.

After Mom died, I spent time at Dad's going through drawers and cupboards.  In part it was to help my Dad give to charity those things he did not need, but also to gather photos and mementos in one place, for such a time where he could look at them with joy, not anguish.

As any child does, we always picture our parents as being "old", as a picture of staid authority and wisdom. Looking at the photos of my parents, growing up together, falling in love, I remember that, although they invested an incredible energy in raising a family, they also invested an incredible energy in the things that made the two of them happy, outside of that which was expected of them. What were they like, those two, before we came along? What dreams did they have that were denied, what dreams did they have that were unspoken?

Their lives certainly didn't travel as planned, a war interrupting their wedding plans for 5 years, the loss of a child followed by 11 childless years, then adoption. Then those children all traveling the world, family gatherings at best 2 or 3 times a year, Mom's health failing and Dad losing her so young.  It was likely not the life he planned on. Yet he kept on going, believing what he needed to believe, or rather, what was intolerable for him not to believe. He believed he would be happy again, and he was.

The traffic was moving along again but at a pace of three toed sloth, not a sprint car. Up ahead, another slow up, it looked like someone rear ended someone, a minor accident, given the speeds, but worth getting off the freeway to get around on side roads.

I known people through the years that have had every aspect of their lives planned out, mapped out. The journey from birth to death laid out like perfect roadway. Life, being something that refuses to cooperate with plans and possessing no map, usually throws them off on a different road, often without warning. It's how they respond to such detours that make the difference between someone who simply survives, and someone who sheds tears for the change but embraces the journey, finding happiness along the way.

I think back to more than one hunting trip, laying there on the cold ground, aching and sleepless under goose down as heavy as a lead apron as my companions slept around me.  I think back to those dreams that didn't go as planned. There, in the wilderness, where such senses are heightened, I pictured life, fate or whatever you call it, looming above like the dark canvas of tent,  musing downward on this small cluster of fragile human dreams.  I laid there thinking of all the times I hunted and came home empty handed, nothing to show for my exertions but unmarked solitude. Then I would think about all the times fate smiled on me, all the days the deer had fallen beneath my guns and how the fierce sunlight of Fall renewed me, even if I came home with nothing to show for my weariness but  blisters and virgin ammo.

I'd then sleep and wake up renewed, walking out into the fields, the land flattened and calm, dissolving away under a cold rain like the rivers themselves dissolve away, and though I knew that however the day ended, I was here, alive. Over the years, the ground may get harder and the blankets a little rougher and thinner, but I was free to carry my shotgun, on land I could own; I was loved without expectation and I was loved deeply. Those are gifts for which I am quite grateful.

As the wheels of my truck hummed along with the music and the traffic thinned out, I took the time to really look around me, here on this side road I never expected to take. The landscape was warped and wrung in the heat into geometrical squares of wilted hope. The grass was dead, the trees bent down, limbs pulled against trunks, as if hoping the sun would not notice them, the skeleton stalks of corn seeming to serve as warning to next years plantings.  The creeks were dry, the rivers thick and slow, almost without current. Yet, in only months, they would run wild again, spreading out over this land, drowning the fertile soil and subsiding again, leaving it richer, even if it does not remain.

The trips to see my Dad are good ones.  The airfare back and forth eats a chunk out of my wallet, and almost all of my vacation, but it's money and time spent gladly. Each time I go though, I'm more and more aware that this could be the last visit, and I know Dad is as well. Yet it doesn't change how he looks at it. There are outings planned and board games dusted off, beer chilled and windows opened to the wind as if these summer days will go on forever.

He is just happy to have me home. He doesn't bemoan the fact I'm not showing up with husband and kids in tow, that I carry a bag with a "bodily fluid clean up kit" instead of diapers.  He doesn't judge that I often sit up late in the night, alone, reflecting back on roads taken, and how living this life, as opposed to one with someone for whom there was no affinity for me as an individual, only as a possession, is so much less lonely.

On such nights, he  doesn't expect conversation or explanations, he simply brings me a mug of tea, kisses me on the forehead and heads off to bed to dream those dreams that still are so alive to him.  I will sit up until I know he's resting comfortably, happy to hear the sound of his gentle snores, as he strides, as if young, through the fields of his youth, chasing immortal game that bounds ahead of soundless guns.

Before sleep, I make the rounds of the house, inside and out.  Out in the drive I place my hand on the hood of the truck, feeling the residual warmth there under the rain's whisper, happy for the journey, however it took me to get here.

Have Dog Bed Will Travel

Barkley, the one on the floor is for you.  The futon is for guests there isn't a bedroom for.

I know not of this "dog bed" of which you speak.

Lions and Tigers and Bears - The Care and Cleaning of your Firearm

Knowing your firearm is clean and in good working order is something most of us think about.  I think about it even more hiking around in bear country.

The edge of the wilderness is not a fixed line of boundary, but a waving flag, of welcome or challenge. The sound you hear is not just the wind but the breathing in and out of the land itself and all it contains. It's the breath of the rivers and the ghosts of those that walked these lands, those that named the hallowed places before the white man ever saw them. It's the sound of life and death, playing to an orchestrated cycle that is as old as time, all sung to the tune of the skies unceasing and manipulative caress.

And in its breathy voice, I hear my name.

Just as there are those that have never left home, there are those who have never slept in the wild. They may find it fascinating, from their armchair wildlife shows, looking out onto pristine snow for the chipmunk or listening carefully for the hoot owl in the night. But then they shut the window tightly, draw the shades, and turn back to a room that has all the coziness of a dental lab, stark, pristine and safe. Their view of the wild is that benign cloak of nature that hides the terrible evidence of the realities of life, for both human and animal, as they begin and end. I see people like that every day. They don't look afraid, they don't look tired or old. They just look like they sleep in silent rooms with dust covered dreams.

I don't wish to live like that. Life outdoors is neither safe or neat. Neither is my kitchen. But I can't imagine denying myself the obscure and difficult trail, the deep peace of a stand of ancient pine trees, for the discontent bred by living in a habitrail of cement and noise. You can spend your whole life safely indoors only to tumble down the stairs as you go to get the last can of spaghettio's out of the cellar.

But it's easy to get complacent in certain parts of the country.  Here in Indiana, cougars are easier to spot now thanks to yoga pants and Cosmopolitans, bears are non existent, and killer bees don't much like our winters (though I have come up against a pretty pissed off squirrel when hunting with Og). 

But out in the mountains of the West, there are all manner of critters that see man as simply lunch.  One has to be on guard, mountain lines are stealth predators, sneaking up on you from behind while you are taking photos and taking you down with one bite to the back of the neck before you get can say cheese.   Bears may ignore you, but if you get on their turf or near their young they'll knock even a full grown man around like they were flipping burgers. 

So I carry when I'm in the high country, in case I come up against a critter, meaner and faster than me. (And not something in .22 or  or .380 but something in a  21.5 grs H-110/325 gr Keith or LBT bullet recipe.)

But even if you only carry going to Kroger, you still need to make sure your weapon is in working order and clean. How clean your firearm is does affect its accuracy, and it's reliability.  I know several brand new shooters that were hesitate to properly clean their weapon after their lessons, believing they have to disassemble them to the last screw every single time or that it would take all sort of expensive supplies.  Neither is true.

There are a number of sites and publications with detailed directions on selecting and caring for a firearm. Cornered Cat - The Book  has some excellent information, as do several manufactuer sites.  For today, I'm just going to pass on some general tips that are useful for any firearm, for you never know when you might need it to defend and protect.

UNLOAD the weapon and remove all ammo from the cleaning area. Remove clips or magazines and  open the action and take a good look to make sure it's unloaded. If you have an owners manual for it, read it.  Even if you think you know everything there is to know about it, you just might pick up a helpful hint or two which could spare you some headaches down the road.  Rules and Tips exist because someone once did it the wrong way.  Which is why we have tags on our hairdryers that say do not use in the shower and have learned such things as  "Do Not Hug the Grizzly Bears" as well as ANYTHING involving a live Peregrine Falcon and a Nudist gathering is probably bad news

Safety Tips are there for a reason.  So for today, a few HOTR tips for cleaning your firearm.

NO FOOD OR DRINK.  You are going to be working around chemicals you can't pronounce and substances not designed for human consumption (the firearm equivalent of a Little Caesars Pizza). Don't be snacking on chips, jerky or candy or sipping on a soda while you work. Save the beer for when you are done, you want to be as clear headed handling an unloaded weapon as you do a loaded one.

MAKE SURE YOU HAVE NO DISTRACTIONS.  Do not clean your guns while watching TV, minding the kids or talking on the phone about the great little Kimber you saw at the gun show.  If you can't give handling your firearm, loaded or unloaded, your complete and undivided attention, don't pick it up.  Do whatever it takes to do this.  Put a do not disturb sign on the back of your T-shirt. Give the sixteen year old the keys to the car (you won't see them until their first year of college). Tell your spouse you will be working in the garage for a while to get rid of that big nest of jumping spiders (you won't be bothered for hours).

HANDLE YOUR FIREARM as if you were going to shoot it.  I don't care if you're "just cleaning it", the rules of gun safety apply.  All of them.  Don't point the gun at anything you don't want to see  a big hole in, at any time during the cleaning process and keep your finger away from the trigger.

In 1995 a fellow by the name of Robert Overacker rode a jet ski purposely over the Canadian Horseshoe Falls to promote the plight of the homeless.  His not so cunning plan was to deploy a rocket propelled parachute strapped to his back, let the jet ski drop and float gently into a pool at the base of the falls.  The parachute did not open which ended up promoting not the homeless, but better parachutes.

Dont' end up promoting gun safety by accidentally shooting yourself while you clean your "unloaded" gun.

HAVE YOUR SUPPLIES HANDY ahead of time.You may use a brush and swabs or you may prefer a boresnake. Whatever you prefer have everything within reach before you start  You will need a pack of disposable gun swabs, little rectangular swatches you will use to scrub down your firearm with the aid of some solvent.  There are many solvents on the market.  None of them smell good to the non shooter, so if you have a partner that does not like firearms and you want to get kicked out of the house while she's watching "Toddlers and Tiaras" or some other crap on TV, simply get out the Hoppes and start cleaning away and she'll happily shoo you out to the shop and tell you to enjoy yourself.  Myself, I love the smell of it.  It's like the smell of machinery in the garage, humming away; there's just something soothing about it.

CLEAN IN THE NATURAL DIRECTION OF THE BULLET. When you fire your weapon, the powder resident and gunk are in the barrel, the chamber and receiver are still clean.  So what do you think happens if you run your patch or brush fro the muzzle end first?  Yes, you push all this gunk, dirt and moisture into the chamber and receiver and as you push or pull the brush back towards the chamber, the brush is going to cast off debris from the back back into the chamber and locking lugs.   In level actions and auto loading rifles and shotguns especially, this can cause problems. 

Take your time in CENTERING THE TIP AND THE ROD.  An experienced wood cutter can see, from a cross section of a tree, its health and its history, where there was damage or fire.  An experienced gunsmith or gun buyer can also see from a look down the barrel just  how much use the firearm had and how well it was maintained and cleaned. Many unnecessary marks inside a barrel are caused by folks who, in hurrying, let the tip or rod rub the inside of the barrel. A muzzle guard can be used to keep brushes and rods centered within the firearm bore.

DON'T GO BACK AND FORTH REVERSING YOUR BRUSH.  This bends the bristles, and like a wire you've bent back and forth, it will eventually break and probably not at a good moment. 

USE A CLEAN PATCH SURFACE each time you go down the barrel.  If you reuse a patch surface again, dirt can be deposited in the chamber and neck and the next bullet down your barrel can then pick up this dirt and erode the throat.  This can cause the same problems as cleaning in the wrong direction.

LESS IS MORE. You don't need gobs of solvent and lubricant. More solvent is NOT better and may cause more harm then good. Use only the amount the patch can absorb.  Don't dip the brush in the solvent. The solvent at the brush core will collect dirt and drop it into the receiver and chamber  (likewise, you don't want to run a bare brush in the barrel first ).  Too much solvent or oil can drip down into the trigger mechanism  (gummy bears are good, gummy triggers are not).

When REASSEMBLING YOUR FIREARM  make sure you wipe down any metal surfaces that you have come in contact with,.  Perspiration has a high acid content which isn't good for the surface. The finished firearm should be clean, oiled and free from sweat and fingerprints. Make sure the barrel is clear of any obstructions before storing your firearm for future use.

PROPERLY STORE YOUR SUPPLIES. When everything is done, put everything away - away from the kids, dogs, heat, hippies and moisture. Properly dispose of non reusable wipes and patches that are soiled. You may be fast, but you can't outrun even a small explosion.

A clean, cared for firearm offers the comfort of protection, wherever you are at.

Be safe out there -
Brigid

Going Home Again

They say you can't go home again, but we all do.

You walk in, and in that utter quiet that is the house, you sense those that are absent, who inhabited this place but exist now as only ghosts of your past, living on the breath of memory.

The furniture has changed, the multi colored shag of the 70's replaced by soft, neutral carpet that covers hardwood floors that would show the scuffs and tracks and roadways of countless Matchbox and Hot Wheel cars that careened across the floor with no quarter and no cautions. The couch you spent countless hours on, curled up with legs underneath you as you read hundreds of books, is long gone.

Behind the house, where deer once wandered down from the mountains, delicate and touchable as smoke, leaving only tender footprints in the flower beds to mark their passing, stands a Big Box Mart or two, that blot out what is left of the timber. I remember my Dad watching them cut down the trees, with eyes like pieces of a broken plate, steadfast in his refusal to sell, as most of the neighbors did.  This house is his home, a dwelling where he raised his kids and outlived two beloved wives;  a place he will only leave when he ceases to breathe, the fight in him, only then, having flown away.

A refrigerator covered with childlike artwork and ribbons is now bare, the wall behind it in the family room  now covered with commendations and more complex ribbons, pictures of airplanes and submarines and the children of the family, proudly swearing an oath to their country in a solemn moment of choice and service, each and every one of us.

My room will not have changed much, the yellow walls, my favorite color, remaining, a few stuffed animals in the corner, a poster on the closet door,  a music stand.

Many of the memories there  are happy ones, some are bittersweet.  There are the small ceramic things my Mom made, still carefully dusted years after she was gone. There is the little bear by my bed, showing the signs of wear from when I came home  from the hospital without my daughter and cried myself to sleep  in his fur night after night, while my Dad listened, helpless in the next room, wanting only for me to be happy again.

We can't go home again, but we do.  It's changed, but it's not.  It is still the warmth and fragrance of a Mother's kitchen, a flag flying our front, old tools in the garage and the skills your Dad passed on.  It's a big brick chimney,  four walls and a few family members that gather and remember those that are gone.

I stand outside the front door, hearing hushed voices, hand on the doorknob, hesitant to open the door to every memory, hesistant more, to leave it behind. I stand there silently, my presence not detected by dogs forever silent, motionless, trying to blend in with the house, the dark wood and trees, listening to the living presence of a home, all the lives and love and heartache that went into it, that formed these four walls, that formed me.

I open up the door and go on in

Dust and Mud - A Trip out West

I'm headed West before Fall. I have posts written to come up most every day and hopefully I can get to a coffee shop with wi fi to say hello to you all, for the original Home on the Range has no Internet.  I hope though, to bring back some stories  for those long Fall nights, to share with those who remember such days.

There will be chores to be done for Dad, probably quite a few days of hard work, food to be prepped and canned for his winter larder, soups and stews to be made and frozen for him.  Then, time with the big brothers, as we sit at the edge of a body of water as it gathers of the remainder of the light, and then returns it to us. There we will simply sit, the only sound the small clink of ice in a  glass, the occassional rumble of laughter and the gentle whine of mosquitoes.

I have no desire to move back there, as much as I love them.  My life is in the Midwest, my heart is here, but still, it doesn't take but a sound, a smell, a sight from those places to take me back to my childhood. . . .

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. I can't see what's going on ahead with all the people perched upon the rails, the sweated hats, the boots, bodies dense around the arena,  no one talking very much, just looking inscrutably ahead at wonders I couldn't see because frankly, I'm too short!

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 the foothills of California and trips to the coast where we'd rent a little cottage. 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 racing down the side of a hill in a formation of bikes with a war cry, one hand on the bars, the other pumping the air faster than a pulse, as we conquered yet another bit of land unclaimed by summer. I remember rushing out of the house after dinner into a vacuum of crickets, to see if it was true you could catch a bat with a sock and a small stone.   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 on a wild eyed horse that looked like it wished to render both fence posts and rider into kindling. 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 nations, 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 would be,  wild horses. They simply shifted in and out of sight, there in the fog of the high desert, moving silently like breath traveling across a mirror, then disappearing before I was awake enough to know if I had truly seen them or not.

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 under appreciated 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. It's a combination of the best of road trip food, fair food, and farmhouse table cuisine. 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. But first I bowed my head as my parents taught, without embarrassment or hesitation, to notify God that I was about to eat and thank Him for the privilege.

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 disappointed. 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.

I'd remember that as I took a deep spill on my bike, coming off yet another hill,  and again, years later in life, when hurt and loss tapped me way too early in life, as it is prone to do.  And I'd dust myself off with a laugh, the sound tickling my throat and I'd look off into the trees, the light slanting through the them like slats in a fence, knowing others were watching, perched there in the shadows, murmuring voices of encouragement and hope, counting on me to get up off the ground.  I'd think of bulls and blood and dust and mud and I knew I needed to laugh, or I'd be crying. And I'd get back on the damn horse, for that is what anyone of them would do.

The cowboy and cowgirl know not of quitting. They know of smooth muscled flanks and leather. Something you could see, touch and conquer.  It's a small moment in time, a small space, a traveling island of determination,  a symphony of testosterone, adrenalin and nerves. It's 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
.

If I get a chance when I'm out West to go to one, I will. It's like the tractor shows and steam fests I love,  something about such pieces of history that no words can describe, whether you are young or old. The rodeo will always be something something of my 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.

Kitchen MacGyver

Egg whites are good for a lot of things -

lemon meringue pie, angel food cake, and clogging up radiators.

- MacGyver

I will only concur on the pie and Angel Food Cake.   I'm sure you've all had angel food cake from the grocery.  Most of it tastes like Styrofoam.  Making one from scratch isn't the easiest thing to make, but  if you wear your special MacGyver pants for cooking,  it helps, as do detailed instructions. 

That being said, some baked items can take a little practice.  Should your spouse or friend be kind enough to attempt this recipe, remember, like with handymen, there are certain things one should NOT say while your loved ones attempts such things. 

Phrases to avoid saying to either a handyman OR chef.

Is this all you've done all day?
What exactly IS that?
Isn't the top supposed to be level?
How much did you spend on THIS?
I'll get the broom and the dustbin.
Am I holding it the right way?
What's that little thing sticking out of the top.
Maybe we should check our homeowners policy before we try it

And the worst?

Insert an ex's name here 's never looked like that!

Even a lopsided angel food cake is good (but remember the part about not greasing the pan so the batter can climb up the sides and cook evenly).  If it's not perfect (or even if it is) it makes a dandy dessert for special guests.

Top some cubes of this cake fresh from the oven with ripe strawberries, a little vanilla bean ice cream and a drizzle of honey and serve in a Champagne glasses.  Your guests won't care about how long it took, the mess you made of the counter or whether there is flour all over the seat of your MacGyver britches.

Captain's Log

A friend of the family asked me about starting a blog.  What advice I could give her? She said "you get 20 or 30,000 readers a week!"  I said.  " That's as surprising to me as anyone, but it takes time."   I could offer her this advice, though.

Do it for you.  Not for your 15 minutes of fame, not for publicity, not for making money off internet ads.  Do it because you like to write or create or if putting the details of your day down, somehow helps you sort through it all and make sense of things.

Create something that is uniquely yours.  Don't find a  popular blog and copy it.  That's unimaginative (and some would say creepy).  Perhaps pick a style of someone you admire, but showcase your skills, be it photography, or wordsmithing, or hobbies. 

You will get trolls.  I've been lucky in that I've only had about three in four years time.  All, surprisingly, didn't live in the U.S.  Thanks to moderation, once they've made a nasty comment or two, their name and/or IP address is flagged and I never ever read another word they write here.  Poof, it just disappears before I see it. Feel sorry for them, don't argue with them.  It's likely that  they're highly intelligent people who just never learned how to work and play with other people and play out their life with taunts and jabs to the people that otherwise, would not tip their hat to them.

My recipes go back a couple of years but the first public post was in the Spring of 08. In these years since , a lot has changed, and yet it has not. Another evening in a quiet house, with a cup of coffee and the computer, and the need to simply write about my day, my thoughts, sharing with those who have become part of my daily life. Reaching out to like spirits, those of us that love the shooting sports and the outdoors, our indomitable desire and will to pursue and grasp beyond all limits of flesh, the great outdoors, teeming with life. To defend and protect and teach. To share a simple meal, the renewing power of family and a belief in a way of life that goes back to our forefathers.
Though many people have come and gone through this small space, the quiet has not changed. I'm often amazed how very quiet it is around my place here as I sit at the computer. Here I am, all said and done, after 50 years of roaming this planet, a wanderer, an adventurer, on this small piece of land , in a small state, finally stationary, easing into quiet.

The years have been one of change, of hard decisions, then happiness, seasons of astonishing rain, falling like coins onto parched earth. But even the rain grows quiet now, the earth soaking up only sun, the corn turning, dying slowly, the cool, solacing stalks spinning the last of golden radiance from a white hot sun. I  will arise early, the smell of biscuits baking, the land beginning to stir.
I wish I could sleep in, but too many years of living on a small cattle ranch broke me of that. A reader commented a while back that farmers are all basically on government welfare, the small family farm dead, and I looked down on calluses that remained after the work on that farm ceased, and didn't know whether to laugh at that or cry. Tears won out, splashing on hands whose last grasp of that family farm were as they lay on top of a coffin, a touch goodbye to one who in defending that way of life lost his very breath.Still, years later, on a much smaller piece of property, the sun draws me up, Barkley snoozing on the little futon in the office, after one soft bark at ducks still floating on dreams. The coffee has perked, and the world falls into still again as memories of youth come unbidden, stories I do not write about, but that stay with me.

The sounds of a flight to Ireland, a small fuel stop on the way further on. A cockpit is rarely quiet, but it's a symphony of familiar sounds. The voice of the air traffic controller, a reassuring sotto voice confirmation that two minds are in agreement, and all is well with the world. The clatter of a trim switch and the beep of an altitude alerter, sounds of warning that the earth is approaching. The ground. It's solid underneath you, and hard, and if you flared too high you'll break your aircraft against its incontrovertible passivity.
   

Aloft and level though, airplane sounds stabilize into a gentle song with just the occasional background chorus of the controllers, and you would have time to think and perhaps chat a little. We rarely talked about the mission, but like pilots everywhere we talked of everything else. We talk of the spiritual and we talk of the mundane. We talk about families and jobs, spouses, children, food, politics, food again and surprise, we talk about airplanes.

Then, with the remark about someone we knew, lost in combat, flying more dangerous work than we'd ever know, that familiar awe-filled sadness enveloped our little space and we grew silent, remembering him, sounds of mourning and respect. Airmen, like Patriots, are a small community of thousands, and we never forget our fallen.

The descent and the landing were at hand and the day was drawing towards sunset, or would if we could see it through the prevailing overcast of our world, so we paused. The sound of conversation ended there. We simply basked in the hum of the engines and the view out the window to our world, clouds disbanding with the disinterest of late day, and the contrail of another aircraft 1000 feet above, vanishing upward like smoke as we descend for landing.

For just a moment, I leaned my head against the side wall of the cockpit and felt the vibration rattle through my bones, breathing in and letting the surge of the engines push my thoughts inward and breathing out in unison with the straining metal of the airplane. The sounds of our craft and the exhale of our breath mingled with the voices of those guiding us. Talk of things past fell away, for we knew that for now, we all had a task to do. We were so alive in that moment, and thoughts of our own mortality disappeared behind us like vapor trail as the sounds of our aircraft drove us towards duty and home.

Home, now, 15 years later, where the world is simpler, quiet, the only motored hum I hear that of a tractor or a small little Bellanca tailwheel plane. I still travel, my work takes me around the world, but it's done from business class, not the cockpit. But there are many more mornings tending the earth, afternoons tending to myself. Quiet gatherings of people I trust over for food, wine, stories and laughter.

Only one of them is a pilot, yet all are of the same cloth. Determined, strong, traveling great distances within themselves to find the life they wanted. Things are never the same, yet they are.

Home on the Range. Days of work and weekends of sharing bullets and beer with those who believe as I do. Late evenings spent in front of the computer, writing, a post, internet letters to my daughter, writing to you, as you chat back with me like the air traffic controllers of years ago, giving me guidance and encouragement, propelling me onward into this life that I lead.

I'll get out this Sunday morning, like most, and head out walking, passing gardens past their prime, and flowers still unfolding in lush morning dew in defiance of their season. I move quickly forward, gun on my hip, black lab by my side, watching life scuttle out of my path. Walking onward, out through a thick yellow lake of placid corn, unmoving and shallow in the great streaming light, out towards the trees. In those small woods a mile or so back from where I live, I look around my world, changed, yet unchanged, a scattered mosaic of leaves and cornstalk, the small bones of a broken bird laying among dried needles of pine, footprints of invisible deer. The hushed sound of my breathing, thoughts of a hand on a pine box, thoughts of another hand on my skin, tracing a scar that stands in stark relief to white skin, fingers kind, strong and forgiving.
Too soon it's time to get back in and start my day, the sound of the train forlorn in my ears, breath quickened but quiet after my morning absolution. I need these Sunday walks out in my surroundings, a place more quiet than church, in a place where my God lays his hand on me, a hand also kind and forgiving, giving me strength to go on. It's a different life, yet the same. Days of hard work, countless days marked with bitter cold and radiating warmth, monotonous wonderful days of work and friends that I love, of water, woods and sky. Countless days here retreating like fields of corn, leaving their mark on the landscape even when they are nothing more than dust.

On the porch,  used as vases for some fresh flowers, are old-fashioned glass milk bottles, from cows that live as well out in this beautiful countryside, in my world. I look at the clean lines of the rinsed glass, carefully washed and dried, stark, clear lines against a backdrop of country life, empty now, but soon to be filled with all that is beautiful from the earth. Things that were worth waiting for.

It is not the life of spoiled subsidy, it is not the life of a adventurer that I once led. It is my life, strong, quiet, true to myself. It can't truly be judged  by strangers who have never spent time with me. It can't be totally understood just from some words on a page.  It is simply my life.

It is stalking a deer in drowsing sunlight, wrestling life from the ground in a flaying of green, sore muscles, mending heart. It is soil and sweat; it is books and reports and hours spent looking at the smallest of life's tragedies through a microscope. It is a life of putting together the pieces of shattered lives, pieces of me. But it is that life that all those contrails led me to, and I thank those of you, who have showed nothing but kindness, for sharing it with me.

DIY Dinnertime

On the basics -

"The gunsmith should, and probably will, be quite content to master the task of screwing in a brass front sight on a shotgun without having the sight look as if it had been mashed between two moving gears."
- Professional Gunsmithing by Robert J. Howe (1946)

On the Shotgun -

"During the course of a year there is probably no other type of weapon that will cross the gunsmith's counter in such quantity and variety as the shotgun - from the engraved expensive British and German double barrel custom made jobs to the single shot eight dollar price of a boy.  And like a mother chick with her brood, the gunsmith must learn to know and love them all, for woe betide the gun craftsman who publicly refers to some customers pet scatter gun as being inferior to another type."
 - Profesional Gunsmithing by Robert J. Hower (1946)

There's all sorts of ways to do things, but sometimes just the basics can be as good as all the new found gadgets.  The books these quotes are from is an excellent one for a basic understanding of Gunsmithing.  The skills are timeless, only the technology and tools have changed (if you don't have the skills all the technology in the world is useless).  It also has some info on how to use old Atlas Lathes and Mills.

You have to understanding the basics.  Such it is with gunsmithing, such it is with another craft - foodsmithing.

With a kitchen full of expensive gadgets, mixes and packaged food, most people can put dinner on the table. But truly understanding how basic foods are cooked and why flavors turn out as they do is the difference between an "OK" cook and a "why is there a line on my porch?" cook.

What do we have to work with? There's  a few hamburger buns left from the cookout, a few canned goods.  A cheap chunk of roast beast was picked up, one that will be best prepared by slow cooking as  that will soften the connective tissue without toughening the muscle.  Still, it will need something to bring out the flavor.

It's DIY dinner time.

First you need to sear the meat the get the flavors that come only from the Maillard Reaction.

 No, not Mallard! It's MAILLARD.

It's a form of nonenzymatic browning resulting from a chemical reaction between an amino acid and a reducing sugar, normally with heat (and named after a French chemist who described it, not in the context of a French Dip but in attempt to reproduce biological protein synthesis). The reactive carbonyl group of the sugar reacts with the nucleophilic amino group of the amino acid, and forms a complex mixture of poorly characterized molecules responsible for a range of odors and flavors.
  

In the reaction, hundreds of different flavor compounds are created, that in turn break down, forming yet more new flavor compounds. The browning reactions that occur when meat is roasted or seared are complicated, but most  occur by Maillard browning with contributions from other chemical reactions, including the breakdown of the tetrapyrrole rings of the muscle protein myoblogin (you've all just been waiting for this, haven't you?)

 
This enhances the flavor of any food that contains proteins and sugars and there are some food whose flavor profiles owe a LOT to Dr. Maillard.  Grilled roasted meats, crusty bread, dark beer, roasted coffee, chocolate, toast, cookies. Any food that you are cooking at temps above 250 F are going to have some Maillard components giving it color/texture/aroma.  If you know that, and can take full advantage of it, your dinner guests will thank you, even if you experiment on them, like I do. 

So don't forget to sear.  It's a scientific chain reaction of "MMMMMM". 

Range Beef Dip

Into a crockpot went:

2 1/4 cups beef broth (with added water to bring total liquid up to 2 and 1/3 cups
1 cup Merlot
1 can cranberry sauce
1 package Knorr French Onion Soup Mix *
1 heaping teaspoon crushed garlic
a couple of grinds of fresh  tellecherry black pepper
3 1/2 to 4 pound rump roast

*homemade soup mix  (no MSG)=  3/4 cup dried onion, 1/3 cup Penzey's beef soup base or bouillon powder, 1/4 tsp celery seed, 1 tsp parsley flakes, 1 tsp turmeric, 1/4  tsp pepper.  Store in air tight container and use 4 Tablespoons for most recipes that call for a package of soup mix. 

First, lightly and quickly sear roast in a smoking hot pan covered with a thick sheen of oil.  It's done properly when there is a light brown crust on each side and the smell is pleasant, not acrid.  Don't overdo!

Place roast fat side up in crock pot and cover with the remaining, ingredients which you  have blended in a bowl. Cover and set to lowest setting. Seven to eight  hours later, the meat will be falling apart tender and the au jus will be  fragrant and  incredibly good,.  The cranberry adds a delicious undertone, not a fruity taste.  I'd have preferred some crusty Ciabatta rolls to stand up to dipping the sandwich, but messy will work with a knife and fork.

Try it.  It may not be as great as your Mom's recipe, but, like a basic shotgun, it's still pretty darn good.