The Wilderness Experience (Re-defined)

Well folks, you'll be happy to hear that The High Sierra Hikers Association and some of their extremist partners are at it again. The HSHA has filed suit in San Francisco, no less, to require the Government to set aside the Sequoia and Kings Canyon General Management Plan adopted in 2007. And aren't ya just dying to know why?

Well, it appears the High Sierra Hikers Assoc. wants to dictate to you how you are to have your next Wilderness experience, and that those pesky stock people are at the core of the problem, as one might expect; they are an evil bunch, you know. It seems they aren't having a true "Wilderness Experience." It seems that when they visit the backcountry they are having entirely too much fun, not to mention, too easy a time. This disturbing fact doesn't sit well with the group and this apparently makes the HSHA mad enough to kick a hog barefooted.

Among the documents that lump all stock users as the villains for their alleged "devastating impact", they wish included in their lawsuit a letter from a disheartened hiker that states, in part, and I quote: "Three men who had packed into a campsite a few hundred feet away were enjoying the comforts of a full-sized, two burner Coleman stove, a folding aluminum camp table and cold beers, among other things." The quote goes on to say, "These people aren't having a Wilderness Experience, they are moving the city into the backcountry."

I know, I'm shocked and flabbergasted as well, but wait, there's more. The wizards of wilderness follow up those statements with, "The character of the Wilderness Experience that we can usually count on when three or four days from the trailhead is completely destroyed when a large group of people, (remember, they said three people) camp in the area with all the comforts of home, including alcohol and radios." Carrie Nation, where are you when we need you?

How dare those nasty, inconsiderate horse folks rely on a Coleman two burner stove. Everyone knows Campchef is a better choice; they have a four burner model! Then these inconsiderate stock packers had the unmitigated gall to have a beer and enjoy themselves. How greenhorn is that? They could have had a cocktail, for crying out loud! Must have been newbies? And if I know packers, (and I do) I'll bet they probably brought long a Rib-eye steak and the makings for a salad to boot. I ask you, what has this world come too?

At first I thought that maybe these poor souls with the HSHA were either simply jealous of the stock users, or didn't know chalk from cheese. After all, they were forced to subside for days on end dining on freeze-dried gruel, cardboard-flavored granola bars, and purified Iodine flavored water, all having about the same palate-ability as sea sponge. They were used to huddling around the soft glow of a flickering candle, singing Cumbaya and Blowin' in the Wind all evening. Then, attempting to drift off to sleep snuggled a two-ounce sleeping back that provides about as much warmth as a mortician's smile, it allowed them to feel the finite nuances of every pine needle, pebble, and pisant beneath them while they no doubt shivered the night away like a dog passing a peach seed. Who wouldn't be pissed after an evening of "wilderness experience" like that?

Then it hit me. Maybe I was just being cynical, and possibly these John Muir wannabes were onto something. Maybe we really do need to get back to having a genuine "Wilderness experience?" Maybe we should get back to basics and become one with nature. So I have proposed a set of guidelines I will submit to the Forest Service and other agencies next week to enact immediately for all folks wishing to travel into the backcountry. A series of guidelines to help each of us to truly have a "wilderness experience."

To begin with, there will be no more of this light-weight, hi-tec, Gore-tex stuff to keep you warm. No more stuff to that'll whisk away moisture as you're trudging up the side of a 10,000 foot peak and coughing up a lung. No more loading up on comfort items stuffed into your 12,000 cubic foot Hike-A-Matic 6000 backpack. Think buckskin!

Yes, we need to get back to wearing buckskin clothing like our forefathers before us. If it was good enough for Sacajawea and Jim Bridger when they went camping, it's good enough for you. Not only will you aesthetically blend in to your surroundings much better after slapping on some animal grease to break in your new duds, you can probably get to your out-of-the-way destination considerably faster while outrunning that curious bear who's been following your waft and who's considering inviting you for supper.

There will be no more of those light-weight, pop-up tents, either. Just tote along a good old fashioned axe, chop down a tree, and build your own shelter for the evening. Remember, trees are biodegradable and in twenty or thirty years no one will ever know your shelter was even there. If you're not Bob the builder, you can even sleep in a hollowed out log for protection, that bear won't mind.

You'll also need to sling "Ol Betsy" over your shoulder when you head out for the high country because you are going to have to eat. No more delicious dehydrated tofu burgers, processed cheese product, or tasty freeze-dried shrimp scampi; we're gettin' back to basics. Shoot a deer for supper, then jerk the remainder for trail snacks. Jerky is certainly healthier than granola bars and tastes far better than soy and raisin trail paste.

Not into venison? Just take aim and pop a squirrel off one of those high pine boughs with your old flintlock, they'll be tenderized after that second or third bounce, and after lunch you can make a fashionable hat out of the hide. And hey, those cute little chipmunks make for tasty after dinner delights; you can even plunk 'em with a wrist rocket. In case you're marksmanship isn't exactly of Annie Oakley caliber, you might want to bring along a couple of beaver traps, just in case. A dip into those icy creeks and rivers before breakfast really helps to work up an appetite.

Make sure you bring a flint along with you to get that roaring campfire going. No more citified matches, or those light-weight mountaineering stoves fueled by propane. You'll be tired as Jessica Simpson taking S.A.T.s after three hours of banging on a rock with your flint and blowing on wet tinder to get a flame.

Starting to feel that wilderness experience yet? You will when you discover you'll now have to practice your navigational skills by the stars. Yep, no more of those gawl-fangled GPS gadgets. Just pay attention to where the moss grows and you'll learn that the green stuff grows on the north side of trees, mostly...often...well, sometimes! And flashlights? You can leave them at home too. Talk about killing the mood of a wilderness experience. Ever awake in the middle of the night to nature's call and prematurely mess your britches on your way to the latrine when you encounter a bear? Not to worry, though, you're camp mates will laugh hysterically when you explain the next morning how the bear was really just a tree stump!

Well, there you are, folks, just some of the changes forthcoming so you too can enjoy a Wilderness experience you'll remember for quite some time. The way I figure it, if someone can dictate to you what a wilderness experience has to be, it may as well be me. Until next time, Happy Camping!

YET ANOTHER HEARTWARMING CHRISTMAS STORY

Once upon a time, tucked away in the snow-covered Rocky Mountains in a land called Utah was the small town of Misery, and there, in a little, two-room shack, almost hidden in an isolated canyon, lived a wonderful little boy named Tiny Tom.

Tiny Tom lived with his grandmother, a crazy, old bird who was constantly picking on him and ordering him about. "Put on clean underwear," she'd holler. "Wash behind your ears," "Eat your brussel sprouts," "Feed the chickens," "Wipe your feet before you come in," "Do your homework." "Pick up your clothes." And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

But Tiny Tom wasn't discouraged. When he wasn't being relentlessly picked on by his grandmother, Tiny Tom trudged two-miles, uphill, both ways, in the snow to and from school. Tiny Tom knew the value of a good education and studied hard so he could someday be a mountain man, or professional baseball player. Tiny Tom's teacher, the evil Ms Ridenhour, had different ideas. Apparently she thought Tiny Tom should be an astronaut because she was always telling the angry Principal Oger that all he did at school all day was take up space. Tiny Tom eventually won the battle and didn't become an astronaut after all, but that's another story.

At any rate, the evil Ms Ridenhour had it in for Tiny Tom. "Thomas, you never end a sentence with a preposition," she'd scream, pulling on her hair. "Thomas, you didn't carry the six!" "Thomas, what's the capital of New Jersey?" "Thomas, wake up!" "Thomas, who discovered Slogvania?" "Thomas, in what year did Queen Victoria have a hysterectomy?" And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

But still, Tiny Tom wasn't discouraged. Sometimes Tiny Tom would day-dream while sitting at his desk (but only during recess) that someday he would be able to buy a brand, new, Daisy model 25 pump BB gun for his granny. Never once did it occur to Tiny Tom to replace his own aging, rusted, dilapidated Red Rider, a tired hand-me-down given to him by his uncle.

Every day after school, Tiny Tom would gather his twelve-hundred-and-sixteen homework assignments and hurry off to his job, working for a miserly jackass who went by the name of Ebenezer Zane Grey, a mean spirited, senile, old mule who owned the town's stable. Zane Grey was always gruff and grumpy, speaking in a New York accent, which was odd not because he was a mule, and talked, but because he was actually from Bishop, California. At any rate, Tiny Tom had to work every day from 3:30 in the afternoon until midnight, day in, and day out; a nearly super-human feat to be certain. But still Tiny Tom was not discouraged.

Sometimes Tiny Tom would inadvertently be late for his job. This was because the evil Ms Ridenhour had given him detention for some minor indiscretion of no consequence. Tiny Tom's tardiness tended to tick-off the terrible tyrant who tended to take tardiness too personally and would make the miserly mule even more mean, mingy, and cantankerous than he normally was. (You try it; it's not as easy as it looks!) Because of this, his stingy, tight-hoofed employer would call Tiny Tom horribly cruel names, and burden him with more and more chores to do; almost more than were humanly possible to do. "Bring me more alfalfa dare, boyd-brain" "Muck my stall dare, Squoit" "Bring me some donuts, dare dimwit!" "Put away dem saddles, pinhead!" "Tote that barge, dare punkinhead!" "Bring me more alfalfa, dare knucklehead." And on and on it went for poor Tiny Tom.

As the days leading up to Christmas approached, Tiny Tom would put the nickel he earned from Ebenezer Zane every day into a small, leather pouch he kept in his pocket. Ever closer to his goal of having enough money to buy the Daisy for his elderly grandmother, Tiny Tom would count his nickels every day.

"Almost," he'd say to himself, as he counted out the last five-cent piece. Finally, Christmas Eve arrived and Tiny Tom was about to burst from excitement. He needed but one more nickel and he'd have enough to buy the BB gun for his beloved Granny.

Tiny Tom arrived at the miserly mule's stable on time, for a change. This was because all of the children were out of school for Christmas break. Even the evil Ms Ridenhour was away somewhere, probably riding her broom over Salt Lake trying to scare all the children, Tiny Tom thought.

At any rate, Tiny Tom worked late into the evening that Christmas Eve. Finally, glancing up at the clock on the wall he saw it was 7:45pm. Usually, Tiny Tom had to work till midnight, but realizing Stedem's Hardware Emporium, Feed Store, and Bowling Alley was open only until eight, he decided to ask Mr. Zane if he could leave early so he could get to Stedem's before they closed.

"Ah geez, ya might as well take off, dare cabbagehead, ya sure ain't got yer mind on yer woyk," growled Mister Zane, as he shook his huge head in disgust and turned away. "But be back here da day afta Christmas at seven sharp!"

"Thank you Mister Zane," Tiny Tom replied timidly. "Excuse me, sir, if you don't mind, I just wonder one more thing?"

"WHAT?" Zane yelled, obviously agitated.

"Well, sir, I just wondered if I might get paid for tonight? You know, for my work?" asked Tiny Tom. "I'll make it up the day after tomorrow?"

"WHAAAT? Are ya tryin' to bust my…"

"No sir," interrupted Tiny Tom. "It's just that, then I'd have enough to buy the Daisy Pump BB gun that my grandma has always wanted, and Stedem's closes in five minutes. If I hurry, I can make it."

"Humpff," said Mister Zane as he gave a grunt and begrudgingly flipped a nickel on the ground in front of Tiny Tom, not an easy thing to do considering the beast didn't have the advantage of opposable thumbs.

"Thank you Mister Zane," he said excitedly, as he snatched up the nickel and put it in his leather pouch.

"Humpff," was the reply.

Tiny Tom raced to the door and opened it as he glanced up at the clock on the wall. 7:56 pm

"I can still make it," he thought to himself as he opened door. Then suddenly he stopped and turned toward Mister Zane.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Zane," said Tiny Tom, smiling.

"Fah-get-about-it," said Mister Zane, with emptiness in his eyes. "Christmas ain't nuttin' ta me," he added. As the miserly mule turned and stormed away, Tiny Tom could hear him mutter, "AWW-FA-BUNG-HUG!"

"Boy, will Granny be surprised," thought Tiny Tom, as he bolted out the door and raced down the street toward Stedem's Hardware. Racing faster than a turpentined cat, Tiny Tom was but a blur rocketing down the street.

As Tiny Tom rounded the corner he flew onto the wooden porch leading to Stedem's, and pushed on the door. In one fluid motion, he gave a mighty shove on the door, so hard that when it didn't open he was sent reeling backward, landing on his keister. The door was closed tighter than Mister Zane's coin purse.

"CLOSED," read the big sign hanging in the window, and below it, "Merry Christmas!"

"How could this be," thought Tiny Tom. "Hark, whatever shall I do?"

Yes, people talked funny back in those days, but Tiny Tom was heartbroken none-the-less. Now he'd have to come back the day-after- Christmas to get the Daisy Pump for his poor, aged grandmother.

The long walk up the dark canyon to his house would be an agonizing one for Tiny Tom, mostly because he'd have to avoid being eaten by a Bigfoot, Boogeyman, or any one of the dozen or so, horrible monsters who lurked in the shadows along the way to his house up in the dark canyon.

Back at the stable, Mister Zane was getting ready for bed. The old, grey miser put on his night cap, crawled into his large, four-poster bed, and quickly drifted off to sleep; but not for long!

As the clock struck 10 pm, Ebenezer Zane was awakened by a strange sound. Pffft! It sounded strangely like someone passing gas, Zane thought to himself. He then closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

Pffft! There it was again.

Zane rolled over to see what was making the sound, and there next to his bed was a ghostly apparition in a worn, dusty, black cowboy hat.

"Sorry 'bout thet, Ah had some chili fer lunch and it's a talkin' back," said the ghost.

I can't tell you exactly what Ebenezer Zane said next because the censors would just bleep it, but to paraphrase, Zane asked the apparition, "Who are ya, and watta ya doins' in my bedroom?" only much more colorfully.

"Ebenezer Zane, ya was suppose ta get visited bah three ghosts tonight, but 'cause a time constraints, the angel strike, and dis bein' a short story and all, ya only gets two, and Ah'm' a standin' in fer 'em. So tonight ya gets the ghost a Christmas past, an Christmas future. So let's get a move-on, Ah got thangs ta do." And with that, Ebenezer Zane found himself flying through the air, high above the clouds.

"Leh-me, leh-me down," screamed the frightened old mule!

"Pipe down, Ah gots a announcement ta make. In the event of a sudden drop in cabin pressure, ya'll turn yer head around an kiss yer ass good-bye. Get it, get it," chortled the ghost of Christmas past. "Get it; mule, ass, ass, mule? Aw well, jes a lettle ghost joke ta pass da time. We's dare now, look down, Ebenezer."

Ebenezer Zane cast his eyes downward upon a beautiful, lush, green pasture. "Where are we at, dare Flash Ghouldon, this place looks familiar," he asked, as they settled into a holding pattern and began circling the meadow where several yearling mules were running about.

"Ah'm serprized, Ebenezer, Ah thoughts you was smarter than thet," said Lecil.

"Whatta ya mean," Zane asked, truly puzzled.

"Ah thought ya know'd better'n ta end a sentence wit a preposition," replied Lecil.

"Yer right, dare Super-fly, now where are we," asked Zane, overlooking the pasture below?

"Thet's you, thar, Ebanezer Zane, a playin' wit yer friends on Chistmas Eve as yer momma looks on," said the ghost.

"Ahhh bologna! It's Christmas Eve and I'm right here, wastin' it by flyin' around with you, dare Chuckles," answered Zane.

"Guess ya ain't payin' attenshun," grumbled the ghost. "Ah splained Ah was da Ghost-a-Christmas PAST, as in a long time ago. Got et?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I got it, dat soytainly is me, but what's my ma doin' over dare," he asked?

"She's a knittin' ya a warm pair a size 16 ear-socks fer Christmas."

"Oh yeah, I remember doze tings," Zane answered, and for the first time in a long time he was smiling.

"Yep, you was a happy camper back in them days," drawled Lecil. "Now look at ya; yer so mean and nasty thet a sheep dog couldn't get along wit ya."

Suddenly the scene below became fuzzy as clouds drifted in. Ebanezer was a bit surprised when he found himself back in his room, snug in bed. Believing it was but a bad dream, he quickly drifted back to sleep, but not for long!

Once again, Ebenezer Zane was awakened by a loud noise. CLANK, BANG!

"Sorry 'bout thet, guess Ah had a bit more egg nog at da Christmas party. Anyway, et's jes me. Ar ya ready fer Christmas future?

Before Ebenezer Zane could say Jack Robinson, he was again whisked away and sailing high above the clouds.

"Now where are we goin', dare Cowboy Corpses," asked Ebenezer Zane?

"Ah told ya , ta Christmas future; look down thar," Lecil answered, pointing to a hole in the clouds.

As Ebenezer Zane looked through the hole in the clouds he could see an old, boney, grey mule standing out in front of a building. The mule was sitting on his haunches bracing himself, as two sinister looking men dressed in BLM uniforms were struggling to push the old, grey mule through the door. GLUE FACTORY said the sign above the door.

"Whatta dem guys doin to dat mule down dare," asked Zane?

"Thet mule down thar is you, Ebenezer Zane. Et's you in the future, and you've outlived yer usefulness. Ya got's no one ta take care of ya on account a ya bein' so mean an miserable, so them fellers is a fixin' ta fix yer wagon, if'n ya know what Ah mean," said Lecil.

A sober look washed across Ebenezer Zane's huge, anvil-shaped head.

"Well, mah job's done here, Ah recon. Ah hope you learn't a valuable lesson, Ebenezer Zane," said Lecil. And with that, he disappeared.

Ebenezer opened his eyes and peeked over the thick, quilt comforter that covered him. He was shaking as his eyes scanned the room for the ghost of Lecil. Realizing the ghost was nowhere to be found, he gave a sigh of relief as he lay there, contemplating whether or not to go back to sleep.

Then Ebenezer Zane's eyes got bigger than saucers and Ebenezer Zane bolted up right in bed. "It's Christmas morning," he exclaimed to no one around.

The old grey mule jumped out of his bed and quickly got dressed. He slipped into his four boots and headed for the door. "It's Christmas morning, it's Christmas," he exclaimed, excited as a puppy on new carpet. He did this because this is a fairy tale and it is no more unbelievable than a frog kissing a princess and becoming a prince.

As Tiny Tom sat down with his granny at the table to eat the Christmas goose his grandmother had prepared, an amusing thought came to his tiny little head. "My goose is cooked," he thought to himself. It didn't take much to amuse children back in those days because kids weren't spoiled rotten with video games, computers, and X-Boxes.

Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door followed by a booming, "Merry Christmas!"

Tiny Tom looked over at his granny with a confused expression like he'd been dealt five aces.

"Whoever could that be this snowy, Christmas Morning," Tiny Tom said to his granny.

"Quit talkin' like that or I'll slap that nose of yours up next to your ear," replied Granny. (Granny was quite the cut-up.)

Tiny Tom got up and opened the door. It was Ebenezer Zane and he had a large present in his arm.

"Merry Christmas, Tiny Tom," he said, brushing past and into the kitchen. "And Merry Christmas to you, Granny."

"What-ev-er," said Granny, as she grabbed a broom and dust pan and stood behind Ebenezer, just in case.

"Here, Tiny Tom, this is for you," he said, handing a large, long Christmas package to the bewildered youngster.

Tiny Tom's little eyes welled up with tears and a huge smile came across his face. "It's got to be my Model 25, pump BB gun," he thought to himself, about to burst? "What else could be in this long, slender package?"

As Tiny Tom began carefully removing the wrapping paper a smile of contentedness washed across the old mules face. Even Granny's pearly-white store-boughts were glowing, as she and Ebenezer Zane stood in the kitchen, anticipating Tiny Tom's reaction.

With the festive Christmas wrapping paper but a heap on the floor, Tiny Tom removed the lid to the cardboard box. The precious look of surprise on his face said it all. Why, you could have knocked Tiny Tom over with a feather. His little mouth opened wide enough to put a foot in, something Tiny Tom did frequently over the years, and his eyes were as big as hubcaps. Yes, it was all his, a shinny, brand new manure shovel!

Over the coming years, Tiny Tom would grow out of his tininess. He would develop a facial tic that enhanced his often odd behavior. The AK-47 assault rifle he carried around with him certainly didn't help Tom's social life either, and years of therapy would do nothing to reveal the underlying cause. Eventually he was able to control his odd behavior, but to this day, the words Merry Christmas send Tiny Tom into a frenzy. His facial tic returns and Tiny Tom spends an inordinate amount of time talking to his mules. Neighbors usually stay away until Easter.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

 

Any resemblance to people living or otherwise is purely bull-malarkey. Offer is limited to citizens of these United States only. (See fine print for details.) Offer void in Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and Pecoma, California. Could cause diarrhea, shingles, whooping cough, tonsillitis, or sudden death. If you show signs of any of these symptoms, please consult the advice of a gynecologist. We do reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, regardless of age, race, religion, or your driver's license picture. Should headaches continue, take two aspirin and call me in the morning

 

 

 

The "Grave"

       It probably slipped your mind this year, but don't worry about it too much, it almost got past my radar as well.  Just in case you weren't aware I have this little nugget of information to share with you, (and as Yogi Berra once said, "You could look it up".), November 1st through the 7th was National Give Wildlife A Break Week.  Yep, I can't make that stuff up.
       Ironically, this year's NGWB week happened to fall when I was deer hunting in New Mexico, and for step-son Jason Hower, the anti-deer magnet Ed Goosecock, and myself, New Mexico was not very good to us this year, and maybe that's as it should be.
        I did a lot of hiking during my futile search for Bambi's father, and during the process of wearing out a perfectly good pair of boots, giving my GPS more colorful names than Zsa Zsa Gabor, and discovering blisters can indeed grow atop other blisters, I found myself studying my USGS topo map about as often as a goose goes barefoot.  In fact, had my wife, Cathy, been along she would have had yet another of her grand mal fits of fearful excitement and commenced to jumping up and down like an ostrich on hot pavement while proclaiming louder than a Richard Simmons Hawaiian shirt to the entire Gila National Forest's Flora and fauna that I was lost........again.  Fortunately she wasn't, so we'll stick with the term I prefer to use during situations such as these; logistically challenged.
      At any rate, I discovered a curious entry on my topo map marked "grave".  This interested me greatly in spite of my near-death experience at the haunted camp at Lewis Stringer in the Sierras a couple of years ago. 
       I should probably explain that Tom doesn't do well with ghosts, Bigfoot, bears, tree stumps that look like bears, screams in the middle of the night, horror movies, spiders, skunks, and small, furry creatures in my bedroll at 3 a.m., or brussel sprouts.  This would mostly be due to the fact that all of the above scare the crap out of me except for brussel sprouts.  They make me toss my cookies.
       Anyway, for only the second time in a single day, according to my GPS, and the fact I had absolutely no idea which direction camp was, imagine my glee and mirth to discover I was again logistically challenged.  If I were reading my topo map correctly, (only a slightly better than odds chance) I calculated I might be in the same canyon as the "grave", and since I was lost anyway, and I thought I might be lost in the neighborhood of the "grave", I figured I might as well look for it while was here.
       After an exhaustive search of the area and turning up nothing I was ready to toss in the towel and give up, but miraculously, upon stumbling backward over a pile of rocks someone had carelessly left stacked out in the forest, miles from nowhere, BINGO; I had found the "grave".

       The mysterious "grave" had no markings or plaque to identify it as such, nor was there anything to identify the tenant occupying the space beneath the 5'x4'x3' high pile of neatly stacked stones.  And who was the occupant?  Had he been a cowboy killed in an accident when his horse threw him up being startled by a rattlesnake?  Or was it an old rancher who'd simply lived out his life to a ripe old age?  Was he a miner, or possibly an old prospector who'd had a heart attack on his way out of the mountains to file a claim on the mother lode he'd secretly discovered in the area?  Perhaps he was a marshall who'd been ambushed by an outlaw, or a trapper who'd been mauled by a grizzle bear?
       Maybe, just maybe he was an alien being from a distant universe who'd crashed his spaceship in these mountains and walked away only to wander aimlessly in the maze of rock canyons, hopelessly lost until some Indians found him and made him their chief until he had a brain aneurysm from smoking some toxic locoweed.  But wait a minute; that would be silly.  Certainly an alien would know how to use his GPS and wouldn't have gotten lost in the first place; unlike SOMEBODY!
       At any rate, what was interesting about the "grave" was that on top of the pile of rocks someone had placed a large jar; like that of an old pickle jar.  And the jar's top was badly rusting away allowing water to seep into it through the rusted holes in the lid.  Inside, the jar contained ashes; the ashes of someone else!  But who was in the jar?  Could it have been the remains of......oh never mind.  The point is that next year's deer season, upon returning to New Mexico, I shall seek out a local rancher who no doubt can tell me the story behind the "grave".
       Now, if I can just find my way back to camp; Gol da%# GPS!  Now let's see, the sun comes up in the east, or is it the north?  No, it's the east, and then it travels past the Little Dipper....

                     





       
                       

Now Where Did He Get That Silly Notion?

Ed Goosecock is a city boy.  In Ed's world, hamburger comes from McDonald's, Potatoes are made at the supermarket, and everything else a person ever needs is at a Walmart.  Unless Ed is fast asleep, he almost always has one of those fancy Rasberry III HD, 3-D, DDT cellphones in his hand.  If Ed isn't talking, texting, or checking his e-mail on his marvel of technology, he's downloading, uploading, or Twittering on it.  I'm not sure I've ever seen Ed's left ear.

Ed has never ridden a horse.  In fact, he's never so much as climbed atop a twenty-five cent drugstore pony ride. The closest he's ever been to to a real horse was sitting behind a barrel of popcorn at the movies when he took the family to see Tombstone, so you can imagine Ed's trepidation in coming along on a pack trip with Ladd Stokes and I.

Ed will be going with us for eight days.  We leave on Sunday.  It will be a week of firsts for the suburbanite from El Monte. This is his first pack trip, and not only will it be the first time in his life he has parked his fanny on a slab of leather in the form of a saddle, but that saddle will be on the back of an honest-to-goodness anvil-headed,doodle-donkey.  Ed is scared to death.  Actually, he is terrified; and he should be!

I have decided to put Ed atop Zane Grey. Not because Zane is my most trusted and seasoned mule.  Not because he is bomb-proof.   And not because Zane has the footing of a sherpa, is as safe as baby aspirin, and could care less who's driving.  No, I have decided to mount Ed atop Zane because Edward Goosecock is under the strange impression that the trip we are to embark upon is thirty-six miles over some of the most challenging, dangerous, and precarious trail ever crossed by man or beast, and that we should reach camp sometime around midnight if we can get on the trail by sun-up.  It is also Ed's belief that Zane Grey is frightened of chipmunks, and will buck, spin on a dime, and run the other way at the mere sight of one, but that he shouldn't worry; there hasn't been a sighting of a chipmunk in the southern Sierra's since 1938; the year before they became extinct.

 I'm not entirely sure where Ed got these crazy notions, especially the one about not looking a mule directly in the eye because it makes them furious, and how they will charge and stomp a person to death who dares to make eye contact, but I think that at least until we reach Kern Flat and get our deer camp set up, a vivid imagination is a healthy thing to have.

At any rate, I certainly hope Ed wears plenty of his wife's perfume, and knows all the words to "She'll Be Comin' Around The Mountain".  For some strange reason he is convinced they help to calm the disposition of nervous mules on a long, dangerous trail ride!

KATHUMP!

       Mule deer are my thing.  They are perhaps my greatest passion in life, and while elk, antelope, turkey, and the like are all enjoyable to hunt; for me, nothing beats pursuing big mulies in rough, rugged country.  Studying and hunting these magnificent creatures is what makes me tick, and truth be told, one of my greatest fears is reaching that point in life when I am no longer able to physically hunt them.
       Last month, (August) I drew an archery tag for the famed Kaibab on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.  The Kaibab is long famous for producing record book mule deer bucks of unequaled size and I was as excited as a puppy on new carpet to be going, and when I arrived a couple of days before the opener, and on my very first scouting venture came onto two incredible bucks, I knew this was going to be a good hunt.
       My first day hunting, I parked my fanny in a thick grove of quaking aspens I felt was prone to traffic headed to and from a bedding area.  Less than twenty minutes later, as the sun began creeping up the east side of the ridge, my senses were awakened with the sound of snapping twigs approaching from a thicket of aspens to my left.  Into view stepped two bucks; a respectable 3x2 in the lead, followed closely by a smaller forky.  Having already ranged certain spots around me, and fairly certain where the lead buck would step into a shooting lane, I drew my bow back and waited.
       As the buck stepped into view, he stopped broadside and attempted to get the wind.  At that point I realized I'd come a fair distance for the opportunity to take something more substantial home.  I gently let off on my bow string.  The young buck took this as a cue to quit the country before I changed my mind, and I immediately began wondering if I'd done the right thing as he beat feet for the next county.  You know, a bird in the bush...
       That evening, following a brief phone call home to inform my bride of the day's events, Cathy confirmed any suspicions I may have had and removed any and all doubt as to the question, was I a dumb&%!?  Apparently I was.
       "You did what?" she said, sounding like Dr. Phil.  "It's a 3x2; it's bow season, are you outta your ever-lovin' mind?"  And so our entertaining session went.
       The next eight days went by tortuously fast.  I was seeing bucks, a lot of bucks; but not big bucks, or even anything like the 3x2 I'd passed on.  Worse than that, I wasn't even getting a shooting opportunity.
       Finally, with only three days left before we had to return home, a group of deer came tromping into the area I was set up in.  Leading the group were two, 160 class or better, 4x4s.  "Good enough for me," I thought.
       The wider-racked buck, the one I wanted was leading the parade of four other, lesser bucks, three does, and the Jackson Five spotted fawns running around like squirrels in a peanut factory.  At the first opportunity I drew my bow on the wide 4x4 only to realize I hadn't taken a yardage.  Gently I let off on my bow and slowly lifted my range finder.  Thirty-five yards!
       At this point, the buck had again moved.  The thick grove of quaking aspens I was in prevented another try, so I ranged the next opening I though he might step into and waited silently (except for that incessent pounding of my heart.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP! Twenty-four yards!
       Amazingly enough, with deer surrounding me as close as twenty yards, I still hadn't been detected by the scattered troupe who seemed almost to have me surrounded as they hurriedly ate while walking.  Then the buck stepped into the shooting lane and paused long enough for me to draw my bow string.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       I was certain the magnificent buck could hear my heart pounding as he looked directly at me and raised those giant ears.  All I needed now was a tuba, sax, and a trombone and I could give the USC marching band a run for their money.
       The buck suddenly, and instinctively turned his head and looked right at me.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  He stomped a front hoof on the ground; a sign he knew all was not right in River City and he was about to leave Dodge.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  I squeezed the release and let the arrow fly.
       The entourage jumped in unison and scattered out of the thicket to the far side of a small meadow some seventy yards away.  There they resumed dining as if nothing had happened and continued on their merry way as I watched in despair as my newest wall mount disappeared.
        What just happened, I wondered?  When I walked over to the narrow shooting lane where a dead buck should have been lying, I discovered the problem.  There, squarely in the middle of a branch defiantly sticking up from a dead and downed aspen tree was my broadhead arrow.  I knew it was mine because it had my brand on it.
       I have decided to write a stern letter to the U.S. Forest Service concerning their poor maintenance program of cleaning up branches in the forest.  They should be ashamed of themselves and taken to task for their poor housekeeping principles.
       At any rate, I reviewed the shot several hundred times in my head, gathered my gear, and decided to make a wide swath around in the general direction the bucks were headed to see if I couldn't catch them again.
      I had hiked about half-a-mile when I came to a gently sloping, meadow-like area that opened up.  As I crept along, still in stealth mode and trying to step quietly on the died twig-mined slope, I could see the entire area was there for a stock tank.  A stock tank is simply a natural area where a berm is built to contain water run-off and store it for stock or game during the dry months.
      Now I knew where the bucks had been headed!  Silent as a fence post I crept toward the low spot a couple of hundred yards below me where the water would be, and hopefully a bruiser of a buck.  I tried to stay concealed as best as possible sneaking silently from small pine tree to pine tree.  It took me nearly ten minutes of painstaking stealthiness but I was nearly there.
       As my eyes studied the topography out a head of me, scanning every possible place for the outline of a deer's body, I couldn't help but notice a strange resistance as I accidentally brushed up against a small, five-foot pine overlooking the water hole.
        Instinctively I glanced down only to observe a small window in the pine tree.  WINDOW?  In the window were a pair of legs sporting a fine pair of Realtree camo hunting pants.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!  It wasn't a pine tree, it was someone's hunting blind.  I had committed a cardinal sin.  I hadn't just walked into an area where someone had a blind set up.  Nooo, that small sin can be excused; even forgiven.  No siree Billy-Bob, I hadn't walked into an area where a blind was set up; I walked into the blind itself!
       "Oh my God, I am soooo sorry.  Please forgive me, I didn't see your blind," I whispered, apologizing pathetically like a nurse dropping a newborn. 
       I calculated that the gentleman in the blind was probably near the boiling point and no doubt counting to ten to control his temper from his lack of response.
       "Oh jeeze, I am so sorry, I'll get out of your area, SORRY!" I whispered.
       It was at that point the hunter's legs stiffened straight out and the blind began to shake.  As the pair of legs began violently kicking out in front of him, the concealed gentleman also began emitting sounds much like a chainsaw trying to be started on a cold day.  He had been asleep!  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       "Oh great," I thought to myself.  "Now I'm gonna have to give mouth to mouth to some Bubba 'cause he's gone into coronary arrest from me scaring him to death.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP!
       "I'm soooo sorry; didn't see ya here. Please, please forgive me," I said, backing up like a pup on a porcupine.
       I am pretty certain I heard the hunter mutter something like, "That's okay," but to be honest, I was making tracks and covering some ground.  While I'm sure the hunter no doubt had a good story to tell back at camp that evening, it's probably a good thing I didn't stick around to chat with him.  He probably needed time to be alone so he could change his shorts.  KATHUMP, KATHUMP! 





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SEEING RED

        Things have not gone well this week here at Half-Ass Ackers.  To put it mildly, it's been a week of mishaps, pain, and tragedy, not to mention that the last episode of "Lost"cleared up absolutely nothing and has left me as confused as an Amish electrician, just as bewildered as I was on episode one.  There's six-years I'll never get back.  At any rate, one can only hope and pray that fate turns a corner soon and we can begin the road to recovery around here; returning to the every day chaos we are accustomed to.
       It all started last week when the mercury began rising faster than the national deficit.  Normally that wouldn't be of any great concern so long as the swamp cooler keeps working, the air in my pick-up functions properly, there is beer in the ice box, and my wife doesn't require I get my fanny busy on her list of honey-dos that's longer than the Chinese alphabet. Quite frankly, (if I may call you Frank) I would much rather be outdoors doing something constructive, like fishing in the high country, or napping under a tree at deer camp, or searching for my escaped mules in some steep, remote canyon.  I just don't do well in extreme heat anymore, and considering it is me, it's probably just as well because search and rescue would no doubt wait until the heat wave has passed to come out and recover the body.
       As if the soaring temperatures weren't annoying enough, last Saturday, a friend and I braved the heat and left out early in the morning to scout out an area in the high country for a Back Country Horsemen function to be held next month.  When we arrived at the gate, I got out of the truck and knelt down in front of the gate locked with a chain meant to keep us out, and systematically began trying each of the five locks with my collection of six-thousand Master Lock keys dating back to the Hoover administration.  About five minutes into the operation I couldn't help but notice I was kneeling squarely atop a rather large community of red ants, perhaps a gazillion or more.  Most of the little red six-legged beggars by now had joined the festive congregation gathered on my jeans and tee-shirt, and a good number seemed genuinely annoyed at my presence.  By the time I noticed the festivities I had more ants on me than pimples at a junior prom.
       After beating myself nearly senseless, and escaping a bite from the little red invaders, I jumped back in the truck, put it in second gear-low, and four-wheeled up the narrow, bumpy road leading up to the old cabin and the nearby pond full of fish.
       About halfway up the mountain, deep in conversation with my passenger, Bob, about quantum physics as they relate to cohesive neo-nuclear plasmadics and falsonia harmonics, I began to take notice of a gnawing irritation in the small of my back that became increasingly bothersome; gnawing being the operative word here.  As the pain reached an excruciating crescendo I astutely realized that something was indeed feasting enthusiastically at the only place on my body I couldn't quite reach.
       At what was probably the most inopportune spot on the steep road I decided to do the only thing I could do; I asked Bob if he would mind driving, to keep her in second gear-low, and I leaped gracefully from the moving truck like a duckling falling out of a barn loft.
       Tearing my tee-shirt off faster than a new bride's nightie I beat my voracious attacker into submission and the episode ended; sort of.  If you've never experienced being the main course for a red ant, consider yourself fortunate because the bite is only the first of the three stages of annoyance.
       The bite, which feels about as enjoying as someone grabbing you with a pair of molten, red-hot, needle-nose pliers and leading you on a walking tour of the Barstow Piston and Crankcase Museum lasts only a day or two.
       Next you get to enjoy the itch.  The itch makes a feather shoved up you nose while your sleeping seem slapdash by comparison.  After applying enough cortozone cream to fill a feed bucket, and a couple of fifty-six hour days, the itch has disapeared.  It has disappeared because you have no flesh remaining and have scratched a hole where the itch was the size of a F-250 hubcap.  I won't go into detail concerning the third stage, but suffice it to say it involves enough anti-biotic ointment and band-aids to satisfy a playground of six-year-old"s for an entire school year.
        My weekend got even more interesting on Sunday.  I arrived home from the post office intent on grabbing something to eat, finding a cool spot, and taking a nap.  It wasn't to be.  Upon changing into a comfortable pair of shorts, I waltzed down the hall to the kitchen and along the way managed to stub my toe on a long throw rug that is out to get me.  The sinister carpet cover insists upon bunching up in the middle so it might trip me at an unsuspecting moment.  It is a evil rug I have never much cared for and I've attempted to toss it out on more than one occasion, but my wife will hear nothing of it.  "Pick up your feet, clumsy!"  I can't help but wonder if she is in on the conspiracy?
        Immediately upon contact I grabbed my foot and began jumping around like a mad ostrich on hot pavement while screaming a string of new and creative, as well as many previously unheard of profanities.  When I managed to stop long enough to survey the damage, my toe had swelled up the size of a baked potato and was redder than Hattie's barn.
       It was about this time that tensions escalated when my bride burst into the house screaming hysterically like her hair was on fire and her fanny was catchin'.  The source of her dismay was to inform me that the walk-in cooler in our meat shop had failed to come on and the temperature inside was dropping drastically.
       "The back-up compressor isn't working either, and we've got four beef hanging in there!  I don't want to lose them!  Do something, DO SOMETHING," she screamed.  "We're all going to die..."
       I'm not sure just what it was my sweetheart expected me to do?  Perhaps she thought if I went out and gave the compressors a good, stern talking to they'd begin working again?  As I rubbed my throbbing foot, contemplating life hobbling around with a wooden leg, something outside grabbed my attention like engine failure on a 747.  The mules were out!
       I'm not sure if you've ever experienced the thrill of hopping about on one foot, attempting to corral three mules and a like amount of horses who have escaped from their enclosure to what was no doubt their version of heaven; Cathy's apple orchard.  Apparently some idiot had left the pasture gate open when he went out to feed and the entire herd had slipped out unnoticed and were dining on Cathy's Wine-saps, Granny Smiths, and Macintosh.  I had no doubt there would be a rodeo trying to convince the outlaws to return, but if I didn't get them back in the pasture before Cathy found out;  well, let's just say the timing for that ensuing conversation just wasn't right.
       As of this writing, the four-legged criminals are back in confinement.  The refrigeration guy has come and gone, with a wad of money in his pocket and a smile on his face.  With the meat locker working just fine, I returned to work to rest and recuperate, and while a week later, the area surrounding the ant bite is down to about the size of a coffee table coaster.
       But you know the real aggravating part of the whole fiasco?  You guessed it; the plot of "LOST"still makes about as much sense as a pig in a ruffled blouse!


      

      










       
     

PHONE CALL FOR MISTER PERRY MASON

       I used to believe there were just too many senseless lawsuits clogging up our court system.  People seemed to be suing for every little thing and it simply had to stop.  Folks were suing, (and winning), for the silliest of reasons and mostly because they were idiots doing something they shouldn't have been doing in the first place, or they could have simply used just a little common sense and avoided the mishap entirely.
       Well I've changed my mind and I want to sue.  The truth is; I could use the money for a new deer rifle I've had my eye on for quite some time now, and despite what my wife, Cathy, thinks, there's a dandy pair of Swarovski binoculars down a Bass Pro I really think I need as well.  Besides, I calculate that if a lady can sue over spilling a hot cup of coffee in her lap, a common thief can get awarded a substantial sum for someone running over his hand while he's attempting to steal their hubcaps, or a woman can collect damages from a department store for tripping over a toddler, (her own kid, mind you), then I should have a rock-solid, slam-dunk case for negligence concerning a dangerous float tube that could have killed me, or worse!
       It all started a couple of weeks ago when Cat and I made our annual pilgrimage to Bishop, California in the eastern Sierras to attend the Mule Days celebration.  On one of our days off, Cathy decided one day that she wanted to fish the Pleasant Valley Reservoir, and agreeing, (like I had a choice in the matter), I thought I might just bring along my float tube, tug some streamers, and putt around to see what the big reservoir had to offer.
       We arrived at the reservoir and immediately began preparations for the mile bicycle ride up the hill and back to where my wife's secret fishing spot lies.  Then, when I explained to her that conservatively I was fairly certain that somewhere in the neighborhood of six-thousand-and-twelve other hillbillys probably know of her secret fishing spot as well due to the amount of Power Bait jars,candy bar wrappers, and plastic water bottles scattered about the vicinity, she invariably resorted to name calling.  "Killjoy!"
       We unloaded our bikes; Cathy's, a fine, expensive, quality-mad German machine, and mine, the infamous Chinese "Bicycle of Death" my wife thoughtfully had repaired to near-operable condition after it had very nearly terminated my life five years prior up on Rock Creek.
       With our gear unloaded from the truck I strapped my fly rod to the top of my backpack containing my boots, waders, lunch, etc.  I then strapped the float tube, which the makers had cleverly designed to be carried around in a pack of its very own, to the tote-board on the back of my bike.  To that, I used a bungee cord to secure a gear bag containing my fins, and to that, the small box that contained the portable air-compressor.
       I traveled the entire twenty-six feet from the truck to the gate entrance that led to the reservoir without incident.  It was there that I astutely surveyed the situation and realized immediately that I had a minor problem; I couldn't get my bike with attached gear through the L-shaped walk-thru contraption that was meant to keep livestock out.
       Upon unpacking the load from the bike and repeating the entertaining procedure of re-securing it all again on the other side, I was finally off...sort of.
       As I pushed the overloaded bicycle up the steep hill I was beginning to wonder why I just didn't stay at the truck and fish the tail waters below the dam.  Ultimately I managed to catch up with my wife who by this time already had her line in the water.
       "What took ya?" she asked, as I unloaded my gear on the bluff above her.
       Three hours later, with neither of us having caught a single fish, we decided it was time to cut our losses and head back to camp.  We began the task of hauling everything back up the bluff and getting packed up once again, only this time I had an idea.  Instead of deflating the float tube and attempting the futile job of folding something entirely impossible to return to its original size without the aid of an elephant and one of those asphalt roller contraptions, I decided to hang the gear bag with the fins on one side of my handlebars, place the air compressor in the float tube bag and hang it on the other side of my bars.  Then I could put my pack on and drape the float tube over the top of me whereby I could steady it with one hand while my backpack would help hold it in place.  Brilliant, huh?
       "I really don't think this is a good idea," said Cathy, ever the pessimist.
       "No problem, my dear," I boasted as I mounted my bike and began pedaling.
       "Wait a minute," I said, pulling to a stop.  "One, small problem."
       "What," she said.  "You mean the one where this is stupid; why you don't pack the tube into its pack like before is beyond me."
       "No," I said smugly.  "That's not the problem."
       "Would it be the fact that one gust of wind and you, the bike, and the float tube are all going to sail off the embankment and end up in the water?" she said, as I thought I sensed a bit of sarcasm in her tone.
       "No, that's not it either," I answered.
       "Well then, would it be the fact you can't see out from under that contraption on your head and I'm going to end up going on another ambulance ride with you before the day is over?"
       "Yep, that would be the one.  Now, here's what I need you to do..."
       Since I had observed rocks and boulders that had tumbled down the hillside and onto the road the previous night on my trip ride in, and my vision was no more than three feet in front of me with the float tube over my head and balancing on my backpack, and it was even odds my running into one of those rocks and boulders was a certainty, I instructed Cathy to ride her bike that exact, same distance in front of me, (three feet) and let me know what was ahead of us.  That way, even though there was indeed a fifty-foot embankment on my right I could still see her rear tire and could follow her.  I also instructed her NOT to stop suddenly or she would end up a bicycle rack.
       I must say that I amaze myself on occasion at the genius the brain-maker upstairs graced me with and things were going terrific until my bride decided to pick up the pace.
       "You need to slow down, dear," I cautioned her.  "I can't see anything."
       "There's a rock up here; go to your right a little," I heard her say.
       "Where, where?  Slow down, I can't see you.  Where are you?"  And so it went until we reached the top of the hill.
       "Okay honey, there are some people on the road up ahead; you might want to get off and walk this last little stretch down to the gate." she said.
       Now in the world of married bliss that last statement of my wife's is considered a challenge; throwing down the gauntlet if you will , and I simply couldn't give up and quit now.  After all, I had come this far, and I must admit that the brakes on my Chinese "Bicycle of Death" almost worked admirably and would have, too,
had it not been for the extra added weight of the float tube and the fact that now it had turned into a sail of sorts.  And while the float tube was directly responsible for saving me from a nasty head injury and considerable damage to a three-inch iron pipe cemented in the ground in front of the L-gate where the float tube and I came to rest; well, I think you can see plain as red paint where the manufacturer of the float tube is clearly negligible and should pay handsomely for all of my pain and suffering, not to mention the humiliation and ridicule my wife feels the need to put me though.
       Now then, anybody know Denny Crane, Matlock, or Perry Mason's phone number