On Hearts and minds...

Something about Josh's "hearts and minds" comment stuck in my craw...

























There, that's better. Thanks Teddy. Miller time.

Unsung heroes--- unwritten stories

Well, I THOUGHT there would be exploits and stories, war songs sung and war dances danced.  The guns are now silent, and the war songs and dances never came... But the brown dog and I, we soldier on.  We apologize in advance for our personality disorders.

Painting of Chesapeake Bay Retriever at Old Ebbitt's Grill, Washington DC.

Originally filmed on Ernie's couch...

Geico changed the image of the person on the couch to protect Jim's fragile emotions... Thank goodness for the loving support Jim get's from the dozer pile boys!

Bias at National Pretentious Radio????

I know Uncle Pete isn't going to want to believe this, but check out the following BLATANT case of liberal anti-gun bias being spouted forth by Pete's hero Nina Totenberg:

Civil Liberties Advocates, Not ‘Gun Advocates’

Posted By David Boaz On March 2, 2010 @ 10:54 am In General, Law and Civil Liberties | Comments Disabled

In this NPR story ^[1] Nina Totenberg gives both sides their say. But twice she refers to the people advocating Second Amendment rights as “gun advocates” (and once as “gun rights advocates”). That’s not the language NPR uses in other such cases. In 415 NPR stories on abortion, I found only one reference to “abortion advocates,” in 2005. There are far more references, hundreds more, to “abortion rights,” “reproductive rights,” and “women’s rights.” And certainly abortion-rights advocates would insist that they are not “abortion advocates,” they are advocates for the right of women to choose whether or not to have an abortion. NPR grants them the respect of characterizing them the way they prefer.

Similarly, NPR has never used the phrase “pornography advocates,” though it has run a number of stories on the First Amendment and how it applies to pornography. The lawyers who fight restrictions on pornography are First Amendment advocates, not pornography advocates.

And the lawyers who seek to guarantee our rights under the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution should be called Second Amendment advocates, or advocates of the right to self-defense, or civil liberties advocates. Or even “gun rights advocates,” as they do advocate the right of individuals to choose whether or not to own a gun. But not “gun advocates.”

---

Article printed from Cato @ Liberty: http://www.cato-at-liberty.org

URL to article: http://www.cato-at-liberty.org/2010/03/02/civil-liberties-advocates-not-gun-advocates/

Pete, I know your entire worldview is NPR-formed, but dude, you've got to get a different radio station. imho

Smell like a man, man

Since I know Keith is fond of posting manly men commercials about that catpiss he calls beer, I think it's only right to post this commercial that will help us all get in touch with our inner Cabin Boy.

"We're not saying this body wash will make your man smell into a romantic millionaire jet fighter pilot, but we are insinuating it."

High Life - Here's to the Little Guy

Let's see your Raspberry Lambic, Blue Moon, granola crunch yuppie beers do THIS! Down with beer snobbery and elitism-- muckety-mucks. Power to the people. Go Saints.

The cure for flaccid bacon

While Josh waits for epic stories of grouse camp hunts (pssst, Josh . . . don't hold yer breath), I want to publicly commend Pete and Rich for taking care of the bulk of the Old T breakfasts when we were in Wisconsin.

But many of you grouse campers know that Pete has a, ahem, problem when it comes to cooking bacon. As in getting bacon heated above room temperature. As in not reading the health advisories on the bacon packaging re proper cooking. As in . . . flaccid bacon.

Now, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, there's a YouTube video aimed directly at Pete to help him with his trichinosistic tendencies. Please watch this important safety video now. Thank you.

Reward for Information Offered

Guilty?

REWARD: $5 or a six pack of your favorite beer for information leading to the identification of the felonious footwear grabbing grouse hunter who absconded with roughly size 10 La Crosse boots from the Old Tamarack Cabin near Mellen, WI, on or about the morning of October 17, 2009. Boots easily identifiable by the Minie Pearl-style price tag ring still hanging on the gusset buckle strap. Suspects were seen driving away from the vicinity in a tan colored late model minivan with out of state plates. Please contact the blog administrator with any and all information. Leads will be kept strictly confidential; the culprit(s) will be fingered publicly and humiliated accordingly.

How to hold your breath for long periods of time

from Wiki How:

Things You'll Need

* A stopwatch
* A pencil
* A piece of paper for recording times
* A buddy, especially if you're underwater, or submerged
* A suitable body of water if you're going to hold your breath underwater

Steps

1. Do exercises to increase your lung capacity. While there is no way to increase the size of your lungs, there are many ways to increase the amount of air taken in by your lungs, and the efficiency with which they capture oxygen.

2. Lose weight. Any excess baggage reduces your body's efficiency in using oxygen.[1]

3. Quit smoking This will considerably increase your lungs' ability to release carbon dioxide and absorb oxygen.

4. Before holding your breath, inhale and exhale slowly from deep within your diaphragm. By doing this, you're ridding your lungs of low-quality air.[2] Spend 5 seconds breathing in and 5 seconds breathing out; do this for two minutes, and be sure that when you exhale, you push out every last "drop" of air.[3]

5. Take a massive gulp of air and hold it. Don't breathe in so much that you're about to pop; fill your lung capacity to 80-85% so that you still have room to relax.[4]

* Always do this with a partner watching, since you can lose consciousness without warning.
* Don't hold air in your cheeks. This method is meant for an air reserve, but you have to "let go" of the air in your lungs if you want to use the air in your cheeks, and exhaling air in your lungs usually gets rid of the reserve in your cheeks. In other words, it's not easy to switch out the air in your lungs and the air in your cheeks without letting both escape. But it can be done - see link on "Circular Breathing" below.

6. Splash cold water on your face. It's been observed that putting a person's face in contact with cold water triggers bradycardia, or the slowing of the heart rate, which is the first phase of the mammalian diving reflex.[5] You don't need to actually put your entire head underwater, though. You can splash some cold water on your face right before you hold your breath, or try using a cold, wet washcloth (don't use an ice pack, though; the same study suggests that the shock of something too cold triggers other reflexes). Just make sure it's cold enough (21 °C or 70 °F) and the rest of your body is in a relaxed position.

7. Relax every muscle in your body. Meditate so that you can lower your heart rate. Your body will consume less oxygen that way.[6] By closing your eyes, feeling, and focusing on slowing your heart beat, it is possible to lower your heart rate significantly and increase the time you are able to hold your breath for. Concentrate on something that's relaxing to you. When you can't concentrate anymore, distract yourself by doing something with your hands, like counting to 99 with your fingers.[7]

8. Exhale slowly. When you can't hold your breath anymore, try to avoid exhaling all the air in your lungs in a mad rush. First, exhale about 20% of your air, then inhale again so that oxygen gets to your most critical areas faster. Then you can exhale and inhale completely.

9. Repeat these steps 3-4 times per session. It is not recommended to do this any more, as it could damage your lungs and body. Try one session in the morning and one session at night if you wish. Keep practicing and before you know it, you will be able to hold your breath for several minutes.

Fruity, Fruoffy, and other F word beers

Had a nice reunion of some grousers down at the Cayuga pond the other night... cooked up some home grown burgers and kicked back enjoying the High Life...well...some of us did. ;)

Didjya hear?

Newsflash.

Doctor Richard C Stedman is negotiating with Riegel Marine for Naval Fleet Expansion (from 0 frigates to 1 frigate). Apparently the cut and pasting has gotten under his skin and now we wait in breathless anticipation for the HMS Authentica.

Preview below.

Ernie smelled a rat . . .

and here we have conclusive evidence of the real truth of the weekend's trolling.

fish Cagey claims to have caught

More off season- Changes

Instructions for this post. Play the You Tube clip, and then continue to play other sounds clips over the You Tube Clip. Have fun.































Ok...so I am on the lookout for change. So far nothing on the gun rights front. However, on the beer swilling front, Change has Come. Leave it to the Canuks to take the lead first. Get this.

Tiring of my regular "Blue Flasher" Labatt's Beer, and being a closet hip-hop fan, I could not resist trying the new offering from Labatt's called "50." You know, like 50 Cent. You know, I just wanted to "Crack a Bottle," feel my Slim Shady, an all dat.

Well, Change has Come. As I was swilling, cold chillin', like a ruthless villain, admiring my fizz, my gaze was drawn to the label on the bottle. New hip colors, classic shape, then "WHAT!?" (Say it like Flava Flav, now!). You know where its supposed to say 12 Fl Oz ? (that means 12 f#*%n' FULL ounces, yall!) Well, guess what? It don't say 12 Fl Oz. Somebody pulled some CHANGE on the people. Somebody up and CHANGED the rules on me and my crew. It says 11.5 fl oz. That's right. That means someone is "redistributin'" the wealth, you know what I'm sayin'? For every case of 50 I buy, I am gettin' ripped a beer. Who do you think is getting that beer? The MAN is, that's who. Guess who the man is NOW? Uh-huh. That's deep. That's Canada, socialist, beer thievery deep. Good thing the McKenzie brothers are with Molson. Yo, I got yer stimulus package...

Just A Lil Bit - 50 Cent

More Undaunted Courage

Well, clearly I seemed to have touched a nerve with the Kuneytown Wonder Boys . . . will wonders never cease. Undaunted, I'll forge ahead with a brief account of Sunday's hunt.


After drinking more beer than has been yet consumed around a beer camp fire ring in 2009, our small party broke up amidst the falling snow at about 8pm Saturday night. (All except for Tidball and Hathaway, who rousted me from my slumbers in the camper at about 10 pm. Undaunted, I joined them for a brief nightcap before they roared off into the night for continued revelries at the Kuneytown Sportsmen's Club.)

Sunday dawned cold and snowy: 10 deg F and a stiff NW wind. Undaunted, and after breakfast of toast and coffee in the Ernst household, I joined Ernie and Mike in assembling another decoy spread that couldn't be beat. One or two flocks flew right in as we were setting the dekes, which we took to be a good omen for the day's prospects.

a good sign: the geese seem to like OUR cornfield

Of course those were the last geese we saw for quite a while. So to fill the time, a phone call to Eric was placed, at which time we learned that the Illegal Riegel was out plowing snow, apparently tired of the dull routine of getting copious numbers of birds and sick of hunting and getting full bag limits of mallards every day. We actually felt sorry for him. Get better soon, Eric.

Sunday's hunt proceeded much the same as Saturday's: a bird here, a couple of birds there. Narrative drama was provided not by the absence of Keith and Eric on Sunday, but by our own collective mishaps and screwups. After three birds were harvested, Mike made the unfortunate statement that, "It's easy. All we have to do now is get two birds each."

So naturally the best flock of the day came in next, with ten or eleven low birds swinging in close to the ground along the inner edge of the decoys, and, with grandiose visions of us each shooting doubles to finish off the season in grand style in our minds . . . no birds were killed. A total abomination in the eyes of the red gods. One gun--I believe it was a Benelli--failed to go "bang" when it was discovered not to have chambered a round. A second gun--also a Benelli--failed to fire a third shell after its operator forgot to reload. A third gun simply failed to find its mark.

Undaunted, we continued on.

Another moment of drama occurred when a goose was downed, only to coast to a landing in the northeast corner of the field. "Head straight for the treeline," advised Yoda Ernie, "and cut him off from the hedgerows." I did as instructed, circling around and cautiously approaching the bird from the north. It took flight away from me back across the field but thankfully, away from the trees. After missing two shots of my own, it was a glorious spectacle to watch the mortally wounded bird fly directly towards the dozer pile, where it was shot twice more on the wing first at approximately thirty yards and then again at ten paces, after which it crashed through the cornstalks that screen the dozer pile where it landed with a thud in the snow exactly 1.5 feet from my bucket in the blind.

By noon there were six geese in the bag. "Now it's easy. All we have to do is each kill one more bird."

Yeah right. Again, three geese beautifully worked the dekes and flew in directly in front of us from the east. Left to right, they offered perfectly distinct targets to each hunter. What a perfect way to end the season! Baboom baboom babboom boom baboom.

We managed to land two out of the three. Walking in with the two birds, Mike offered that we could always end the hunt now, with eight birds in possession. But settling back into the blind, we realized the unspoken agreement among us: we'd stick it out and get one more.

Besides, I'm sure it probably crossed some of our minds that it's always nice to wipe Keith's eye by bringing home a second bag limit of nine savvy, late-season dozer pile geese.

(By the way, where was Keith on Sunday? enquiring minds need to know. Many theories were offered, the most prevalent having to do with nursing a hangover. Do tell, Tidball.)

Anyway, only one more bird was needed to finish the season.

A lone goose came in. Eyeing the sky nervously, I asked the dozer pile veterans, "who shoots this one?" To which Mike replied, "It's all yours baby."

You probably know how THAT one turned out. Yep. Bang bang bang from the Benelli. And we all watched the bird fly away completely unscathed.

"What the hell did I do there!!" lamented I, crestfallen at my failure to finish the waterfowl finale with the fore-ordained, fatal fait accompli. "What the hell just happened there?" I raged, to which wise, old Yoda Ernie deadpanned:

"You missed."

Truer words have never been spoken. Ahh, the arrogance of youth, the nervousness of stagefright, the fickleness of Benellis . . . who knows, but it was not meant to be.

Minutes later, Mike performed a mercy killing on another single goose who flew in, was mortally shot, and who flew off to die in a neighboring field. It seemed only fitting to help Mike retrieve the season's last bird some five hundred yards away, both of us trudging through a foot of snow and across the hedgerow to find it DOA among the goldenrod.

And there was again much rejoicing.

the dozer pile:
where savvy, call-wary, late-season geese go to die
at the hands of equally savvy, call-wise, late-season dozer pile goose hunters
(click to enlarge)

Sense and Sensibility

I made the mistake of telling Ernie this weekend that goose hunts couldn't be blogged, because they lack the narrative drama of a good grouse hunt. (And note to Keith and Eric: a "good" grouse hunt doesn't necessarily result in a limit of grouse and teal in a morning's effort. heh heh)

Oh, there will likely be a fair amount of ball busting of Keith in this writeup. That was pretty much the dominant topic of conversation this weekend when things were slow. Not that things were ever slow. As Ernie said to Eric on the phone, "They're just stacking up like cordwood here!" You know, Eric will probably get some abuse in this post too, now that I think about it. heh heh.

Anyway, because Ernie challenged me to come up with a suitable narrative thread for this past weekend's activities, here I sit typing up my first-ever goose writeup. And while the massive consumption of cold beer on Saturday night provides a tempting possible focus (or lack of focus? which is certainly how some of us felt later on Saturday evening), I'm sure we all can agree that abusing Cabin Boy has a lot more potential for laughs and gaiety.

Okay. So Ernie invites me up for the last weekend of goose hunting, and says to be there "between 7 or 8 am." So I show up at 7:30 am Saturday morning, just in time to see Mike and Ernie put the finishing touches on a decoy spread that can't be beat. The location of course was the famed "dozer pile." Temp was 2 degrees F, no wind to speak of, and the three of us were clothed in snow camo.

Keith and Eric, meanwhile, were (how did Cagey put it in another post?) (ah yes, here, I have it): "taking the sensible route" and hunting in Eric's little honey hole, the Morehouse Ponds, aka, "Nancy's back yard." Perhaps Eric and Keith will blog about THAT sensible hunt sometime. heh heh.

but I digress.

good versus evil: the Canoga Killing Fields
(click to enlarge)

We settled into the dozer pile, sweaty from our exertions (well, Ernie and Mike were sweaty, I was pretty comfortable), and settled in for the wait. After a half hour or hour or so, Mike opined that the dozer pile might just strike out for us on the final weekend, but the wise-old Ernie just said "patience grasshopper, patience."

Of course, it is always possible that maybe the beer on Saturday night clouds my memory. But at least that's what I think Ernie said to Mike at that point.

About 9:00 am a lone goose landed in the decoys. When Ernie said take 'em, I did my best imitation of a 250 yard rifle shot at a woodchuck, and missed. Harumph. Watching the goose fly away, Mike was heard to mutter something under his breath that included the terms "skunk" or "skunked." Again, Ernie smiled and, sensibly, said, "patience, patience. In dozer pile we trust."

Another single flew into the spread an hour or so later. This time death came to the dozer pile, and our heroes were "on the scoreboard" as they say. And O'Connor was heard to say, "well, at least we won't be skunked today."

By this time, it was 10 or 10:30 am, and the Tidball truck was seen to be skulking (or was that "skunking"?) away from the Ponds. "A sensible move," thought we in the dozer pile. "They must already have their limits," another of us ventured.

Ernie on the phone with Eric confirmed the limits theory: Keith and Eric had reached the limits of their patience at the ponds, and so they sensibly had packed it in for the day, no doubt removing to the Kuneytown Sportsmen's Club for breakfast and beer.

what the Kuneytown Wonder Boys didn't see much of this weekend

Meanwhile, the hard work of goose hunting continued. No quitters us. At 11 am or so, a flock finally worked the dekes but flared before committing. "Something's not right with the dekes" all agreed, and with tenacity and grit Ernie and Mike supervised the rearrangement of the spread--tightening some up over here, spreading them out a bit further there--and voila! the mystery was solved.

Twenty minutes later, a flock came in again to the dekes, slowly slowly circling, working them warily, until the moment of truth arrived and O'Connor barked, "take em." And with that three guns went off, and three birds fell from the sky.

And there was much rejoicing.

No more talk of being skunked or packing it in early. No more lack of faith in the dozer pile. Now, only a gritty determination to show those beer-chugging Kuneytown quitters how it's done.

The hunt wore on. Flock after flock of geese worked the dekes, some coming in close, others not so close. A thousand ducks got up from the ponds but no shooting (hmmmm, I wonder where the Wonder Boys are? sensibly warm somewhere else no doubt).

Another flock came in and two more geese were downed--one falling to Tantillo's gun to the north bearing jewelry, although that fact went unnoticed until the very end of the day. Ernie, however, in observing the condition of the bird when retrieved, took notice of the bloodied condition of the bird's upper left breast, which provided the key identification factor at day's end for giving credit where credit is due. No sirree, none of this "geese Cagey claims to have shot." Ernie is the most honest goose hunter that ever lived. (and he told me to make sure to get that into the blog post somehow.)

heh heh.

still life with jewelry

What are we up to now, seven geese? Around 1:30 pm Ernie left for a while to go sign some gas drilling paperwork in the house, and in his absence, we had some high drama on two more downed geese. A flock came in, worked the dekes, and shots were fired. I had a bird down inside the dekes, while Mike had one sail away far across the field only to crash land DOA before the treeline. The two of us took off to retrieve our downed birds. Only one of us returned with bird in hand.

My hands tremble as I type this, but I in a fit of newbie nitwitlessness, allowed my bird to first walk away, head up, as I debated finishing him off with a head shot, and then, as my bird took flight and flew away, failed to pull the trigger to bring him back down to earth.

Insensible with grief, I returned to the blind empty-handed.

the one that got away

We fought on for perhaps another hour, but that was it. We decided to pack it in. As Ernie left to get the four-wheeler and the trailer for the dekes, another lone goose flew in low from the north over the hedgerow. Mike and I saw it just as Ernie started yelling "bird, another bird!" With Mike's gun cased and Ernie still walking towards camp, the suicidal goose met its demise with a final load of BBBs from the Spinelli, and it crumpled to the ground with a convincing thud. Redemption from the one that got away.

Thus, charging the ninth one that got away to our bag limit of three each, we pulled the dekes and packed up eight geese at 3pm, built a campfire at beer camp, and proceeded to empty Ernie's cooler of the various malt beverages it contained.

And there was much rejoicing.

happy beer campers with birds

Ignorance is no excuse

Over the years, there have been some interesting interpretations of game laws, most pertaining to waterfowl, that have presented themselves in field or blind (or at Beer Camp, or Kuneytown). I have just perused for fun and kicks the Federal Migratory Bird Hunting regs...which may not be as strict, but are at least as strict, as state laws. This may be useful as openers are fast approaching.

Some interesting excerpts:

§ 20.34 Opening day of a season.
No person on the opening day of the season shall possess any freshly killed migratory game birds in excess of the daily bag limit, or aggregate daily bag limit, whichever applies.

Ok, you know who you are on that one.

Migratory birds on which open seasons are prescribed in this part may be taken by any method except those prohibited in this section. No persons shall take migratory game birds:
(h) By means or aid of any motordriven land, water, or air conveyance, or any sailboat used for the purpose of or resulting in the concentrating, driving, rallying, or stirring up of any migratory bird;

In other words, no booting the geese off of neighboring fields by driving a 4 wheeler in hopes that they will fly up and come to your perfect spread where your buddies are honking and flagging their hearts out to freaked out birds. Its a no-no. Myself and others- guilty but reformed.

§ 20.24 Daily limit.
No person shall take in any 1 calendar day, more than the daily bag limit or aggregate daily bag limit, whichever applies

Ok, so for the guys who keep telling me its ok to shoot a limit in the morning, "reduce them to possession" at lunch (in other words, breasts in freezer bags sans heads & feathers) and then go shoot more birds "because my daily bag limit has been re-set," I say, knock off the bullshit. Once again, you know who you are.

Finally,

§ 20.33 Possession limit.
No person shall possess more migratory game birds taken in the United States than the possession limit or the aggregate possession limit, whichever applies.

Note that it does not say "...unless the birds are in your freezer."

...feelin' Cagey today...

Back to your regularly scheduled programming. Over and out.

on the alleged market in mouse pelts . . .

Check out this super-cool web site at www.fecalface.com . "How to stuff a mouse" . . . and I don't mean stuffing it with ricotta.

Putting the "fun" back in mouse control

Keith's thumb puppet

on the alleged duty to save the pelt . . .

yo, Cabin Boy . . . I seem to remember a long-ago Maine grouse camp at Camp Haccamatack by the shores of Lake Spider-gitchee-gumee, where you entertained us (and kept us all awake half the night) attempting to do some kitchen animal control yourself.

I don't recall whether you saved the pelt that night? I do remember a whopping headache from having someone's hunting journal thrown at my noggin.

Ahhh, the memories.

Leave the drilling at home

Dr. Research Gave a Seminar . . .

. . . and all the monkeys showed up. Here we see them utilizing collaborative research methods (bricolage) in the Ivory Tower.

Here is Dr. Research, mighty proud of himself after the seminar. He's going to Disney World.

Dr. Research

Pinning all our hopes on these guys . . .

Andy_and_Safari_2000
Originally uploaded by frankzappai

Just thought I'd fan the flames a bit. Andy, you bring the fixings for woodcock soup, and Jim you bring the GPS cheaters' maps.

heh heh.

jt

p.s. Pete, I don't think Safari has taken anything NEAR the amount of abuse he deserves.