Of Star Trek Sets and Roller Coasters

This morning broke gorgeous. I mean, Oscar the Grouch couldn't be unhappy with a day like this. No way I was going to spend this day stuck in the lair, where I've mostly cocooned since mid-December. So the boys and I set out early to give that canyon another try.

Halfway up the wash to the canyon entrance, Ghost disappeared. I expected to meet him in the canyon; he's almighty good about knowing where I'm going before I do. The big fellas and I slogged through the wash and up the canyon till we got to the water hole.

Here I had a question to answer. I knew I could climb the rocks around the water hole, but I'd been worried that the big dogs wouldn't be able to follow. It turned out to be a non-issue; Magnus clambered over the rocks in front of me, and Fritz wasn't far behind. First hurdle cleared. Now we were in the canyon proper, where (I like to imagine) few people had ever been.

Think back to all those minimalist sets on the old Star Trek series, decorated with three foam rocks and an upside-down tree. That's what these places always remind me of, except that there are more rocks and no red shirted extra who won't be going home with us. The canyon walls are close on two sides, and there are generally some big boulders that must be scaled if you want to keep moving forward. Up the canyon, after all, is literally Up. There's always something to climb.

I still hadn't seen Ghost, but didn't worry too much about him. By now he knew exactly where we were, if he hadn't all along, and was just off having his own fun.

We came to some short rock faces that must be beautiful waterfalls during the monsoon. Snow melt had already filled several crevices, though this early most of them were still frozen over. In the deeper, shadier parts of the canyon the snow was thick and fluffy. It began to look as though this canyon might go on for miles like the other, larger branch does but I couldn't be sure of that because in spots it was quite a bit steeper. At some point it had to peter out and just become part of the plateau. Unless it didn't, of course.

But we didn't make it for miles. Probably less than half a mile in, we came to another rock face. To the left of the face was a cave, whose mouth was mostly covered with yucca. To the right, a narrow passage led to another water hole. This one was pretty deep, because it was filled (when the water was flowing) by a vertical fall higher than my head. I could probably have climbed out one side of that hole, but it would be quite an adventure and there was no way the big dogs were coming with me. This was the end of the road for now.

I looked around, just to see what there was to see before turning back. And at the top of the canyon I saw a sleek brown head looking down at me. Ghost had never come into the canyon at all; he'd been playing around on the plateau all this time. He made a move as if he intended to come down. Where he was, there was a vertical drop of maybe five feet and then some very steep talus. I didn't want to watch him try that. "No!" I yelled up at him. I pointed back down the canyon. "Go back!" I matched deed to word by calling the other dogs, scrambling out of the hole and heading back down myself. Hopefully he'd have sense enough to meet us further down.

Instead, a few minutes later I heard something running behind me. Ghost had, indeed, made it down that face without breaking his neck. And he apparently had quite a lot of fun doing it because he ran right past me, disappeared down the gorge, and a few minutes later appeared behind me again. Ghost had discovered the desert hills' version of a roller coaster, and he got to ride it for free.

Generator's RPM Woes

I'm going to go through this, really just in the hopes that someone knows how I can handle it better. I held the back-up back-up generator in reserve even though it's newer and has an electric starter, because it has engine governor problems I was never able to diagnose. I kludged it together in a way I'll describe below.

Several months ago, when it was the principle back-up generator, its engine overheated and stuck a valve. This is fairly common with B&S 2-stroke engines, and I fixed it at home with no more investment than a new head gasket. I had no reason to believe there was going to be any problem, since I've repaired dozens of engines in the same way. But this time, when I started it after the valve job, the engine firewalled. I mean it screamed. Nothing, but nothing I did to it should have caused this, and the only reason it didn't come apart was because I was standing right there and could lunge at the off switch. Poking around, I determined that, for whatever reason, the mechanical governor was no longer working. So we loaded the whole thing into the truck and took it to the shop where I worked at the time.

To get to the governor, you have to take the whole freaking thing apart. I did so, and couldn't see a thing wrong with it. My boss, a master with these engines, couldn't see a thing wrong with it. There was simply nothing wrong with it ... except that it didn't work. I put it all back together again, started the engine, and of course it screamed. Well, now I had a problem. I had already given my notice at the shop, and my time there was coming to a close. Taking it apart again, in addition to being pointless, was not possible - at least not at the shop. We tried everything we could think of, and finally we punted.

There's a spring that's supposed to pull the throttle wide open, which the governor fights against. That way when there's a load on the engine, the governor can back off and bump up the RPM to compensate. If the governor isn't working, of course that spring yanks the throttle wide open and holds it there. No good. So we reversed matters: We installed a spring that held the throttle closed, and extended the idle stop until the idle speed was high enough that the genset could produce 120 volts at 60 cycles. The problem with this, of course, is that when the controller demands more current it puts a load on the genset, which slows down the engine RPM, which causes the output electrical to drop below useful levels. So you can idle the engine too hot, which will give you enough juice under load, or you can idle it safely which will give you not enough power. Ew.

I've had nothing but trouble with this thing since the Coleman locked up. As I feared, I erred so much on the side of engine safety that it's almost useless as a generator. So today I snipped a loop off the idle stop screw's tension spring and bumped the engine speed up to where I'm making a little more than 125 volts with no load. The engine is running faster than I like, but hopefully not dangerously fast. I connected the generator to the electrical system, and the system seems happier now. But needless to say, I'm not real happy. Does anyone with more knowledge than me have any suggestions?

Walkin' Through a Winter Wonderland...

The morning broke cold but almost clear. Overnight we got maybe a half-inch of new snow, but the cloud cover had broken and when the sun cleared the hills it shined on a dazzling white carpet instead of the gray and forbidding phlump of the last couple of days. The coyotes found it encouraging, at least: Before full sun the boys got into a hell of a shouting match with a pack somewhere near the big loop in the wash, just beyond the meadow. I couldn't see any of them (I never do) but they sure sounded close.

We were out and about earlier than usual, walking down the wash toward the big loop. I stuck to the more level footing inside the wash itself, with nice hard frozen ground instead of the usual fatigue-inducing soft sand. The boys spent most of their time up on the bank where the scents are more compelling and there's always a chance of flushing something good to eat, or at least fun to chase.

At one point Fritz broke from the brush on the bank farthest from me and began charging toward me in his favorite game, Whack-a-Joel. When he saw me turn and brace for impact his gallop became a real rush; he doesn't have that much speed, but with all his bulk he can build up a great head of kinetic energy before impact. And the thing it's vitally important to remember is, he's not going to veer off. He really intends to impact. You can't hurt him by hitting him in the head, but you can knock me on my ass quite smartly by hitting me in the knees. He is aware of this.

I sidestepped and grabbed him around the neck and we went down together in a good wrestle, then he accompanied me closely till it was time to turn at the fence line. Magnus had disappeared up the far bank, following some scent. Ghost was in sight, but having his own party further along. I called Magnus, and after several seconds heard him crashing and panting down the slope. When I called Ghost he looked at me and then trotted along the line he'd already taken. "Yeah, I heard you. Go do whatever you're doing; I'm not done yet."

Somewhere in the flats to the west of our ridge is a pile of stones in the shadow of some tall junipers. It has become a game of mine to try and locate this pile of stones. It marks the first proposed location of Joel's Secret Lair, Final Edition. For various reasons this location got vetoed, and now I'm almost glad: Damned if I can ever locate that pile and those trees. The flat is not a very big place, but everything looks the same throughout it. I'd hate to go to all the trouble of building a cabin, then never be able to find it again. And of course all this snow doesn't help.

I never did find it this morning; sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. But the boys had a fine time helping me quarter back and forth, not knowing what the hell I was doing but pretty obviously not really caring. At some point Ghost joined us, as usual from a completely unforeseen direction. He seems to get a kick out of doing that, for his own reasons.

So what began as a short, quick walk turned into a sufficiently tiring hike, even though we didn't cover much ground. For an hour or so the boys were content to snooze, and now they're filtering out of the lair and back into the snow. We'll have to come up with some other games before too long, I know the signs. And anyway, it's turned into a beautiful day.

Purchase of guns and ammo wasted effort?

In a comment this morning to yesterday's "Buy, buy, buy", The Last Cause asked, "I wonder if all of the effort to purchase ammunition for firearms that will never be used is just misplaced effort."

Some of it will prove to be misplaced, no doubt. Ultimately, in practical terms, it's foolish to spend hundreds or thousands of dollars on tools you have neither the skill nor intention to use. But even if the larger portion of those guns wind up gathering cobwebs in closets, it's still a good thing. It shows me that there's still a "screw-you" spirit out there. Maybe only a spark of it, but there's hope in a spark.

Ten years ago, when I lived in Southern California, I watched a similar phenomenon on a more local scale. State laws against certain cosmetic features on rifles had just been tightened. A bit of deceptive hocus-pocus on the part of the California AG had just transformed thousands of people who had foolishly registered their "assault weapons" into felons. Freedom was most certainly not on the march, at least not in a forward direction. These new restrictions were due to take effect in a few months.

Californians' response? Gun shops couldn't keep'em in stock. Untold thousands of imported SKS rifles - just barely legal - virtually cascaded off the shelves. Anything black and pistol-gripped was a sure seller. I went to gun shows and watched the ammo dealers doing business as if they'd found a way to mint their own money. It was really something. I got a helluva kick out of it.

What was the point of all that, since probably few of those people had any intention of ever firing their guns? Nothing but the "screw-you" factor. And here's the beautiful thing: it had an effect. When all those previously-registered rifles became felony-worthy illegal by DOJ fiat, there was talk of door-to-door confiscation. And by that I mean Sacramento was talking about it. But by dint of sheer numbers, that talk faded away swiftly. Nothing was EVER done about getting all those heavily-armed felons to turn'em in.

Now, you know and I know that virtually none of those people would really have shot back. Nobody did in New Orleans. But we're talking about a lot more people here, and the key word is "virtually." Would you want to be the lucky cop who encountered the exception to the rule? To a bullet from a round of 7.62X39 ammo, Kevlar may as well be silk. So in the absence of any cops willing to enforce the new law, Sacramento just let it all go away.

No, I'm not suggesting that we can confidently count on that sensible reaction to mass non-compliance from the feds. But the existence of that non-compliance is heartening, at least.

In practical terms, beans are more important than bullets. I wish I believed that all those gun-buying folks out there were making other necessary preps. Probably most of them aren't. But this episode shows me that, if nothing else, the spirit of the raised middle finger is still more alive throughout this country than I have sometimes feared.

"American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan"

Yeah, yeah, I’m in a political mood today.

And when I’m in a mood to get really pissed off, I watch things like this – the latest “fireside chat” from the “Office of the President-Elect,” whatever the hell that is.

Lemme see: I’m looking it up in my pocket Constitution…Nope, can’t find that office. Ah, well. He’s the President-Elect, and no doubt he has an office. I had an office once. It was really cool. I had a great view of the parking lot, one of those toys you turn upside-down to see…well, that’s probably not what he means by “office.” Never mind.

Anyway, to The Plan!

“To create three million new jobs, more than 80% of them in the private sector.”

Never mind answering how he’s going to create the 80% of those new jobs. He can’t do that, and he knows it. He only hopes we don’t know it. It’s those other 20% that bother me. Do The Math.

“We will double domestic energy production and renovate public buildings to make them more energy efficient.”

The first is an old promise, made by every incoming administration, and we can safely assume it’s a lie. The second, if true, will cost money. Lots of money. Your money.

“To build a 21st century economy, we must engage contractors across the country to create jobs rebuilding our crumbling roads, bridges and schools.”

Which, if true, will cost money. Lots of money. Your money.

“To save not only jobs, but money and lives, we will update and computerize our health care system…”

Oh, my giddy aunt. Next time you meet your local doctor, be sure to say goodbye very fondly. “Your papers, please, Citizen?” An aside - I was really surprised when Hillary! became Secretary of State. I was expecting Health, Education and Welfare. Be that as it may, somewhere she's smiling.

“To make America and our children a success in this new global economy, we will build 21st century classrooms, labs, and libraries.”

Another old, expensive promise. Doesn’t say a damned thing about the way our Beloved Central Planners have already wrecked the curriculums of the Youth Indoctrination Centers, but I’m sure we can assume they’ll keep doing A Heck Of A Job.

And my personal favorite:

“And to put more money into the pockets of hard-working families, we will provide direct tax relief to 95% of American workers.”

Huh? How? Will he be financing all that other stuff from his left-over campaign fund? And – assuming a single syllable of any of this is true, (HA!) or that the above expensive promises are to be funded by taxes rather than inflation – god help the remaining 5%.

Oh, lord. God help us all.

Snowed In

Very heavy overcast and a little snow yesterday. We got a luverly bunch of snow overnight, so of course I lost electricity. It doesn't look like there's going to be any sun today. I just got in from sweeping off the solar panels, and now the meter is showing about a 24.5 volt charge which should keep the system up unless I do something stupid like use a lot of electricity.

See, there's amp draw and then there's amp draw. The laptop, modem, dish (I honestly don't know if it pulls any current or how it would work if it didn't) and wifi box pull a total of maybe three amps. That's sustainable with very modest input, and so is a single lamp. But if I use the coffee-maker, say, or (god help me) the toaster - well! Now we're talking 25 or 30 amps. The bread maker? No way: That has to run for an hour and a half, even if I only end up with dough. Three hours for actual bread. I don't even own a crock pot, though I used to love them.

Sunny days are good. But you take what you can get. :-)

"Buy, buy buy"...?

From Michael Gaddy's current article on LRC:

While we stumble along economically with bailouts, buyouts, and poor sales in almost all sectors, two products in America are seeing dramatic increases in sales: guns and ammo. People who never owned a gun before are buying; people are buying multiples of military style weapons and ammo is being bought by the case instead of by the box.

Many explain this away as folks simply worried that Obama will move to ban certain firearms, especially those referred to by the ignorant as "assault weapons," I believe the motivation to buy firearms and ammunition goes much deeper.

More and more Americans are becoming increasingly aware of the storm that is brewing on the horizon, a storm driven by the possibility of a complete economic collapse.

The more astute are reading the handwriting on the wall: military combat units being assigned for stateside duty to quell domestic disturbances, a militarization of law enforcement, and the fear of what will happen when the state is no longer able to provide monthly checks to the millions currently living on government handouts labeled as "entitlements."

A strong possibility exists, when the checks stop, those who no longer have will seek to forcibly take from those who do. The scenes from New Orleans after Katrina have not disappeared from the public memory.

He goes on to point out that national legislation is pre-positioned to exploit the next inevitable slaughter of disarmed victims by some sociopath who fails to adequately abide by already-existing laws against murder and assault, using a (gasp!) gun. The enemies of firearms ownership in this country can be confidently counted on to exploit every such occurrence. He also says - correctly, in my opinion - that the majority of those currently sweeping gun shop shelves clean will not resist when that new legislation leads to confiscations, a la post-Katrina New Orleans. It's a good article. Read it.

I think it's very good, and a very good statement to our would-be masters, that guns and ammo are flying off the shelves at this uncertain time.

But I sincerely hope all those buying folks out there are "buy, buy buying" more than guns and ammo, if they really want themselves and their families to get through a possible collapse. If they live in places that can turn into replicas of post-Katrina NO, I hope at least some of them are getting out of there.

We already know the government isn't here to help. We already know most won't resist confiscation. So don't be there when it happens, and don't put yourself in a position where you're forced to depend on government "help."

Does this contradict my earlier statement that retreating is not 'the only true path?" Maybe, but I don't retract the statement. Do as thou wilt, by all means. But at least look around you. If what you're doing is a true path to disaster, only you can get yourself the hell out of the way.

I don't know what the future holds; neither do you. But some things we do know. If you're even bothering to read this, chances are you do know that the incoming administration is not your friend, any more that the outgoing one was. Maybe it will be worse - it's shaping up to be. You do know that it will exploit all possible events to enhance its own power at your expense. You do know that the national, and maybe the world, economy has one foot in the grave. You do know that the people in charge of the next big disaster will do "one heck of a job," even if it leaves you starving and at the mercy of looters and local tyrants. You do know all these things.

But do you know the answer to these questions? If New Orleans comes to a city near you today, what will you and your family be eating two months from now? Where will you live? How will you stay warm? How will you defend yourself? These are the important questions, and you don't have to be a "gun nut" - or any other kind of nut - to be answering them for yourselves. Now.

Yeah, it's snowing again.

Not even the boys want to go outside today. Maybe the Buddha will grace me with wise things to say later. Probably not.

So in lieu of today's meaningful post...Funny Pictures!

"An Angry Mob!"

If you wish a serene and peaceful life, as I passionately do, never disappoint an entire pack of large dogs.

The morning ticked away, and I remained indoors. It was blustery; a high cloud cover promised it was going to take its time getting acceptably warm outside. So I extended my "sitting around indoors" period past the point that the boys thought was quite right. Ghost, in particular, went outside and sat in the yard, looking increasingly disgruntled with my blatant mismanagement. At one point I made a second pot of coffee, and while it was brewing I bundled up the kitchen garbage and took it outside to stow in one of the sealed garbage cans. Bags of garbage are not a normal cue that it's Walkie Time, but the boys were reduced to living in hope: They gathered in the yard and indicated their readiness to be off. Instead I went back inside. This, they decided, was getting serious.

A few minutes later I had to make a choice between turning the heater back on or putting on a jacket. I opted for the jacket. In the collective opinion of the boys this was a cue that we were finally going to leave. Instead I poured my coffee, flopped on my bed and picked up a book.

No, the boys thought. In fact, hell no. Certain obligations can be decently deferred only so long, and they'd been more than fair. So I suddenly found myself with a lap full of three large heads, the owner of each wanting to make one thing perfectly clear.

"An angry mob!" I laughed, and vainly attempted to push them away. "All right! You win, let's go."

If Godzilla had been trying to enter the lair at that moment, he'd have been trampled in the doorway.

The Gun Rights Examiner

At the bottom of the sidebar I've added a link to the Gun Rights Examiner, a now nationally-syndicated daily column written by David Codrea. I mentioned it once before. Give him a click, if only to get his hit count up. Passionate advocates like David, out for more than a comfy seat at the table, need and deserve our support.

What’s around the corner?

You’d think that since I’ve been here for over two years, I’d know every inch of my own front yard. If I turn my head slightly to the left from where I’m sitting right now, I can see a few score acres of drab green meadow that slopes up to a large, forbidding ridge where nobody lives. The slope is riven with washes and small rock canyons, some of which I’m familiar with and some I’m not. Off to the right, out of my line of sight, is a large canyon that starts where the big wash ends, and is a favorite hiking spot because it’s mostly easy walking. Before the meadow becomes rock it’s littered with junipers. It’s a south-facing slope so most of the snow is gone except for patches in the juniper shadows.

I’ve climbed that ridge several times, but not as often as you might think because there’s easier ground in my back yard and for most of my time here I’ve been hobbled with an old-fashioned prosthetic leg, unsuited to the terrain. Since my November refit, I’ve been getting more adventurous but the weather hasn’t always cooperated.

This morning the boys and I started up the wash, as we often do. Rather than follow it to the canyon I jigged up the left bank and followed a smaller wash we hadn’t explored before. It terminated in a small but almost vertical box canyon that seemed to go all the way to the top of the ridge. Ghost thought this was great sport and disappeared; the next time I saw him he was looking down between some rocks from the summit. I don’t entirely know his breed, but his mother mated with a mountain goat. Sometimes I hate his ass.

At times like this I get obsessed with wondering what’s around the next corner. I started to climb the talus that led to the wall; there’s almost always a way up if you look for it. In a narrow passage between two enormous boulders I saw daylight and grass; I could get there but had to scramble over a bunch of big rocks. The big boys couldn’t follow here; I’d just have a look and come back down for them. I slung my carbine on my back and started to climb.

When I got to the tiny meadow on the other side of the passage, I was surprised to find Magnus waiting there for me. He’d found an easier way, the bastard. From here it would be an easy climb to the top, but Fritz was still whining on the talus. I had to coax him to climb the way Magnus had come, but he finally joined us and we went further up.

There are peaks here that are still substantially higher than we are; I’ve been there and the scenery is marvelous but there’s no other reason to go. I was more interested in what lay on the other side. Almost two years ago Ghost and I had made the same climb on another part of the ridge not far away, and on the far side I found an enormous canyon. Further exploration led to one of my favorite hiking places, previously mentioned. Now I saw that earlier canyon again, but gorram it! That was not the canyon I was used to walking. It was another one entirely.

Now I was intrigued. Maybe there was a way down from here. I worked my way down the rocks, looking for ways the big boys could follow. Ghost, of course, just hopped from rock to rock. We got down a ways, but then things started to look vertical and really, really high. It was a north face, covered with snow, and this was not a place you wanted to lose your step. They’d never find the body.

But now I had the bit between my teeth. I wanted to know how to get into that gorram canyon! It was too big not to have an obvious entrance at the wash; how could I have missed it all this time? Time to go back down and around this knob of the ridge; there had to be a way.

I climbed the rocks again, but then ran into a problem. Magnus scrambled up after me, but Fritz was stuck. He trotted back and forth on the ledge, getting more and more upset. Magnus had found a fairly good way, but Fritz kept going right past it. Sometimes that boy acts like he’s not too tightly wrapped. I finally went back down the way Magnus had come up and showed Fritz the way.

Together again on the summit, we walked along the ridge until we found an easier way down; actually a pretty easy slope instead of the rock-climb we’d taken to get up. Near the meadow at the bank of the wash, the boys turned toward home: At this point that’s what we usually do. But I was determined that this time I was going to find that canyon so I called the dogs and turned left, following the ridge wall.

Nearly in the wash itself was what had to be the opening. I turned into the canyon and found immediate disappointment: This place was familiar! It’s a large but short canyon, whose only interesting feature is that it terminates at a deep, wide sort of cave that’s often full of water, protected by a huge overhanging rock and canyon walls so steep and close that the sun never shines there. It’s a very popular coyote hang-out.

Well, I thought, we’re here. Let’s go see if there’s water today. Ghost, as he often does, had anticipated me and was already inside waiting to see which way I wanted to go. When I turned toward the entrance he bounded away up the canyon and I didn’t expect to see him again till we got to the water hole.

But I found him just around the next turn, up on the bank with his front paws on a tree, looking upward with great interest. I looked to see what he’d treed, expecting to find some sort of squirrel. At first all I could see was a ball of fur at the top of the small tree. I didn’t know what it was, but it was bigger than any squirrel ever born. Maybe a big raccoon, but I don’t think raccoons live around here. Never heard of them, anyway. What the hell was it? For the first time in weeks, I chambered a round in my rifle.

There are almost no animals here big enough, bold enough or aggressive enough to be a danger to me. We have a very few mountain lions – this was clearly not a mountain lion – but mostly the only animals I fear are packs of feral dogs, and you can’t tree a dog. I don’t think it’s possible to piss off a coyote to the point where it will stand and fight; they just don’t do that. So I wasn’t afraid for myself.

But the dogs are on another plane. I once had to shoot a perfectly innocent badger – I regretted the necessity – that the dogs had cornered in some rocks and driven to the absolute limit of its very limited tolerance. They’d have won the fight, I’m sure, but I’m also pretty sure there would have been vet bills involved at least. I'm responsible for the safety of the dogs, and not for that of anything they pick a fight with. So if Ghost had bitten off more than he could safely chew here, I was going to have to shoot something.

I circled the tree, trying to get a better look. And from the other side a very feline face gazed down at me. The small bobcat didn’t even seem upset; he just looked at me as if to say, would you please go away. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to one. Interesting.

I called the dogs, and to my surprise they lost interest immediately and trotted up the canyon with me. A short way further we came to the water hole, full of snow but no water. There’s so much snow elsewhere that this place didn’t even have any fresh tracks.

I looked around: as far as I’d ever noticed, this was where the canyon ended. But this had to be the canyon I’d seen from the summit, and I knew I hadn’t been looking at this spot. I backed up for another look, and sure enough: If I’d only paid more attention before I’d have seen it. By climbing the rocks right over there, I could surmount the water hole. The canyon did go further. This was worth exploring.

Well, next time. I was tired and so were the older dogs. Ghost, of course, wanted to go: He was already on the rocks above. But that was enough for today. I called him down, and we made our slow way back home.

City friends don’t understand how I can keep myself entertained out here, where nothing ever seems to happen. But I don’t expect to ever run out of interesting things. You never know what new thing is just around the next corner.

Just Another Day

I waffled for a few months, when I first thought of starting a 'desert hermit' blog. The problem I anticipated was that, most days, nothing much actually goes on so what the hell would I write about? I hate it when I start following somebody else's blog, and then he/she just runs out of things to say and goes silent, or writes twice-monthly entries that consist of "sorry it's been so quiet here." I'd hate to start one of my own, then go silent because - well - there's nothing to say.

Today was one of those "just another day" days. I hung around indoors till the sun cleared the hills and the temperature got reasonable. The boys and I went for a walk along a neighboring ridge. I put a coat of paint on my new carbine. I washed a bunch of laundry that had piled up during the Big Freeze. I played with the dogs. I started on the carbine's camo blotches. I hung the laundry. The boys (and Butch) and I went for another walk, and made a mess in the mud. I worked on emptying the black-water tank, now mostly thawed. We had Snacky Time. Setting aside even more mundane details like meals, that's it. No big adventures, no wise revelations, nothing to report. A pretty typical day.

There are a couple of chores I've been putting off, that can really be put off no longer. There's a ditch for a propane line that needs to be lengthened. There's an enormous stack of salvaged 2X12 lumber that all needs to be de-nailed (and that seems to be composed of concrete - those nails do not want to come out.) You don't want to hear about that, either.

It's kind of an issue.

Hip Displaxia and Common Remedies

Magnus, as I know I've said, is getting to be an old dog. He recently passed his tenth birthday (we had cake) and while that doesn't seem all that old the unfortunate truth is that big Labs don't always last much longer than that. After a recent examination a vet told us he's amazingly healthy for his age, but he does have arthritis and there's no question his joints were really starting to hurt him.

Fritz is a German Shepherd, and although substantially younger than Magnus he has shown signs of hip displaxia, a condition which I'm told is very common in Shepherds.

Neither condition is curable, and I have no doubt that if it were, the cure would be impossibly expensive. But the vet, (back last May, as I recall) suggested an inexpensive treatment. Every evening, at Snacky Time, I grind up four tablets of glucosamine chondroitin and two of aspirin in a mortar and sprinkle it on the big dogs' food.

I had my doubts about the usefulness of giving them patent medicine, but there's no question that, if the medicine isn't helping them, they're doing better spontaneously. Fritz, in particular, wasn't quite dragging his hind legs but he was certainly headed in that direction fast and in a lot of pain. I hated the waste of euthanizing an otherwise perfectly healthy animal, to say nothing of the fact that, fool that he is, he's my buddy and I don't want to lose him. So I gave them the meds very faithfully, and definitely noticed an improvement in both of them.

I'm not the only one: Yesterday we went for a nice walk to our farthest neighbors, and L mentioned that Fritz didn't seem in any discomfort at all. I watched out the window, and yes indeed: He was trotting around their yard like a show horse, happy as can be.

Just a thought, if anyone is having the same issue.

Final Thought...

Just one last thought on the theme of the last post, and then I'm putting this puppy to bed for 2008. A song from my youth, which just came up on my 'pooter's playlist while I was washing dishes...

I don't want
To work away
Doin' just what they all say;
"Work hard, boy, you'll find
One day you'll have a job like mine."
'Cause I know
For sure
Nobody should be that poor.

;-)

The retreater's life isn't for everybody, it's true. But that's not to say it isn't a great life.

I hope you had a good 2008. I wish you a better and more freedom-filled 2009. Blessings and peace be upon you.

And so to bed; a good book beckons me. The dogs say hi.

The One True Path

I've been spending more of my 'pooter time surfing previously unfamiliar "survival" and "prepper" forums. They come in various flavors - some concentrate on where to buy the best camo backpacks and wind-up radios, some on guns, some on (what I consider) more serious considerations like how to cook storable food so a child would actually want to eat it. But they all seem to make the same basic assumption, that the one true path to freedom (or possibly survival, if TEOTWAWKI happens next week) is them forty acres, them stored preps, them stacked arms.

Of course, as a devotee of the acres, preps and arms, I'm not going to knock it. I'm living the dream, Myrtle, and the dream works. But...

The way I live would absolutely not be for everyone. I'm never going to be one of those keyboard commandos who insist that if you're not getting ready to head for the hills, you're not serious about finding freedom. But there are folks who say such things (note carefully where and how they live) and people who are arguably more honest with themselves find these folks quite off-putting.

I don't blame them. One of the amusing contradictions of the freedom movement is the common assumption that you are somehow obligated to turn your life upside-down in the quest for freedom. Who gets to make that rule? Ask yourself that, you who enjoy a nightlife and restaurant food that can come right to your door, the next time some internet Captain Liberty starts telling you what you should or should not be doing with your life. The whole point of the exercise is that it's your life, remember?

For Many, Many Years, Boys and Girls, ...

... I have loved me some Dave Barry.

His Year in Review columns have become a classic feature of his approximately 1,473-year-long record of being consistently hilarious.

Abroad, Fidel Castro steps down after 49 years as president of Cuba, explaining that he wants to spend more time decomposing. In selecting his successor, the Cuban National Assembly, after conducting an exhaustive nationwide search, selects Fidel's brother, Raúl, who narrowly edges out Dennis Kucinich.

In sports, the undefeated New England Patriots lose the Super Bowl to the New York Giants in a stunning upset that confounds the experts, not to mention Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, which had $38 billion on the Pats to win.
...
In economic news, the price of gasoline tops $4 a gallon, meaning the cost of filling up an average car is now $50, or, for Hummer owners, $17,500. Congress, responding to the financial pain of the American people, goes into partisan gridlock faster than ever before, with Republicans demanding that the oil companies immediately start drilling everywhere, including cemeteries, and Democrats calling for a massive effort to develop alternative energy sources such as wind, the sun, tides, comets, Al Gore and dragon breath, using technology expected to be perfected sometime this millennium. It soon becomes clear that Congress will not actually do anything, so Americans start buying less gasoline.
...
Barack Obama, having secured North and South America, flies to Germany without using an airplane and gives a major speech -- speaking English and German simultaneously -- to 200,000 mesmerized Germans, who immediately elect him chancellor, prompting France to surrender.

Meanwhile John McCain, at a strategy session at a golf resort, tells his top aides to prepare a list of potential running mates, stressing that he wants somebody ''who is completely, brutally honest.'' Unfortunately, because of noise from a lawn mower, the aides think McCain said he wants somebody ''who has competed in a beauty contest.'' This will lead to trouble down the road.
...
The [Olympic] games themselves are dominated by swimmer Michael Phelps, who wins eight gold medals, thus putting himself on a sounder financial footing than the U.S. Treasury. China wins the gold-medal count, although critics charge that some of China's 11-year-old female gymnasts are under the minimum age of 16. Chinese officials refute this charge by noting, correctly, that they have tanks.
...
As the crisis worsens, an angry Congress, determined to get some answers, holds hearings and determines that whoever is responsible for this mess, it is definitely not Congress. Meanwhile all the cable-TV financial experts agree that since they totally failed to predict this disaster, they will stop pretending they have a clue what the markets are going to do and henceforth confine themselves to topics they can discuss knowledgeably, such as what time it is.

Just kidding! They'd get that wrong, too.
...
In non-economic news, a Las Vegas jury convicts O.J. Simpson on 12 counts of being an unbelievable idiot. He faces more than 60 years in jail, which could end his relentless quest to find the killer of the people he stabbed to death in 1994.

As you can see it's rather long. But worth every second of reading pleasure.

Agua!

I had thought that the reason my lair has no running water since the Big Freeze was because of a patch of pipe I foolishly left unburied, after digging it up a few months ago for a new junction. Laziness, like stupidity, brings its own reward. However earlier today it became clear that this was not the case; I warmed that pipe until lead would have melted in it, let alone water. But still no water flowed.

So I went back and did what I should have been doing in the first place. Last winter the outflow pipe on the cistern froze, and left us without water for days until my landlord and I dug it up and wrapped it with heat tape and insulation, then built an insulated box over it. Well, I reasoned, if that was where the water froze again clearly all that insulation was of little value, but there was still the heat tape. Now, heat tape takes electricity and lots of it, more than the system can provide during a winter night. So I can only run it during the day, but that's okay; several hours of it should thaw the pipe, if indeed the pipe is frozen.

And sure enough! About three hours after I plugged it in, my kitchen faucet began to trickle. It trickled for maybe ten minutes, and then it began to flow. Running water again! Happy day!

Now I must remember to let the water drip, so that there will always be a little flow. And on cold mornings, after the solar panels start to produce, I'll plug in that heat tape. Also I've already reburied that section of pipe, just in case.

Winter habits will return. And I'll start getting them all right, just in time for spring.

Hail, Knight of Disgusting Practices...

Okay, so I get up from my 'pooter, where I had just posted an entry rhapsodizing on the wonders of dog companionship. I go outside to take care of some chores, made possible by slowly rising temperatures.

I may have mentioned that over the past several days I've been beset by numerous winter-related issues. The water is frozen, and so is the sewage. Since certain physiological processes will go on regardless of the infrastructure's capacity for dealing with them, a couple of days ago I set up the "Plan B" chair in the barn, over a plastic-lined bucket. An unpleasant alternative, but I consoled myself that human civilization plugged along nicely for millennia before indoor plumbing. This morning was the first time I had occasion to avail myself of the (COLD!) alternate facility, after which I didn't give it a thought.

Well, I had to go into the barn for some tool, and the first thing that caught my eye was that bucket, lying on its side with the plastic bag next to it. Empty. Licked clean.

The dogs are often hurt by my refusal to allow them to lick me on the face. Sorry, buckoes, but that's not negotiable. I know all too well where that tongue has been.

Peace is a pack of dogs...

Peace is a pack of dogs asleep together in your home.

I look upon these half-wild beasts, entrusted to my care by their owner, and I wonder at their love and trust. Each such a unique individual, each capable of such power and violence. But stroke a cheek or rub an ear, and each opens his eyes and gazes at you with utter, unrestrained devotion. The privilege of it is intimidating at times.

Ghost, he with the legs of a greyhound and the hide that blends so beautifully with the terrain. He disappears into the brush, preferring to find his own way, but is always nevertheless a part of the hike. I used to worry about losing him when we turned some unannounced corner, but soon learned my concern was unwarranted. I may seldom know where he is, but he always knows where I am. His speed on the trail is beyond compare, and his owner always used to joke that he walked five times as far as any of the other dogs, while covering the same ground. Our forward scout, is Ghost.

Magnus, alpha dog extraordinaire. I once saw him take down a Rottweiler that got uppity with him, in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast I actually missed it, though I was looking right at it. One second the Rotty was standing there in all his ugly, menacing glory. The next he was on his back, with a Labrador’s enormous jaws hovering at his throat. ‘Do you feel lucky, punk?’ That was years ago, and Magnus is growing old and much more likely to leave the derring-do to the other dogs. But he still takes no bullshit.

Fritz the Terrible, a German Shepherd who when younger so desperately wanted to be head dog and was constantly being put in his place. Though enormously powerful, he was a buffoon and a bit of a coward. Grown older now, he’s much less the jackass he used to be. To be gazed at with those clear, brown eyes is to know a deadly creature that absolutely loves you.

I watch them, curled or sprawled in their places in the lair or loping happily on the trail, and I know my purpose. How can it be, though – any one of these animals could have my throat out before I could reach for a weapon, and yet any one would die in my defense. All I do to deserve it is feed them and assure them that they’re loved. It’s all they want from me, yet it seems hardly adequate.

The Only Gun Shop in Detroit...

... and in my old neighborhood, to boot! I was blog-crawling this morning, after going for a nice walk with the dogs, and came on this piece.

Interesting. I haven't been back there in over 25 years, and that time I wore Kevlar and a cocked'n'locked .45. Sorry, baby, wrong color. I've very little nostalgia for the East Side, or for Detroit in general. But for some reason this story warmed my heart.