Ok, now before all of my fans in Santa Cruz and Arcada get too excited, I'm talking about smoking meat on the barbecue. Ok, now get excited.
As you may or may not know, my uncle Pat brought some apple wood with him on our hunting trip, and I took one of the unused chunks home with me. I then chopped it up into small pieces and soaked those pieces in Stone Brewing Company's Sublimely Self-Righteous ale, which you should try. It's delicious. Then I went to Safeway to figure out what kind of meat I wanted to smoke with it. It was between beef and pork, and what it really came down to was which one I could buy more of for less money. Yay economy! I found a 4.5 lb pork roast for about $10, and my decision was basically made for me. What's more, it was organic pork... so that's cool too.
After getting the pork home, I marinated it in a little bit of Hornsby's apple cider for around 4 hours, and then poured the cider in with the applewood chips that were still soaking in the Self-Righteous ale. That was a little over a week ago.
During the following week, I mentioned this experiment to a few people. One such person is the man whose man-cave we've been building so that he can barbecue any day of the year, regardless of the weather... with his built in gas grill, his detached webber grill, or his big green egg-shaped smoker. This man loves meat so much that he is not willing to settle for store bought bacon. He said, on Monday, "I'm sorry, I'm having a little trouble focusing right now. My bacon is arriving on Friday." I'm sorry... did you say your bacon is... arriving? "Oh, yeah. I have my bacon flown in from Wisconsin."
When I went back on Thursday and saw him, I said, "You must be excited, what with your bacon coming in tomorrow." and his face lit up. "Actually... it got in today!" So I asked him what exactly was so special about this Wisconsin bacon. Almost instantly, he was back in the garage, opening the refrigerator door and asking "Do you like your bacon with or without pepper?" Without. I'm facing away from him, applying stain to his front gate, and he is explaining to me that this is the only bacon that Rogue Brewery uses on their bacon cheeseburgers, which I have to try. As he comes up behind me, extolling the virtues of this applewood smoked wonder, I turn to tell him that I intend to go to Rogue some day, and am greeted by a packet of bacon in my face and the instruction, "I demand a full report on this." So, Victor, here is my report:
I decided to do a side-by-side comparison with Dailey's bacon, which is what I typically get from Safeway, and have thoroughly enjoyed. I put three strips of Dailey's in one frying pan, and put three strip's of Nueske's in another, and set both on level three heat, which is just below medium, so they don't cook too quickly and crinkle up or get too crispy. Nueske's fills the kitchen with the smell of smoke as soon as I open the package. It sizzles more, and is much darker than Dailey's. Somehow, even though it was thicker than Dailey's, Nueske's even finished cooking a full five minutes sooner. I put them on separate plates. I tried Dailey's first, to remind myself what my typical bacon tastes like before moving on to the real test. To really help you understand (though maybe this will still not be speaking your language... maybe you don't love the same things I love), I'll take another short rabbit trail here. One of my favorite beers is Newcastle brown ale. It's nothing fancy. It's no craft beer. It's reliable. You don't over-think Newcastle, but it's not tinted water, like Budweiser, or Corona, or any of the other mass produced beers you can find it sitting next to in grocery stores. One day, while I was totally not sitting alone in my room drinking beer and watching Spider-man cartoons, if that's what you were thinking, I made the mistake of having Stone Brewery's Ruination (which turned out to be aptly named), and following it with a bottle of Newcastle. By the end of the bottle of Ruination, my taste-buds were accustomed to that level of flavor... and when I moved on to the the Newcastle, it tasted like someone had switched it with Corona... and mixed that Corona with more water. Essentially, this is what happened with this bacon. Dailey's bacon is still delicious. Just like Newcastle, I haven't abandoned it... but this new bacon is just so much more.... bacony. I can understand how the company can have been around since 1933 without changing its methods or recipes. It's still family owned and operated, for the fourth generation in a row. It was like, in the Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle, when the Pevensies all arrive in Aslan's country and notice that it is just like Narnia, only... like they're finally seeing the real Narnia that the one they knew was only a shadow of. This... this is real bacon, and all the bacon I've had up to this point was only a shadow.
I even had my mom try a piece of each, without telling her which was which. She voted in favor of Nueske's. Then, tonight, while I was smoking the pork roast, I put three pieces of Dailey's on the grill to see if I could smoke them and get the same result as frying. I could not. After an hour of smoking them at 200 degree's, they were as crispy as should be desired (though I know there are weirdo's out there who prefer burnt bacon), with none of the usual shrinkage you see in the frying pan, and considerably darker than usual. I blotted the grease off of them, and took a bite. After an hour of smoking, Dailey's tasted almost as good as Nueske's, but was thinner, and somehow still felt greasy. Now more than ever, I want to make my own bacon.
The pork had been smoking, at a pretty steady 175-200 degrees since 12:30, over plain applewood chunks, Sublimely Self-Righteous applewood chunks, and a small tin into which I had poured the excess Self-Righteous and Apple Cider mixture, and at almost 6 o' clock, the center temperature had finally reached 160 degrees. The Brown sugar/cinnamon rub (with a few dashes of salt) had long since crystallized on the exterior, making a sticky crunchy bark. The baked beans, scalloped potatoes, artichokes, apple sauce, salad, and sweet potatoes were just being set on the table. This mountain of meat was so beautiful I wish I had planned theme music for it to enter to. After letting it relax for a bit (just enough time to hurry through my salad and clear some room on my plate), I cut into this experiment in mixed flavors. The smoke ring was a full 1/4 inch into the meat. I gave a slice to my dad, to Jaason, to my mom and Silas, and finally one for me. I didn't even want to drink my beer (which was Sublimely Self-Righteous ale) for fear it would hide some of the flavor of the meat. I believe I best expressed how it all turned out at dinner, when I said, "Sometimes.... I'm a really big fan of myself.".
You could taste the pork, you could taste the applewood smoke, you could taste the ale, you could taste the apple cider, you could taste the brown sugar, and the cinnamon, and none of these flavors overwhelmed the others, each one working in perfect harmony with all the rest, and complimenting each other. It had everything covered. Sweetness, Saltiness, Savoriness, and Spiciness. It was flavorful in a way that you couldn't really over-look, but wasn't demanding. It made you take your time to really enjoy it, instead of just taking it at face value like can sometimes happen when things get smothered in barbecue sauce. This, without sounding too much like I'm praising my own genius (I am) was an intricate marvel of pork perfection. I might need to try more theoretical smoking. Up next, maybe cherry smoked chicken with a rosemary and balsamic vinegar rub, or pecan wood smoked lamb marinated in rosemary garlic lavender mint and lemon thyme olive oil. Thoughts?
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Spooktacular Halloween Special
Alternate title: "Without a paddle"
Day 9, Oct. 31st
Happy Halloween. When I asked what everybody else was going to dress as, they said "a hunter", so I think I'll go as a mountain man just to be different.
Today is the last day of the hunt. The plan is as follows: Mark and I will walk Hinton Creek bed with the pistol, and hope not to get eaten by a cougar. Papa and Pat will walk opposite hillsides next to the creek, and shoot any elk that we scare out of hiding. It's basically the same plan as before, only in a different location, probably with more water, more danger, and more walking for Papa and Pat. Grandpa will be posted up on a mountain top at first, and then drive down to the road where it meets the creek, and take us back up to camp one at a time. Maybe Mark will carry the cougar spear I made.
Now, down into the belly of the beast.
Down here in the thick damp creek bed, it's often difficult to gauge your progress... you feel like you're moving quickly and taking forever at the same time. We've determined that it will be best if we occasionally hit a stick against a tree to give the others some frame of reference for where we are, so nobody gets too far ahead of the others. Last night's rain has clung tenaciously to the leaves and branches of every tree and bush down here, but seems to tire of its grasp just as soon as we pass by.
Mark and I were fortunate, about ten minutes in (though, again, it's hard to tell when you can't really see the sun, don't have a clock, and have been moving quickly and going nowhere), to catch a rare glimpse of a wild Uncle Pat in its natural habitat. Judging by the size of it's mustache, it must be around 55 or 60 years old, and has most likely sired about 4 bulls by this time in it's life.
All of this tromping through thick wet brush has left our pants soaked through, which has left our long johns soaked through, which has left our socks soaked through, which has filled our waterproof boots full of water. We had been told, "there are places where you'll have to climb down waterfalls". We came to the top of one such waterfall, Mark on one side of the creek, I on the other, and I decided (wisely, I believe) that climbing down the rock face in such a wet condition would be an absolutely retarded idea. Mark, apparently, decided the same thing, and we both made for alternate routes. It was only about 20 feet high, but it was only about 20 feet that I didn't want to fall. I quickly found a sizable tree that had fallen into the ravine, which still had branches on it and wasn't too rotten. It was at just such and angle that I was able to put my feet on the remaining branches and climb down them like a ladder, while holding onto the more sturdy of the underbrush with my hand so that if the branches broke away under my feet, I would at least be holding onto something that would keep me from dying or having to go to the hospital. The farther along the creek bed we go, the more I think today would have been a good day to bring a machete.
We came to a sort of clearing and stood for a bit, expecting that we were just a little ahead of Pat and Papa so we could rest momentarily. We were flanked by wooded hillsides, and the thick dark creek bed was right behind us. We stood as the lone golden spot within sight. Above us, the clear blue cloud dappled sky. Ahead of us, a mountainous granite cliff, jutting into the sky and dominating the landscape. At the top of this monstrous cliff.... a tiny flash of blaze orange which we both knew to be Grandpa and his hat. He flashed his signal mirror at us and we decided to keep pressing on. No sign of Papa, Pat, or any animals (except one grouse).
We kept moving, switching back and forth over the creek as paths became too dense on either side. After roughly a year and a half of walking the creek bed, soaked through ten times, and assuming ourselves to be making much too fantastic of time to not be out ahead of the others by at least a mile, we climbed out of the creek, and up onto an open hillside. The funny thing about waterproof boots is that they don't let water in, and they also don't let water out. The funny thing about wearing boots that are full of water is that the water sort of stays warm until you stop and stand around for a minute or so. Then it's time to dump out your boots, wring out your socks, and pull down your pants so that the sun can dry out your long johns, whenever it's gracious enough to come out from behind the clouds.
After a while (which was not long or warm enough for anything but my beard to fully dry out), we figure we must have misjudged either our timing, or their locations, and they are likely some distance ahead of us by now. Since it was sort of a "walk this way, and we'll see you when we see you" kind of hunt, and we don't have a walky-talky, we decide the safest, smartest, and driest course of action is to head back to camp, try to find batteries for Mark's walky-talky, and try to let them know not to wait for us. Mark, being in better shape than I am, was kind enough to stop and wait for me every time he got about 1,000 feet ahead of me, until I could catch my breath. I am convinced that distance up hill is longer than distance down hill. We saw more deer on the trek back. The only difference between these deer and ones that we'd seen previously was that I wished I could shoot the deer we saw before, and these ones I merely wanted to ride back to camp.
Dead tired, still soaking wet, and wondering if we'd be able to make contact with the rest of the group and let them know not to wait for us at the bottom, we made our way back to camp to find Papa and Uncle Pat already there with a fire going. Pat, it turns out, had been in front of us, and Papa was on top of the adjacent mountain trying to swim through a bog or something. In the time we spent waiting for them and trying to dry out, they had hiked all the way down to the road, and got a ride back up to camp. Grandpa, for some reason, had given his walky-talky to Pat, who already had one, and was still sitting out in the wilderness somewhere. Don't worry, we didn't just leave him there. Mark went out to pick him up. I think he just drove up and down every road until he caught a glimpse of that bright orange hat.
We've decoded to break camp a day early (and who could blame us?), head out, and spend a night in a hotel. No elk, but all alive and in one piece. I get to call Erika tonight.
I think the French said it best when they said, in Latin, "Venari, ludere, lavari, bibere; Hoc est vivere!" - "To hunt, to play, to wash, to drink; This is to live!"
Day 9, Oct. 31st
Happy Halloween. When I asked what everybody else was going to dress as, they said "a hunter", so I think I'll go as a mountain man just to be different.
Today is the last day of the hunt. The plan is as follows: Mark and I will walk Hinton Creek bed with the pistol, and hope not to get eaten by a cougar. Papa and Pat will walk opposite hillsides next to the creek, and shoot any elk that we scare out of hiding. It's basically the same plan as before, only in a different location, probably with more water, more danger, and more walking for Papa and Pat. Grandpa will be posted up on a mountain top at first, and then drive down to the road where it meets the creek, and take us back up to camp one at a time. Maybe Mark will carry the cougar spear I made.
Now, down into the belly of the beast.
Down here in the thick damp creek bed, it's often difficult to gauge your progress... you feel like you're moving quickly and taking forever at the same time. We've determined that it will be best if we occasionally hit a stick against a tree to give the others some frame of reference for where we are, so nobody gets too far ahead of the others. Last night's rain has clung tenaciously to the leaves and branches of every tree and bush down here, but seems to tire of its grasp just as soon as we pass by.
Mark and I were fortunate, about ten minutes in (though, again, it's hard to tell when you can't really see the sun, don't have a clock, and have been moving quickly and going nowhere), to catch a rare glimpse of a wild Uncle Pat in its natural habitat. Judging by the size of it's mustache, it must be around 55 or 60 years old, and has most likely sired about 4 bulls by this time in it's life.
All of this tromping through thick wet brush has left our pants soaked through, which has left our long johns soaked through, which has left our socks soaked through, which has filled our waterproof boots full of water. We had been told, "there are places where you'll have to climb down waterfalls". We came to the top of one such waterfall, Mark on one side of the creek, I on the other, and I decided (wisely, I believe) that climbing down the rock face in such a wet condition would be an absolutely retarded idea. Mark, apparently, decided the same thing, and we both made for alternate routes. It was only about 20 feet high, but it was only about 20 feet that I didn't want to fall. I quickly found a sizable tree that had fallen into the ravine, which still had branches on it and wasn't too rotten. It was at just such and angle that I was able to put my feet on the remaining branches and climb down them like a ladder, while holding onto the more sturdy of the underbrush with my hand so that if the branches broke away under my feet, I would at least be holding onto something that would keep me from dying or having to go to the hospital. The farther along the creek bed we go, the more I think today would have been a good day to bring a machete.
We came to a sort of clearing and stood for a bit, expecting that we were just a little ahead of Pat and Papa so we could rest momentarily. We were flanked by wooded hillsides, and the thick dark creek bed was right behind us. We stood as the lone golden spot within sight. Above us, the clear blue cloud dappled sky. Ahead of us, a mountainous granite cliff, jutting into the sky and dominating the landscape. At the top of this monstrous cliff.... a tiny flash of blaze orange which we both knew to be Grandpa and his hat. He flashed his signal mirror at us and we decided to keep pressing on. No sign of Papa, Pat, or any animals (except one grouse).
We kept moving, switching back and forth over the creek as paths became too dense on either side. After roughly a year and a half of walking the creek bed, soaked through ten times, and assuming ourselves to be making much too fantastic of time to not be out ahead of the others by at least a mile, we climbed out of the creek, and up onto an open hillside. The funny thing about waterproof boots is that they don't let water in, and they also don't let water out. The funny thing about wearing boots that are full of water is that the water sort of stays warm until you stop and stand around for a minute or so. Then it's time to dump out your boots, wring out your socks, and pull down your pants so that the sun can dry out your long johns, whenever it's gracious enough to come out from behind the clouds.
After a while (which was not long or warm enough for anything but my beard to fully dry out), we figure we must have misjudged either our timing, or their locations, and they are likely some distance ahead of us by now. Since it was sort of a "walk this way, and we'll see you when we see you" kind of hunt, and we don't have a walky-talky, we decide the safest, smartest, and driest course of action is to head back to camp, try to find batteries for Mark's walky-talky, and try to let them know not to wait for us. Mark, being in better shape than I am, was kind enough to stop and wait for me every time he got about 1,000 feet ahead of me, until I could catch my breath. I am convinced that distance up hill is longer than distance down hill. We saw more deer on the trek back. The only difference between these deer and ones that we'd seen previously was that I wished I could shoot the deer we saw before, and these ones I merely wanted to ride back to camp.
Dead tired, still soaking wet, and wondering if we'd be able to make contact with the rest of the group and let them know not to wait for us at the bottom, we made our way back to camp to find Papa and Uncle Pat already there with a fire going. Pat, it turns out, had been in front of us, and Papa was on top of the adjacent mountain trying to swim through a bog or something. In the time we spent waiting for them and trying to dry out, they had hiked all the way down to the road, and got a ride back up to camp. Grandpa, for some reason, had given his walky-talky to Pat, who already had one, and was still sitting out in the wilderness somewhere. Don't worry, we didn't just leave him there. Mark went out to pick him up. I think he just drove up and down every road until he caught a glimpse of that bright orange hat.
We've decoded to break camp a day early (and who could blame us?), head out, and spend a night in a hotel. No elk, but all alive and in one piece. I get to call Erika tonight.
I think the French said it best when they said, in Latin, "Venari, ludere, lavari, bibere; Hoc est vivere!" - "To hunt, to play, to wash, to drink; This is to live!"
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Souvenir
Day 8. Saturday, Oct. 30th.
I burned my thumb on the edge of the stove this morning. Fortunately, I'm a manly man, and I didn't even wince until I was sure no one was looking.
Uncle Pat and my dad went up to the elk convention center this morning, hoping to find them all sleeping... or at least just standing around with their fingers up their noses. Grandpa took off with his gun and a chair, and will be sitting somewhere up the road. After we get more firewood cut (provided we can get Gabe's saw started) Mark and I will see if we can scare something up toward Pat and Papa. He refuses to carry the pistol, even though I'm sure he'd be a better shot if we got attacked by a cougar. Maybe, if we see one, I'll get the pistol out of the holster, and it will accidentally slip and land in his hand.
With the men-folk gone, Mark and I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood to let it dry, and kept the home fires burning. Mark did the cutting, and brought the wood to me, and I split and stacked it. The only trouble with stacking the wood around the fire is that the wood at the bottom tends to dry out fastest, and is difficult to get to when it needs to be added to the fire. Sometimes it actually catches fire before we can get to it. We got so busy with firewood that the rest of the group came back to camp before we were ready to head up and meet them.
In the afternoon, I walked up with Papa to where they'd been in the morning. We followed game trails up behind camp, and over a few hills until the wet ground flattened out and we were in what seemed like the heart of the forest. It was still somewhat cold and dark in there, but you'd catch glimpses of sunlight as it splashed on the ground, and the whole canopy seemed to be glowing green like the sludge that the Ninja Turtles rolled around in. We spread out a bit and took opposite sides of a fallen tree, and I found a small trail heading in the direction we wanted to go, so I followed it. I'm glad I did, because doing so meant I came away with a souvenir. Laying on the ground just off the side of the path, shining in a patch of sunlight as though God in Heaven was displaying it to me, signifying by divine providence that I would be King of the forest if I pulled it out of its resting place... was a mule deer antler. It wasn't quite as beautiful as I'd hoped to find. A year or two of weathering has left small cracks, and turned parts of it green... and it's nowhere near as attractive as a white-tail antler... but it's decent size, has four prongs, and hasn't been chewed to hell by wild rodents. So I'm keeping it, and happy to be doing so. Maybe I'll turn it into a hat rack that I won't be allowed to display in the house when I'm married. That's fine. It'll go better with the theme in my man cave.
After sitting at the top of a draw, looking down a drainage (these are technical terms which I have learned to use properly, I think), and across a meadow, and not seeing any elk for roughly 3/4 of eternity, we decided to head back to camp. We made another trip up to the only place where there's ever a hint of cell service, and I was fortunate enough to actually get enough service to make a call... in the rain... on speaker phone, with my phone up over my head so I could get a signal. It was good to be able to talk to Erika for a little bit, but service cut out before I was able to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Stupid rain clouds getting in the way. Oh well, I'm sure she'll be reading this.
I burned my thumb on the edge of the stove this morning. Fortunately, I'm a manly man, and I didn't even wince until I was sure no one was looking.
Uncle Pat and my dad went up to the elk convention center this morning, hoping to find them all sleeping... or at least just standing around with their fingers up their noses. Grandpa took off with his gun and a chair, and will be sitting somewhere up the road. After we get more firewood cut (provided we can get Gabe's saw started) Mark and I will see if we can scare something up toward Pat and Papa. He refuses to carry the pistol, even though I'm sure he'd be a better shot if we got attacked by a cougar. Maybe, if we see one, I'll get the pistol out of the holster, and it will accidentally slip and land in his hand.
With the men-folk gone, Mark and I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood to let it dry, and kept the home fires burning. Mark did the cutting, and brought the wood to me, and I split and stacked it. The only trouble with stacking the wood around the fire is that the wood at the bottom tends to dry out fastest, and is difficult to get to when it needs to be added to the fire. Sometimes it actually catches fire before we can get to it. We got so busy with firewood that the rest of the group came back to camp before we were ready to head up and meet them.
In the afternoon, I walked up with Papa to where they'd been in the morning. We followed game trails up behind camp, and over a few hills until the wet ground flattened out and we were in what seemed like the heart of the forest. It was still somewhat cold and dark in there, but you'd catch glimpses of sunlight as it splashed on the ground, and the whole canopy seemed to be glowing green like the sludge that the Ninja Turtles rolled around in. We spread out a bit and took opposite sides of a fallen tree, and I found a small trail heading in the direction we wanted to go, so I followed it. I'm glad I did, because doing so meant I came away with a souvenir. Laying on the ground just off the side of the path, shining in a patch of sunlight as though God in Heaven was displaying it to me, signifying by divine providence that I would be King of the forest if I pulled it out of its resting place... was a mule deer antler. It wasn't quite as beautiful as I'd hoped to find. A year or two of weathering has left small cracks, and turned parts of it green... and it's nowhere near as attractive as a white-tail antler... but it's decent size, has four prongs, and hasn't been chewed to hell by wild rodents. So I'm keeping it, and happy to be doing so. Maybe I'll turn it into a hat rack that I won't be allowed to display in the house when I'm married. That's fine. It'll go better with the theme in my man cave.
After sitting at the top of a draw, looking down a drainage (these are technical terms which I have learned to use properly, I think), and across a meadow, and not seeing any elk for roughly 3/4 of eternity, we decided to head back to camp. We made another trip up to the only place where there's ever a hint of cell service, and I was fortunate enough to actually get enough service to make a call... in the rain... on speaker phone, with my phone up over my head so I could get a signal. It was good to be able to talk to Erika for a little bit, but service cut out before I was able to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Stupid rain clouds getting in the way. Oh well, I'm sure she'll be reading this.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Into the whiled: In a Rut
Day 7. Friday, Oct.29th.
One week in and only a few days left. Greeted by another beautiful Oregon morning. 40 degrees and drizzling. The whole panorama seems to be shades of green and grey. The plastic tube on Grandpa's hearing aid has gone missing, which gives us one more thing to hunt. Maybe we'll have more luck with this than with the elk. It's not in the back of the truck where he slept, and none of us noticed him having trouble hearing us last night before he went to bed, so we figure it's got to be around here somewhere.
Grandpa assumed correctly, it was back where he'd been sitting yesterday watching for elk. At least we have one successful hunt behind us.
We decided to drive up the mountain and walk back down toward camp, Papa and me walking together, and Uncle Pat and Mark walking a little ways off. As we pull the truck up to the head of the trail, what should we see a small herd of, munching on grass up ahead of us but.... more stupid deer. We walked along quietly, stopping occasionally to look for any sort of movement in the forest. Walk. Stop. Walk. Stop. Walk. HOLY CRAP THAT GROUSE ALMOST FLEW RIGHT INTO MY HEAD. Those stupid birds sound like helicopters when they're flying.
Uncle Pat and Mark, who had been moving along on our left side, saw a buck that got spooked and darted off, so they crossed behind us and went off to the right. As we're about 50 yards away from a clearing we slow down even more, so that we can be sure not to scare anything off, if anything should happen to be out there... which, given our history, is not entirely likely to be anything but deer, squirrels, and birds. Peering beyond the trees, and across the field... it looks like giant mountains of dry grass are running up the hill. Rolling, as if the field was a blanket being shaken by one end. Finally something encouraging. It's a herd of elk, and they can't be more than 100 yards away. Damn these trees!
It's no wonder elk are so hard to find. They're like giant hairy forest ghosts. With a hide the color of dead pine needles and dry grass, legs the color of fallen trees, and antlers that look like branches, they could hide almost anywhere they wanted... and their ability to be standing right in front of you one second and completely out of sight the next kind of helps me understand how more primitive people could think that gods or spirits would sometimes show themselves as animals. We went out into the field and met up with Mark and Pat, who were looking at the ground, noticing how many beds there were, and how fresh all these tracks and droppings looked. They hadn't been fortunate enough to actually see the elk. My dad was just glad that I had seen them too, so he didn't have to question whether it was wishful thinking. It was like a herd of haystacks. Haystacks that disappeared, and could not be found.
For the second hunt of the day, Mark and I are walking up a creek bed, trying to force anything that might be down there up the hill toward where the older men are sitting. I am hoping that my 'coon skin cap doesn't look too much like elk. I have Uncle Pat's pistol, my knife, machete, and binoculars... if I happen upon anything, I think I'm prepared. I hope I at least find some antlers.
Not successful. It was a good plan though.... or at least it would have been, had there been anything in the creek bed. It was, however, kind of nice to make a trek without wearing my backpack. I'm starting to get used to my boots, still not used to the elevation. Seeing as we were trying to be loud and scare things up the hill, it was a faster and more strenuous hike than any prior. Hopefully the rest of the hikes we do will not be so bad.
After meeting up with Uncle Pat and Papa at the top of the hill, Mark and I decide to head back to camp and let them sit up there hoping to see more elk. Time to try and be useful (there's a first time for everything, right?). We drove all over the mountain looking for rocks, which we collected, and filled his truck bed with, then took back to camp to fill the ruts in the (now very muddy) road, so that trucks that are not quite as manly as Mark's truck (ahem, papa's 2 wheel drive Dakota) would have a better chance of making it out of camp. After carefully placing the rocks in the deepest, stickiest of the two ruts, in the tightest jigsaw pattern we could, we figured we could compact them into place a bit, so they wouldn't move around and pop someones tire later. Again... the best laid plans. Every single rock (even one that took two of us to roll and slide into place) simply squished out the side of the rut, along with some tree branches we had put in there earlier. Screw it, we'll just have to floor it on the way out and hope for the best.
The other guys found what they described as being something of an elk convention center, with no elk. Kind of like hunting for nerds at the San Diego convention center, the day after ComicCon. The place was absolutely trashed, signs that a ridiculous number of elk had been laying there, and using it as a bathroom, but none of these elk could be found. The plan is to start there tomorrow morning, and hope we get up before they do. After that, we'll walk Hinton creek in the afternoon. Still haven't found any antlers.
The stars are so beautiful that it almost makes me sad that I see them like this so rarely. And by "almost" I mean "really". And by "sad" I mean "angry".
One week in and only a few days left. Greeted by another beautiful Oregon morning. 40 degrees and drizzling. The whole panorama seems to be shades of green and grey. The plastic tube on Grandpa's hearing aid has gone missing, which gives us one more thing to hunt. Maybe we'll have more luck with this than with the elk. It's not in the back of the truck where he slept, and none of us noticed him having trouble hearing us last night before he went to bed, so we figure it's got to be around here somewhere.
Grandpa assumed correctly, it was back where he'd been sitting yesterday watching for elk. At least we have one successful hunt behind us.
We decided to drive up the mountain and walk back down toward camp, Papa and me walking together, and Uncle Pat and Mark walking a little ways off. As we pull the truck up to the head of the trail, what should we see a small herd of, munching on grass up ahead of us but.... more stupid deer. We walked along quietly, stopping occasionally to look for any sort of movement in the forest. Walk. Stop. Walk. Stop. Walk. HOLY CRAP THAT GROUSE ALMOST FLEW RIGHT INTO MY HEAD. Those stupid birds sound like helicopters when they're flying.
Uncle Pat and Mark, who had been moving along on our left side, saw a buck that got spooked and darted off, so they crossed behind us and went off to the right. As we're about 50 yards away from a clearing we slow down even more, so that we can be sure not to scare anything off, if anything should happen to be out there... which, given our history, is not entirely likely to be anything but deer, squirrels, and birds. Peering beyond the trees, and across the field... it looks like giant mountains of dry grass are running up the hill. Rolling, as if the field was a blanket being shaken by one end. Finally something encouraging. It's a herd of elk, and they can't be more than 100 yards away. Damn these trees!
It's no wonder elk are so hard to find. They're like giant hairy forest ghosts. With a hide the color of dead pine needles and dry grass, legs the color of fallen trees, and antlers that look like branches, they could hide almost anywhere they wanted... and their ability to be standing right in front of you one second and completely out of sight the next kind of helps me understand how more primitive people could think that gods or spirits would sometimes show themselves as animals. We went out into the field and met up with Mark and Pat, who were looking at the ground, noticing how many beds there were, and how fresh all these tracks and droppings looked. They hadn't been fortunate enough to actually see the elk. My dad was just glad that I had seen them too, so he didn't have to question whether it was wishful thinking. It was like a herd of haystacks. Haystacks that disappeared, and could not be found.
For the second hunt of the day, Mark and I are walking up a creek bed, trying to force anything that might be down there up the hill toward where the older men are sitting. I am hoping that my 'coon skin cap doesn't look too much like elk. I have Uncle Pat's pistol, my knife, machete, and binoculars... if I happen upon anything, I think I'm prepared. I hope I at least find some antlers.
Not successful. It was a good plan though.... or at least it would have been, had there been anything in the creek bed. It was, however, kind of nice to make a trek without wearing my backpack. I'm starting to get used to my boots, still not used to the elevation. Seeing as we were trying to be loud and scare things up the hill, it was a faster and more strenuous hike than any prior. Hopefully the rest of the hikes we do will not be so bad.
After meeting up with Uncle Pat and Papa at the top of the hill, Mark and I decide to head back to camp and let them sit up there hoping to see more elk. Time to try and be useful (there's a first time for everything, right?). We drove all over the mountain looking for rocks, which we collected, and filled his truck bed with, then took back to camp to fill the ruts in the (now very muddy) road, so that trucks that are not quite as manly as Mark's truck (ahem, papa's 2 wheel drive Dakota) would have a better chance of making it out of camp. After carefully placing the rocks in the deepest, stickiest of the two ruts, in the tightest jigsaw pattern we could, we figured we could compact them into place a bit, so they wouldn't move around and pop someones tire later. Again... the best laid plans. Every single rock (even one that took two of us to roll and slide into place) simply squished out the side of the rut, along with some tree branches we had put in there earlier. Screw it, we'll just have to floor it on the way out and hope for the best.
The other guys found what they described as being something of an elk convention center, with no elk. Kind of like hunting for nerds at the San Diego convention center, the day after ComicCon. The place was absolutely trashed, signs that a ridiculous number of elk had been laying there, and using it as a bathroom, but none of these elk could be found. The plan is to start there tomorrow morning, and hope we get up before they do. After that, we'll walk Hinton creek in the afternoon. Still haven't found any antlers.
The stars are so beautiful that it almost makes me sad that I see them like this so rarely. And by "almost" I mean "really". And by "sad" I mean "angry".
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Into the whiled: Mama's Birthday
Day 6, Thursday, Oct. 28th
The plan, I believe, is to take a break some time this afternoon to go up to the very top of the mountain, on the side nearest town, to try to catch a bit of a cell phone signal so that we can all call our others. I just hope the elk don't wait until then to come out of hiding. I'm looking forward to calling Erika if she's available, and if I can get a decent signal.
We're heading out early so we can try to catch the elk while they're still brushing their teeth and putting on their make-up. It's raining, and 40 degree's. Fortunately, I sprayed my jacket with water-proofing twice, so I should be well covered. My dad got this scent blocker spray called autumn forest or something... and it smells exactly like what I was talking about in my facebook status last month when I said, "Jacob Smith wants cologne that smells like the Sana Cruz mountains. Not Santa Cruz. The Santa Cruz mountains." I may just have to steal it, and wear it around town... that is, if I ever go around town.
On our way out to the stock pond, we came upon a clearing and stopped inside the tree line. Papa leaned up against a tree and looked one way, I stood between a couple of trees and looked the other direction. After about a minute of standing still and being quiet (my favorite game), I see some deer coming toward us. I say, "Deer, right behind you.". By this time, they were just a little under 30 feet away, and a few of them stopped when papa turned around... but most of them just kept on like they were going to run right through us. I hesitate for a moment, deciding whether I should reach for my knife on my right hip, or my camera in my left pocket. I decided on my camera, and when I reach for it, the rest of the deer stop and look at us like, "Holy crap! You two were trees a second ago!" The five does bolted off, and were out of sight almost instantly, but the buck stuck around and posed for a few seconds. Long enough for me to get a profile shot of him. He wasn't anything too impressive, just a forked horn, but considering he almost trampled us, I was happy to get a picture. I hope I don't have to be content with that being the only thing I get this week.
We got up to the stock pond, and it seems just a little too late. The water was cloudy, and there were no elk around. We sat out of sight for a while, with the rain dripping down, hoping the trees would do a decent job of sheltering us... but it seems they were all too eager to be rid of the water collecting on them, and all too willing to dump it right on us, so we decided to hike back to camp. Along the way, we saw the tail ends of two more white-tail deer bouncing along through the forest about 50 feet ahead of us. Too bad it's not deer season.
Mark showed up around lunch time. Papa and Grandpa went up to make calls, but there's only room for two in Grandpa's car, so I'll wait around, and hope Pat goes up to call Jeanine this evening, and I'll be able to go and call Erika. I like being out here away from everything... but the one thing I miss more than anything else... more than a soft bed, more than tv, more than all my internets, is being able to contact her whenever I want.
The good thing about rain is that it disguises some of your noise. The bad thing is that my water-proofing didn't work. Second excursion, two more white tails and no elk. Seeing all this sign, and putting forth all of this effort, but not even catching a glimpse of what we're hunting... it's a little hard not to get discouraged. There have been so many near perfect opportunities for us to shoot an elk that only lacked one very important thing.
I nearly threw my phone off of a mountain. "More bars in more places" is great, provided that all those bars don't disappear as soon as you hit send. Standing on the top of a mountain, on top of a rock, in the rain, trying to call, or text... holding the phone up above my head, looking like a crazy person. Nothing. As soon as my jacket sleeves were wet enough to wring out, I decided it was time to give up and go back to the camp fire. I'll have to try again later. As miserable as all of that sounds, I really am enjoying myself. The only thing that sucks is that the one person I would most like here with me probably wouldn't enjoy it us much as I am. Really, after a long wet day like today, I'll take a covered campfire over a heated house.
By the way, since I wasn't able to call you: Happy birthday, Mama, I hope it was a good one.
The plan, I believe, is to take a break some time this afternoon to go up to the very top of the mountain, on the side nearest town, to try to catch a bit of a cell phone signal so that we can all call our others. I just hope the elk don't wait until then to come out of hiding. I'm looking forward to calling Erika if she's available, and if I can get a decent signal.
We're heading out early so we can try to catch the elk while they're still brushing their teeth and putting on their make-up. It's raining, and 40 degree's. Fortunately, I sprayed my jacket with water-proofing twice, so I should be well covered. My dad got this scent blocker spray called autumn forest or something... and it smells exactly like what I was talking about in my facebook status last month when I said, "Jacob Smith wants cologne that smells like the Sana Cruz mountains. Not Santa Cruz. The Santa Cruz mountains." I may just have to steal it, and wear it around town... that is, if I ever go around town.
On our way out to the stock pond, we came upon a clearing and stopped inside the tree line. Papa leaned up against a tree and looked one way, I stood between a couple of trees and looked the other direction. After about a minute of standing still and being quiet (my favorite game), I see some deer coming toward us. I say, "Deer, right behind you.". By this time, they were just a little under 30 feet away, and a few of them stopped when papa turned around... but most of them just kept on like they were going to run right through us. I hesitate for a moment, deciding whether I should reach for my knife on my right hip, or my camera in my left pocket. I decided on my camera, and when I reach for it, the rest of the deer stop and look at us like, "Holy crap! You two were trees a second ago!" The five does bolted off, and were out of sight almost instantly, but the buck stuck around and posed for a few seconds. Long enough for me to get a profile shot of him. He wasn't anything too impressive, just a forked horn, but considering he almost trampled us, I was happy to get a picture. I hope I don't have to be content with that being the only thing I get this week.
We got up to the stock pond, and it seems just a little too late. The water was cloudy, and there were no elk around. We sat out of sight for a while, with the rain dripping down, hoping the trees would do a decent job of sheltering us... but it seems they were all too eager to be rid of the water collecting on them, and all too willing to dump it right on us, so we decided to hike back to camp. Along the way, we saw the tail ends of two more white-tail deer bouncing along through the forest about 50 feet ahead of us. Too bad it's not deer season.
Mark showed up around lunch time. Papa and Grandpa went up to make calls, but there's only room for two in Grandpa's car, so I'll wait around, and hope Pat goes up to call Jeanine this evening, and I'll be able to go and call Erika. I like being out here away from everything... but the one thing I miss more than anything else... more than a soft bed, more than tv, more than all my internets, is being able to contact her whenever I want.
The good thing about rain is that it disguises some of your noise. The bad thing is that my water-proofing didn't work. Second excursion, two more white tails and no elk. Seeing all this sign, and putting forth all of this effort, but not even catching a glimpse of what we're hunting... it's a little hard not to get discouraged. There have been so many near perfect opportunities for us to shoot an elk that only lacked one very important thing.
I nearly threw my phone off of a mountain. "More bars in more places" is great, provided that all those bars don't disappear as soon as you hit send. Standing on the top of a mountain, on top of a rock, in the rain, trying to call, or text... holding the phone up above my head, looking like a crazy person. Nothing. As soon as my jacket sleeves were wet enough to wring out, I decided it was time to give up and go back to the camp fire. I'll have to try again later. As miserable as all of that sounds, I really am enjoying myself. The only thing that sucks is that the one person I would most like here with me probably wouldn't enjoy it us much as I am. Really, after a long wet day like today, I'll take a covered campfire over a heated house.
By the way, since I wasn't able to call you: Happy birthday, Mama, I hope it was a good one.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Into the whiled: Hunt
Day 5: Wednesday, Oct. 27th.
The snow is still covering everything. If this keeps up, the first day of actual hunting should be pretty easy, since we'll be able to see where they've been recently, and where they were going. Also, we'll be able to see where they've peed, since it apparently looks like anti-freeze. Neon colors tend to stand out well against a solid white backdrop. It's 28 degrees, feels more like 30. The sun is shining and the air is still. Ate breakfast and heard the obligatory dad speech, "anybody have to go before we take off?". The day had already started heating up by the time we got all our snacks, emergency supplies, and weapons packed.
We came across some heavy elk tracks just up the road from camp, after crossing the drainage, but it was all muddled up and difficult to make out which way they'd gone, or how recently, so we kept going on the road, instead of following them. Through the barbed wire gate, followed the "leave it like you found it" gate policy, and made our way up to a rock outcropping at the top of a hill nestled between two, more heavily wooded, drainages that we were certain elk would be running through any minute. First wild-life sighting: two little ground squirrels... or maybe chipmunks. I don't know. They stopped their game of tag to look at us for about five minutes and then, presumably, run off and tell all the elk where we were.
Sneaking through the snowy forest like we were, my dad in front (because he had a gun, and didn't want to have to aim around me if an elk suddenly came into view) saying things like "We can stop and wait here, or keep moving. Your call.", and occasionally asking if I saw anything, kept reminding me of those levels in Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare where your character is following his C.O. through a snowy forest, trying to make their way past Russian military. Slightly different though because, in the game, both characters have guns... and they're hunting people (and dogs)... and I was wearing a big blue back-pack. So it was kind of CoD4:MW mixed with Monty Python's Holy Grail, with me playing the roll of Patsy, my dad being Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, king of the Britons... and those squirrels being the French guards. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard one of them call me a silly English Kunigit.
We followed a game trail along the creek, through a thicket (I also kept picturing scenes from Bambi all day which, unfortunately, makes me the villain in the scenario), and found more relatively fresh elk signs, but no elk. Why don't they ever just hang out where we can see them easily... and wear blindfolds... and be tied to a tree or something? That would make hunting much more convenient.
These boots were not made for walking, but that's just what they'll do. I'm in favor of any sport that includes walking through the forest, sitting for a long time, and not talking much. I should have used the bathroom before we left, like all the Dad's said. Will I never learn?
Went back to camp for lunch, and went out on a second excursion. This time we came across a lot of elk tracks and some deer tracks. The elk prints looked like a large bull and a cow. I could tell because my dad told me so. Haven't heard many shots (which is surprising, with it being the first day of the season) so maybe they're still alive and waiting for us somewhere. We followed the tracks to a stock pond that looked pretty well used. Big deep prints in the mud all along the bank, and cloudy water around them makes me think it's been visited recently. There's a good view of the field below from inside the tree line. Even without the binoculars I can see a decent number of beds out there. This will be a good place to start out in the morning. We set it as a way-point on the gps and headed back to camp. Tonight will be another night of sleeping on a mattress of shirts, but it's actually not as bad as it sounds. I don't know what all those homeless people are complaining about all the time.
The snow is still covering everything. If this keeps up, the first day of actual hunting should be pretty easy, since we'll be able to see where they've been recently, and where they were going. Also, we'll be able to see where they've peed, since it apparently looks like anti-freeze. Neon colors tend to stand out well against a solid white backdrop. It's 28 degrees, feels more like 30. The sun is shining and the air is still. Ate breakfast and heard the obligatory dad speech, "anybody have to go before we take off?". The day had already started heating up by the time we got all our snacks, emergency supplies, and weapons packed.
We came across some heavy elk tracks just up the road from camp, after crossing the drainage, but it was all muddled up and difficult to make out which way they'd gone, or how recently, so we kept going on the road, instead of following them. Through the barbed wire gate, followed the "leave it like you found it" gate policy, and made our way up to a rock outcropping at the top of a hill nestled between two, more heavily wooded, drainages that we were certain elk would be running through any minute. First wild-life sighting: two little ground squirrels... or maybe chipmunks. I don't know. They stopped their game of tag to look at us for about five minutes and then, presumably, run off and tell all the elk where we were.
Sneaking through the snowy forest like we were, my dad in front (because he had a gun, and didn't want to have to aim around me if an elk suddenly came into view) saying things like "We can stop and wait here, or keep moving. Your call.", and occasionally asking if I saw anything, kept reminding me of those levels in Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare where your character is following his C.O. through a snowy forest, trying to make their way past Russian military. Slightly different though because, in the game, both characters have guns... and they're hunting people (and dogs)... and I was wearing a big blue back-pack. So it was kind of CoD4:MW mixed with Monty Python's Holy Grail, with me playing the roll of Patsy, my dad being Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, king of the Britons... and those squirrels being the French guards. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard one of them call me a silly English Kunigit.
We followed a game trail along the creek, through a thicket (I also kept picturing scenes from Bambi all day which, unfortunately, makes me the villain in the scenario), and found more relatively fresh elk signs, but no elk. Why don't they ever just hang out where we can see them easily... and wear blindfolds... and be tied to a tree or something? That would make hunting much more convenient.
These boots were not made for walking, but that's just what they'll do. I'm in favor of any sport that includes walking through the forest, sitting for a long time, and not talking much. I should have used the bathroom before we left, like all the Dad's said. Will I never learn?
Went back to camp for lunch, and went out on a second excursion. This time we came across a lot of elk tracks and some deer tracks. The elk prints looked like a large bull and a cow. I could tell because my dad told me so. Haven't heard many shots (which is surprising, with it being the first day of the season) so maybe they're still alive and waiting for us somewhere. We followed the tracks to a stock pond that looked pretty well used. Big deep prints in the mud all along the bank, and cloudy water around them makes me think it's been visited recently. There's a good view of the field below from inside the tree line. Even without the binoculars I can see a decent number of beds out there. This will be a good place to start out in the morning. We set it as a way-point on the gps and headed back to camp. Tonight will be another night of sleeping on a mattress of shirts, but it's actually not as bad as it sounds. I don't know what all those homeless people are complaining about all the time.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Into the whiled: Near Catastrophe
Day 4. Tuesday, Oct. 26
There was snow all over the ground when I woke up. It wasn't thick, but it was beautiful. The tarp over the fire pit/seating area was sagging with it, but we got a fire going, and it all melted, and then turned into steam in pretty short order. Left-over beef stew for breakfast.
The desire to stay warm has kept us in pretty constant need of more firewood, so we've taken to cutting limbs off of the large dead trees laying on the hillside behind camp, which is mostly done with the axe and hand saw, but we also noticed that there's a dead stand just on the other side of the bathroom. This will require Gabe's chainsaw. Knowing that I have experience cutting down trees (since I had been talking about having done it for a living), the job was given to me. Cut down the tree, and don't smash the bathroom. Pretty simple. It's slightly more nerve wracking to have people watch you while you're cutting it down... especially when they're all mountain men. You don't want to look like an incompetent kid in this company. Aside from starting to cut a little higher than 18" from ground level (I guess that's the forest service maximum for felled tree stumps) all went well, the tree went where I wanted it, the saw didn't bind up, and nobody got cut in half. This is good dry redwood that we can use to dry out the other wood we have stacked around the fire pit. The thermometer says it's 32 degrees, which means it's already warming up.
While Papa and Uncle Pat make sure their sights are accurate, by shooting bottles, cans, and empty propane tanks they've set up on some logs, I carve the bottom half of the sapling from yesterday (the top half of which became Erika's walking stick) into a cougar spear. I shaved off all of the bark, and carved the shaft down til it was comfortable to get my hand around, and left a rough ridge around the pointed end so that, if any of us should need to use it, it won't just stab in and pull out. If I have to stab a cougar, I don't want to just piss it off and let it go. After I get it all fire hardened, and carve "Cougar" into the shaft, I think I'll leave it over by the bathroom so that no one gets caught with their pants down, so to speak.
Watching my dad and uncle shoot at cans, bottles, and propane tanks, while my grandpa watches them happily, it became apparent to me that boys never really grow up... they just get better toys. I can't really be sure, but I think it might be kind of the same with girls. Maybe we become more responsible (maybe we don't) or self sufficient (or not), but if you get us out of our usual lives, get us into our element, we're still those kids who pretend we're Davey Crockett surrounded by Injuns, or U.S. Marshall's hunting down the James gang... thank God that imaginative and joyful spirit never really leaves us... I think we'd be truly miserable without it.
We had piled a bunch of thick branches on the fire because they were full of sap and burned hot, and we were just getting ready for dinner. The water kettle relinquished its usual perch on the swinging grill over the fire to make way for the Dutch Oven, king of camp-fire cooking units, and instead took a place balancing on one of the rocks that made up the fire pit. Having filled the oven with what we were all sure would be another delicious meal, my dad had put it onto the grill and began swinging it back over the flames when, without warning....... his knee bumped into the water kettle, dousing the flames entirely. With very little dry wood around, we all were disheartened, and jumped up to try to figure out a solution. All seemed lost when, just as suddenly as it had gone out, fire jumped up from certain parts of the wood where sap had been oozing out. Steadily the steam turned back into smoke, and smoke into flame, and we were back in business.
The snow had melted sometime mid day, but the temperature has dropped again, and flakes are falling again, larger than before, and the wind has certainly picked up.
It's strange, out here where I don't have my cell phone or iPod on me (which I usually use in place of a watch), because I don't go by time of day. I wake up when I'm done sleeping, get up when I have to pee, eat when I'm hungry, go to sleep when I'm tired, and never once consider what time it is. Everything revolves around daylight, hunger, and energy. I assume someone must have a clock, or a watch, but I have no need for such things out here.
There was snow all over the ground when I woke up. It wasn't thick, but it was beautiful. The tarp over the fire pit/seating area was sagging with it, but we got a fire going, and it all melted, and then turned into steam in pretty short order. Left-over beef stew for breakfast.
The desire to stay warm has kept us in pretty constant need of more firewood, so we've taken to cutting limbs off of the large dead trees laying on the hillside behind camp, which is mostly done with the axe and hand saw, but we also noticed that there's a dead stand just on the other side of the bathroom. This will require Gabe's chainsaw. Knowing that I have experience cutting down trees (since I had been talking about having done it for a living), the job was given to me. Cut down the tree, and don't smash the bathroom. Pretty simple. It's slightly more nerve wracking to have people watch you while you're cutting it down... especially when they're all mountain men. You don't want to look like an incompetent kid in this company. Aside from starting to cut a little higher than 18" from ground level (I guess that's the forest service maximum for felled tree stumps) all went well, the tree went where I wanted it, the saw didn't bind up, and nobody got cut in half. This is good dry redwood that we can use to dry out the other wood we have stacked around the fire pit. The thermometer says it's 32 degrees, which means it's already warming up.
While Papa and Uncle Pat make sure their sights are accurate, by shooting bottles, cans, and empty propane tanks they've set up on some logs, I carve the bottom half of the sapling from yesterday (the top half of which became Erika's walking stick) into a cougar spear. I shaved off all of the bark, and carved the shaft down til it was comfortable to get my hand around, and left a rough ridge around the pointed end so that, if any of us should need to use it, it won't just stab in and pull out. If I have to stab a cougar, I don't want to just piss it off and let it go. After I get it all fire hardened, and carve "Cougar" into the shaft, I think I'll leave it over by the bathroom so that no one gets caught with their pants down, so to speak.
Watching my dad and uncle shoot at cans, bottles, and propane tanks, while my grandpa watches them happily, it became apparent to me that boys never really grow up... they just get better toys. I can't really be sure, but I think it might be kind of the same with girls. Maybe we become more responsible (maybe we don't) or self sufficient (or not), but if you get us out of our usual lives, get us into our element, we're still those kids who pretend we're Davey Crockett surrounded by Injuns, or U.S. Marshall's hunting down the James gang... thank God that imaginative and joyful spirit never really leaves us... I think we'd be truly miserable without it.
We had piled a bunch of thick branches on the fire because they were full of sap and burned hot, and we were just getting ready for dinner. The water kettle relinquished its usual perch on the swinging grill over the fire to make way for the Dutch Oven, king of camp-fire cooking units, and instead took a place balancing on one of the rocks that made up the fire pit. Having filled the oven with what we were all sure would be another delicious meal, my dad had put it onto the grill and began swinging it back over the flames when, without warning....... his knee bumped into the water kettle, dousing the flames entirely. With very little dry wood around, we all were disheartened, and jumped up to try to figure out a solution. All seemed lost when, just as suddenly as it had gone out, fire jumped up from certain parts of the wood where sap had been oozing out. Steadily the steam turned back into smoke, and smoke into flame, and we were back in business.
The snow had melted sometime mid day, but the temperature has dropped again, and flakes are falling again, larger than before, and the wind has certainly picked up.
It's strange, out here where I don't have my cell phone or iPod on me (which I usually use in place of a watch), because I don't go by time of day. I wake up when I'm done sleeping, get up when I have to pee, eat when I'm hungry, go to sleep when I'm tired, and never once consider what time it is. Everything revolves around daylight, hunger, and energy. I assume someone must have a clock, or a watch, but I have no need for such things out here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)