Chukar Country

It was chukar season in the rimrock of Montana.

We were miles from any road it seemed, but chukar habitat in North America is generally not near agricultural land. So we did some serious driving in with the help of a sturdy four wheel drive to where we could hike in. Not for photos or fun, but stalking what was becoming, to me, as elusive as a steelhead trout. For we weren't hunting the "raised to be hunted" chukar, who can't run, can't fly and has all the cunning of of parakeet, lounging on it's shrubbery couch on a "preserve", somewhere flat. We were after the wild chukar.
The bird is known as chukar partridge, red-legged partridge, rock partridge, Indian hill partridge, kau-ka, keklik and, for people without spell check, chukka, chukkar, chukker, chuker, or chukor. The full scientific name of our subject is Aves Galliformes Phasianidae Alectoris Chukar.

The name comes from the sound they make, though like most game birds, the vocalizations are divided into the categories of alarm, courtship and social contact. The chuck, chuck, chuck is the most common call from both sexes that over time sounds more like a chukar-chukar, and can be heard from a surprisingly long distance.

Chukar were first introduced into North America in 1893 by W.O. Blaisdell from Illinois who imported five pairs from India. Alectoris chukar was introduced en masse during the 1930's and have established populations in all of the western states and into Canada. I was hunting in Carbon County, in Montana, where my family is from.

I've pheasant hunted in Iowa and I can't remember walking in so hard and so far to chase a little bird that, size wise, would be simply a snack to the average lumberjack. With pheasants you can hunt where it's flat, places good for aging knees and a hiker with an extra 20 pounds. Chukar? These boys like to live up near a ridge line that a goat would get altitude sickness at.

Chukar hunting is not for those that don't like to hike uphill. This bird likes slope grades over 7 percent with a rise of at least 200 feet. It's also not for the hunter who is not prepared for a small bird that, when spooked, reacts like a pilot of a high performance aircraft, turning altitude into speed as he flies downhill faster than you can get your bead on him. There he is! Where'd he go? The chukar is not a shy little schooboy like the bobwhite. He's a elusive little guerrilla fighter. That's part of what makes a chukar hunt worth the cramping muscles, the blister and the dangers of high, crumbling elevations.

Our eyes searched back and forth, looking for sign. Chuker droppings naturally, or an area of possible roosts. Chukars roost on the ground, usually under an outcrop, or lacking that, some brush, the nests being little more than simple scrapes, sometimes lined with their own feathers or grasses. Spotting one of these will be like spotting a hint of sense in a legislative bill. Doesn't mean you don't try though. If there are nests, they will be within 2 miles of water and water was nearby.

From up above, the siren call, chuck chuck chuck, not laughing at me as some hunters say about the call, but rather bring it on, bring it on. Not a mock but a challenge, telling me come on up and join me, pit your forces against my world. A challenge I can't resist. In Indian mythology, the Chukar sometimes symbolizes intense, and often unrequited, love, the chukar allegedly in love with the moon, sending out it's call to it's desire. It's a call I can not ignore.

I was hunting with friends from work, walking 40 yards apart or so, the dog forming a small four legged shadow to me, panting, eager. The tail began the wag. A sign that she smelled that extra treat in my pocket or there were birds in the area. A few loners, or a covey? A covey is formed of adults and their offspring, meeting up with other small groups around a common water source. You could easily see a hundred birds in a group like that. But this area had recently had a spring rain. With the rainfall, the birds would have likely scattered like leaves and those small groups remaining together would be the smaller and tightly knit family groups.

We knew well enough about the rain, we'd been caught in it. I don't care how hardy you are, there's nothing worse than a cold soaking rain when you're out in the wild, not expecting it. There's just NO getting warm. Movement is treacherous, the ground is a food sucking mess, alternating with slippery rock that would just as soon fling you down the mountainside, then give you a firm footing. The rain washes the scent from the air til even your dog starts getting cbored and cranky. It can be miserable. It can be mind numbing. The sensible thing to do would be to pack it in and go home and watch "Mythbusters". But when you look at the terrain of Chukar Country the word "sensible" just doesn't come to mind.

Today, though was cold but dry, so we continued until that moment came. It was the one I'd waited for, the dog going into point, the screech and a whistle of a bird too frantic to stay, exploding from an outcropping, diving down slope, green eyes looking up, looking down, and the burst from a 12 gauge echoing down the canyon. There was nothing left in the air but the shadow of motion and speed , the bird plunging to the ground 75 yards downhill. No one spoke. I stood, and there was only the snow, and the frigid air and the smell of gunpowder in the air.

The bird is small, hardly enough to feed the three of us, but that's not why we are here really. As a dense, gray feathered rocket bursts forth from the last hiding spot, I realize, it's not about the bird, it's seizing that last brace of freedom for both predator and prey.

From 40 yards to my 3 o'clock position comes an artillery of birds from a group of low shrubs. Guns raised, I simply wait, giving them their shot. Sharing with my friends that brief, unsubstantiated moment of glory that can not last, but will. Moments remembered in those quiet times when flesh hesitates to speak, but memory remains. Memories of the high country, a fierce little bird with many names. Chasing it down the draws that led me deeper into the wilderness of my heart.

One If By Land, Two If By Sea

My favorite gun range was flooded this month in the incredible rains that Indiana had. Atlanta Conservation Club. I've always felt welcome there, as a guest or a member. They regularly have open houses that are very family oriented and worth taking the time to go, to try your hand at the shooting events which are regularly a part of Club life.
Dang, I forgot the Mausers.
Our table was a little under the weather there in the photo but it should be up and dry now. (picture from 45shooter at webshots)
If range conditions permit and we don't have significant rain, the club will host their regular club IDPA match at ACC on Saturday, July 3rd. Check the website for further updates.

Someone did mention in one of the gun blog comments that the tactical guys shouldn't let a little water stop them. Swim fins? Check! But what about collecting the brass? We could get some Cormorants which the Japanese train to use for fishing and. . . . . . .
Hope to see everyone out there real soon.

.38 Things I Learned From Shooting

(1) Don't buy a new type of gun until you've had a chance to fire one of them.

 (2) Never try to keep more than 200 separate thoughts in your head during that first shot.

 (3) The less skilled the shooter, the more likely he is to come up to you at the range and criticize your grip.
 (4) No matter how bad that first target is, it's possible to be worse.

(5) The inevitable result of reading about how to improve your shooting is the instantaneous annihilation of that one critical unconscious movement that actually made you hit the paper in the first place.

(6) A steel plate shoot is a test of your skill against everyone else's luck.

 (7) Nonchalant shots count the same as chalant shots.

 (8) The shortest distance between you and that 12 point buck is the straight line that passes directly through the center of a big tree.

 (9) It's been said that bad shots come in groups of three. That fourth shot however, will be the beginning of that next group of three.

 (10) The first time you make a bulls eye you must subsequently make two shots not even close to the target in order to avoid altering the fabric of the universe.

.

(11) If you wish to shoot like a pro, it'll happen when no one is looking.

 (12) There is one important thing you can learn by stopping your shot before the trigger is pulled and checking the position of your hands on the grip. How many hands you have.

 (13) It's easier to get up at 6 am to go to the range, then it is to clean your gutters.

 (14) The most skilled shooter at the range is usually not the talkative person with the fancy gear, $200 range bag and tactical clothing. It's that quiet guy or gal in the T-shirt with the ammo cans. Watch them and learn.

(15) In hunting shots - trees attract, animals repel.

 (16) If you think it's hard to meet new people, try picking up someone else's brass.

 (17) If there's a storm rolling in, you're at the outdoor range.

(18) Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a .45 will kill you.

 (19) Shooting is not life or death. But one day it may be.

 (20) Ammo is like eggs. Unless you're a farmer with chickens that reload. It comes in small boxes and you need to buy fresh boxes each week.

(21) A shooter who hates to vacuum, dust or pick up their clothes will spend an hour carefully cleaning, oiling and packing their weapon.

(22) It takes more years to buy all the guns you want than it takes to be a doctor. But then again, try warding off a home invasion with a stethoscope and some Zyrtec and see how well you come out.

 (23) Just as a $30,000 bike and 300 miles doesn't make you a biker, a $1200 firearm and camo pants doesn't make you a shooter.

 (24) That new gun at the incredibly low price will come with the only magazine of its kind in existence.

 (25) Quail often wear little Kevlar vests under their feathers.

(26) Criminals obey gun laws as much as politicians obey their oaths of office.

 (27) Anyone who is mistaken for a bull moose and shot, probably shouldn't be in the woods anyway

 (28) Bullets don't multiply but they do migrate. (How did this stripper clip end up in my sock drawer).

 (29) Fast won't help you if you can't hit center mass.

 (30) If your gun collection includes a pair of nice .38's, refrain from discussing them in earshot of your minister.

 (31) I can say "Stop" in five languages. My .357 says it without a word.

 (32) Range cleavage attracts more hot projectile brass than male attention.

 (33) Paper is fun but metal makes that resounding plink of freedom.

 (34) Don't ever put your gun down to give a Grizzly a hug.

 (35) Coyote and fox instinctively know the absolute range of your firearm and will stand 6 inches past it.

 (36) The only equal rights amendment I need is the Second one. (37) Take all the time in the world to shoot, as long as you shoot first.

 AND THE 38th THING I LEARNED FROM SHOOTING?

 (38) The zombies won't just shoot themselves you know.

A little bend in the road

Some days, no matter how beautiful the beginning, just go downhill. When left the house the other morning I was really tired and had a bit of a cough. I stopped by Speedway for my "bucket o brain freeze" bucket of brain and the Speedy Freeze machine was broken. Not good.

I had a day off after working last weekend, so after doing on some chores around my house, I noticed the AC was pumping out warm air. Not good. I'll call someone but I just didn't feel good. I felt like, in precise medical terminology. . . . Cat Poop. I stopped by to drop something off at one of the IND blog folks house to hear "Wow you're really hot" But not in a good way. I was burning up with fever and it showed.  I got some aspirin and went off home to see about getting some sleep, afraid I was getting a cold and not wishing to hang out til I gave it to someone.

The AC was still toast and I was coughing pretty badly so I went to a hotel nearby to sleep. Nice hotel with kitchen, $64 at Priceline. Thank you Captain Kirk. The fever went up during the night and I woke up coughing up blood. Off to the hospital. It's pneumonia. I didn't have a cold that turned into bronchitis that turned into this. From gee my throat is scratchy to lung x rays was less than 48 hours. My mom was hospitalized with it just a couple weeks ago, before she passed, it's not something to ignore.

However, once I got to the hospital place, I had my usual fun with the female doctor, an older lively sort, as I had no intentions of getting all worried and serious on everybody.

Doc S. - Brigid - what medications are you on?
Me - I had a vitamin shaped like a little race car yesterday.

Doc S. (sigh). What method of birth control are you using?
Me - Nudity and back to back episodes of Sex and the City seem to work.

Doc S (laughing) - You're quite ill and you're making me laugh, now STOP that.
Me - Watch that you don't trip over my purse there, it's full of Tribbles destined for Sick Bay.

She put up with me long enough to she got me squared away with something to let me breathe a little better, my tests showed I was down to Al Gore levels of required oxygen saturation, and after x rays they had me cough up some nasty stuff for the bacterial tests (they gave me a cup and a liberal magazine and put me in a little room to give my sample). After that I got some giant Biaxin tablets which I get to take a couple times a day for two weeks, an inhaler when I need it. No hospital stay after the first visit, just rest and sleeps and meds.
The Biaxin has a warnings for side effects such as nausea, vomiting, dizziness, shaking, difficulty sleeping, hallucinations, etc, etc, But the note says "the doctor has judged that the benefit outweighs the risk of side effects" Sounds like Health Care Reform in a tablet.

But, I know that for what I have, this is the right drug, and so far the only side effect I have is the one that says you may experience a bad taste in the mouth. I'm liking it to Haggis stuffed with lutefisk or lutefisk stuffed with haggis, but seeing as no one's going to be kissing me in the immediate future I guess I'm OK.

However, the AC is still out and won't be fixed for a couple of days. So I'll be a hotel for a bit while Barkley stays with friends who I don't want to infect, but welcome an extra dog around the house to play with the kids.
A hotel for a few days is not ideal. I'd as soon have a cabana boy bringing me a 7-up and fluffing my, er. . pillows, but I need to take it easy and not cough on anyone.My friends are checking on me and I will be just fine. My best friend even offered to come over in a nurse's outfit with the eye patch (as in Kill Bill). I can still laugh, that's a good sign. A couple weeks of horse pills, rest and fluid and I might even make it out to the range to try out my new Zombie Targets.
She sort of looks like I feel. Zombie Targets are from Bill's Guns up in MSP.

From the Library - Bladerunner

"Fiery the angels fell. Deep thunder rolled around their shores... burning with the fires of Orc"
- Batty - Bladerunner.

I admit, Bladerunner is one of my favorite classic sci fi movies. I like watching movies of the past as well as the future. My life is made up of a future I will only dream of, housed within a past that looks at me from light glinting off forged hardness. Hardness that's seen battle, if not blood.

The weapons stand at attention, dressed in bayonet wear, ready. Ready for simply a polish, a cleaning, perhaps one or two fired without bayonet on a weekend that's not 20 degrees out, with winds and snow moving in. Long time warriors standing at still attention. Pictured, a Yougoslav M48b Mauser, Lee Enfield #4 mk II, Chinese type 56 SKS, Mosin Nagant 91/30, and a Turkish Mdl 38 Mauser.

What would it have been like to fight up close and personal with such a weapon? A battlefield rising in dark silhouette, a small stream that once sustained peaceful cattle, alight with mirrored fire. Around a black arch of formed earth a man moves around and in towards you. Friend, foe? Creeping between flares, fox hole to crude trench, looking for a light that would lead to a gap in the wire, the straining, determined gleam of wire, strung between remnants of fence. A fence once holding in prosperity and freedom, now nicked with bullets, fragmentary ammo removing rust and mud to where only a small sentient soldier of wood is left. Seeing that darkness advance, holding in your breath, you have no choice but to defend, to leap bayonet-first into yet another trench full of groaning shouts, hammering blows against your body.

Someone is there, too close to get a shot off, an exclamation in foreign tongue, sung under a rocket glare that lights up the sky, smoky death. The enemy, caught in the act of creeping into your line, no time to think, only a visceral reaction of base survival, your bayonet goes into his throat. Death up as close as it can be, the body shaking, the bayonet advancing seemingly on its own, a thrust, a cry, he falls back. Time stops in that moment, your blade embedded in his crumbling body, pulling you forward as you cling to the only thing keeping you alive, pulling on it, wresting it free, as if shaking a sausage from a fork

That night, while a man lays open eyed, throat torn, a stray poppy blooming blood red in churned cabbage fields, you write a letter home. A letter written by candles light to your wife, asking her to hold the baby you have yet to see, asking about the farm and telling her things are fine, words in a letter she may never get, or may take four months to arrive. You write after you wipe the blood from your blade.

Warfare of old. Warfare with a bayonet - a thing of historical significance, formed into an instrument of killing. A last resort weapon, for close quarter battle. A weapon as old as firearm warfare.
The term bayonet came from the French baïonnette - a knife, dagger, sword or spike shaped weapon that fits over the muzzle of a rifle barrel. Typically they are "custom" in that they are made to fit a specific firearm, not much different than the accessories we buy for our modern weapons.

The origins of the bayonet are, like most battlefields, a bit smokey. The Chinese were believed to have first used them in the 13th century, when the developer of the musket found they were ineffective in killing at close range. They then introduced two types of firearm, one with an attached knife and the other a spear. Owning more than one Mauser and being drawn like a fly to them, I have more than one bayonet in the household now, as I do Mausers, always looking for new ones when I'm out and about like these up in Minneapolis.

The term 'Bayonette' popped up in the later 16th century though its origins are still obscure. It might have first referred to just a simple knife and not for a military weapon. Cotgrave's 1611 Dictionarie describes the Bayonet as 'a kind of small flat pocket dagger, furnished with knives; or a great knife to hang at the girdle' while a Baionier is given as an old word for "crossbow man". Perhaps the first "bayonette" as described by the French was a contrivance of a hunter who, after having fired his last round at dangerous game such as a wild boar or having missed, shoved his knife into the muzzle of his piece to bring the animal down. That is plausible in that firearms of that day were fairly inaccurate and took a long time to reload. The makeshift bayonet then allowed the hunter further defense or a killing instrument if needed.

It is also rumored that during the mid-17th century irregular military conflicts in rural France, the Basque peasants of Bayonne, depleted of powder and shot, shoved their long-bladed hunting knives into the muzzles of their primitive muskets to form a spear and whether by luck or design, created an ancillary weapon. In any case, the first mentioned use of the bayonet as an instrument of war that I could find was in the memoirs of General Maréchal de Puységure, the weapon being introduced into the French Army in 1647 and becoming common in most European armies by the 1660s.

The benefits of this little "add on" were soon apparent, as that early hunter of the wild bore may have found out. The early muskets fired at a slow rate (no more than 3–4 rounds per minute using paper cartridges and down to a slovenly single round per minute when loading with loose power and ball), making them both inaccurate and unreliable. Bayonets provided a useful addition to the weapons system when an enemy charging towards you could advance across the musket's killing field (a range of about 100 yards for even the most wildly optimistic) at the risk of perhaps only one or two volleys from their waiting opponents. Rushing through two volleys only to meet a pointy exclamation likely reduced that urge to "charge" in some folks.

The bayonet was originally a defensive instrument. A good long bayonet, extending to a regulation 17 inches during the Napoleonic period, on a 5 foot tall musket ending up with a reach comparable to an infantry spear. Steady infantry, standing two or three men deep, could adopt a defense "square" formation, an defence to a sudden rush of cavalry with a reach that could defend against a man mounted upon a horse, though the combination was much heavier than a polearm of the same length and would take some real strength, not just skill.

You see the problem here. You plug it, you can't fire it. During the act of fitting the soldier was virtually unarmed. It's like having your 1911 in the bottom of your briefcase when the robber/murderer says howdy. Not a good place to be. Even more annoying, you plug it in too tightly, you won't be able to get it out short of damaging the weapon (anyone got any WD40??. . and. . uh. . duct tape)? Yet, in 1671, plug bayonets were happily issued to the French regiment of fusiliers and later to part of an English dragoon regiment that disbanded in 1674, and to the Royal Fusiliers in 1685.
The outcome of the Battle of Killiecrankie in 1689 was due, in some part, to the use of the plug bayonet; as a sudden rush of Scottish Highlanders overwhelmed them as they were fixing bayonets. Shortly afterwards, the defeated leader, Hugh Mackay, is said to have introduced a ring-bayonet of his own design. These "socket" bayonets offset the blade from the musket barrel's muzzle with a bayonet that attached over the outside of the barrel with a ring-shaped socket, secured on later models by a spring-loaded catch on the muzzle of the musket barrel. With the socket bayonet the blade would lay below the axis of the barrel, leaving sufficient clearance to permit the weapon to be loaded and fired while the bayonet was fixed.

Many of the socket bayonets were triangular in cross-section. It was said in some history books that this was designed so they'd wield wounds "that were difficult to stitch when attended to by a medic, as it is more difficult to stitch a three-sided wound than a two-sided one thus making the wound more likely to become infected". This is more of an urban legend than reality, for surgeons have sewn up jagged wounds using more stitches when needed, since field surgery began. Instead, three sided bayonets were designed to provide flexing strength in the blade without much increase in weight in case a bayonet struck a hard object. For in that event it's better to have it bend and be repairable then to have it be so stiff it shatters on impact.

Shortly after the Peace of Ryswick in 1697 the English and Germans both abolished the pike and introduced these bayonets, but owing to a military cabal they were not issued to the French infantry until 1703. Thereafter, the bayonet became, with the musket or other firearm, the typical weapon of infantry.
The long type of bayonets for early rifles were designed with the same intent as the medieval pike, the rifle and bayonet becoming a long pole with a lethal spear on the business end. As warfare evolved, so did the bayonet. Mass collisions of troops were less frequent, and the blades became shorter, becoming secondary to fighting knifes. The idea of using a short sword as a bayonet was tried on occasion, but the first regular users of the sword-type blade appear to have been the British rifle regiments in the early 1800s. But, with the onset of breech-loading, and then magazine arms providing infantry with a firepower capable of beating off cavalry, the bayonet evolved even further, from a primarily defensive weapon to one of offense.

For this, a knife-like blade was of more use than a spike blade, and so from the middle of the 19th century, the use of knife or sword blade increased, though a few armies still hung on to spike blades.

All nations boast of their prowess with the bayonet, but few men really enjoy a hand-to-hand fight with the bayonet. English and French both talk much of the bayonet but in Egypt in 1801 they threw stones at each other when their ammunition was exhausted and one English sergeant was killed by a stone.

At Inkerman again the British threw stones at the Russians, not without effect; and I am told upon good authority that the Russians and Japanese, both of whom profess to love the bayonet, threw stones at each other rather than close, even in this twentieth-century."
-J.W.Fortescue, Military History

18th and 19th century military tactics included various massed bayonet charges and defenses. The Russian Army used the bayonet the most frequently in any Napoleonic conflict. Their motto was "The Bullet is foolish, the Bayonet wise." Given that the bullet of the smoothbore musket of the time had Dick Cheney-like accuracy, almost unpredictable beyond 50 yards, they believed that in a bayonet fight you were less likely to miss, though in actuality, many soldiers reverted to using bayonet-mounted rifles as clubs, primitive fighting at its best.

The experimentation of bayonets continued through much of the 18th and 19th centuries. Prior to the Civil War, the U.S. Navy tried their hand at affixing bayonet blades to single-shot pistols, which soon proved useless for anything but making dinner. Cutlasses remained the preferred flat edged weapon for the navies of the time, though Queen Victoria's Royal Navy gave up the pikes once used to repel attacks by my ancestors in favor of the cutlass bayonet.

The 19th century gave us the sword bayonet, a long-bladed weapon with a single- or double-edged blade that could also double as a shortsword. Its initial purpose was to make sure that the riflemen, while holding ranks with musketmen (whose weapons were longer), could form square properly to stave off cavalry attacks, when sword bayonets were fitted. Though the sword bayonet on the Infantry Rifle needed to be removed before firing, as the weight at the end of the barrel affected balance and stability (and you all know what that does to accuracy, it was a decent combat side arm when dismounted. When attached to the musket or rifle, it would turn almost any long arm into an effective spear, useful for not just thrusting but for slashing.
The inherent problems of fixing bayonets in the middle of a heated battle led some armies to adopt permanently-attached bayonets. These folded above or below the barrel of the weapon and could be released and locked into place very quickly when required. A singularity of the Imperial Russian Army, which carried over into the Soviet Army, was the permanently fixed bayonet; no scabbards were issued, and the bayonet remained on the rifle muzzle at all times. The Soviet blades, now made of steel, were stiffened with a small cross-section in the form of a cross, in order to make them more compact in form and fold better onto the sides of their rifles, such as the 1944 Mosin Nagant. It was said that self-inflicted wounds made by soldiers to get themselves out of the line of battle would be recognized as such and bring them greater disciplinary punishment.

In All Quiet on the Western Front, author Eric Maria Remarque stated that in WWI, French Soldiers killed German prisoners who had serrated blade bayonets, as they assumed they were for cutting off the limbs of Allied soldiers. Whether this was true or not, World War I did see the bayonet being shortened even further into knifed weapons useful for some very bloody hand to hand fighting or as trench knives, so the majority of modern bayonets you will find are knife bayonets.

In any case, it was not a weapon you hoped ever to have to use. Despite the support of military leaders, the practical use of the bayonet was somewhat rare. At Inkerman during the Crimean War in 1854, only 6% of casualties were attributed to the bayonet. In World War I, the ‘Spirit of the Bayonet’ was a mantra of combat instructors, but not popular in its actuality. Of the 13,691 men of the American Expeditionary Force killed in the war, only 5 died from bayonet wounds. Still for military strategists, the morale that interfaced with the fixing of bayonets was generally considered to outweigh their drawbacks, which included restriction of movement and lack of real utility. Modern bayonets are normally knife-shaped with either a socket or a handle, or are permanently attached to the rifle as with the"SKS". Depending on where and when a specific SKS was manufactured, it may have a permanently attached bayonet with a knife-shaped blade (early Chinese, Russian, Yogoslavian or Romanian)or a cruciform (late Chinese) or triangular (Albanian) spike type, or no bayonet at all.
The development of repeating firearms greatly reduced the combat value of the bayonet though they were still retained through World Wars I and II.

With the adoption of modern short assault rifles, the utility of the old style bayonet as a weapon was doubtful, the combination being simply not suited to fighting, yet modern versions of bayonets are still in use. The British Army performed bayonet charges during the Falklands War and the second Gulf War. United States Marine trainees at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego still get their first instruction in using the bayonet as a lethal weapon on their 10th day.

In a modern concept of warfare, bayonets are used for controlling prisoners or as a "last resort" weapon for close quarters combat, such as when a soldier is out of ammo or has a weapon jam. However they are not normally fitted to most weapons, as the bayonet impairs long range accuracy even more so in modern weapons.

Bayonets, whether you consider them a hindrance or a lethal fighting tool, many of them are rapidly becoming collectors items. I've just a few, as the bayonets for some of these weapons cost more than the weapon itself. But I still like to hold on to them.

Pieces of history that point to freedoms still threatened.

And Now for Something Completely Different.

The photo brought up the words. Don't read any more into it than necessary :-) In actuality, I'm in Moose slippers waching Mythbusters.

The summer sky is scheming
as ravening thunder rumbles
your face distant in the mist
obscure as dark, rolling clouds
your voice in my ear, resonating
making me need

Lightning flashes, strikes
piercing my defenses
hard shafts of light
torching my earth
drops of rain
striking the earth like bullets
piercing my defenses

I long for your hand on
my damp skin
the wind coming in
hot breath on my neck
a gasp
then hard honeyed raindrops
impellent wetness
to soak the needy ground

Brigid

Breakfast Science and Bacon

Bacon!! Buttermilk Bacon Waffles

The basic waffle batter recipe comes from the talent of Andrea Greary at Cooks Illustrated. But, like always, I had to experiment with it, adding a couple of things. You know, like bits of brown sugar caramelized bacon

I've had readers comment, what is it with you and waffles (or pancakes?). It's comfort food for me, Mom making them for dinner, with farm fresh bacon on the side when the budget was really tight. As kids we loved it. Still do. But I can't abide the metallic taste of the frozen ones or the limp ones that result from many recipes.

These buttermilk waffles not only have BACON, but they are crisp, fluffy and light, but not insubstantial.

The secrets?

It's the most basic of science. The melted butter in the recipe is replaced with oil. Butter is 16% water which contributes moisture to the inside of the waffle, which on removal from the iron will start softening your crispy texture immediately. Additionally, with less moisture IN the waffle the outer surface will reach a higher temperature faster, giving the waffle crust more time to form. The result? Crispy golden brown outside, soft fluffy interior. You won't miss the butter taste but this simple trick will keep your waffles from turning soggy.

We've got the crisp outside handled, what about the inside? Most gourmet waffles use whipped egg whites to get that fluffy center, as the whipping adds millions of little air bubbles to the batter.

But whipping egg whites is a repetitious, monotonous task involving time and repeated motion. You've got better things to do, you know, like process that pile of .40 brass in the Dillon press.

As C.I. instructed, replace the whipping the eggs step with seltzer water (not sparkling water, it's not bubbly enough). Using the seltzer with powdered buttermilk powder inflates the batter the same as a chemical based leavener, without the metallic taste. The little bit of baking soda keeps the buttermilk/seltzer mixture from being too acidic to brown the waffles.

The recipe makes 8. Enough for you and yours and an extra, slightly cooled, one to fling off the deck like a Frisbee for Barkley. He doesn't understand science, but he does like a good waffle.

Letting Go- a Tale of Fiction and Truth

It was a blue shirt. Old, weathered, but not worn or laundered since it first took up residence in my closet. Worn on a Fall evening long ago.

Overhead, a sound passing by, the somnolent engine, the gnashing crunch of tires meeting gravel, the sound moving away, dying away, not to return. From somewhere close, a deep sigh, myself, or the wind in the trees, shivering stalks against the sky. Today will be tears, then tomorrow. But tears will eventually slow to a quiet seeping of dreams against a pillow in the night, muffled resignation that you hope no one sees traces of in the day. Days that grew round and monotonous, life slowing to one of quiet acceptance.

When someone leaves, you go through the motions of life. You endure your days, fueled by habit, filling up the hours and hope they're busy enough for you to fall asleep at night and not dream of the warm body that hasn't lain next to you for so long. It often doesn't work.Those are the nights when the loneliness clamps down hard, with sharp weasel teeth, when all you want to do is pick up the phone, or shout to the heavens, and speak to that person who become a part of you, then moved suddenly away, taking with them small bits of flesh, exposing nerve endings to the frigid night air. But you don't.

Sometimes you can't.

Life goes on watch, and you listen for that crunch of gravel that is only the delivery man, as the vines creep against the house, growing wild, overflowing to your heart, constricting it.

But there's chores to do, they do not wait, the smell of oak, smoked fire already burning, the instructions that someone once gave me, how to penetrate the honeyed wood, its core as hard as iron, the axe aimed down, straight to the heart of the knot. The axe strikes and the wood falls to pieces and the things you can not ignore burn into you.

Finally, one day, after a dark and introspective night, you'll wake to the sound of warm rain beating against the eaves, flush with dreams, your body alive in a tangle of sheet. Not quite remembering the particulars of that night dream but just the feeling it imprinted on you, as you breathe in wakefulness, bringing back memories of that long forgotten. Dreams of longing, memories of love, of desire, fleeting things, reflections in a river, seen for just a second of quick glance, then swept away in the solitary stream that is your life now. For it seems you can hardly remember what it was like when you felt that way. When you loved, with urgency, with pressing need. Then something, just a simple smell, touches the place where that feeling was, a touch as slight and quick as fabric against your skin, as soft and fleeting as a birds wings against your face. And you'll quicken to the memory. And hope takes wing.
The shirt was found unexpectedly while cleaning out in preparation for a move, and in the suddenness of its discovery, it trickles trough my hands like tears, puddling to the ground as the memory awakes.

That evening so long ago, was much like any other Autumn evening, with the air crisp with cold, brushed with the scent of kindling alight. You too, have had an evening like that, where anticipation waits like an embrace, ticklish like a stray hair brushing against the back of your neck. An evening, perhaps recently, perhaps long ago, where you were swept away for only a moment on a late night, a moment that's repeated itself, minute by minute in your memory, wrong man, wrong moment. One of those times that you wish you could turn back on itself, as if you had never been there at all.

I'd heard he was in town on business. How long had it been since I'd made that decision, the one to end things. I was wrapped up in my new career as much as anything, chasing dreams, and somehow the whole lifelong commitment thing loomed into the horizon, I knew I had to make a decision. So I made the call that was one of the hardest I had ever made. I called him to say I couldn't see him any more. He sounded hurt, he sounded relieved. He sounded unbearably tired. But mostly relieved. I wasn't ready for anything serious, not like he wanted. After all the changes in my life, a new career, family to tend to, I wasn't ready to give what he wanted. Yet. So I cut the tether and let him go.

Renovating an old house became my sanctuary, the power of saw and sweat the tithing of my soul. My mind was desperate to sort out the past before I made a decision about the future, decisions that could change not just my life, but anothers. Sometimes creating something with hard work and wood helped. I tried not to think of the last months since we said goodbye on the phone. Impersonal, distanced, spoken through a cold receiver, the dial tone as he hung up echoing in the empty room. The conversation that made me want to just get in the old farm truck and drive until the horizon filled my whole world. Why is escape so difficult? Finding peace. Why can I sometimes only find that in in in the power of a hammer, the scent of black powder, the feel of a yoke or steering wheel under my hand? Forces that, for an instant I can control. But I knew that I did the right thing, for to promise to something, to someone who cared so deeply, when I was not ready to give it, was the cruelest of good intentions.

So I went back to the life of fire and wood. As I swung the axe into another small log, I thought of his last words " I will come back, you know", the words as a hand against my back, a feeling lingering across my shoulders, down my arms that whisper their own aching promise But months passed, and when I realized I was finally ready for what he was asking, the phone lay silent.

I was finishing a second coat of paint when finally, the phone rang. "I'm in the neighborhood, can I see you? There's something I need to tell you". He sounded wistful, he sounded happy, and my heart unexpectedly missed on two cylinders as I suddenly smiled. Truly smiled, for the first time in months. I placed the piece of drying work aside, racing around trying to compose my thoughts, my regrets, the decision that I should have made when it was there for me to make. Trying to ready a dog hair filled house in just a few minutes. I needed to make us some supper. How long had it been since I'd had someone over? Soon the kitchen would be warm with spice, the ripe juice of something fresh picked bursting on my lips.

Before you know it, before I'm showered and changed, he's waiting on my doorstep. That blue shirt. The way he stood, inviting smile and eyes the color of an evening sky, body relaxed in a pair of khakis. He was smiling a boyish hesitant grin. The sight of him dries old tears and turns my empty heart to longing. Was that you I said goodbye to?

I pull back, feeling a knot of nerves tie in my stomach, the fear a noose around my heart. I step back as I look into his smile, struggling to see his motives, searching his eyes to define my own. "Can I just touch you, will that help me let go of my angst?" I say to myself. For there is so much unsaid there, so many questions, his questions, mine. My fear. His? These are the intangible walls that distance us, the walls of heartache, made of concrete laced with steel, impenetrable. Walls that protect. Walls that distance.

Let me just touch you, I say silently. Tear down that wall, rip the concrete from it's foundation. Words only heard in my soul.

But as if reading my thoughts, he pulls me towards him in the familiar hug of a best friend, I hear my heart pounding as he opens his arms to envelop me. He finds a dab of of thick yellow paint tattooed to my cheek, just underneath my eye. A kiss lands nearby. My lips silently call to him as his clean, masculine scent makes me want to just blurt it out. But I don't. I have to stay in control, I tell myself.

I draw him inside, into a house that now feels like home. "I just wanted to see you in person" he says. "I wanted to hear your voice". I can't keep the words inside much longer. I was an idiot. I love you. I want it all. I'm ready. I want to just get it out. But I keep quiet, afraid to interrupt.
"I wanted to be the one to tell you in person", as he takes off his outer blue shirt, with the precision of movement and form that made me weak in the knees. Setting it on the chair, he stands before me, looking happy and hopeful in his work worn pants and T-shirt. The words hang in the air, dense with longing, waiting to be breathed in deep.

When you're young no one tells you the full story about love, that there is seldom a fairy tale ending like at the movies. You had rehearsed your love story over and over in your head, speaking the words you had scripted so carefully, waiting for what you know he will say back. Then, braced with the chill fall air, I open my mouth to speak, to finally say the words. He speaks first and the words are not what played in my head.

"I'm getting married."

My eyes follow his voice as it drifts out the window and fades. All I can see are dying leaves, windswept trees, barren fields, barren plans. I pretend to concentrate on a plant I'd set inside after last night's frost, too late, touching the skeletal frozen buds, making the ensuing silence that much sadder.

I step step away from the warmth of the room, so he doesn't see the beginning of tears and face the yard, as a tree outside explodes into flight as hundreds of birds are startled into escape. There I stand, that spot of paint on my face a dam holding back the tears, drying next to the warmth of his kiss.

As the tree bursts forth, I watch hundreds of birds vanish into the evening, gone as if they never existed, as the tree stands empty, except for just one lone bird.

One left, like the shirt there now, forgotten in his departure. A shirt the clear blue of tears, trailing in the wake of his words of apology for not telling me sooner. "Are you OK, you look pale". "I knew you'd be happy for me". Words biting my skin like insects, drawing blood from veins that had little to spare. I couldn't wait to get the door closed behind him, attempting a smile, telling him I had to go, something had come up, but congratulations, honestly, really. Then collapsing into tears, as I waved him gaily out of sight.

Now, on another chill evening, with the sound of a guitar playing in the background, I hold the fabric close to me, breathing in the heat we might have made and the smell that still clings to that blue shirt of his that remained, hanging in my closet, a remembrance of scent and touch. The cloth is faded and fragile, like all dreams. Then, finally, I put it away, deep in a drawer and find that finally, its touch is but dim memory on my fingers.

I look out into the skies, to birds returning to the trees.

A Day in Pictures (Calorie count not included, it's for your own good, folks).

You know the drill, click photos to enlarge.
Have napkin handy.

I passed on going to day two of the gun show, but invited several of my friends over for lunch after. I kept busy until they arrived cleaning and puttering around the homestead.
Time to tidy up the family room and get out a couple extra TV trays so we can eat out here. I"m staying with friends while the house shows, helping with home renovationsa and children, in exchange for a futon in the family room, and a place for Barkley while the Realtor does her thing. They'll be here soon. Time to put on some tunes.
Mr. B. and Midwest Chick showed up first, bearing all kinds of goodies, including a 10 year old cheddar (what do you mean there's none left for a photo?) and some incredible homemade brownie cookies that were nibbled on as we perused through the latest in toys in the house. (Yes, those ARE all primers). Barkley got pats as usual.

Og and his buddy M. and M's little brother Rich were able to make it. Check out Rich's great new blog, Rich's Garage , a must for classic car buffs.

We added some adult beverages (Yingling, you shouldn't have!) for those not driving and gathered round to catch up. Conversations ranged from cars to practical jokes we've played to Monty Python. It IS true, if you get a room full of geeks and even if they are all different sorts, gun geeks, sci fi geeks, car geeks, computer geeks, or gaming geeks, someone is eventually going to say, with the best of British accents, "Ni!". At that point, as Og pointed out, someone will begin to prance around on an imaginary horse, a couple of folks will be doing the Parrot sketch and I, without being able to control it, will be yelling "bring out your dead". It's inevitable.

Today wasn't much different.The conversation was great, but I'm afraid that since I enlightened Midwest Chick on the merits of finely honed Samurai Swords as zombie back up she is going to be wanting one.

The meal was simple, and with the bread (and dessert) being baked yesterday when it was cooler, I was able to fix it without heating the house up too much.

The appetizer (where did it go???) was flatbread drizzled with some olive oil, mushrooms and fresh Parmesan and then baked. It didn't last long enough for a photo, but hey, we still had those great cookies!

For the main course. Homemade Sourdough Rosemary Bread
And Gun Show Meat Sauce (of course it has BACON). With venison, red wine, not so secret herbs and spices, wild honey, tomatoes, caramelized onion, roasted garlic, spicy pork sausage and BACON, how can you go wrong.
Did anyone save room for Chocolate Guinness Cake
Soon, there was nothing left but a gathering of good friends and empty dishes. (And one little red dog hoping for leftovers).
It was good to finally have a weekend back in IND. It was great to be with some people that are as close to family as I will have in these parts. I am too full to move, so I will just sit a spell, listen to Mr. Cash and watch the sun go down. There are some days you just don't want to end.

Don't Take a Bear to a Gun Fight

This week HOTR Pure Lead Balls Award goes to the man who shot and killed a charging Grizzly with a .45 handgun in an Alaskan national park when it attacked his wife. He is being investigated however, for HAVING a gun in a park is legal, discharging it is not. The authorities saying "we have to make sure there was a valid reason for the shooting". If 800 pounds of angry teeth rushing at your loved one isn't valid, I don't know what is. ("Honest Mr. Ranger, I thought he was some hairy guy from Acorn ".)

You are never alone in the wilderness, in spite of a solitary step. Many of us have seen , while hunting, a large shadow, merging along the edge of vision, You draw up the gun, and shout LOUDLY just in case, and the shadows blends and dissapears. Wolf, bobcat? Who knows.

Up ahead on the trail another hiker, one with no gear, one that slows to ask you something, You have your hand at the ready and stare him boldly in the eye, moving quickly away, taking care you're not followed. Not all predators in the parks are four legged.

Further on up ahead, the sun pure and bright. There in the grass, the tiny twitching of legs, a small rabbit, teeth marks on its neck, a killing bite of surgical precision that you interrupted.
The wilderness has long drawn those who believe the unsullied vastness of the wild will fill in those gaps in their lives, where the cold slips in. But the wilderness is not a place for an armchair adventurer. It has but disregard for dreams and longings. If you go, you need to go prepared. For there are many pockets of the wild where risks still dwells, and alone, unarmed, you may have to fight for your life. The wild is not your favorite childhood stuffed animal, or a picture postcard. It's a consummate and oft mute solidity, breaking its silence just long enough to laugh at the vanity of your labors, at the aspiration of your life. The wild is vast space that does not move, yet creeps in the night, watching for that one mistake, when it can raise itself from slumber and strike. A place of beauty? Yes, but is a place where you need to travel with both your heart and your eyes wide open.

My first trip to Alaska was in the mid 80's, taking a break from college and working, I spent my first real "vacation" up there, renting a little plane and visiting a friend.

My family being from Montana, I felt pretty prepared for the trip, but I forgot about the bears. Where I visited was a small village, accessible only by air. When I arrived, I asked where a good place was to go for a walk, to stretch my legs . I was told, "don't go on any side streets unless you are armed". "Oh", I said, "Sort of like Detroit !"
Bears are as much a part of the wild, as wild is part of the bear. The ancient legends of a giant beast that would sweep down on a village and carry off a person, are gone, maulings, though quite media worthy, are rare. The bear serves no function to obvious eye, but occupies a big corner of my soul, with strength and blatant humility, reminding me as I step into his world, of my place in the food chain.

I would respect the bear, not purposely hunt him, but I am prepared to defend myself should I encroach on what he considers his domain and garner his fury for it.

I had suitable firearms for the trip, but some told me to leave the sidearm behind and carry bear spray instead. That might work on the black bear, but I think most Browns would consider that stuff foreplay. Despite their sometimes cute and cuddly appearance, bears are tough, they're mean, and even the not so big ones can kill you.

The skull? It's like armor plate. Another issue with a head shot is is the extremely narrow brain pan when viewed from the front.

Anything past the inner edge of the eyes is outside the brain pan. Knowing the skull is important. You may only have a few seconds and one shot. There will be nothing more than a roar of darkness that banishes the sun; your insides will stick. Your eyes will be blind and your mouth will be open and a clap of wind will hit you in the face as death rushes at you with a speed you never would have believed.

It's a bad dream, one of those in which you think if you can just touch something in that nightmare vision, something unalterable, solid and real, you can wake yourself up. You hand is already on your firearm. Please let me wake up. The anatomy of the skull can help you understand where to shoot at it better. Side shots to the head should be between the eye and base of the ear, depending of course on exact angle. You won't have a second chance on shot placement.

On the plus side, a bear will normally avoid contact with we humans. But don't invite him to dinner by leaving food out, don't cook where you sleep, and make a lot of noise as you move around and he'll likely do his part to steer clear of you. What you can count on is (1) They will be bigger up close than you thought. They can be meaner than any of your ex's, except for the cubs, but if you run into those you have an even bigger problem. (2) A bear is more intelligent than you think and can be completely unpredictable, acting out in unexpected waysl without warning. They are masters at the not so subtle art of intimidation by tooth and claw, yet sometimes they'll run at the sight of you. Experienced outdoors people have seen both, and you must prepare for both.
Bears may also behave differently by species and subspecies. Just as there are those that swear brunettes and redheads are two different animals, black and brown bear (by species, the grizzly being a subspecies of the brown), may vary in behavior when confronted. When the smaller black bear charges at you, he comes to kill. Rolling into a ball and pretending to play possum will just make you a more portable snack. You must fight. A brown bear USUALLY only wants to stop the threat you represent. Playing dead may work with him. But I wouldn't bet my life on it.I know there are people that will disagree with the notion of bear as killing beast, offering guided tours of fuzzy grizzly bears up close. But bears aren't just like us, furry creatures with human attributes living in quiet society; anthropomorphizing them can only get you killed in my opinion. I wish those people good fortune, but I'll carry mine as the leaded variety.

There are many differing opinions on what makes a good bear load. The actual caliber selection is only one thought. Most bears, especially Grizzly, have an amazing knack of absorbing large amounts of lead with no apparent loss of power or mobility. Think that .22 round in your plinking gun is going to work on a mugger on PCP? It's the same concept with bear defense ammo. There have been cases in which a mortally wounded bear killed its victim after numerous hits in a vital area with a "stopping" caliber rifle. A bear, even hit in the "vitals" may not know it's dead until you've been sufficient disassembled. Encounter a pissed off Grizz and the PCP addled mugger will seem like child's play.

The sound alone of a full power magnum touched off may send him running away as well, but if he's charging, the only "stopping" shot for big bear is a brain or spine shot. I've seen how far my deer went after a perfect heart shot. I don't want to give the bear the same closure of space. A brain shot will do it. Snipers call the shot the “apricot shot”, and when hit, the target will drop. The problem is that the apricot is moving up and down and left and right, and did I mention the apricot is also, really small and coming at you at 30 mph?

The .357 caliber and higher definitely has enough penetration to get past the armor plate that a bear uses for a cranium without bounding off like pistol ball rounds, soft points, or hollow points which can catch a bone and dig in. Get good ammo. The rest boils down to marksmanship, luck and a couple gallons of adrenaline. A shoulder shot with an adequate round/bullet can turn or stop them, at least long enough to get a killing shot in. Traditional "hunting" shots are not generally stoppers, particularly with bears that are aware of your presence.

Think you can outrun him? Can you run 30 mph? Think you can shoot him in the eye because you can do 1/2 groupings at the range while the birds chirp and all is well in your world? Think again.
For a main carry, opinion is divided between those favoring the use of a high-powered rifle and those advocating 12 gauge slugs (and I assume those folks would want a pump action with a reasonably short barrel with foster style slugs). A 12 gauge Express Magnum loaded with slugs would be something I might carry. Bears are dangerous, but they are not as bulletproof as legend has, if you have the right load, a decent shot and always, a cool head. The Brenneke slugs seem to penetrate better than the Foster type. Fosters are basically a deer slug, and most are designed to expand, which is counterproductive on bears.

If I've got the .45 Colt Ruger I might use 21.5 grs H-110/325 gr Keith or LBT bullet recipe when I go up in the mountains. That is a gun my friend Malamute Bill uses, one that is a comfort in the high, wild and silent places. In the thick stuff, an 1886 carbine sometimes goes along for the walk.

All a 9mm/7.62*39/.357/.45ACP/etc. may do for you is just annoy it. (Though 9mm has rather good penetration in fmj loads, but not much shock.) You need something that will stop, and quickly. Bears have been killed with a wide variety of weaponry and ammo by skilled shooters. The Alaskan guide Phil Shoemaker used a Smith .357 for a while, and reported it killed bears fine with heavy solid bullet loads in head shots, though he passed it on to his daughter, a guide, and went back to a .44. Another Alaskan guide used, among other heavy caliber lever guns, a Browning 45-70 1886 carbine with heavy loads, and reported that it killed bears with head shots when necessary. A few locals tried taking down a big brown with .223. Not a good idea from what I heard of the outcome.

As for those little baby guns that are marketed as pocket bear medicine? Small bore handguns? God better be on your side that day. There is a reason many of those don't have front sights on them. That makes it less painful when the bear takes it and stuffs it up your behind.

Semi auto? I'd just as soon take the reliable old Savage in 30.-06 than something new and semi auto that might jam. Forget the scope this time for a self defense situation, unless you have just the right one and are expert in instant sight picture. Placement is everything in a bear, and open sights are much faster and at close range you are going to need it. Use a scope up close and all you might see is blurry hair before your world goes red.

Backup. You'll want some backup.

Many years ago, the African hunters established that you should carry a double rifle when dealing with serious life threatening wildlife. Their reasoning is simple and basic. If your main firearm fails to function properly, there is NO time for a failure drill. You need an immediate second weapon to fight for your life. On a trip to Africa, (I read too many Robert Ruark novels NOT to go to Africa), I spoke with a field guide who considered the double rifle as that chance. If a firing pin broke on one side, he'd have another with a double rifle or shotgun. Anything else, pump, automatic and you're left with a 10 lb. club, was his opinion. Although I had a double action shotgun on hand (if everything else has failed and Mr. Grizzly is trying to french kiss you, stick it in his mouth and give it both barrels) the majority of the time I kept a large revolver as a back up. Frankly, an 8-9 lb. long gun is not a terribly convenient thing to tote around under any circumstance, and it could be a nuisance enough in others that you set it down. Settled in and around a campsite, fishing or just docking that float plane your long gun might be laid down "somewhere handy" which is NOT going to be handy enough when Mr. Bear decided he wants to eat your salmon, your airplane, or you. There are other times outdoors, it's not handy either.

So, a sidearm is called for. In my case, it was the Ruger Blackhawk. But what about ammo? You might wish to avoid ammo designed specifically for personal defense, which feature fast-expanding, often lightweight, hollow point bullets. On a bear charging straight at you, there is no such thing as “enough” penetration with a handgun cartridge. You want heavy, hard bullets driven at the highest velocity attainable.
Next time I think I'll carry a .44 Magnum or a .45 Colt (in Ruger persuasion for hot loads) both stoked with heavy (240-300 gr) hard-cast lead Keith-style bullets. Another option, the LBT series of bullets, such as the 325gr LBT WFN over 21.5gr of H110 for the .45 Colt bruiser that might be waiting in the "safety of the jeep with Marlin". Whatever you carry, you're looking for hard cast, heavy for caliber bullets. Handgun bullets thus constructed generally have better penetration than most high power rifle bullets, as the expansion tends to slow penetration to a great degree. High velocity in heavy pistol bullets doesn't help much after a certain point apparently.The gains tend to fade somewhat after the 1200 fps threshold, and some higher velocity loads actually penetrate less. This is more than tribal knowledge of some heavy caliber sixgun users, but has been born out in tests such as those done by John Linebaugh at his Seminars in Cody. Small pieces of information to tuck away, as one day it may come in handy.
But on those first trips, I was glad to have my backup bear gun. With the gun, came freedom of movement. With it I was able to walk with a more sure step, though always alert, head up and paying attention, not listening to music or talking on my phone. With it I went to places and met more people, like a woman, an older widow, who lived in a large and beautiful, but isolated cabin style home on a lake 50 miles from the nearest settlement. A city woman, she'd fallen in love with a local, married him as a young girl and stayed, even after his death. I landed there, dropping off some supplies for her as a favor. In return, she offered me a meal and coffee and I ended up staying for two days, sharing stories of life in the wild, and learning just how deep love will lead you into the wilderness of your heart.Could we live without the bear? Some say we can live without love, yet I know, if we did, something within our soul would wander aimlessly, always seeking something untamed. The lure of the wild is its own anchor, keeping us tethered to that which is real.

On my dresser is a small carving of a bear, in a box next to it, a sprig of pine from a forest far away. I pull it out, that single, small piece fills the room, the dusk, the very day, with an odor I can smell, above my own perfume, above my own fear. The smell of the wilderness, that of the forest and the heart, calling me back.

Journeys taken, with eyes and heart wide open, and weapon always near.