Sons of Savages

THE ALABAMA BOY'S THREE CAT ADVENTURE WITH LUWIRE SAFARIS

2012-01-26T22:32:00.009-06:00

By DAVID LANGERMAN Professional Hunter

Early leopard success and a communications mix up

In October 2011, we had the pleasure of hosting four gentlemen from the American South. Joel Hanmer, Allan Rappuhn, Wade Gilchrist and Eugene Sak travelled from Alabama to hunt leopard and buffalo with us, LUWIRE Safaris, in the Niassa Reserve of Northern Mozambique. They were destined for a 10 day safari enjoying the very best Mozambican hunting has to offer – a million acres of unfenced, fair chase dangerous game hunting in ‘’miles and miles of bloody Africa’’.
The gentlemen were after a collection of plains game, Cape buffalo and a leopard. However, as those who have travelled to Africa know, the best laid plans can go awry at the drop of a hat. Right from the get go the buffalo decided they just didn’t want to play by the rules and subsequently gave us a hell of a time. During the course of the safari, many hot, thirsty, tiring miles were spent pursuing ‘Cape Fear’, only to get busted repeatedly by the wind or just plain bad luck. On about the second day, Derek (the senior PH and operator) asked me to hang some leopard baits for the group. Allan happened to be riding with me on that particular day, and as the buffalo had given us the slip, we agreed. I had scouted out the area a few days prior to the safaris start and I had a good feeling about an area an hour and a half to the south of camp. The area I had in mind is called ‘Marangamaranga’ and there is a huge granite inselberg range situated right up against our southern boundary. A small spring draws animals from miles around, and there was a small ‘donga’ or dry ravine nearby that I had set my sights on for baiting a big cat. I had not seen any tracks at this site, but it just felt real good. There was water nearby, good cover and habitat and prey species were plentiful in the vicinity. Sometimes going with a hunch can pay off. The second site I chose was nearer to camp and was at a cross road of two hunting tracks. There was an old waterhole with a large overhanging Kigelia Africana, or Sausage tree and a lot of Hyperrenia thatch grass that lined another small sandy stream that approached this dried up pan. Close investigation of the site revealed an old carcass. Further scouting around and we happened across fresh tracks - a cat had been busy here and he looked to be a good one.

We hung legs of waterbuck at the respective sites, and retreated to camp to escape the blistering October heat.
The following day saw us pursuing Buffalo yet again, only to get busted in the thick bush at 10 yards. Frustrating, I know, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. When you hunt buffalo, or for that matter any species in Africa, you must put in the miles of torturous, thirsty tracking, you must feel the intensity of the searing African sun and you must suffer the tsetse flies continual harassment to truly appreciate the hunt you are partaking. It is the small sacrifice you must give to honour the special species we are so privileged to hunt on this continent. It’s the way it should be! However, after who knows how many miles, I don’t think Allan was sharing this sentiment with me, so I decided we should take a time out and check our baits. The far site at Marangamaranga was hit on the first night, and the cat had taken a big chunk out of the bait and had scratched up the tree pretty good. Great! The trackers immediately set to blind building duties in silence. A friend of mine and highly experienced professional hunter John Sharp once told me that he happened across a leopard he was hunting a few hundred yards away from his bait. Since then I have always built the blind in silence and try to disturb the area around the bait and blind as little as possible. John’s lesson taught me that those cats could very well be close to the bait, even during the hottest hours of the day, listening and potentially checking out your building activities.
Whilst the trackers were constructing the blind, I got on to the VHF radio set and tried to contact the camp and Derek with the good news. Luwire professional hunters have a VHF (very high frequency) radio set on us at all times, and we are linked into the Niassa National Reserve repeater system. This effectively boosts our network coverage drastically and allows us to call outposts over 140km (Normal VHF system has a line of sight radius and at best 10km). In an area as remote as the Niassa Reserve, this is an absolute godsend. However we have to route all our calls through the Reserve headquarters and a designated radio set operator. On this particular day ‘Charlie Mike’, the reserve radio operator’s call sign, seemed to be in a daydream and totally messed up my message to Derek. Allan and I had decided to wait a way off from the blind until Derek showed up with Wade. As the afternoon dragged on and I hadn’t received a return call from Derek, I started to worry that they hadn’t got the message. Repeated attempts to raise Derek on the radio myself were unsuccessful, and the Operator assured me he had indeed passed on the initial message and not to worry. As any PH knows, when you have a good cat on bait, do not squander the opportunity. I think Allan sensed this, and he asked if we had a spare leopard tag over and above Wades. I responded that we did, and that if Derek wasn’t here by 1630hrs, the decision was his if he would like to sit for the cat.

Well Derek and Wade did get the call, but the radio operator told them we were at some place Derek or his trackers had never heard of! The frustrating part of it was that we were hunting near a road Derek himself had put in so he knew the area very well. They ended up tearing around the concession trying to find us to no avail, and eventually gave up in the late afternoon. Believe me that is the last time I observe Niassa Reserve radio protocol – next time I will be making the call direct! A classic case of ‘Chinese telephone’….

By 1645 we were seated in the blind. Late by normal standards, but we had been waiting for the ‘A team’ to pitch. The sun began its gradual descent into the western horizon and the cacophony of bird song, gave way to the buzz of crickets, the liquid call of Bubbling Kassina frogs and the occasional Rock Hyrax whistle from the nearby Marangamaranga Inselberg range. The last shards of peach and crimson sunlight pierced the smallest gaps of the grass blind, illuminating the inside of the structure with a soft light that made you appreciate the afternoon, the excitement of the task ahead and the pleasure of being on Safari with like-minded people. A noise pulled me out of my pleasant daydream. A fork tailed Drongo was kicking up a fuss behind the bait and i sneaked a peak through my viewing hole. 15 yards behind the bait, I saw a sooty black triangle twitch in the yellow grass. The back of the leopard’s ear! His large head and torso materialised out of the grass as he switched position to escape the nagging bird. He was a wary cat; he was searching the surrounding area intently. After a few minutes of scrutiny, he advanced cautiously to the foot of the bait tree and flopped down, waiting for darkness to fall so he could resume his feeding. I signalled to Allan that the cat was at the tree. I could see the adrenaline and his excitement take hold as his face lit up with the news. I cautioned him to have a look through the scope of his .375 and to orient himself. There was still enough light to plainly see the cat and Allan signalled he was positioned and happy. The cat sat up and looked to the right of the blind. I think he had seen something, but he didn’t get a chance to move. At my whispered command Allan placed a perfect frontal shot through his chest and out his back. He flipped over, tail thrashing and was still; sprawled under the bait tree and the bait he had come to dine on.
Whenever we take a cat there’s always that feeling of elation. And pride in getting the job done safely. However it’s also tempered with a twinge of remorse at taking one of Africa’s premier and most beautiful of trophies. I personally never take for granted the privilege of the line of work I get to call my vocation.

Joel’s unplanned Lion hunt
‘’You are going to have to shoot this lion real close, around 25 yards, and more than likely in some really thick stuff. He is not going to be happy with us that close to his meal’’ Derek explained. I could see Joel’s expression change, and I could only imagine what was running through his mind. Actually I had a pretty shrewd idea – ‘’ Lord what have I got myself into?!’’

The safari had been ticking along nicely so far. The southern boys were taking a nice variety of trophies. Derek and Wade had kicked the leopard baiting into overdrive and had festooned various trees with all manner of bait. A number of Toms had hit, but so far they just hadn’t sealed the deal. They had sat on baits on two occasions but the temperamental wind and a herd of elephants had scuppered their plans. One night on the way back from an unsuccessful attempt, Derek and Wade bumped into a big male Lion on an elephant carcass. The cat rushed the land cruiser pick up and in no uncertain terms voiced his displeasure at having been disturbed at dinner time. According to the hunters it was a scary but exhilarating sight. I can just imagine! Back at camp, the excitable talk was all about lion and what had just transpired. Derek mentioned that the lion looked old enough by the Niassa Reserve standards and that a tag was available, and would any one fancy a crack at a mature, full maned lion bright and early the next morning? Well, that got our southern gentlemen into a frenzied round of talks and deliberations! Over dinner that night, everyone was trying to talk each other into taking this unique opportunity – a mature lion on his own kill and on foot. A great opportunity indeed. For those of you who have hunted lion will know what I’m talking about – the time invested in safari days and the bait bill itself can be a small fortune! Eventually by evenings end Joel decided he was up for the challenge. That’s when Derek cautioned the group as a whole as to the lions’ temperament and how the hunt was more than likely going to be conducted and finished at very short range! But the decision had been made and we were lion hunting in the morning! Everyone finally drifted off to whatever sleep they could get after the excitement of that day’s events, and just before final goodnights, Derek asked me to back him up on the lion hunt in the morning. He reiterated that the lion was not a ‘happy camper’- he was trying to defend his kill- and that we were in for some serious sports the next morning. Well Derek is a vastly experienced hunter in his own right, so I knew if he was asking me for assistance in the morning, this lion was indeed a bad tempered old sod. It’s always reassuring to have another competent professional hunter with you if the proverbial ‘brown and smelly stuff hits the fan’, he explained.

The next morning saw everyone up and about with increased vigour in their step. Over breakfast, a strategy was devised and people were assigned their places in the forth coming hunt. Derek placed me on the right end of our little skirmish line, with Joel in the middle and himself on the left end. Tucked in right behind this was Allan. Wade and Eugene were instructed to hang back out of the way of the action at the rear with the trackers, and if possible Eugene was going to try and catch the action on film. The group departed camp in high spirits and arrived 200 yards short of the scene of the previous night’s encounter. Rifle magazines loaded, softnose bullets in chambers, slings detached, and last minute terse instructions were whispered by Derek, before we set off. We inched towards the spot where the lion was hunkered down. A small but densely over grown ditch ran perpendicular to our line of approach. Derek explained that the lion was skulking in this cover and that he had dragged the elephant into this hide out. Behind this ditch was a very thick and it vexed me to say it, a rather large patch of very tall thatch grass! As this troubled thought left my mind the overgrown ditch erupted in growls, snarls and the most audibly impressive demonstration I have ever heard from a lion. Derek was spot on with his assessment – this lion was not happy with our proximity to his meal! A tawny streak dashed to our right and was swallowed up in a sea of grass. A wave of disappointment washed over us – he had legged it. Bugger. However, the Niassa is full of surprises and we were all adrenaline jolted back into action and fear tainted, white knuckle excitement when the bush to the left of the original cat erupted into yet more snarls and guttural growling. There were two lions! This exciting yet dangerous realisation had only just dawned upon us when, in an instant, the ditch exploded and an unhappy male lion, came boiling out to meet us. Derek hollered at Joel to wait for him to stop, and he skidded to a halt at a very nerve rackingly close distance! He was clear of the brush, in the open and presenting a frontal target. Joel’s .375 boomed and that lion just simply disappeared! I could not credit the speed at which that cat turned and fled into that overgrown ditch. It was unbelievable.
‘’How did the shot feel Joel, think you hit him good?’’ Were the first words spoken. I could see the concern written all over Derek’s face. I realised instantly at the moment of the shot that if mortally hit that cat would have reacted far differently to the way it had. Instead it was swallowed up at the speed of light in that dreadful bloody thicket. The trackers came forward and exclaimed they had seen the hit – fur flying from the right side of the animal. Wonderful…. a wounded lion in that god awful grass. It was now my turn to wonder just what I had agreed to do! But that’s the job I guess. We wanted a good 20 minutes and then Derek asked the southern folks to stay back, and we entered rather gingerly into the area where the lion had pulled his Houdini act. There was no blood and the ground was very hard. What a nightmare – no visible sign on the ground and a wounded lion in thick cover. Just what you don’t want! Derek and I pressed on with extreme caution and slowly scrutinised every inch of cover and ground, our personal heavy calibre weapons poised and ready. Up ahead of us a troop of baboons started screaming and kicked upped a serious ruckus. While Derek and I pondered this in strained whispers, a small movement caught our attention to our left and all of a sudden a very large and handsome lion strolled out of cover 25 yards away from us and across our front like nothing had happened! We could see straight away that he wasn’t wounded, because if he was he would have been in our laps in a heartbeat. Instead, he ambled away indifferently into another thicket.
Derek and I pulled out of the thicket for a re-think. The situation was talked over and over again, with every one adding their two cents. The trackers then claimed that what we had seen after the shot wasn’t a hit but the bullet whisking off a section of mane hair as it flew high and wide of the intended mark. Nice of them to tell us that after we had been in that thicket, I thought. I guessed that explained the lack of blood, no fatal reaction to the shot and the fact that when we had seen him in the thick stuff, the lion had walked away from us, instead of bounding over to maul one of his pursuers. Joel was absolutely gutted. He was a worried man, I could see. Derek decided the best thing to do would be to anchor the bait in an opening, build a blind and come back that afternoon to see if the lion would return. It was the only sensible thing to do considering. Back at camp, everyone was in a sombre mood. Poor Joel was having a hard time. He couldn’t believe he missed. Despite our best efforts we didn’t cheer him up much. The rest of the day dragged by and eventually we made the journey back to the now newly built blind and bait set up. It was decided the original skirmish line would sit in the blind whilst the others could sit back in camp and make an early start on the cocktails. Derek and Joel sat upfront in the blind whilst Allan sat behind Derek and I sat behind Joel, keeping watch on the rear. We were all seated and reading magazines and Journals by 1600hrs. No more than half an hour went by and I noticed movement through Joel’s shooting porthole. The lion had returned in daylight and a mere 30 minutes after we had entered the blind! The afternoon sun caught him full on and he was a beauty. I could see he took offence to the fact that someone had moved his bait and he was grumbling and shifting his position a lot. He was uneasy, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Derek was studying him intently through his binos, Allan was grinning from ear to ear and Joel, the poor bugger, was shaking like a leaf! Derek very quickly made an assessment and told Joel to take him. Joel did nothing. Again Derek told him to go for it. Again nothing. Joel’s breathing was shallow and fast, and seated behind him, I could see he was having a hard time keeping his nerves and excitement under control. For those of you who haven’t hunted dangerous game, it’s not as easy as just aiming and pulling the trigger. Pure adrenaline is flooding through your veins and it’s a struggle to keep the excitement and nerves in check. The earlier miss wasn’t helping either. Derek looked puzzled and shot a quizzical glance over at Joel and me. I leaned forward and said, in as a politely forceful way as possible, ‘shoot the lion!’ Joels .375 thundered and this time it was plain to see the bullet strike home behind the cats shoulder. The Lion hunched up and took off growling. For the second time that day he disappeared into that same thicket. As he streaked away I popped my head over the blind and watched where he vanished into the tall grass. 40 yards or so beyond that I saw the second lion looking around in confusion. He slipped into the same section of bush that his mortally stricken brother had dashed into. We waited 15 minutes in the blind, and I called the trackers up on the radio. Joel and Allan (and for that matter Derek and myself) were all keyed up, ready to find the lion. It was evident that the cat had been hit hard. However in situations like this it’s important to be prudent and cautious. With the trackers in tow casting for blood and tracks, and ourselves looking into the grass where the lion disappeared, we edged forward to find the cat. Derek repeatedly warned to be wary of the other lion. Too often the wrong one is shot in the confusion of the moment by panicked hunters. At the edge of the thicket there was a bright scarlet smudge on tawny skin and suddenly a lion’s prostrate form came into focus. The cat had died at the edge of that damn grass, and I for one was glad we did not have to follow that cat in there for the second time that day! Shouts, backslaps and lots of hand shaking and laughter pierced the tense silence. Joel was one happy dude! We rolled the Lion over and examined his beautiful blonde mane, someone produced a bottle of Jack Daniels and I swear that bottle was finished in mere minutes. Joel was drinking that stuff like cola as he let off all that built up worry, earlier disappointment and pressure, and the relief came out in a flood of laughter and jokes. The amazing part of the story is that the lion was Joel’s first African trophy. What a way to start your safari experience!

Wades Leopard
Whilst all the excitement with the first leopard and lion was taking place, and unbeknownst to us, a large leopard had hit my second bait at the Sausage tree. Derek had assumed I was checking it and I assumed he was too (you know what they say about assumptions right?). Derek and I had been swapping the clients around, so some days I found myself with different members of the party than the day before. It just so happened that I was with Wade when we checked the second bait. When I checked the bait, I was mortified to see that it was almost gone and that we desperately needed more meat to keep the cat interested. Wade quickly did the honours and procured us an Impala ram to hang in place of the old bait. Again the trackers fashioned us a blind and very shortly we had a good well camouflaged hide out in some thick thatch grass with a nicely swept approach path, in case we had to walk in in the early hours of the following morning. By 1600hrs we were seated in the blind and waiting in great anticipation. The evening wind in our area normally blows to the west, but at this location the breeze was doing all sorts of crazy things. I was continually stressing that the cat was going to get our scent and bug out. Time dragged by, and ‘magic hour’ came and went. At one stage I thought I heard something at the base of the tree but it was too hard to accurately tell. I didn’t want to shine the light either unless I was certain that the leopard was in the tree. By 1900hrs I was starting to worry that the cat was not going to make an appearance. By 2000hrs I finally called it a night and suggested to Wade we go home and get some dinner. There was now more than enough meat in the tree if the cat did indeed decide to show up. However, I had my doubts. At that stage I thought I had blown it on a potentially good cat. Still, I thought it worthwhile to try for an early morning sit in case the cat did return. At 0330hrs the next morning we crawled from our beds, gulped down scalding cups of coffee and made our way to the blind. About a kilometre from the bait we stopped the hunting rig and made our way on foot, in silence and in the dark, to the blind. We nestled in to our chairs and prepared to see in the dawn, hoping like hell that the cat was eager for some early morning breakfast. Alas not a bloody thing stirred! However as it got lighter, and the more I could see through the binos, I realised that the cat had indeed returned. The fresh impala carcass was fed on heavily. He must have fed after our departure, more than likely watching us go, and had left before we had made our pre-dawn ambush.
That afternoon we returned to the blind. I was prepared to sit all night if I had to. I don’t think Wade was relishing the thought of sitting for hours on end in a plastic chair. But to his credit, he didn’t complain once and he was as quite as a church mouse. Again magic hour came and went and I became more and more anxious. At 1900hrs I heard a rustle in the leaves to the left of the bait tree. Faintly, but definitely a noise. Another 15 minutes elapsed in silence. The anticipation was killing me. Then I heard the unmistakeable sound of heavy claws going to work on rough tree bark. I peered through my viewing hole as the cat walked out onto the bait branch, perfectly silhouetted against the evening sky. Seeing or hearing a leopard in the tree is always a thrilling sight. All your hard work and planning has paid off. The leopard leant over the far side of the trunk and started swatting branches off the bait so he could feed. The dried branches and bait chain rattled every time he attacked the bait in gusto. In that evening calm it seemed awfully loud. As a result, every few seconds he would stop and cast around, looking for any potential threats. I let him feed for a few minutes and to get comfortable. I signalled to Wade to get ready, and that I was going to shine the light on him. I eased the light into position and switched it on. The cat turned to investigate the source of the disruption, and offered Wade his chance. I whispered the command to shoot. The words were hardly out of my mouth when Wade shattered the silence with his borrowed .30-06. The shot looked good and the cat sprang out of the tree very awkwardly. I could see the reflections of his eyes as he thrashed about under the tree, and then he disappeared from view, into a Buffalo thorn thicket off to the right.

I knew the cat was done for but I still waited for the trackers to come up so they could shine the light whilst I operated the artillery. Wade, the Trackers and I advanced slowly to the thicket where I saw the cat tumble into. Just like the lion, it was the splash of crimson on camouflaged spotted hide that showed us where our cat lay stretched out under the buffalo thorn. What a relief! Having thought I had blown a good opportunity to now seeing a magnificent cat lying next to an elated hunter, I was very relieved. My tracker Bilale, with a huge grin on his face, reminded me that we had taken three cats in eight days, and I thought we could justifiably be happy with that effort for this safari, even if we didn’t get the buffalo.

BEEN WORKNG ON A FEW THINGS

2012-01-26T10:25:00.001-06:00

SINGING RIVER SCULPTURE NUMBER 1

AND A FEW FINISHED THIS PAST YEAR

As some of you" Continue in Ignorance," I think, Meditation or Rant, I think I'll RANT

2012-01-23T18:55:00.000-06:00

Your gonna say well here he goes again, and your right! so read on.
I am a Christian and I believe the Bible not the teachings of the allah, the buda, the holy cows, the holy monkeys, the motha of earth, the anything else tip toeing through the roses trying to convince everyone "to just get along!." This world has been at conflict since God created it. He made it this way not me. He made blood to be the great equalizer, we all got to have it flowing through our veins, we can all live and be forgiven because of the Blood Jesus lost dripping from his wounds as he hung on the Cross. In the end the Bible says blood from the final conflict will run deep as the horses bridle. My God is no stranger to shedding Blood, If you mess with my family I will confront you, If you mess with my friends I will confront you, If you mess with my country I will confront you, and to whatever level you want to escalate our little confrontational get together I will oblige you. You want to spill my blood? Be very sure "I will address your want." There is nothing, and I mean nothing in this world that hasn't been fought over at one time or another, so why do you think putting sugar on everything is going to stop human hostility? We're human, we were meant to be the perfect species but we screwed that up pretty quick! We have been fighting over this and that since the beginning. We crucified the only man that (never did anything to anybody). In my opinion a little fussing and fighting is good for us occasionally. It's good to be passionate enough to fight for what you believe, cause one day we may all have to fight for something dear to us.

If you are a Politically Correct Human Being or Family and you are teaching your children that this is the way, well you are gonna raise a house full of un-passionate go with the flow-ers. They will be followers not leaders. You can't be politically correct and be a man, simply put, you are afraid of something, you are afraid of how you are perceived that's the bottom line. Your afraid of saying the wrong words cause it might hurt some foreigners feelings, might upset some homosexual, might hurt you in the upper class circles you are seeking. Well, I have had a gut full of this none sense. You can't be a true friend of mine, you can't drink my wildcat, sit by my fire, dine at my table, sleep in my guest house or my tent. You will never hunt behind my dogs, or receive a heart felt gift from me. However if I find you desolate on the side of the highway I will give you help, I will show you kindness, I will try to comfort you as best I can but I will consider you a failure in life. Your a failure because you have lost sight of the truth and are too weak to look for yourself for the answer. You will just choose to be a fence rider and not stand for anything except becoming invisible. My dad used to say to people that raised doubts about his success at some task, "just hide and watch." That sums you up, go hide....... and watch! Come out when the coast is clear!

Listen, are you listening? Are you still reading?
I hope so, cause there's more. I have friends all over this world. I have muslim friends, hindu friends, gay friends, liberal friends, black, white and on and on. I hope they live long and prosper but their views are doomed in my view. I WOULD RATHER HAVE A PERSON AS A FRIEND THAT KNOWS WHERE I STAND AND RESPECTS ME FOR IT. THEY IN TURN GAIN MY RESPECT! I don't hate them because we are different, but I will defend my convictions to any degree necessary! I can overlook those with the politically correct attitude that are around me. I wont pick a fight with them about it. I wont confront someone and start a conversation about it but, I will defend my views if asked. I would be just as "sorry" as the politically correct believer if I sat back and hid and watched. This world is tuff and is getting tuffer. People you better take a cold hard look at where we are and know this.... Political Correctness makes you weak. This country can't continue and be weak. This country can't continue to condone the murder of unborn children, can't continue to give freebies to lazy sorry no good ass holes. This country can't afford the stupid Low Bred Judges and Lawyers that give a slap on the hand to criminals. This country can't afford third world type leaders in our Congress and the Senate! This country can't continue to financially support blood sucking third world leaders of doomed cultures, we only prolong and add to the agony of the common people affected. This country can no longer set back and be Politically Correct!

Now you can change or?

You can continue in Ignorance

If you choose the latter then please never read from this blog again. Drift away somewhere where your uselessness will not be a hindrance and listen.... Don't put me in some random category, I'm not a republican, an independent nor a radical bible thumper. Not a homophobe or islamaphobe or any other phobe, not a KKKr or a stupid arian nation type. I MIGHT BE a little red-neckish but more than anything I'm just a standard American man that makes a living with my own two hands. I come home at night to the love of my life, I worship her, my daughter my grand daughter my family and a very Hard Core God! I will die for all of the above at the drop of a hat. I drive a 43 year old vehicle and love my hunting dogs. My best friends run the gamut from millionaires to paupers and they all think like me and I cherish each friendship........ I'm just an American, but more than that,

I'm Right!

From my buddy Devin Staker, breeder of formidable Big Game Hounds and part time deep thinker!

2012-01-22T12:00:00.010-06:00

Ok, so I am riding along this morning thinking that only me and God have been in this country and then out of no where this beautiful naked woman shows up.lol

And A Little More,

Checking out at the grocery store recently, the young cashier suggested I should bring my own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. I apologized and explained, "We didn't have this green thing back in my earlier days."

The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations." She was right about one thing -- our generation didn't have the green thing in “Our” day.

So what did we have back then…? After some reflection and soul-searching on "Our" day here's what I remembered we did have.... Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles repeatedly. So they really were recycled.

But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that young lady is right. We didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right. We didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus, and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

from my friend
Devin Staker, U.S. Government Hunter, Colorado

FROM STEPHEN BODIO'S QUERENCIA

2012-01-11T21:30:00.008-06:00

I've been catching bits and pieces of this for a while now. Thanks to Stephen over at "QUERENCIA" for bringing this news to the fore front of his Blog. You, I, and every serious "Dog Man/Woman" better sit up and smell the smoke coming over the horizon. Small fire now, but just let the wind catch it and we'll all get scorched. AP

The below printed by permission from Stephen Bodio.

Politicians & Animal Rights vs the right to breed YOUR dogs

By intention I don't do much politics here- I am neither partisan or, mostly, interested enough. But does ANYONE pay attention to the fact that one socially conservative Republican presidential candidate, Rick Santorum, is in bed with HSUS, Wayne Pacelle, and the whole Animal Rights movement, and has been for many years? Worse, he seems to fly totally under the radar. If you care about hunting, or, especially, private dog breeding, Google “Santorum HSUS” or "Animal Rights" or even "Wayne Pacelle"...

A lot of nutty stuff left and right, approving and critical, is available, but some of real substance is up too. Many people think or comment "I'm against puppy mills." Fine, but much of the proposed legislation, like Governor Perry's below or some of Santorum's failed attempts, would not just ban commercial breeders (who in any case have the money to move, fight, rebuild their kennels in technical compliance, or otherwise evade). Such laws would have prohibited my breeding (all of five non- profit pre- homed unique sighthound litters so far), and/ or have stopped me from bringing over my entire hound family, including Ataika, Queen of the World, who we got and lived with for a month in Almaty-- she was among other things, including just IMPORTED (apparently inherently evil), under 6 months old. Think she would have been as social and civilized later?*

The very sane Bob Kane on Santorum's proposed 2005 PAWS bill:

"PAWS has virtually nothing to do with animal welfare or closing Animal Welfare Act "loopholes." It's a direct attack on U.S. hobby breeders, hunting dog owners and animal rescuers. PAWS federalizes hobby pet breeding."

And then there is his fellow Republican Rick Perry, who fails on dumbass grounds anyway but tends to pose as a red blooded western foe of bureaucracy. I call bullshit. From petbreedersandowners.com: “HB1451 created a new state agency, allows for entry into a private residence without the owners presence, establishes a public database to include the private information of pet breeders, established a bounty fund for animal rights activists to report pet breeders to the Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation, and is a contradiction of the key values supposedly upheld by Gov. Perry. These bills were heavily backed by the H$U$, ASPCA, PETA, and other animal rights groups, and promote their agenda.”

Statist meddlers & "botherers" both...

The results can be seen in Continental European countries, where an unholy alliance of government and closed registry breed clubs can now decide who is born. A friend in Germany wrote:

"But here in Germany it is very difficult to breed with brindle salukis. I think you remember the brindle Metzlers dogs. They tried to get permission to breed their bitch Bahia, but in the shows they only got a "good" and that is not good enough for the breeding permissions."

Priceless unique genetic diversity is being lost for no demonstrable reason at all, and it CAN happen here-- intact dogs of my AKC and Saluki Club unacceptable bloodlines are in peril of compulsory sterilization in Albuquerque because of former (Democrat-- stupid knows no partisan boundaries) Mayor Marty Chavez's Orwellianly- named HEART regs. Longdogs and staghounds, types prized and run in New Mexico longer than (I suspect) the authors of such regulations, are mere worthless "mongrels" of course.
Stephen Bodio

AND

Why we won't shut up

An important addition to, or even substitute for, my rant about ignorant or simply stupid politicians and regulations posted below, and their effect on dogs (and ultimately animal keeping and breeding as we know it); from Jess at Desert Windhounds. She says it all, and minces no words. Sample:

"The breeders who breed dogs for conformation shows are held up as the end all, be all, the True Responsible Breeders, regardless of the fact that they represent only a tiny portion of dog breeders. Look at any 'how to spot a responsible breeder' list or breed book, and you will be advised to seek out a breeder who shows. This has a terrible effect on proposed and passed legislation here in the United States. The defining characteristics of the 'responsible breeder' are directly responsible for much of the language in restrictive breeding legislation. The anti-breeding contingent is very clever about using the 'ingroups' very in-ness against them, because they are guaranteed to sound reasonable to people who look up to, but aren't part of, that ingroup. Here's how it works:

"Responsible breeders show or otherwise compete with their dogs."

"This gets us mandatory spay/neuter laws where the only exemptions are show dogs. Got a nice dog that hates to show? Too bad. Have crosses of any kind? Too bad. Breed pets? Too bad. Not the competitive type? Too bad."

(Snip)

""Responsible breeders NEVER cross-breed."

"You know how I feel about that one, it has been used repeatedly to define me as irresponsible. It is now illegal to cross-breed in El Paso [my emphasis--SB] and Los Angeles, and the breeding of unregistered dogs is forbidden. A list of 'approved' registries will usually go along with this type of law, putting people with rare breeds unrecognized by the larger registries at risk."

(El P! North Juarez! The city of Tom Russel border ballads, on the cusp of Texas and old and Nuevo Mexico--! Of course, Chicago bans pigeons these days...)

This is really a mandatory "Read The Whole Thing". Virtually EVERY DOG THAT APPEARS HERE REGULARLY, or that I have ever bred, is ineligible to breed under Los Angeles and fer Chrissake EL PASO rules, and arguably or at least practically speaking by Albuquerque ones, be they rare breeds, salukis blocked by SCOA factions because they come from improper countries or have "bad" colors, lurchers, or longdogs. I am tired of hearing (A) it won't affect me (B) I'll just ignore it (C) I live in a rural place. You know my favorite Trotsky paraphrase: You may not be interested in "X", but "X" IS interested in you.

More cheerful programming to resume soon. Stephen Bodio

More from Mr, Black, "Lakeland Hunting Memories" this is, "The Mardale Hunt"

2012-01-04T18:26:00.010-06:00

I wonder if you might be interested in my new book? entitled The Mardale Hunt, it is the "first" history of the most famous hunt in the Lakes. It is going out on four web sites including mine one chapter every two weeks as a free download.

"Recently I was told that 95% of Lakeland was unexplored in an Archaeological sense. With the abolition of Fox Hunting in 2005 there was a slight chance that places and structure(s) associated with fox hunting would in the fullness of time join them, lost in time and memory.

"It was with this in mind that I began to compile material for this site. It is NOT my intention for it to glorify or be used as propaganda for or against hunting, but simply to record associations with a 'sport' traditional to Lakeland for over 300 years.

"I am a native Lakelander with roots going back to 1700, the 4th generation to follow hounds, with ancestors who stood on the cold tops at dawn, moved the heavy lakeland stone to free trapped terriers and also 'carried the horn' on occasions. I hope this site is of interest to you. Hunting will not come back in the foreseeable future, perhaps not at all, but for three hundred years hunting and the church were the central thread to many communities. This is a part of the story."
Ron Black

Please go here to download this wonderful book for free! www.lakelandhuntingmemories.com/Index.htm

A Night in Heaven

2012-01-01T19:20:00.007-06:00

unknown

For those of you that haven't been to Ron Black's site "Lakeland Hunting Memories" which can be accessed from my list of recommended reads on line, here is a short story from there that gives you a taste of what you'r missing. Mostly Lakeland Memories saunters through and around the time between the 50's/ 70's when the local packs as well as others across Lakeland ran the traditional gauntlet after their quarry. Stories about Harriers, Terriers, Lurchers and more give you a warm feeling of comraderie that must have prevailed in this taditional hunting style. I hate I missed it!

unknown

A Night in Heaven

The bus swayed and lurched as it climbed Dunmail Raise, crested the summit and began the descent on the Thirlmere side. As it picked up speed it became difficult to walk along the top deck and descend the stairs due to the jolting. I just managed to get down the stairs and attract the driver’s attention in time for him to stop at the little church at Wythburn. We bade each other “Goodnight”, and I stepped off the bus and into the road, adjusted my pack, and began the long, boring ascent of Helvellyn.

I had caught the last bus from Ambleside to Keswick and the darkening of the sky showed the lateness of the hour. It would go dark on that summer night, but it would not last for any great length of time.

It was another trip up Helvellyn to see the dawn. Not the first by any means, but so far I had had no success. On one occasion I was defeated by low cloud and a weather front that had sneaked in during the few hours of darkness. On another, we had carried a tent up on that still evening, in the school holidays, and pitched it on the summit plateau. We had climbed into our sleeping bags and attempted to get some sleep, only to be awoken by a strong wind and showers of rain that reduced our tent to a flapping hulk, and greatly worried the lad to whom it belonged. It was one of the old ex-army ridge type tents and totally unsuitable for camping at 3000 feet plus. However, today had been bright and there had been an almost cloudless sky all day and the forecast was good.

I climbed slowly through the trees. Even in the 1960s it was a good track, but today it is almost paved, such is the usage it gets, which unchecked would cause massive erosion. Soon the forestry was behind me and instead of looking at the trees I was looking at the tops of them. Little spurts of dust rose as my feet struck the ground. We had had no rain for weeks and the fell side reflected this.

To my left stretching away in the distance was Thirlmere, one of the sources of Manchester’s water supply since the 1930s, to my right Dunmail Raise and Steel Fell that towers above it. The top of Helm Crag, the site of many hunting adventures was not yet visible in the late evening light.

The sun had gone now, sinking over the Langdale fells with one final show of defiance, before it disappeared. Shadows lengthened in the valley bottom and the temperature noticeably dropped. I buttoned up my shirt. My path joined another path coming up from Grisedale Tarn, a lovely spot, and my descent route with the dawn. The path continued across the plateau rising slightly to the memorial to the two men, who, in 1926, landed a plane up there. Luckily two walkers were present to witness their achievement.

Moving on I passed the Gough memorial, situated above the cliffs that fall away to Red Tarn over a thousand feet below. In the year 1805 an artist called Charles Gough fell to his death from these rocks, whilst crossing Helvellyn to fish in Thirlmere Lake. His body lay on the shore of the tarn for three months, guarded by his faithful dog, until their discovery by a farmer. On the body was a penknife with his name engraved upon it, two and a half guineas in gold and fifteen shillings in silver, all of which were given to the overseer of Patterdale to be distributed to the local poor.

Soon I reached the shelter just under the actual summit. Built of local stone it is shaped like a cross with stone benches against the back wall. It had been re-built just after I left school and I had carried half a bag of cement up to help in the process. A couple were already in residence and had come equipped. Despite the climb they had had enough breath left to inflate two airbeds. I was destined to sleep on the ground. I wandered on passing the trig pillar that marks the highest point. Here the ground falls away to Red Tarn a thousand feet below, but if you look hard there are a couple of places where you can lay in your sleeping bag just under the top. It pays not to toss and turn in your sleep however.

After locating a suitable place I unpacked my sleeping bag and set out across the plateau to Brownrigg Well to get some water for a brew. I have no idea how water collects so high on Helvellyn but collect it does, and, although I have not used the spring many times, I have never known it fail. It did not take long to return to my “spot” and soon the purr of the primus stove could be heard.

Darkness was with me now. The outline of the fells against the night sky was a memory. Below me the lights on the M6 Motorway drew my eye, and individual lights from remote farmhouses could be seen, as could light’s of vehicles travelling on the quiet country roads. The town of Penrith could be clearly seen to my left. I dozed off. Not a deep sleep, but one where you are aware of the slightest sound, the cry of a sheep, the call of a mountain bird and the sound of a stone being dislodged, all registered in my mind as I lay there. Above me some stars were visible in the inky black sky, but to my shame I did not recognise them. My thoughts returned to other nights spent here. On one occasion I had been awoken in the early hours by a sheep sniffing my face no doubt expecting a sandwich, and on another by a mountain fox, which jumped my sleeping bag before continuing on its way down towards the valley below, startled me.

The lightening of the sky on the eastern horizon awoke me as the dawn began. A faint band of light over the Pennine hills, deepening by the minute, the light began to return and slowly the outline of the surrounding fells became visible. It was so quiet. The only sound that you could hear was a gentle breeze. Soon the sequence began which is, perhaps, best described as the palette of colours that precede the dawn. I sat there lost in wonder.

All the time the light intensified, and the valley sides began to show detail. It was quite cold and I sat there in my sleeping bag, with my back propped against a rock.

unknown

Suddenly without warning the sun blasted over the hills to the east. One moment there was nothing and then a bright yellow orb climbed steadily into the clear sky. Slowly sunlight began to spread down the valleys and the temperature became noticeably warmer. I unzipped the sleeping bag and put on another brew. As the water heated I sat there taking in the morning. I cannot recall the time, but it must have been quite early and was a lovely summer morning. The sharpness of the light was magical. The high tops were bright, illuminated by the morning sunlight that by now was making its way slowly down into the valleys as the sun gained height. The valley bottoms however, were still in a dark shadow, the sunlight not yet having penetrated the gloom.

Brew finished, and the sun well risen, I got to my feet and packed my sleeping bag into the rucksack. I shouldered it and set off back towards the shelter. As I wandered quietly by, I noticed the couple of the evening before had been joined by several more, and all seemed asleep. One in particular was snoring loudly. I wondered if they had missed the dawn. A few strewn beer cans and an empty whisky bottle suggested they might have.

I arrived at the track junction from the previous evening. To my right, the track I had ascended sloped away towards Wythburn. My way lay down over Dollywaggon Pike and down the twisting track, known as the zigzags, (so easy to descend but a nightmare in reverse), to my breakfast stop beside Grisedale Tarn.

Soon I arrived and got the primus going in the lee of an earth bank to brew some tea. No fresh milk so I opened another little pack of powdered milk, called Marvel, to add to it. I sat drinking tea and watched the morning develop. It was still quite early. A slight wind ruffled the water on the tarn and the reeds beside it. Already the temperature was climbing as the sun gained height in the cloudless blue sky. I seemed to be the only person for miles. Here and there a sheep was dotted on the fell side but apart from that no one.

After some considerable time, and several cups of tea laced with the sickly Marvel, I again shouldered my pack and descended via the Little Tongue route to Grasmere. As I entered the village it was just coming to life. School children were waiting for the bus; an odd van passed carrying workmen about to start their day; shopkeepers were just opening up ready for the tourists.

I sat on the low wall and quietly waited for the bus. Eventually it came down the road towards me. It was the familiar 555 that had so often featured in my childhood journeys. It was also the same driver of the night before. The bus stopped and I climbed aboard offering money for my ticket. The driver recognised me after a couple of seconds, “Been up all night?” he said.

“Yep,” I replied, “A night in heaven.”

He studied me for a moment. “Daft bugger,” he laughed, and put the bus into gear.

Thanks to Mr. Black for permission to share this with you.
Audwin

Recent Stuff, too busy to write but will catch you all up after New Year

2011-12-17T19:52:00.018-06:00

As some of you" Continue in Ignorance," I think, Meditation or Rant, I think I'll RANT

2011-09-11T14:03:00.020-05:00

Musings from Over Thar for your reading enjoyment

2011-08-21T21:00:00.016-05:00

A short ditty by the famous Mr. Littleton. I asked him to write something for the blog years ago it seems. Finally a few words and as you will hear he is torn between comic relief and serious measures but he entwines them well. Listen close to the seriousness of the specifics that pertain to the area, for this is the real message. It's a suttle read for the most part but the facts ring out that our beloved piece of Africa is destined to painfully fade with the rest of Africa.

"Same Ole Same O" the African way throws down a challenge and too few of the faithful to march.

I know he's back in the bush with us because my head hurts and my tongue feels like it's stuck to the side of my face. Two bottles of rum lie empty next to the camp fire. Only habit has dragged me squealing from bed as the morning glow infuses the Lugenda with the colors of Africa that I live for. The bird chorus shows them to be in significantly better condition to begin their day. Strong wet coffee seeps into my drought stricken blood stream as I sit happily in the cool dawn. It's good to have him here.

------------------------------------------------------------

With the dust of the long drive washed off with a woodsmoke scented shower, we had set upon the rum. Elephant had cracked branches as they fed past the camp. Paula shook her head and headed for the kitchen knowing it would be a long night.

'So, what's been going on while Ive been away?'

'You know, Skeeter,' I begin, then realize my mistake. He has asked us not to call him Skeeter. It is how we were introduced years ago and it's a hard habit to break. It is an old nickname with annoying associations for him. So he became TAFKAS, The Artist Formerly Known As Skeeter. This mouthful is now Taffy - also the name of a legendary Rhodesian Special Forces operative, and this he finds amusing.

I try again, 'Most of the characters are still around. Anabela still has a tight reign on the basics, and is keeping the show running on a ludicrously small budget, but the perennial problems are not going away, in fact they are growing at the same rate as the game, which is doing incredibly well. Problem is this is all conflicting. The human population within the Reserve is out breeding everything else. Every girl or woman over about 13 has at least one child on her hip. We still do not have any clear perameters of where people can live and farm. Cultivation is still slash and burn, with new fields being opened every 4 or 5 years when the soil gets tired. It's all good in theory having people living in a Wildlife Reserve, but in practice the remedies for conflict are always two steps behind. We are very fortunate to have dedicated men like Wim Eberson involved with the anti poaching, and an unusual situation where most operators have bought into
creating a solid management model.

'Adel still subsidizes our operations, the logistics here are extreme. He has been a bloody saint. I wish he was able to make it out more often to enjoy this place.

Poaching is now becoming an issue. The Chinese are buying anything they can lay their hands on. Ivory has gone from $10 a kilo to over $50. Zebra skins go for around $200, a leopard for close to $500 and a lion skin for as much as $2000. There is talk that the bones are being sold as a replacement for tiger bones, but we have not been able to verify this. In an economic system like this that's crazy money for these guys. It's a new gold rush that we are not prepared to cope with.

'Oh hell man! So what are the Government doing about it?'

'Well you don't get votes from the wildlife. To most communities these animals are still considered a bloody nuisance or a danger. Despite our best efforts to change this mindset - 20% of our concession fees go to the communities, we try to help with community projects - there are very few who get it yet. Sheesh, these wilderness areas will be priceless within our lifetimes if we could keep them safe. Perversely to do that we will have to protect them from the very people we are ultimately protecting them for. Much of Mozambican environmental law is still based on the antiquated Portuguese system which gave very little value to wildlife or forests. It is not a criminal act to kill an elephant for instance. There is a small fine and no jail time. Most offenders are out and about 3 days later grinning at you. Basically we have been given no teeth to deal with these issues. More progressive legal systems in Africa make potential miscreants think
twice. In Zim there was a shoot to kill policy with armed poachers, and a 7 year mandatory sentence for a conviction of elephant or rhino poaching. It's incredibly frustrating. Anyway, on a brighter note, how are the Gals in your life?'

Taffy is surrounded by beautiful women. Sandi his wife is gorgeous inside and out, and is fiercely supportive of a man whose lifestyle is a little wacked, tolerating his free spirit where most women would loose the plot. He kept his lovely daughter Mareth safe from the boys in the bush until she was able to find herself a decent young man to marry and has now made him a grandad, and I have had the good fortune to be fed fried chicken by his Mom who is a wonderful lady.

'they are all good, I am hoping Sandi will make it out here again this year. It's been 6 years since she was here last.

Lilepe arrives with a plate of prawns for snacks. We are both hungry and they don't last long. Safari season is about to start so we are eating well. The routine diet of rice and beans will be replaced by meals cooked over a bushfire that would not be out of place in a fine restaurant. It has always amazed me how our native cooks do this under crude conditions and when our style of food is so foreign to them. The rum is getting better with every swallow and the noise level is rising. Leonard Skinner is trying unsuccessfully to depress us on Audwins iPod. The elephants are now splashing and rumbling as they enjoy the cool Lugenda river.

I knew I liked Audwin the moment I met him. He is that laid back Southern Gentleman, hands on farmer hybrid, observant artist, sixties wild child - I should qualify that - he would have been as comfortable exploring the meaning of life in the 1960's as exploring the world in the 1860's. Cut of a broader cloth, psychedelic one side, sepia the other. Normally calm, I know he has a mans temper when necessary. What I like most is that he is honest. 'When do you start work on those giant aluminum statues? ' I ask. 'Well the City has just about raised the money needed to get started. It's ready in my head, just waiting for the green light.'

Our discussion flows from issues relating to the Reserve, to the latest baboonery of mutual friends. That commercial companies are giving seed to local farmers to plant tobacco on islands and stream banks in a pristine wilderness, and there is the associated abuse of insecticides to kill fish and poison game. The animals killed in this manner were sold to unsuspecting families resulting in the death of children and even adults. The number of new people coming from Tanzania and other districts, where they had already over used their own resources to fish the Lugenda River or cut timber, more aggressive, they out compete the local fishermen who have lived in sync with the river for generations. There are solutions, but not without political will. Government's lame answer - poverty - and that the operators must find answers. There you hold the baby. None of them willing to make the unpopular decisions needed to secure a sustainable future. The next
generation won't think much of their lack of fortitude.

The conversation rambled on, we lamented all politicians, condemned all poachers and their masters, and willed 'progress' in our shrinking world to slow. Aside from bitching we laughed a lot, and laughing is very thirsty work. ' Do you miss Zimbabwe? ' he asks. 'Absolutely, you only realize what you had after you lose it. It's still surviving even with all the nonsense there. I miss my friends the most. It's funny how proud and territorial you get over a country. Pity human nature screws it all up. I think I may have shifted my loyalties to an ideal rather than a specific place.' I slur.

A lion moans from the opposite bank, and muddy hippos chuckle at his reverberating gloom. The rum has taken the edge off a crispness that has crept into the air. Even at our age, taking a pee in the bush is competitive. His artwork is better than mine, but he does not know that my claim to fame at school was weeing over the school bus, a record I believe still stands to this day. We stagger back to the fire each believing himself to have been the victor.

There are 3 of them sitting in front of me now. I can feel the stupid grin hacking my head in half. Skeeter, Audwin and Taffy. The firelight dances as they merge then separate again. Father son and holy terror. He is trying to tell me about a time shit happened in Central America but I have lost my grasp of English, although I seem to have swum the language barrier with the local dialects and am busy making a fool of myself in Swhaili. I notice through the haze that Paula has taken herself to bed. Hope she hasnt been eaten on the way.

'We are ludicrously privileged, Taffy, challenges are good. I just hope we can hold the line long enough ' is the last coherent thought that crosses my mind.

The last I remember of the evening is Audwin moving towards his tent on all fours playing the last post on a varmint call he has produced from somewhere.

-----------------------------------------------------------

'I had better get the team out onto opening roads and see what the anti poaching lads have been up to before he wakes up' I think to myself. There is one bottle of rum left, and a lot still to talk about.

Luwire

Young Plotts a Jagdterrier and some good size HOGS

2011-08-15T22:14:00.009-05:00

All under a year old and three under 8 months.

Niassa Buffalo Project, new blogspot

2011-08-04T09:32:00.007-05:00

My friend, Thomas Prin has just published a Blog about his work with Cape Buffalo in and around the Niassa Reserve in Mozambique. Lots of great video of the area. Good Job Thomas!

HENRY JOHNSON BORN AND BRED AIREDALE MAN

2011-07-11T15:40:00.002-05:00

Well, went up to Tennessee a few weeks ago for a thing or two and ended up one afternoon at the home of an Airedale man. Henry Johnson came across my peripheral several years back in an article about Airedales that I was reading at the time. I stored his name away in my mind and continued on in a bit of a search for information and knowledge regarding what was out there these days in the way of Airedales being bred to hunt Big Game. Over time as I dipped in and out of books, magazine articles and online forums I continued to be impacted by this gentleman's words, his take on the line of Airedales he bred over the years, and the continuous come back to, (that others did in regards to the last word) on what Henry calls Redlines. Henry, (and I feel I should call him and ask if I can call him by his first name although I know his answer would be, "fine!" his demeanor is one that demands a bit of respect even after you get to know him some what). Continuing, Henry has bred and worked ADs for I think he stated 40 years or more and I wont re-write his words but if you read the article here about Redlines printed by his close friend Matt Thom of Mongolian Rim Arizona you will get what I mean.

Henry and Ian

"the dog in my arms in the picture is 13-year-old Ian, from a line of Border Terriers out of County Durham, England, and our "finisher" and catch dog when we were digging to groundhog, coon and possum with terriers. Anything Ian could get his teeth in was a caught critter. Stone deaf and a full time house and yard dog now."

HSJ

Long ago when I was just a young-un I was with my Dad somewhere on the Kentucky/Tennessee line traveling to and from a heavy equipment auction I believe. It was late and we were on our way back to Alabama when we stopped at a truck stop for Dad some coffee. I stayed in the truck and Dad went inside, it was cold and spittin snow. All of a sudden this big ole curly dog came up to the truck and reared up on his hind legs and looked in at me. I'll never forget that face, it was that classic stoic terrier gaze that says, look at you there, what you thinking about, where you headin, I think I might go with you, or maybe not. He got down went over to the sidewalk and just sat down and looked off into the night. When my Dad came back I had a pretty good 8 year old discourse prepared in why we should take that dog home. But, "and although I think I touched a nerve with my Dad" he still said that kind of dog would have a home and he looked smart enough that he thought he would find his way. I was tore up when we drove off and honestly I didn't now what kind of dog it was but Dad said it was and Airedale and up around here men use them for Bear and Boar.

It was one of those moments that you mark down cause I knew someday I would own and hunt an Airedale. When I decided to get a new pack of dogs together a few years back I started lookin for Airedales and Plotts as I had had a similar incident with Plott dogs up in Tellico Plains Tennessee not long after I saw my first Airedale. ( I'll write about that someday maybe) So, although I had owned Walkers, Redbones and Black and Tans these had all come to me from friends and family as I didn't have enough money to go out and get what I really wanted but these were some really good dogs as well but over time Hound Hunting faded out of my realm of priorities replaced by school, cars and girls and trying to support these habits not necessarily in that order of importance drained my funds. Also I had had a bad time with a litter about that time when Parvo took the pups as well as a couple older dogs, so now with a little different set of circumstances I started lookin for Airedales and Plotts.

During my search/education into what was out there these days I came in contact with Jagdterriers from Richard McCorkle and Jay Wholeb, so have ended up with three so far and then a pair of Plotts were found in Texas that met my desires for now
so I have started with these and others. I sat with Henry on his back porch with several of his old Border Terrier friends and we pretty much filled each other in on a little personal history and decided we liked each other, I 'm pretty sure. I spoke of my Dad and he of his, of their time in Wars of the World, I and II, and our families, then we went on to dogs and hunting. My current bunch are all still young and I am still looking for the Airedales to go with them but in finding Henry I think I am going to come right in that regard. So here's to Henry Johnson who showed me much hospitality and shared good thoughts, experiences, knowledge and a good hand shake. He's going to be a friend from now on and I am sure I will be writing more about our talks and visits, if he gives me permission that is.

"My father's war was WW-l. He was a First Lieutenant commanding E Company, 11th Infantry, in the Verdun Sector in 1918. When I was nine years old he taught me to shoot with the Government model 1911 .45 he brought home from that war. My son David has that gun now in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I think is never without it."

2007. "Border Terrier Bullet, in my lap, was about six months old at the time. I was a lot younger then myself too."

HSJ

Old Pic of Bill Pinnell and the Remains of Two Hunters

2011-07-10T13:13:00.004-05:00

I researched this photo and it is real. It's in a several books about Grizzly Bear Hunting in Alaska

Von Plott, Plotts and an Airedale. The Perfect Combination, well maybe throw in a couple Jagdterriers just for Ambience

2011-07-04T10:07:00.003-05:00

A new close friend sent me this pic. Thanks Henry

JOHN KINGSLEY-HEATH

2011-06-21T15:15:00.003-05:00

John Kingsley-Heath, who has died aged 84, ran African safaris for more than half a century, and as a big-game hunter survived many hair-raising encounters with the fiercest beasts of the bush.

John Kingsley-Heath with a stock-killing lioness he shot in Ethiopia

One such occurred in August 1961, when Kingsley-Heath was leading a private safari along the Kisigo river in Tanganyika. From inside a blind (a shelter for hunters), he turned to see a huge, maned lion crouching behind him not 15ft away. As it gathered itself to spring, Kingsley-Heath shot it, and the lion fled. He and his gunbearers gave chase and found the wounded creature lying on its side, breathing heavily.

Recovering in 1961
It was down, but not out. When Kingsley-Heath's client opened fire, the lion made a single bound of 22ft towards the two men. Kingsley-Heath dropped to the ground and smashed the barrel of his .470 rifle over the animal's head, breaking the stock at the pistol grip; the lion staggered. As his gunbearers and client ran for cover Kingsley-Heath struggled on to his elbows to get clear.
"Too late," he recalled, "the lion was upon me, I smelt his foul breath as, doubling my legs up to protect my stomach, I hit him in the mouth with my right fist as hard as I could. His mouth must have been partly open as my fist went straight in."
With a single jerk of its head, the lion broke Kingsley-Heath's right arm; as he punched it with his left fist, the lion bit clean through his left wrist, breaking the left arm and leaving the hand hanging by its sinews. Next it clamped his foot in its jaws, crushing the bones in it by twisting his ankle.
One of the gunbearers arrived, threw himself on the animal's back and stabbed it repeatedly with a hunting knife. With Kingsley-Heath's foot still locked in its mouth, the lion was finally shot dead. The client reappeared, and with his rifle blew the creature's jaws apart so that Kingsley-Heath's foot could be removed.
"I was bleeding heavily ... shaking uncontrollably, felt cold, and was likely to lose consciousness," he wrote later. "I knew that if I did so, I might die." Instead, after an agonising and protracted medical evacuation, followed by surgery and a bout of malaria, he eventually recovered.
Peter John Kingsley-Heath was born in Jerusalem on December 4 1926, the son of Col AJ Kingsley-Heath OBE, formerly Commissioner of Police and sometime Attorney General of Kenya.
After attending Monkton Combe School, Bath, he joined the Welsh Guards and was commissioned at 18. Towards the end of the Second World War, when he was a serving captain, he was injured by bullet in France; he was later wounded by a landmine in Palestine.
After the war he returned to study History and Law at Trinity College, Cambridge, and Economics at London University. A hockey blue at Cambridge, he was subsequently capped for England and regularly played rugby for Blackheath.
Kingsley-Heath was appointed a Colonial Service district officer in Tanganyika, and then, in 1949, to the East Africa High Commission in Kenya. In this capacity he travelled extensively in Kenya, Tanganyika, Uganda, Somaliland, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Sudan and Arabia, as both an administrator specialising in desert locust control, and as an honorary game warden. The most lethal animal that he encountered at this, or any time, was the hippopotamus; indeed a fellow district officer was lucky to survive being bitten in the buttocks after straying between a mother and her calf. "He made a full recovery," noted Kingsley-Heath, "but I am told he walked like a sailor thereafter."
Throughout his hunting career Kingsley-Heath saw no contradiction between legal big-game hunting and conservation. "For much of the period, game animals were plentiful everywhere," he noted, adding that his conscience never bothered him. "My hunting was done in accordance with the laws of the land and permissions were based on facts that supported wildlife policies." When, in 1978, it became clear that growing human populations were endangering game stocks, he stopped. "It was time to make a change, and I did so."
Until then, however, Kingsley-Heath's life had seemed composed of a series of Boy's Own Paper adventures.
In 1956, before Kenyan independence, he was befriended by Syd Downey, who invited him to join Ker & Downey Safaris, the luxury tour operators. Kingsley-Heath became a director, responsible for opening the company's offices in Tanganyika and for making a survey of wildlife potential in Bechuanaland (Botswana) and Mozambique.
As his reputation grew he was hired to accompany many famous people on safari, and to manage wildlife on the films Hatari (1962), starring John Wayne, and Sammy Going South (1963) with Edward G Robinson. Kingsley-Heath's task on the latter was "to arrange for a charging, snarling leopard full into the camera at point-blank range and for all thereafter to be safe and happy, including the leopard." The cameramen, understandably, were "petrified", but after three "takes" (including one in which a wild leopard smashed the lens off the camera) the footage was secured.
In 1964 Kingsley-Heath joined another company, Safari South, in Bechuanaland, playing a major part in the development of tourism there. The work required an him to make an annual overland migration with men and equipment south from Nairobi along 2,158 miles of dirt tracks to Francistown. The voyage included many tricky moments, including the ferrying of a 10-ton supply truck across the Zambezi on a rickety barge. The crossing was, Kingsley-Heath noted, "a time for prayer".
Over the next 14 years he survived perilous near-misses with every member of Africa's so-called "Big Five" – lion, leopard, elephant, buffalo and rhino. Perhaps his most bizarre adventure occurred in Kenya, near the Galana river between Nairobi and Mombasa. It was there, in 1967, that Kingsley-Heath and a client were tracking a bull-elephant "carrying good ivory". Once the elephant had been killed, the client and a gunbearer leant back against the trophy only to feel it shift behind them. Wordlessly, they looked around to find a rhino nudging up against the body.
With nowhere to run or hide, the two men were forced to take refuge on top of the dead elephant where, to their horror, they were repeatedly charged by the rhino, a protected species that they were unable to shoot. Finally, as the elephant rocked back and forth under this assault, the client "could stand it no longer" and shot the rhino, forcing Kingsley-Heath to make a embarrassed call to the chief game warden. "Strange things happen, stranger than fiction," came the reply, but with photographic evidence of the multiple gore wounds in the dead elephant, their tale was believed.
Kingsley-Heath, with his wife Sue, decided to leave Africa in 1978. Having run 2,000 acres on the slopes of Kilimanjaro when not hunting (growing wheat and driving beef cattle through hundreds of miles of bush), they decided to try farming in England. Here they played a major part in introducing Texel sheep from the island of that name in Holland into the British national flock.
With the support of the Prince of Wales, Kingsley-Heath also developed a Cornish Lamb Consortium for Cornish farmers fighting against abattoir and supermarket price domination.
In 1990 he was asked to return to Africa, where he was appointed chief park warden of the Queen Elizabeth National Park in Uganda; he later became assistant director of national parks, staying for six years. He continued to lead safaris into his 80s, accompanied by his wife and in later years by his son Nigel, but their quarry on these occasions were photographs not trophies. Meanwhile, at home in Cornwall he planted his farm with thousands of trees to promote the natural wildlife around him.
In 1957 Kingsley-Heath won the Shaw and Hunter Trophy, awarded to the professional hunter who produces the finest trophy for a client. His book, Hunting the Dangerous Game of Africa, was published in 1998.
John Kingsley-Heath, who died on May 12, was the first to admit that he craved excitement from boyhood to the end of his life. "When my friends tell me that I have led a remarkable life," he reflected, "I have to admit having done my best to make it so."
His wife and three sons survive him.

Sheiker, Tug and Snatch, my Jagdterriers. Campo and Three Toes my young Plotts

2011-06-15T21:55:00.006-05:00

Paul J Rainey, Just Down the Road.

2011-06-10T21:20:00.023-05:00

Paul J Rainey lived less than 100 miles from me when he was at Cotton Plant. I remember going by the hunting dog/hardware store of Mr. Dunn," Wilson Dunn", now (Dunn's Sporting Goods, Mr. Dunn started the museum in the back of his store) that is now the Bird Dog Hall of Fame, Retriever Hall of Fame and National Field Trial Hall of Fame. There were several dog men there from around Grand Junction where the Grand Nationals are held every year. My Dad said they were professionals, professional dog trainers. He said their dogs would sell for more than our house. I saw a pic of Er Shelley once, he had become the head trainer for Rainey's bird dogs and later trained his Hounds Curs and Airedales to hunt African Lions. He (Shelley) was sitting with an English Pointer right there in that store but he was already dead and gone when I was there with my Dad, I was four when he passed. Although Rainey was a great outdoors man and adventurer, Shelley was just as important when it came to accomplishments and overall development of the great traditions of our Southern Culture. Er Shelley was world famous for his dog training abilities as was many of his apprentices, have you heard of Clyde Morton? Look him up. Shelley was the one who came up with the idea to chloroform the Polar bear and ride him through the streets on the back of a flat bed truck to the zoo. I think he rode on the back with a rag and a bottle of chloroform and Rainey drove. I hate I missed those two. Shelley died at the age of 85, he was inducted into the National Field Trial Hall of Fame in 1957.

The name Paul J. Rainey may have been forgotten by most of the world, but in the hills of northeast Mississippi he has become a legendary figure.
In 1898 Rainey, a multi-millionaire adventurer and big game hunter, arrived in Tippah County and purchased 11,000 acres of land in the community of Cotton Plant with the intention of making it into a hunting preserve. He later purchased the Ratcliff property and converted the small home located there into one of the largest estates in Mississippi. By the time he completed the additions, the lodge contained twenty-three rooms and featured a large, indoor, heated swimming pool at a time when few homes in Mississippi had running water. At the opposite end from the pool was a large trophy room filled with mounted heads and skins from his hunts around the world.

The nine bedrooms, kitchen, dining facilities and living rooms were encompassed in the middle section of the dwelling. On the grounds were fish ponds, a sunken garden and a round, brick polo barn designed to hold fifty horses. Rainey continued to purchase land until he owned or controlled over 30,000 acres in Tippah and Union Counties, which he stocked with wolves, bears, foxes and pheasants.

Tippah Lodge, as Rainey called it, became known for its gala parties and hunts. He was a renowned host who spared no expense to entertain his guests. Well-known figures from all over the nation and the world attended; when the lodge became inadequate for the hordes of guests, he built a large hotel in New Albany to accommodate them. This hotel boasted Italian marble floors and was one of the most luxurious in Mississippi at that time. In front of his estate beside Highway 15 the GM&O Railroad built a special siding and station where Rainey in his private Pullman car or his party guests could arrive.

More and more Rainey came to look on Tippah Lodge as home and sponsored many lavish parties and fox hunts there. He also owned a large plantation in Kenya, Africa, a twenty-three thousand acre duck preserve in Vermilion, Louisiana, and a racing stable in Long Island, New York. He was active in car racing, steeple chase riding, and his feats in polo caught the attention of the King and Queen of England when his team became the first American team ever to defeat the British. His hunting expeditions are legendary and his bravery was unexcelled. He pioneered the field of motion pictures on safari in Africa and was the first to successfully hunt lions from horseback with hounds. While on an expedition to the Artic, he single-handedly lassoed the great white Polar Bear called the "Silver King" and brought it back to New York where he donated it to the Bronx Zoo.

As a wealthy, handsome, international playboy, Paul Rainey attracted many women but never married. The circumstances of his death have been the source of much speculation even until this day. In 1923 he was on a journey to Africa on yet another safari when he reportedly had an angry encounter with a dark, mysterious stranger. This man supposedly told Rainey, whose birthday was the following day, that he would not live to see the next day. True enough, Rainey became ill that evening and died. He was buried at sea. However, many people refused to believe that he was dead but speculated that he was living in Europe under an assumed name.

One of the stories that circulated for several years was a supposed sighting of Rainey by a former servant at Tippah Lodge. It seemed that when the servant recognized the tall, well-dressed man walking about the property, he approached him and called him by name. The man didn't reply but thrust a large bill in the old servant's hand and walked away... just another story typical of the myths that circulated around that time.

According to the headlines of the September 20, 1923, issue of The Commercial Appeal, his death was reported by radio message from his sister, Mrs. Grace Rainey Rogers, who was accompanying her brother to Africa on this expedition. Also with Rainey on this trip was his long-time companion, May Peters Graham. At the time of his death on September 18, 1923, he was 46 years old.

From William Faulkner's "The Reiver's"

page 194
"But in winter of course (as now), it was different, with the quail season and the Grand National Trials, with the rich money of oil and wheat barons from Wall Street and Chicago and Saskatchewan, and the fine dogs with pedigrees more jealous then princes, and the fine breeding and training kennels only minutes away now by automobile--Red Banks and Michigan City and La Grange and Germantown, and the names--Colonel Linscomb, whose horse (we assumed) we were going to race against tomorrow, and Horace Lytle and George Peyton as magical among bird-dog people as Babe Ruth and Ty cobb among baseball aficionados, and Mr. Jim Avant from Hicory Flat and Mr. Paul Rainey just a few miles down Colonel Sartoris's railroad toward Jefferson--hound men both, who (I suppose) among these mere pedigreed pointers and setters, called themselves slumming; the vast rambling hotel booming then, staffed and elegant, the very air itself suave and murmurous with money, littered with colored ribbons and cluttered with silver cups."

I'm researching more on Er Shelley and Mr. Wilson Dunn for later.

New Studio, Equipment Moved In

2011-06-02T22:16:00.003-05:00

Got one half of the new Studio wired and equipment moved in down in Tremont. Starting new Sculptures next week if material is ready.

Never thought much of Darwin, he didn't shoot his own specimens.

2011-05-31T21:57:00.004-05:00

Got this from a blog about Terriers, www.terrierman.com

GELERT, IRISH WOLFHOUND

2011-05-22T17:22:00.005-05:00

Dogs are special beings, and for me I try to regard them always in that light. I have owned many, some that still live in my thoughts, some that never amounted to much, possibly my fault cause they are like us in that they take to certain folks better than others. Right now I am blessed with some above average companions, my first Terriers the three Jagds and some really fine young Plott Hounds. This poem and story I came across pained me when I read it and I could feel the insurmountable gloom the man must have felt when he discovered his mistake. Truly I know how he felt for believe it or not I had a nightmare recently about losing one of my Jagds to a wild boar, I guess I'm getting soft in my pilgrimage of years. I've never been as attached to a set of dogs before, maybe it is my age, maybe I have slowed down enough to pay attention? If so, it is a good thing cause I seem to be learning from them, I look forward to what more they will teach me.

GELERT
William Robert Spencer

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound
Obeyed Llewellyn’s horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
“Come, Gelert, come, wert never last
Llewellyn’s horn to hear.

“O where does faithful Gelert roam
The flower of all his race;
So true, so brave – a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?”

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o’er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His favourite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.

Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert too;
And still, where’er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

Overturned his infant’s bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He called his child – no voice replied -
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

“Hell-hound! my child’s by thee devoured,”
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert’s side.

Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent’s joy could tell
To hear his infant’s cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep
The cherub boy he kissed.

No hurt had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Llewellyn’s pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn’s heir.

One Bad Mule

2011-05-04T22:09:00.007-05:00

A couple from Montana were out riding on the range, he with his rifle and she (fortunately) with her camera. Their dogs always followed them, but on this occasion a Mountain Lion decided that he wanted to stalk the dogs (you'll see the dogs in the background watching). Very, very bad decision...

The hunter got off the mule with his rifle and decided to shoot in the air to scare away the lion, but before he could get off a shot the lion charged in and decided he wanted a piece of those dogs. With that, the mule took off and decided he wanted a piece of that lion. That's when all hell broke loose... for the lion.

As the lion approached the dogs the mule snatched him up by the tail and started whirling him around. Banging its head on the ground on every pass. Then he dropped it, stomped on it and held it to the ground by the throat. The mule then got down on his knees and bit the thing all over a couple of dozen times to make sure it was dead, than whipped it into the air again, walked back over to the couple (that were stunned in silence) and stood there ready to continue his ride... as if nothing had just happened.

Fortunately even though the hunter didn't get off a shot, his wife got off these 4...

The cat is still alive here and trying to fight back.

The mule stomped the cat, pinned it to the ground, and bit the neck out several times.

The cat was dead by now. For good measure the mule picked up the cat, whipped it into the air and then stomped it again for good measure

Note the dog audience

Nebraska on the Right Foot

2011-05-04T20:44:00.001-05:00

The North Platte Telegraph

A bill that would make it a constitutional right to hunt, fish and trap in Nebraska could be debated Monday. LR 40 CA was introduced by Sen. Pete Pirsch of Omaha and made a priority bill by the Natural Resources Committee.

If passed, voters would be asked on the November 2012 ballot if they would like to add this language to the state constitution: "Fishing, trapping and hunting are a valued part of the heritage of the people and will be a right forever preserved for the people subject to reasonable restrictions as prescribed by law."

Pirsch said the goal of the measure is to ensure the freedoms to hunt, fish and trap are not weakened or eliminated for future generations.

"If things are important to you, you protect them," he said. "Just as our forefathers took important concepts and included them in the constitution to make sure they were protected, so too, do I propose to protect these important freedoms that we take for granted."

It's a viewpoint he believes other Nebraskans will share.

"I think this is what the people view as important and fundamental," said Pirsch. "I think that the vast majority value these freedoms, and I'd hate to see them lose them. When you look at our 'good life,' it's tied so tightly to these types of activities."

He said the hobbies are crucial to the state's economy.

"When you look at the success of the Nebraska economy, especially the rural economy, it really depends on these activities," said Pirsch. "According to data from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Nebraska has 280,000 sportsmen that spend almost a half billion dollars every year. That spending supports $238 million in salaries, $54 million in state and local tax revenue and has a $746 million ripple effect."

The bill is also an attempt to be proactive. Pirsch said animal rights groups are already shutting down hunting in other states.

"We're talking about deep pockets, and it's not unrealistic to say people are swayed by the mass media even if what they're hearing is based on false portrayals," he said. "I think it's warranted, under these types of conditions, to take measures to protect fundamental freedoms we've had since before the beginning of our statehood."

Thirteen states have already adopted similar constitutional amendments. Tanya Hayes, senior legislative aide, said Indiana has not had an amendment on its ballots, but might this year. The issue was put on Arizona ballots last year, but was defeated.

Nice Snake!

2011-05-01T17:44:00.002-05:00

My good friend Mark M out in Texas sent me this photo. It seems that in areas where there are large concentrations of wild hogs that the Rattlesnakes in the area have stopped rattling all together. Only reason that they have come up with is that they have decided the snakes are hog shy. Hogs love snakes and will go to a buzzing snake and fight over it. This guy had killed over thirty snakes in the same area in the course of a few days and none buzzed when approached.

First Little Bit of Thought Inspired by my Grand Daughter

2011-04-27T13:18:00.006-05:00

Well my Daughter and my Grand daughter have settled in at home and I have had a little time to reflect on this new stage of our lives. Sandi and I have been very blessed over the years and have many things to be thankful for recently. I have for the majority of my life been in touch with the only god of this world the God of the Bible and have been sort of a sideline type that always knew I should take more of a stand in this part of my life. As the time of Ava's birth came near I began a little soul searching and basic sizing up of my principals, beliefs and direction. The times we are a living are perhaps the most important in history and I have for a long while felt the gut tug of truths that my parents, and God, along with good and bad experiences have imprinted on my being.

I'm a bit older now and I feel it, a little bit physically but more than anything I feel it in how I think. More than ever living simple is what I desire. Having life smelted down to the essentials is what I want for myself and my family. We all have lived too good for too long and took a lot of it for granted. Now as the not so Glorious Leader of this country brings us bumbling along without the proper leadership, leadership that has dissipated in strength over several decades and now has accumulated in the present President I want to be sure I lead those that count on me to my best ability. I hope this bit of soul searching on my part will do two things. One, allow me to set in words my thoughts as sort of a personal point of reference for the future and Two, allow you something to meditate on as readers of this Blog. In the end I may just be writing this for myself cause I have no idea who really reads this or how often, I write what I write and post what I do as sort of a personal diary that I hope entertains some, speaks deeply to others that get what I am about and overall, now, it will be something for my Granddaughter that just arrived, hopefully those to come, as well as other Children that Sandi and I might be obliged to produce ourselves, who knows?

I raised my Daughter the way I wanted, close to me always, always being myself around her, good or bad and always giving her everything I could including as much time and love as I could, which was the easiest and what I could give the most of. I took her with me every where I went, meetings, parties, hunting, fishing, over seas, central America, Africa, the Caribbean, and she took it all in and made me very proud, many times. Now she's a Mom and married to a a wonderful man I genuinely love as a son, Parker. Parker came in to my field of vision as a question mark just as every other beau that my daughter gave a glance to. He proved out to be real, down to earth and my kind of man. Its not a wonder that God knew they should be together which brings me to another point that I need to reference for my own benefit. I worry too much about the things God has promised me he will take care of!
And that is basically EVERYTHING.

You know God, if you do know him that is, you know he gave us the Bible as a manual. I always say the things that are there are for our peace of mind and our benefit. This said, we all should start to practice a new respect for "Smelling the Roses" and that means for the most of you taking a whiff for the first time. Life is short! very short and I for one have lived a very good life, full of a lot of what I wanted and a little of what I didn't. My lifestyle came with a price, not a lot of security monetarily but an abundance of being secure that I had accomplished a lot of what I set out to do in my life especially along the lines of hunting, fishing and adventure.

I never gave a lot of thought to children as I roamed about before my daughter, but I always knew I would be a good Father as I hope my offspring will attest to. As I stood beside my first wife in the delivery room some 22 years ago and held her hand as the doctor removed my daughter from the womb, that little soul captured my attention and has held it ever since. I followed her and the nurse around the room as the nurse made sure she was good to go and I took her and brought her to my wife. That was one of those "Mile Stone" life events. Actually there was nothing to compare I thought till I stood outside the delivery room and with my ear tuned to the voices in my daughters room I stood then sat on the floor stood again and prayed for almost two hours listening to those faint brave sounds as that precious flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood struggled steadily along giving birth to another equally precious life. Mareth never complained, she stuck to her job and I could feel her struggles through the door as the baby came first turned face up then turned right by the Doctor then she turned back up again, listening to the strain in my daughters voice asking about her progress as she took each breath and prepared for the next effort. I heard the slight but brave humor from her as she became weaker and weaker with each try, but then the voice of the doctor, saying alright and the strong cry of Ava's voice for the first time seemingly roaring at the world of the living. This is what is real to me, life as it should be, the way it was created to be, "the blessed pleasure of what is natural, real and simple". It didn't take all the powerful Hitec communication devices, it didn't take the latest fashion look, it didn't take knowing all the right people, It didn't even take the right education or the expensive vehicle and house in the right neighborhood, not even the politically correct way of speaking. None of this could add to or take away from the explicit design of circumstances that God ordained for this baby to be born under, a perfect scenario of miraculous circumstances implemented by the Creator of All Life. So now
I am to dedicate myself to leading by example, for I have just realized, I'm the Old Man now! My great Grandfather, Grandfather and my Father are long gone, I'm the last of it, "so far". The old MacGregors from Scotland that I am from came here and changed the name to MacGehee then to McGee are drawing thin on this earth. I want to leave a little of me behind for those to come that hopefully will remember what I was about, what I treasured in my soul, what I thought was true, and how I lived especially the second half of my life, cause the First Half was a given, the Second Half you should know better. All this has been coming to the surface for some time and little Ava just came along just in time to hit the starter button. Hopefully we all can start to live a little more simply, for me I plan on living a great deal more simply. What's the most important thing in the World to you? I can tell you what should be up there at the top of your list, right up there with God, family and friends and Grand Children. Time, time is either your nemesis or your best friend, your choice, it will make our lives maddening or can make our lives rich with peace. You better sit up and take care of time. If you don't have it you you got nothing. How do you keep it, how do you have more of it? You go back to simple! You go back to the slow life, remember the slower you live the more time you have.

So now, I wait for any call that will bring me into the presence of a new life that is already precious to me. Ava has no idea of the engine she has put in motion, an engine I must make sure idles along slow cause I have begun getting geared up, looking for a good Fox or L C Smith 410 SxS for her, thinking about how old she will need to be to go to Africa with us. Looking for the proper outdoor, hunting, fishing, adventure books to buy for her library, hoping some of my old haunts survive the march of progress so I can take her there and show her my special places. I will have time for the waiting and watching, anticipating every move she makes, where she goes, what she does, how she thinks, and hoping that I get to influence her just a little, leave a little of me with her to carry on and share with her children. I understand now that if I don't do anything else right in my life I will do right by her, teaching her all I now about how to live simply and enjoy the time of her life!

Another Arrow in the Quiver

2011-04-24T20:26:00.005-05:00

My Darling Daughter has given me a Grandaughter, meet Ava Frances

Rare Fish Washes up in Mozambique, Thanks to my friends at Pemba Dive Camp for this post

2011-04-05T18:09:00.002-05:00

WEIRD AND RARE
Oarfish – Regalecus glesne
Rare fishes of open ocean habitat depths of 20m-200m, occasionally found stranded on the beach. This was found on Wimbi beach in Pemba. It feeds on planktonic crustaceans.

It is a 5-8m ribbon like ray, brilliant silver with bluish streaks when alive and various black streaks & spots. Barbel (long feelers below the gills) 2m long.
Mouth is toothless, lower jaw has small tuft of bristle-like teeth.
No Anal fin, scales or gas bladder. Upper jaw very protrusile, maxilla broad. Flesh is just jelly, soft and watery, you can not even freeze it.

About Pemba DiveCamp Eco-friendly Coastal Nature Estate – Dive Resort in Northern Mozambique. This tropical paradise is on the edge of Quirimbas Islands offering Dolphin Safaris, Whale watching, PADI Resort Scuba from Wimbe beach, Fishing, Sundowners on secluded white beach with sunset campfire.

Beach front Chalets, Backpackers, Camping with free activities are included in the package at the Dive Resort:
Kayaking through mangroves, guided Nature walk, Snorkelling on the reef, Archery, Motorized raft, Axe throwing, Bird watching, Jogging trails, Volleyball, Trampoline, Secluded white beaches, Fireballs, Drumming at night, Beach campfire and a Mud bath the dirty way!
Complementary transfers in/out of Resort up to the Airport between 06h00-24h00 do phone us.

DINING
Potbelly Restaurant the Resort – food is good.
A fully kitted communal self-catering kitchen is available.
Beach Barbeque and dining tables
A Backpacker Shop with groceries, medicines and curios.
Wifi Internet Cafe inside the Backpacker Shop.
We have two locations Dive Resort inside the bay and Dive Center on Wimbi Beach.
Calvin our PADI Instructor goes to the Wimbi every day.

Dolphin Safari to the other side of the bay including mask, fins and drinks.

Diving:
The diving at Pemba on the edge of the Quirimbas Archipelago Islands is really very good, this comes from experienced divers who have dive all over the world. Diving in Pemba is completely different. Pemba has of the largest variety of different types of coral attracting a variety of marine life.
What is special is the Coral reefs starting almost on the shore, drop off with Africa's largest Fan Coral 300m from the shore (Wimbi Beach). All dive sites are 10 - 30 minutes. The mangrove swamp and more coral areas are next to the dive sites (Pemba Dive & Bush Camp Resort) inside the bay.

Please have a look on our website www.pembadivecamp.com go to “Getting There” on details of travel by air, road, train or bus with overnight routes, road conditions, distance and times available from South Africa, Malawi or Tanzania to Pemba
Contact Information
Phone
+258 826611530Mobile
+258 826697050Mobile
Address
Wimbi Beach and Nacole Drive
0000 Pemba, Mozambique
Website
http://www.pembadivecamp.com
Email
pembadive@gmail.com
Facebook facebook.com/pembadivecamp

"HERE WE REST", Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. The new album, this ones better than gold!

2011-04-03T15:50:00.003-05:00

Jagds Hunting

2011-03-30T17:23:00.006-05:00

new Terror THREAT ALERT!!!

2011-03-30T08:19:00.002-05:00

Ok, I have to admit I am lazy. This last post wouldn't fit the page when I copied and pasted so I took it off and tried a few things but hey, I'm not capable, and not perfect, so here it is below. I almost didn't put it back up and then I got a message from one of my most important sounding boards, The"McKim" and right away I knew it had to be there screwed up or not. And thanks to Gordon and Dorothy my British friends in Mozambique for sending it to me.

new Terror THREAT ALERT!!!

2011-03-30T08:17:00.000-05:00

“Alerts to Terror Threats in 2011 Europe,” by John Cleese

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.

The Scots have raised their threat level from "Pissed Off" to "Let's Get the Bastards." They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.

The French Government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.

The Italians have increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides." The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbor" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

The Australians, meanwhile, have raised their security level from "No worries" to "She'll be Alright, Mate." Two more escalation levels remain: "Crikey! I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend!" and "The barbie is canceled." So far no situation has ever warranted use of the final escalation level.

Trophy Vehicle

2011-03-22T21:52:00.007-05:00

Sometimes you just can't think of anything to say.

photos compliments of Garret Shirey

Simplification at it's best.

2011-03-15T09:50:00.002-05:00

Well, Nuff Said!

also thanks to Logcabineer for diggin this up!

Me and Ryan Klesko, Grand Slam Adventures

2011-03-14T16:11:00.005-05:00

Ryan was down at Johnny's filming a Turkey Hunt. Click on the above to go to his site

Elliott Speers Barker, "When the Dogs Bark Treed"

2011-03-02T19:43:00.010-06:00

Elliott Barker, Have heard of him for a while now. Back in the late 70's I worked for an outfitter up in the Yellowstone/Teton Wilderness. I worked with a man that became a good friend, Hugh Hanson. Hugh had run away from home at an early age, 13, and had ended up on the Vermejo Park Ranch where he lived and worked for 15 years or so. He would tell me stories about Elliott Barker and others that lived and worked there. Elliott was already gone from the ranch when Hugh arrived but Hugh admired him from the stories he heard. Hugh never finished High School, he was unknowingly dyslexic and had a rough childhood, thus the reason for running away. He had enough money when he left Columbus Georgia to make it to Raton New Mexico where he was deposited off the bus he was on for that was as far as he could afford to go. He spent the night in the Bus Station and was rescued by a friendly Mexican the next morning when the Mexican came to pick up a few Mexican Cowboys that had arrived from down south to work on the ranch. It turns out the friendly Mexican was the Ranch Foreman and he took Hugh in and finished raising him. Hugh could speak fluent Spanish and was a hell of a horseman. He was a fantastic Elk Guide and Horse Trainer and Farrier. He was a great friend and all the gals wanted to dance with him at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar cause he was a sure nuff Western Dance aficionado. He taught me how to tie a Diamond Hitch among other things but I digressed to the Squaw Hitch over time. He came to my daughter's 3rd birthday and did rope tricks for the kids. He was a true Cowboy and I am damn glad I knew him. I'll write more about Hugh later.

BARKER, ELLIOTT SPEER (1886–1988). Elliott Speer Barker, conservationist, author, and the "father" of Smokey Bear, was born in Moran, Texas, on December 25, 1886, the son of Squire L. and Priscilla (McGuire) Barker. When he was three years old the family moved to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in New Mexico for his asthmatic mother's health. When he was thirteen his mother moved to Las Vegas, New Mexico, from the family ranch near Sapello so that he and those of his ten siblings who were of school age could attend school there. He finished high school in three years and graduated in 1905, then took a six-month course at a college of photography in Effingham, Illinois. He worked briefly with his brother-in-law, a photographer, in Texico, New Mexico.
Barker worked as a professional guide and hunter near Las Vegas for two years before passing the United States Forest Service ranger examination in April 1908. He worked as an assistant forest ranger in the Jemez National Forest in Cuba, New Mexico, in 1909. In November of that year he was transferred to the Pecos National Forest in Pecos, New Mexico, and promoted to ranger. In November 1912 he was transferred to the Carson National Forest near Tres Piedras, New Mexico, where he worked under the famous American conservationist Aldo Leopold. In the fall of 1914 Barker was promoted to deputy forest supervisor and moved to Taos, New Mexico. He spent a year as acting supervisor, then transferred to the Coconino National Forest in Arizona as forest supervisor.
During World War I he was a first lieutenant in the National Guard, a deputy United States marshal, and the chairman of the Taos County Red Cross. He almost died during the flu epidemic in 1917. He resigned in April 1919 and acquired 640 acres, including the old family homestead, near Las Vegas. He ranched from 1919 to 1930 and worked as a guide for deer and cougar hunts. Barker went broke at the onset of the Great Depression and sold out. In April 1930 he went to work for Harry Chandler, the publisher of the Los Angeles Times-Mirror, as wildlife and predator-control manager at Chandler's Vermejo Park Ranch. A year later, however, Barker was appointed state game warden and director of the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish. He held that position until 1953, when he retired to devote himself full-time to writing.
His first book, When the Dogs Bark "Treed": A Year on the Trail of the Longtails, was published in 1946. His other books included Beatty's Cabin: Adventures in the Pecos High Country (1953), Ramblings in the Field of Conservation and Eighty Years with Rod and Rifle (both 1976), and Smokey Bear and the Great Wilderness (1982). Barker also published two books of poetry, A Medley of Wilderness and Other Poems (1962) and Outdoors, Faith, Fun and Other Poems (1968). His best-known book was Western Life and Adventures, 1889–1970, originally published in 1970 and reprinted in 1974 as Western Life and Adventures in the Great Southwest. It won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America for the best nonfiction book of the year.
The best-remembered monument to Barker's memory, however, had nothing to do with his literary accomplishments. In May 1950 a huge fire broke out on Capitan Mountain, New Mexico. A fireman rescued a small bear cub, badly burned, clinging to a charred tree, and the cub was flown to Santa Fe and nursed back to health. On behalf of the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish, Barker donated Smokey to the Forest Service in Washington, D.C., specifying that the cub should become a symbol of forest-fire prevention and wildlife conservation. Smokey lived for more than twenty-six years at the National Zoo and became the most recognized animal in the world.
Barker married Ethel M. Arnold on May 17, 1911, and they had one son and two daughters. Barker was a member of the International Association of Game, Fish, and Conservation Commissioners, the Western Writers of America, the National Wildlife Federation, and the Western Association of Game and Fish Commissioners. He received a meritorious-service citation from the New Mexico Wildlife Conservation Association in 1953, and the National Wildlife Federation named him conservationist of the year in 1965. In 1966 the United States Game Commission dedicated a 5,000-acre wildlife area to Barker in recognition of the assistance he had given to the regional Girl Scout council. In 1976 he received an honorary doctorate from New Mexico State University. Barker died at the age of 101 on April 3, 1988, in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Armadillo Down

2011-02-20T19:54:00.009-06:00

Out this afternoon looking for trouble with trouble X 3, the Jagd Brothers, " Snatch and Tug", and a young Blackmouth Cur/Plott cross, "Madah". Chased a few armadillos to ground but I didn't bring a shovel so I pulled them off but let them get down a little.

The Resting Place for Special Hounds, Coon Hounds! Only!

2011-02-19T21:43:00.027-06:00

When I was a kid my Dad took me by the cemetery, we hunted a lot in that area. When I started high school my long time buddy Jeff M. Dad's hunting camp was just up the road from the cemetery so we were by there often. Always seemed like a natural thing to have Hounds buried there, I mean Coon Hounds, cause only approved Coon Hounds are allowed. I guess there are over a hundred now. Something about the spot, very peaceful and you feel the reverence.

Let not your hearts be troubled,
for in his master’s swamp are many den trees.
If it were not so, I would have told you.
He has gone to prepare a place for you
and where he has gone Ole Red will go also.
Dogs, they say, do not have souls.
They only have hide and bones.
But I believe there is a coon dog heaven
and Red is gone were the good coon dogs go.
Anybody that coon hunts has to believe in God.
If you have known the music of coon hounds on a trail
and heard the excitement in their voices when they strike,
and seen their eagerness and determination when they tree,
if you have seen their courage and bravery
in a tough fight with an old boar coon,
if you have heard their anguished cries and howls,
if you have seen the ugly gashes
and bleeding wounds
and witnessed their resolve to never quit,
you know there has to be a God to make an animal like that.
And a God that that would make a coon dog
won’t forget him when he is gone.
There is a coon dog heaven and Ole Red is there.
And every night he runs
and the den trees are there in the old swamp
and the old hunter’s moon hangs low in the west
and the coons don’t go up no slick barked trees
and the carbide don’t run out
and there ain’t no bull nettle and saw briars
and old master always knocks the coon out
and lets Ole Red grab him and give him a good shake;
and then he gets a pat on the head
and climbs back into the kennel in the back of the pick-up truck
and goes home and sleeps all day.
‘Cause he knows in coon dog heaven he can hunt again
when the sun goes down and the tree frogs holler.
May the bones of Ole Red rest in peace,
through the mercy of God
and may the coon hunters light perpetually shine upon him.

In a small, grassy meadow, deep in the rich, thick wilderness of Freedom Hills, Key Underwood sadly buried his faithful coondog, Troop. They had hunted together for more than 15 years. They had been close friends.

The burial spot was a popular hunting camp where coon hunters from miles around gathered to plot their hunting strategies, tell tall tales, chew tobacco and compare coon hounds. Those comparisons usually began and ended with Troop...he was the best around.

Underwood knew there was no place in the world Troop loved more than that camp. It was only fitting, he decided, that Troop spend eternity there. On that dreary Labor Day of 1937, Underwood said good-bye to his legendary coonhound. He wrapped Troop in a cotton pick sack, buried him three feet down, and marked the grave with a rock from a nearby old chimney. On the rock, with a hammer and a screwdriver he had chiseled out Troop's name and the date. A special marker was erected in his memory. (from the Coon Dog Cemetery Website) www.coondogcemetery.com

Me got no house; me all time moving; light fire, make tent, sleep; all time go hunt, how have house?" --Dersu Uzala Sihote'-Alin Range, Ussuria

2011-02-11T18:41:00.014-06:00

Dersu Uzala (Russian: Дерсу Узала; alternate U.S. titles: With Dersu the Hunter and Dersu the Trapper) is the title of a 1923 book by the Russian explorer Vladimir Arsenyev. Arsenyev's book tells of his travels in the Ussuri basin in the Russian Far East. Dersu was the name of a Nanai hunter (who lived c. 1850–1908) who acted as a guide for Arsenyev's surveying crew from 1902 to 1907, and saved them from starvation and cold. Arsenyev portrays him as a great man. From 1907, Arsenyev invited Dersu to live in his house in Khabarovsk as Dersu's failing sight hampered his ability to live as a hunter. In the spring of 1908, Dersu bade farewell to Arsenyev and walked back to his home in the Primorsky Krai, where he died. According to Arsenyev's book, Dersu Uzala was murdered near the town of Korfovskiy and buried in an unmarked grave in the taiga.

A bit of translation of maybe the forward from the book.

The set of opening was made by Arsenyev, travelling in a jungle of Primorski Krai those aestivo-autumnal days 1906. The well-known traveller then was born and the first lines of a literary work which it will name " Dersu Uzala " have appeared. The unexpected meeting with the future hero of the book has taken place on August, 3. That day with sunrise everyone were already on legs and after a breakfast have gone upwards on the river Tadushi. As on a return way it was necessary to go the same road, Arsenyev has gone without work as all things, Whether including tools remained on Fudzine. Travellers hurried up as soon as possible to reach there. In a way he has met one more Chinese fanza in which they had dinner: hospitable owners have treated with their pel'menis. At another fanzy, built near to a trap ludevoj, have settled down on a lodging for the night. In the evening when all sat at a fire, and Arsenyev as usual did records in the diary, the man's voice was heard. Here is how this memorable episode in Arsenyev's book is described:
" Hello, - someone has told behind. I have turned back. Our fire had an elderly person of low growth, stocky, with a convex breast, a little bit bandy-legged. Its flat person has been covered with sunburn, and folds at eyes, on a forehead and cheeks eloquently spoke, that to it of years about 50. Small chestnut color rare moustaches, rare, in some voloskov, the beard, oustanding cheekbones at eyes exposed in it golda. It has lowered a gun a butt on the ground and started to light. It has been dressed in any rigid canvas jacket, manzovskie trousers and uly, in hands at it were soshki - an indispensable accessory of the foreigner. Its eyes small with povolokoj at extreme corners seem sharp-sighted and breathed mind, keenness and pride ".
On a question of travellers who it such, the newcomer with a shade of pride has answered, that it not the Chinese, and gold, lives in a taiga where extracts to itself livelihood.
- Call you as? - someone has asked golda.
- Name - Dersu, a surname - Uzala, - that has answered.
- Dersu Uzala? - Arsenyev has asked again. - And how it to transfer to Russian? What does it mean?
The hunter for a minute has reflected, and has then told with the same shade of pride:
- Mine think, that it means nothing, and the name and a surname is simple.
" I saw before myself the primitive hunter, - Vladimir Klavdievich recollected later, - which all life has lived in a taiga. From its words I have learned, that by a life it extracted means a gun and subjects of the hunting exchanged at Chinese for tobacco, lead and gunpowder and that the rifle has got to it in a heritage from father. Then it has told to me, that to it now fifty three years, that at it never was at home, it eternally lived open-air and only arranged to itself time jurtu from korja or beresty " in the winter.
Talking with the hunter - goldom about a life, listening to its artless stories about taiga wanderings, about hunting, Arsenyev understood more and more, that does not want to leave this person, that both of them - it, the officer, evolved in city family, and the tramp gold, hardly probable knowing the letter, are connected something blood, invisible, but so strong, that does not allow them to go away in the different parties. Next day Arsenyev has made the most brief record in the diary: " in the Morning gold Dersu Uzala on again set question: whether " It agree to act a conductor? " Has expressed the consent. Since this moment it became a member of expedition ".
Let's add - and the hero of the well-known book. How V.K.Arseneva's travelling diary was in detail conducted by summer of 1906, it is possible to draw a conclusion, that the traveller planned to issue it completely. But later it has departed this plan and has preferred an art variant of the description of the taiga life with Dersu Uzala.

Would have been nice to have set and talked with either of these men.

Tuesday, June 6 2006, 01 AM ← →
Famous Explorer to Retrace Arsenyev’s Ussuri Taiga Trek
Adventurer will repeat route that was first passed exactly 100 years ago.
Vladivostok, May 29, PrimaMedia. The well-known Russian adventurer Leonid Kruglov will embark on June 5 on a journey to the Ussuri taiga that will follow the original route of the famous explorer Vladimir Arsenyev and his guide Dersy Uzala. The route has been determined by diaries that were left by Arsenyev. “GEO” magazine and the Cultural Council of Primorsky Krai are sponsoring the journey.

The travelers will raft down mountain rivers, traverse the Sihote-Alin range, and explore northern Primorye on horses that have been donated by horseracing club “Russian Troika.”

After the journey, the travelers will make a photo exhibition and a documentary film that will be aired on central TV channels.

Leonid Kruglov will be the film’s director, photographer and documenter. Kruglov has already traveled to Tibet, Ethiopia, New Guinea, Zaire, Uganda, Taimir, Altai, South America, and many other places. He is also the author of “GEO” magazine and is a host of the television program “Dialogue with the World,” which is shown on REN-TV.

Looking for the book and movie, will let you know when I read and watch it. Got to be good.

THE ESSENTIAL SOUTHERN SOUL IS HARD, ISOLATE, STOIC, AND A KILLER! IT WILL NEVER MELT! - My apologies to D.H. Lawrence for taking liberties.

2011-02-07T20:01:00.034-06:00

National Field Trial Championship Feburary 2011 - Click here to go to older post about

2011-01-05T13:24:00.011-06:00

The National Field Trial Championship Ames Plantation - Grand Junction, TN
2010 Winner

www.birddogfoundation.com
Schedule of Events 2011
2011
Wed.- Sun.
Feb. 9 -13, 2011 The English Springer Spaniel Field Trial Association’s
(AKC Parent Club of the Breed)
6th Annual Hall of Fame Classic Field Trial
Location: La Grange, TN
(Approximately three miles from BDF Facilities in Grand Junction)

Sat. Feb. 12, 2011
Field Trial Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony, BDF FTHoF Room
Starting the morning session at 9:00 a.m. CST
Luncheon at 11:30 a.m.
Afternoon Session begins at 2:00 p.m.

Sun. Feb 13, 2011
The Bird Dog Foundation Board of Directors meeting 8:00 a.m. Location: The Bird Dog Foundation’s Wm. F. Brown Memorial Library, Grand Junction, TN

Sun. Feb. 13, 2011
6:00 p.m.: National Championship Kickoff Banquet , Sponsored by EUKANUBA
Location: The Bird Dog Foundation, Grand Junction, TN
5:00 p.m. Social Hour preceding Banquet

Mon. Feb. 14, 2011
8:00 a.m. CST: start of The National Field Trial Championship
Ames Plantation - Grand Junction, TN
Please visit www.amesplantation.org or call their office at
(901) 878-1067, for confirmation of this date as Field Trials depend on weather conditions.

Thur. Feb. 17
2011 National Field Trial Championship Social and Catfish supper.
Sponsors: ANHEUSER-BUSCH, PURINA, and others
Begins at 5:30 p.m. CST
Location: The Bird Dog Foundation’s Auditorium
Grand Junction, TN
For more information call: 731-764-2058

The Field Trial Hall of Fame

The specific interest in honoring the dogs and people who excelled in the field trial sport began in the late 1930's. Those involved knew that time and careful consideration would be needed in formulating the rules and regulations needed to bestow an honor of excellence on dogs and their owners, trainers and handlers.

In 1953, William F. (Bill) Brown, editor of The American Field, compiled the necessary rules and regulations governing elections of the field trial dogs and their owners and trainers to a proposed Field Trial Hall of Fame. The list was published in Brown's Field Trials: History, Management and Judging Standards in the anticipation that hall of fame would be established.

In the June 19,1954 issue of The American Field, Brown announced that the Field Trial Hall of Fame had become a reality and nominations were taken.

Dogs were eligible based in their entire careers. People were nominated based in their service and the length of time devoted to the field trial sport. Nominations could be made in two categories.

1. Distinguished Bird Dogs deceased

2. Prominent Persons living or deceased

The first year to vote for inductees was 1954, and the election committee considered a popular vote of ten dogs and ten persons from the nomination ballot. Bird Dog enthusiasts elected five dogs and five people into the Field Trial Hall of Fame that year. In 1955, two dogs and two people were elected and inducted. This marked the beginning of a tradition that continues at the annual Field Trial Hall of Fame.

For more information on the history of the Sporting Dog Center and the Bird Dog Foundation, Inc., purchase a copy of The Sporting Dog Center and the Official History of the Bird Dog Foundation, Inc.. This very informative book is available exclusively through the National Bird Dog Museum Gift Shop.

Muscle Shoals Music, Then And Now. Here are a few favorite groups, friends, and movers and shakers!

2011-01-04T17:30:00.042-06:00

A friend, "Terry Pace, wrote the following today," So glad to see that Keith Richards mentions Jimmy Johnson, Roger Hawkins and Jim Dickinson (All From Muscle Shoals) in his fascinating and detailed remembrance of the Rolling Stones' historic Muscle Shoals Sound sessions from 1969. The account is published in Keith's long-awaited autobiography, I should add that Keith also mentions Rick Hall, FAME, Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett and Percy Sledge's "When a Man Loves a Woman" in establishing the musical pedigree Muscle Shoals already possessed before the Stones ever visited the area.

Below you will find a very small representation of Music History from my hometown area. Fame Recording Studios, Etta James, Bob dylan, Eddie Hinton, Rod Stewart, Bob Segar, Greg Allman, Allman Brothers Percy Sledge, Sam Phillips, Rick Hall, Patterson Hood and the DBTs. Gary Nichols, James and Dylan LeBlanc, Doc Dailey, Black keys, Secret Sisters, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, Band of Horses, John Paul White, Jimmy Johnson, David Hood, and the Swampers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, just to name a few.

Local Historical Pics, thought you might enjoy

2011-01-02T22:33:00.009-06:00

First one is self explanatory, the rest are, Several different pics of Cat Fish caught from the Tennessee River, Large Rattlesnake Skin, around 11ft. that hung in the Old Court House and a great shot of an old local Produce Store.

One of my Deutscher Jagdterriers has decided to take to Duck Hunting

2010-12-31T15:18:00.009-06:00

Have been taking my 7 month old Jagd with me Duck Hunting. Snatch seems to be into the aquatic scene more than his brother Tug who likes to just stick his head under and look around. They both take to water fine but Snatch is into honing his retrieving skills at the moment so I drag him along. He's kinda got a feel for it but has a long way to go to beat my old Labrador, "Danny Boy" who I miss terribly.

Lasting Impressions that never went away

2010-12-27T20:17:00.008-06:00

I have often said if you want to be happy as an adult you must never forget the dreams you had as a child. You should if you could, pursue them as your manifest destiny, your chart for life, for there lies your true desire! It's not Rocket Science for back then you were pure in heart and pure in mind. Back then you hadn't been influenced by lots of stuff, we just knew what made us happy and dreamed, more or less, for more of the same. As a youngster I watched the Wonderful World of Disney, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, Curt Gowdy and the American Sportsman, read lots of books and magazines about hunting, fishing, the west, outdoor life and the rest, my mind constantly focusing on the future and a simple life of adventure in the Great Outdoors. One movie that set me to thinking about other continents was unknown to me by name for most of my life. "Sammy Going South" was a movie I saw when I was pretty young maybe 10 maybe more. I saw only the last thirty or so minutes and never forgot it. Occasionally over the years I asked around to folks that had a movie thing going on you know movie hound types, especially old movie hound types but never had a hit, just a cold trail. I didn't know the name of the movie, the names of the actors or even when it was made, it was a long time ago and from what I could remember the main adult character was small of statue but I couldn't be sure. I did searches on line and tried lots of different methods and pretty much gave up. Time passed and ever so often I'd give it another shot and in so doing about a year ago I stumbled across a site that allowed me to find what I was looking for. Sammy Going South was made as an English movie and released in America under the title, A Boy Ten Feet Tall in 1963 or so, I was 8 years old. The story was about a young boy that made his way 4500 miles or so across Africa mostly on his own from North to South and all that he encountered along the way. The main adult character turned out to be Edward G Robinson. I ordered a copy of the movie, watched it for the first time in 40 years or so and sat back in satisfaction at knowing that I hadn't been just a young kid that, as a young kid had over exaggerated the impression the movie made on me, the feelings were the same, the memories came back sharp and clear. The movie had been real and I had found it. Not just for me but for my daughter and my new grandchild, a granddaughter that will be here in April and for all the other nephews, cousins and kids that I know or will know that are coming down my path. I want to sit and watch them watch it, see what they soak up, watch their concentration, listen to what they say about it and hopefully they will be touched a bit like I was, hopefully it will enhance their young spirits towards travel, adventure and making their own life what they dream it will be. This isn't the end of the story. I just recently found a great copy of the book by W. H. Canaway, I hope to read it soon down at the cabin in Mississippi, sittin by the wood stove, warm and cozy with nothing but my old dreams keeping me company.

Thomas Prin, Buffalo Man

2010-11-22T09:28:00.021-06:00

The Buffalo Tracking Team came for a few days to put more tracking collars on the local Cape Buffalo herds trying to plant one in every herd in the reserve and surrounding blocks. This being their second season it took just 2 days of flying, darting and attaching the collars to meet their quota for this year. Much is being learned about the number and movement of the Niassa herds some totaling upwards of 3 hundred, a fantastic site, especially if your in a position to set and watch them pass unnoticed. I met my friend Thomas Prin last year briefly during the capture period and this year we were able to spend a little more time together as we went and camped with friends on the Top of Mecula Mountain in the heart of the Reserve. Thomas records the movements of the herds using electronic tracking throughout the year, spending around 8 months a year living in the Bush. He has been christened the “Buffalo Man” by the local population. Although young, Thomas is very experienced in the Bush, as his family has been involved in the business of Hunting and Safaris in West Africa for years. It was a pleasure getting to know him better and I look forward to spending more time with him. Here are a few shots from Thomas and myself. Thomas will become a contributor for the “Dancing With The Wild Beast” BlogSpot, which is dedicated to the preservation of the Niassa Reserve and features posts by folks that live and work there. A lot of news is forthcoming from the Reserve as we have all been a bit behind on posting; please continue to check in occasionally. AP

Random Pics from Photo Safari Group

2010-11-21T08:36:00.009-06:00

On Top Of Mecula

2010-11-02T14:46:00.010-05:00

We headed up to Mecula Mountain for an overnighter, good time! Elephants were about but the highlight of the trip was the drive up. Mecula is around 4000 ft. highest in Mozambique I believe and a different world all together. Hard to upload from here, so more pics when I arrive home. In the meantime go to Bryan Allen's site which you can access from here and check out our progress.

More IN COUNTRY

2010-10-27T03:26:00.006-05:00

I'm hanging with a great group of folks that Bryan Allen has assembled for a Photo Safari Workshop and will be posting to various sites. We are at the Lugenda River Photographic Camp of Luwire Safaris Mozambique. Here are a few of my shots from the sidelines of the group in action. I must say they have come loaded for bear with all manner of gear and I look forward to the finished product. More Later

In Country

2010-10-26T12:42:00.004-05:00

On the Lugenda, Oct 28 2010

The "Snatch" and The "Tug"

2010-10-20T09:24:00.012-05:00

Snatch and Tug, our two Jagd Terriers. Their names are an understatement!

Down to Molly Harmon Spring for some self bottled water

2010-10-20T09:04:00.010-05:00

Molly Harmon is just a little ways a way from our place in Mississippi. We usually pack some back in plastic jugs and coolers, Water the way God made it!

Down on the Gulf, everything seems good!

2010-10-11T12:44:00.017-05:00

Croc Bone Cuff, Now Available

2010-09-01T21:38:00.006-05:00

For purchase you can go to Kurtz and Marlow

Can't take our guns, so they take our ammunition? Read this, what does it sound like to you?

2010-08-30T17:45:00.005-05:00

EPA Considering Ban on Traditional Ammunition: ACT NOW!!

All Gun Owners, Hunters and Shooters:

With the fall hunting season fast approaching, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) under Lisa Jackson, who was responsible for banning bear hunting in New Jersey, is now considering a petition by the Center for Biological Diversity (CBD) - a leading anti-hunting organization - to ban all traditional ammunition under the Toxic Substance Control Act of 1976, a law in which Congress expressly exempted ammunition. If the EPA approves the petition, the result will be a total ban on all ammunition containing lead-core components, including hunting and target-shooting rounds. The EPA must decide to accept or reject this petition by November 1, 2010, the day before the midterm elections.

Today, the EPA has opened to public comment the CBD petition. The comment period ends on October 31, 2010.

The National Shooting Sports Foundation (NSSF) -- the trade association for the firearms, ammunition, hunting and shooting sports industry -- urges you to submit comment to the EPA opposing any ban on traditional ammunition. Remember, your right to choose the ammunition you hunt and shoot with is at stake.

The EPA has published the petition and relevant supplemental information as Docket ID: EPA-HQ-OPPT-2010-0681. If you would like to read the original petition and see the contents of this docket folder, please click here. In order to go directly to the 'submit a comment' page for this docket number, please click here.

NSSF urges you to stress the following in your opposition:

There is no scientific evidence that the use of traditional ammunition is having an adverse impact on wildlife populations.
Wildlife management is the proper jurisdiction of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services and the 50 state wildlife agencies.
A 2008 study by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention on blood lead levels of North Dakota hunters confirmed that consuming game harvested with traditional ammunition does not pose a human health risk.
A ban on traditional ammunition would have a negative impact on wildlife conservation. The federal excise tax that manufacturers pay on the sale of the ammunition (11 percent) is a primary source of wildlife conservation funding. The bald eagle's recovery, considered to be a great conservation success story, was made possible and funded by hunters using traditional ammunition - the very ammunition organizations like the CBD are now demonizing.
Recent statistics from the United States Fish and Wildlife Service show that from 1981 to 2006 the number of breeding pairs of bald eagles in the United States increased 724 percent. And much like the bald eagle, raptor populations throughout the United States are soaring.
Steps to take:

Submit comment online to the EPA.
Contact Lisa Jackson directly to voice your opposition to the ban:

Lisa P. Jackson
Administrator, U.S. Environmental Protection Agency
1200 Pennsylvania Ave., NW
Washington, DC 20460
(202) 564-4700
Fax: (202) 501-1450
Email: jackson.lisa@epa.gov

Contact your congressman and senators and urge them to stop the EPA from banning ammunition. To view a sample letter, click here.

Rip Josie Girl

2010-08-29T20:58:00.007-05:00

Our Young Josie Girl came to us from Texas last year with her sister. Both were doing awesome on their way to being top Bay Hounds with our young pack. Sadly, Josie was slammed hard by a good size boar in the pen Friday. He caught her against a tree as she was dodging him and she died early Saturday Morning from insurmountable internal injuries. She was really coming on and she loved hunting hogs. Rest In Peace Young Lady.

Dogs are just a different kind of people to me. Some I get attached to more than others and just like people some never get the chance to do what they were born to do. I love to watch a good dog work no matter what it is he or she was born to do, and I have only on a few occasions owned a dog that was fantastic at doing what he was meant to. I had a few Liver Spot Pointers and two English Setters that were jam up and one Black Lab that was, well, I will never have another Lab in my lifetime that had his kind of heart and ability, he was a man. Josie was a Plott Hound bred from the ancestors of the Plotts from up around the the area where they originated in N. Carolina. Like any good working dog she had it, and the more she worked the better she got.

The two magazines below are dedicated to the Hound. One is a bit more turned to Big Game, "Bayed Solid" and the other is more about Treeing hounds,"Full Cry". They are not the big budget glossy color type magazines, but more importantly they are published by true Houndsmen. These are men that have made hunting with hounds a major part of their and their families lives. Most of the articles are written by average people that love their sport and their hounds. I subscribe to both not just for the info about Hounds and Hunting but because these people are the down to earth work with your hands type that speak from their heart and have something to say besides a lot of Bull Shit. Helps keep me humble and keeps life in perspective.

My Young Friend Dylan is Rolling Like He Should!

2010-08-25T18:41:00.010-05:00

I first met Dylan when he was somewhere around 9 or 10. I had met his dad James through a mutual friend and one day I ran into James with Dylan at his side. James was living here in the Shoals and writing for Rodney Hall at Fame Recording Studios. James is a great writer with hits like Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde in his Catalog. James had come up from Shreveport with Jimmy Nutt and a few others and decided to stay. Later Dylan and his sister arrived and would spend summers and time here with their Dad. Dylan was always a bit shy and quiet but his bright eyes were constantly taking in every move you made. The more I was around him the more I felt that warm heart of his beating away maintaining and directing the growth of his character. Very much like his dad he evokes the perfect attitude to become a great musician and performer in that he sings his soul right out and into yours. So much more I could say but for now I reccomend a listen. Congratulations Dylan, and keep it between the ridges.

This is the list of songs from the new album, "Paupers Field" which goes on sale today!

1. LOW
2. If Time Was For Wasting
3. If The Creek Don't Rise
4. Tuesday Night Rain
5. Emma Hartley
6. Ain't Too Good At Losing
7. Changing Of The Seasons
8. 5th Avenue Bar
9. On With The Night
10. Coyote Creek
11. Death Of Outlaw Billy John
12. No Kind Of Forgiveness

"If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus a day so I never have to live without you." — Winnie the Pooh.

2010-08-21T11:05:00.001-05:00

Not a Boy Forever: Marking Christopher Robin's 90th Birthday
BY KATHY EHRICH DOWD | FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2010 5:45 AM ET
Winnie the Pooh's loyal pal grew up to become a humanitarian.

In literature, characters are frozen in time. Children in beloved children's classics remain young forever, their innocence unspoiled by real life. But Christopher Robin — AKA Winnie the Pooh's BFF — was not only a real person who outgrew his Hundred Acre Wood persona, but he would be a 90 year old man this Saturday if he had not passed away in 1996.

Although Christopher Robin the literary character led a simple existence, albeit one that included conversing with talking bears, piglets, owls and the like, Christopher Robin Milne the man led a considerably more complicated life, although in later years he notably used his unintended fame to become a force of good.

A. A. Milne penned the classic Pooh books and named the main human character after his only child. According to Just-Pooh.com, for years the real Christopher Robin resented the unwanted fame. As an adult, his relationship with his father deteriorated and after sustaining an injury in World War II, he retreated to a small English village and opened a bookshop with his wife.

For years, he endured people treating him a bit like a tourist attraction, pestering him for a photo with their kids. But eventually CR appeared to make peace with his fictional doppleganger, and when anyone asked him for a pic he would charge 10 pounds, which he would promptly donate to Save the Children.

In later years, he capitalized on his fame to front a campaign to save Ashdown Forest outside London, the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood, from oil prospectors.

And it was not until he was a mature 52 years old that he truly channeled his literary roots, penning several autobiographical books.

It's not easy to imagine Christopher Robin as a grown man with daddy issues. For most of us, he will forever be a sweet little boy enthralled by his tubby friend who loved honey. But it's comforting to know that despite the more complicated real person, he used his notoriety to help others.

Inyama, Ramadan, No Problem

2010-08-20T17:07:00.024-05:00

Humback Calf Strands on the wrong beach! VIA PEMBA DIVE CAMP
Hopefully we can find solutions for the Humpback calves beaching themselves during the Equinox or Spring Tides. A Humpback Whale Calf has been lost, due to the extreme Equinox or Spring Tides we have. Our reefs are so close to the shore as in 1st photo. We assume in high tide the calf came in and when the tide turned going out very fast, leaving the calf beached on the reef. Sadly, this is the second loss this year discovered at the Old Clay Pigeon Shooting range next to Pemba Beach Hotel.
All photos and text from Rudy and Brenda Franck, Pemba Dive Camp, Pemba Mozambique

Mozambique, got to love it!

Check out Pemba Dive Camp here.

One of those I'm Glad I knew!

2010-08-18T09:49:00.024-05:00

My Uncle, Ralph Harley White, I will miss him!

I've had lots of thoughts that I've wanted to share over the past few months, they come and go, some bright and shinny others not so much. It seems lately that just bout the time I get a good groove mellowing in my head, the music up and changes. Monday I was on my way to Memphis to celebrate the birthday of a friend with friends at the restaurant above BB King's place. Bear Horne had invited me to the Gulf to fish for a few days and after dinner we gathered at Bear's on Mud Island so to leave early from there, but back at home life was deteriorating for a very beloved Uncle of mine.
My Uncle Ralph Harley White had helped raise me, he was one of those that took me to the woods at a very young age and taught me what he knew. Our families lived almost side by side for 16 years, his son, my first cousin Rowland is the same as my brother, his daughter Cynthia the same, my sister. Uncle Ralph was raised down a dirt road near Savannah Tennessee, a little poor but that makes a good southerner even better. He served in Germany during the War, pure army, and married my mother's sister "Mary Sue" when he came home. About 6:30am Tuesday I spoke to Cynthia my "sister cousin" while I was loading my gear up, up in Memphis. Cynthia said her Dad's condition was up and down and to go on and go fishing she would keep me updated. I hung up the phone, the dark sky began a mist of rain, a gentle rolling thunder seemed to announce what was coming while we waited there in the dawn for another fishing partner that was headed to the Gulf with us. Standing there in the street I began to recognize something in my soul I had felt only once before. It was many years ago when it woke me up in bed in the young hours of the morning at about the same time my Dad was breathing his last down in Mexico and it was knocking on my door again. It was Uncle Ralph that had got the call from my Dad's lawyer down in Costa Rica and it was a very shaken Uncle Ralph that called me that morning to tell me what news the lawyer spoke. I told Bear I had to go and left for home. Two hours later I stopped briefly at our house in Tuscumbia to get Sandi. I walked in, Sandi's phone rang, she looked at me and I new the news. My Uncle had crossed the river. I didn't know, but my phone had died shortly after I left Memphis, Uncle Ralph had died at 6:45am.

I had just spent the afternoon before with him. I held his hand, told him I loved and appreciated everything he ever did for me, kissed him many times and told him he would feel better tomorrow. I rubbed his forehead and eyebrows cause he couldn't but tried, and I knew it was from the itch that the Morphine gave. I brushed his hair, massaged his dieing legs now almost void of circulation and saw the tell tale splotches of death around his knees as we bathed him for what would turn out to be the last time. I sat there calming him when ever something passed his memory that gave him concern in his thoughts. I thought of my Dad, I wished I could have been there when he walked out of this world. Our families are all very close and as it goes when relatives pass we sit around talking about days past, the better times and good memories. I know so far all this has been a little dark but for me a little darkness makes me try harder to see what's there. In this case seeing what was there involved hearing a few choice stories from the archives of some of the family's over eighty crowd. Uncle Ralph's sister Olpha Dee (83) told me how She was in charge of her brother Ralph, how they used to sneak into the smoke house and she'd pull up a plank in the floor which revealed the secret hiding place of their Dad's big jug of Moonshine. We laughed as she told how she would shake and roll the jug around, "being too heavy for her to pick up," then pull the corn cob cork out and let Ralph suck it, put it back and shake it again and take a lick herself. She was six at the time and Ralph was four. I asked her if she remembered feeling a little high? Yes, she said we were high, we had to be, there were twelve of us children, all wild, and me and Ralph, well that was just our little secret, we just thought we were grown ups.

I remember the day Ralph drove up in his black sedan, maybe a forty something Chevrolet, I must have been 7 or 8. We had an old widower uncle from Mississippi that came and stayed with my Grand Pa and Grand Ma in the summers. We called him Uncle Make. Make, ( Malcolm McNeily Christian) and a few other neighbors gathered around the trunk of the old car to see the dead Bobcat my Uncle had found lying on the side of the road freshly run over. When Ralph raised the lid of the trunk there was a sudden mirage of fur that came alive and proceeded in one long jump to clear the trunk and about six feet of vacant air to land all four feet at once on the chest of Make. Along with the measured flight of fangs, teeth, and claws there was a very errie sound that I could only describe at this time as the sound of some sort of gurgling gargling siren, undulating it's way through that short space on its destined intersection with a well dressed ninety year old gentleman that had a very unique look of horror on his old leather face. It was over in seconds, but I can still remember the seemingly long minutes it took that creature to reach its destination. Slowly and with almost a look of glee coming from the curved back lips and barred teeth that exposed the streams of saliva dripping off the bloody tongue and hairy chin, the Wild Cat closed the distance again as if in slow motion and upon arrival it furiously unleashed what must have been the ultimate pent up rage of pure revenge derived from the 2 hours of dark imprisonment bumping and swerving down the road in the hot, dusty, dark, and very gas fume rich prison. Not to mention the horror of waking up there from a, 40 mph, steel bumper induced coma. For all that Cat knew he had woke up in Hell. My Uncle Make never knew what hit him. Scratched from the top of his now, (fedora-less) head down to his chin, and on down his neck the Cat had turned that skinny Black Tie into Ribbons, he even eliminated the top button and shredded the tips of the collar points. The white shirt was button less except for the one tucked into his pants his old withered stomach and the bones of his ribs all raked raw. As the Cat was gone as fast as he arrived, we all could only move at a snails pace, still in disbelief. Looking down starring at Uncle Make lying at my feet and looking very dead, the last drops of his blood spattered across his frayed but heavily starched white shirt, his old black suit wet with his perspiration and the saliva of the foaming at the mouth, "deeply" I say, emotionally scarred Wild Cat that come all the way from lying in a dirt road off Highway 20 near mile marker 29, east of (Savannah), "Savanner", as Uncle Ralph and the family called it to here and just up and killed my Uncle Make. Well he wasn't dead, no not by a very long shot. He told me later he was just making sure that thing, whatever it was was gone before he let on that he was still kickin.

One more about Make, My Mothers Mother Ethel liked to shake her head and tell this story about Make. It seems that someone had died back when I was still very young. I know this cause they didn't pave the road in front of the house till I was 9 or 10 I think, so I must have been around 5-6. Anyway, Maw maw said that they were sittin up with the body, something they did back then. They'd take turns sittin up all night with the body lying in state in the living room, all the furniture removed of course and folks could come and go as they pleased, I guess 24-7. Make and a few men were at the dinning table drinkin coffee and talkin very low and quite like. Make could remember the Indians in the area. He had lived and traveled to the Oklahoma Territories, some of his and our relatives had went there in covered wagons. Well Maw Maw told how there was a quart mason jar of pepper sauce sitting on the table, along with the salt pepper shaker and the sugar bowl. The talk had died down and Make decided he was bored I guess or just needed a little something to help wake him up. He asked Maw Maw for a fork and proceeded to rummage around in the pepper sauce jar till he found a nice long pepper and plopped the whole thing in his mouth. More coffee was served, a little talking began and Make seemed to be enjoying his pepper. Maw maw said as she giggled her way through it that Male wallered and chewed that pepper around in his mouth for some time and finally he looked a lot bewildered as he spit the thing out of his mouth into he palm of his hand and then slapped the table with hit so hard it turned the salt shaker over. keeping his hand spread flat holding the chewed pepper between it and the table top, he slowly lifted one side of his hand, head bent over as if to peer under his hand and at with a hop he lifted hjs hand and yelled, "Now Blaze Damn Ya!"

Old and New Friends-Visa Championships, Hartford. A good time was had by all!

2010-08-15T19:45:00.030-05:00

Morning with the Hounds and Hogs video

2010-08-08T21:41:00.001-05:00

A Good Morning out with the Youngsters

2010-08-08T20:28:00.015-05:00

My buddy Tommy Butler and I took the youngsters to the Bay Pen Saturday morning. about 50 acres. They bayed two hogs in about 30 minutes and held one, about 150 lbs. three times after he broke bay totaling about about 45 minutes. All are young not yet 2 years old, Plotts and the Bluetick. Took the Jagds to start acclimating them to the process, they are 3 months this Sunday showing good grit!

Latest Project, remodel/overhaul

2010-08-06T22:13:00.022-05:00

A few before-after shots of the outside, I'll show the inside later.

Over at "Dancing with the wild beast" A good thing takes place in Niassa

2010-07-26T12:54:00.005-05:00

The Pemba International School visits the Bush. more at, Dancing With The Wild Beast!

Good News and Sad from Niassa

2010-07-23T10:19:00.009-05:00

Over in Mozambique in the wilds of the African Bush progress and setbacks abound daily. You learn to live as you go so to speak. Headway is made on this project and that, then news comes that somewhere, away from your immediate attention, there has come a failure. Someone or something has faltered and fallen. In some cases never to rise again. You mark down what you have learned, stand up and continue.
I don't mean to paint a dreary picture of people trudging on against uncontrollable odds for this is by no means the case. For only if you have spent time there with the Bush and it's inhabitants can you grasp how much there is to do, and how so few have already accomplished so much. Set backs are only that, for in Niassa the successes far overwhelm the steps backward. If you have read some of my earlier entries on SOS you will have hopefully learned that I love this place and would most assuredly live there if circumstances would allow.
This week marks the 2nd or 3rd month that the Niassa Reserve has successfully joined the Social Networking Site, Face book. Although we would all like to keep Niassa pure in every since of the word, free from outside influences that water down the trueness that is left of a vanishing way, there comes a time in the life of every kilometer of African bush that if steps are not taken and compromises ordained that we stand to loose what we so desperately strive to protect. It costs a lot of money, time, effort, even human life, to maintain 42000 square kilometers of the last wild country left in Africa. All the help you can get and more is needed, so Face book, newsletters via the Internet, blogs, websites etc. all come to the forefront to get the word out and it seems a bit of the mystique, character, darkness or the intrigue has faded, been diluted, it just isn't the same you say. Your right! No argument here. I would only state that it's worth it, for after your back in your own country, in your own town, prowling your own familiar haunts you suddenly catch a faint whiff of a certain smell, wood smoke, composting leaves in the fall heat or at night a sound in the box woods along your back porch of a small animal moving that reminds you of Africa, and you are instantly there in the moment, and you remember things you had forgotten, things that you didn't even realize you noticed, more than anything you realize how much you miss it and you smile.

Below is a copy of "The New Niassa Reserve News Letter". Paula Gomez mailed me this copy and had it translated for us English speakers.
Thanks Paula !
Thanks also to Madyo Couto for sending me the pics and info on the poaching incident which I write about below. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting these two yet but already I can tell that I will like them very much. I'm very glad the Reserve has established these two as English speaking contacts in their offices. I foresee a great wealth of formerly unavailable information coming to the attention of the English speaking Friends of Niassa by way of these two.

Now the Sad News,
A few weeks ago there were over 20 Elephants poached in the reserve in one instance. I have heard the number at 21 and 23 but 1 is too much. Poaching is a problem all over Africa and has in the past few years been on the rise. Many reasons can be attributed to this rise in our area but it boils down to price and demand. China is in my opinion, and let me be perfectly clear this is my opinion! China is in our area one of the main reasons that poaching is on the upswing. I will elaborate on a later post but for now I just want to talk about what this means to me.
For me lately I have been on the road to becoming a bit "hunted out" as I put it. I love hunting and all that it involves especially in Africa. The trackers, the PH's the baits the skinners and of course the animals but for me the challenge of hunting wild game in Africa is becoming second to the challenge of preserving it. I 'm by no means a "big hunter". I have had the great fortune and pleasure to hunt a lot of places around the world and none so absolutely fulfilling as Africa. I owe a lot of my experiences to my friend Jeff McCollum who started dragging me along with him many years ago. He brought me to Africa for the first time and I will always appreciate him for that and more.
Another friend taught me and showed me the virtues of the Niassa Reserve and the dedication of those that fight for the respect this hunk of earth deserves especially within it's own country of Mozambique. Derek Littleton adopted me back when I was very new to the ways of Northern Mozambique and always showed me true friendship as I attempted to make sense of often times the senseless logic that is the way in Mozambique. Many others helped with my education there and I still have a lot to learn but Derek taught me something most important. Just to stop what I was doing occasionally and enjoy Africa. When you stand in the presence of such extreme mass and power that is the African Elephant you immediately feel the insecurity of that the small piece of ground your two feet occupy. Then he or she looks you up and down and hopefully concluding your no threat he or she continues with whatever things occupy an elephant during the course of a day. The same with the rest that live there, they come and go for the most part allowing your presence sometimes some times not, Occasionally they grant you a small stay and if your lucky they will allow you to observe some event that you will find both astounding and mesmerising. This event can't be described to others so as to achieve the same as seeing it for yourself and afterward you probably wont even try, no you just file it away for yours and yours alone, your little gift from somewhere special. This poaching thing is real, real guns, real animals, real blood, real death. Think about this small herd standing at mid day under a grove of trees, cooling themselves with the flap of their big ears. Young juveniles and newborns playing or laying asleep nearby and then they come with their AKs and in a matter of minutes twenty or more of these massive creatures lay dead, dying or wounded and the gunmen move around shooting the survivors on the ground in the back of the head. Many of the young have been paid no attention to during the shooting, they won't go far without their mothers and as they return or stand there beside their family members they are shot also. The tails and tusks are taken, cut and chopped out of the flesh and skulls and that's it. Some of the poachers are from local villages in partnership with men from Tanzania who bring the guns and connections to get the ivory out. There is a problem here. This act of poaching comes not because there are no anti poaching patrols prowling the bush in each hunting block and not because the Reserve itself isn't on alert and actively pursuing all avenues to alleviate the problem, really you will never stop all the poaching sometimes you have to let Africa be Africa in that some poaching comes about to feed a starving African. Most of this is small game, birds etc. but a lot more is for profit and as time goes by hopefully the education of the indigenous people will prove out to remedy these small problems with locals. What I am worried about is the presence of organized groups of foreign, well supplied and well armed, well connected poaching rings that are directly connected to the illegal exportation of ivory. This problem is moving into Northern Mozambique and the real problem is the almost none exist ant support from the national government. Here in lies the Rub. The government Headquarters of Mozambique is far to the south in Maputo. More and more news of mining for minerals and drilling for oil and gas comes out of the North. Could it be the Mozambique Government would just rather see the animals and the Reserve of the north just go away and in so doing open the gates to, well to progress? I am seeking the advice from others as to what I could do with my small network of friends, perhaps send letters to the various Government Ministers? I think pressure from our Government would help but even more some carefully written press spread across various Internet news venues might prove powerful. What do you think? let me know.

Some of the Dead
Niassa is home more or less to between 15000 to 20000 Elephants. It has probably the largest population of the endangered African Wild Dogs, ranging from 300-400 these are my favorite animal, also on the poaching list. The Elephants of Niassa are some of the oldest elephants in Africa because of the control of poaching and the awesome job the Reserve has done in managing the population. People you should check up on the rise of poaching across Africa. If the trend continues there will be no animals left in the wild in Africa in the very near future.

Stolen from "Buster wants to Flyfish"

2010-07-14T09:51:00.002-05:00

Some Good News on a Friday/Wednesday
Posted in time is subjective, Fish Local on July 9th, 2010 by Salty
“The world was new each day for God so made it daily.” - Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing

There’s been a dearth of good news from the world lately. On the micro level, people are still fishing, still traveling, still finding maps and mazes through the latter bewilderment. The big picture has been basically shit though. BP fucked the Gulf royally, unemployment is at a 60 year high, the national political scene looks like Room 8 of the local high school where the deliquents, incompetents and developmentally challenged are warehoused for 4 years and “not getting worse” is considered “getting better”.

Maybe that is why, while reading through this morning’s news, the latest entry in the Times Editorial Notebook caught my attention.

“A couple of weeks ago, I walked along a spring creek in the upper Madison Valley, just south of the town of Ennis, Mont. As my guide, Jeff Laszlo, explained, the creek is one of the unnamed tributaries of the Madison River, fed by innumerable springs along the valley’s rich bottomland. The creek meanders for miles before it reaches the Madison, gaining water, providing spawning grounds for fish and invaluable wetland habitat for birds. I looked on in disbelief, because the section we were hiking — nearly eight miles of cold, clear waters — did not exist before 2005.

Or rather, it existed until 1951, when Jeff Laszlo’s grandfather dewatered this section of land by digging canals to draw the water along the edge of one of the alluvial benches that define the Madison Valley. His purpose was to move water to other sections of his ranch and to improve the grazing. In the narrow agricultural logic of the time, his ditches made a certain economic sense. And if it seems strange that his grandson would undo all that work 60-some years later, Laszlo notes that he is simply obeying a different economic logic — one that considers increased biodiversity to be one of the ranch’s most important assets.”

Granted, restoration on the spring creek was done to start a pay to play fishing operation on the ranch, but this is not the Beaver. Instead of privateering a public waterway, Jeff Laszlo restored what had once been obliterated. It feels good to read about 8 miles or so of trout stream being added and not destroyed. We need more of this.

From the Garden, Squash Relish

2010-07-10T16:09:00.012-05:00

Fresh Squash, Adobo Sauce, Pears, Apples, Molasses, Curry, Ginger, Jalepenos, Bell Peppers, Onions, Garlic, Cilantro, Cumin, Apple Cider Vinegar and a few secrets.

The Little Demons ARE HERE!

2010-06-28T18:39:00.009-05:00

What can I say? These two are already trying to eat each other and everything else they come in contact with! I love it, German Hunt Terriers are known for their grit, determination and keen sense of smell. These two will become an interesting addition to the mix of Plotts, Black Mouth Curs and the rest. My wife Sandi has already laid down the law about not letting them get hurt hunting with the larger dogs, personally
I'm concerned for the larger dogs!

Ben Lilly

2010-06-16T18:20:00.007-05:00

I came across this painting of Ben Lilly by Herbert Dunton of the Taos School of Art years ago while traveling in the West as a very young boy with my family. Back then I had no idea who the gentleman in the painting was but was drawn both to the artist's style and his subject matter. Later I would come to know of the Bearded Houndsman from books I read by Frank Dobie, Paul Schullery, and Frank Hibben, great stories about a another fellow from Alabama. Reading about him I can't help but feel a little kindred connection. His ancestors came over from Scotland and England, they lived in North Carolina about the same time as my bunch did, he worked metal, was born in Alabama, loved hounds and hunting even had his picture painted by one of my favorite artists.

Ben Lilly's Knife Goes Up on the Auction Block

In the annals of southwestern mountain man and desert rat lore, few loom as large as Ben Lilly. The life and exploits of this mysterious and peculiar lion and bear hunter has captured the imagination of generations of readers. Bill Tarrant devoted a chapter to Lilly in his book Pick of the Litter, and another fascinating Ben Lilly story, written by Frank Hibben and first published in F&S in 1954, can be found in the book The Best of Field & Stream, 100 Years of Great Writing.

But if you're a die-hard collector of American sporting history and want something beyond books, this knife might pique your interest. But you better be prepared to bring your checkbook...
From the website: at Field and stream

Historically important hunting knife attributed to the mountain man and hunting guide to Theodore Roosevelt, Ben Lilly. Hand made 6.5 inch blade with stag horn grip and brass guard. The blade shows minor pitting although there is little wear. The knife overall is in very good condition. The knife is contained in a presentation box and has paperwork relating to Lilly. There is also a letter of authentication written by Glen Lambert P.O.I.C.B. and notarized in 1997. Lilly was born in Alabama in 1856, the son of North Carolina natives who moved to Mississippi shortly after his birth. He attended a military academy, but he ran away and worked as a blacksmith in Memphis. President Teddy Roosevelt, who hired Lilly to be his chief huntsman in Louisiana , summed him up as a "religious fanatic," He died in 1936.

By Herman W. Brune
The Ben Lilly legend is a story best told at a campfire in the deep East Texas woods, where dim trails lead to sudden adventure and the screech of an owl raises your hair — for this was the lair of Ben Lilly.

As the rural South grew through the cane breaks, swamps and thickets, his exploits exemplified the spirit of early frontiersmen. The tales, the regional customs and the eccentricities of the man mingle reality and myth.

Benjamin Vernon Lilly was born Dec. 31, 1856, in Wilcox County, Ala., the oldest of seven children. His mother, Margaret Anna McKay, was Scottish and graduated from Nicholson Female College in Mississippi. His parents believed in education. He had a sister who became a teacher at Davidson College and another who was a pipe organist and music teacher.

His family also understood steel. His father, Albert Lilly, was a wheelwright and blacksmith. During the Civil War, he forged horseshoes and the 18-inch, double-edged blades that were carried by General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s hell-for-leather cavalry.

Ben Lilly’s grandfather, Benjamin Franklin Lilly, fought in the War of 1812 and built guns famous for their accuracy. His great-grandfather, William Lilly, came from England. He lived in the most remote area of North Carolina among the Indians.

Ben Lilly
A kinsman, John Lilly, built guns during the Revolutionary War. He was called “Pegleg” for obvious reasons, and was noted for bracing three British soldiers at once with his sword.

Ben Lilly’s first vocation was blacksmithing. He enjoyed making his Lilly knives and knew how to temper steel. Nevertheless, he inherited a farm and tried to become a farmer. Neighbors reported seeing Lilly running behind his plowhorse, tearing furrows in the earth at full gallop, laughing and guiding the plow handles.

He was an extraordinary specimen of pure strength. Lilly stood 5 feet 9 inches tall and weighed 180 pounds. He could sink his hooks into a 500-pound cotton bale, heft it onto his back and carry it off. One of his favorite tricks was to walk into the blacksmith shop, grab the anvil by the horn with one hand, lift it straight out in front of him, then grab it two-handed and pitch it over his shoulder.

His running skill was unequalled. He once bet a local athlete he could outrun him around a baseball diamond, and Lilly would run on all fours. Lilly crossed homeplate with the challenged loser still halfway back to third base.

He was also a great prankster. He loved to play horse. He’d saddle himself and invite an unsuspecting youth to try to ride him. Then he’d buck and pitch, tearing up a half-acre of ground, and then jump off a creek bank into deep water.

Despite his exposure to harsh weather, Lilly was seldom sick. The only lingering malady he suffered was a loss of hearing in one ear. He claimed it came from sleeping on wet ground. There is a story he once had malaria. Doctors had a hard time keeping him in the hospital, and finally one day saw him outside rolling in the mud. He believed sweetened water and Mother Earth could cure his ailments.

Lilly was well-known for his eccentricities. He would stick an ear of corn in his pocket, take his blanket and a piece of canvas and disappear into the woods for weeks. His wife once complained about a hawk getting their chickens and pointed to it perched in a tree. The hawk flew just as Lilly picked up his rifle. So he followed it into the woods. More than a year later he came home and reported, “That hawk just kept flying.”

Lilly always wore a beard. He said he was a big boy the first time he saw a man with a clean-shaven face, and it scared him terribly. He thought the man was dead. Never wanting to scare anyone, he vowed to always wear a beard.

He refused to work on Sundays. Even on a hot track, at the stroke of midnight he shut business down. If his dogs treed a mountain lion on Saturday night, they would have to stay with the cat until Monday morning.

Ben Lilly worked hard, lived hard and played hard; but he was a gentle and soft-spoken man. He used good English and enjoyed telling stories. His face was described as fresh and open as the prairie after a spring rain. To know him and to listen to him was to trust him and believe him. He considered owning property to be a hindrance. His heart was in the wild lands, and he never doubted he was born to hunt. To him, bears and mountain lions were all potential stock killers. Various government agencies and stock associations paid bounties on predators. He saw it as his duty to hunt them and educate others about the animals’ habits.

Practically single-handedly, Lilly exterminated bears from Mississippi and Louisiana. Then he moved to the Texas Big Thicket. When he left, he reported that fewer than a dozen bears remained. This was not gluttony. The growing country welcomed him. The pioneers knew they were part of the wilderness food chain, and wanted to establish themselves at the top.

Lilly filled a void between Davy Crockett and the more modern-day outdoorsmen Jack O’Connor and Elmer Keith. He survived from the American frontier to the Industrial Revolution. He guided Theodore Roosevelt on hunts and, though not a conservationist, was one of the first hunters to provide scientific evidence to the U.S. Biological Survey. Many naturalists and biologists of the early 20th century quote him in their books.

In a conversation with J. Frank Dobie, Lilly summarized his feelings: “When I am around babies, I always tote them out on my arm in the evening and let them look at the stars and feel the wind. They sleep better for that. They would sleep better still if they had their pallets on the ground. I always sleep better on the ground. Something agreeable to my system seeps into it from the ground. Every man and woman ought to get out and be alone with the elements a while every day….”

Saturday Down in the Big Bottom

2010-06-13T13:44:00.044-05:00

Working a few Young Hounds at Daybrake

Fresh Green Beans from the Garden

Lunch, fresh Green Beans with New Potatoes, Onions, Squash and a few Rattlesnake peppers, Fried Squash, Grilled Sausage and Cornbread.

Boiled Eggs, Pickled in Vinegar with Peppers.

J.L.Crane, Maker of Bread! Cornbread!

Cooling and Baggin