Lilac’s Remorse
At close of eyes he contemplates
the fleeting favor of her face
The softest dew would hither break
against the lilac’s skin
She holds too oft this heart of man
her whispered name upon the wind
Creation’s now inspired thought
valiant won, yet tragic lost
The breaks and worries round him cast
apart they are no more at last
The softer touch and gentler still
upon his face her gaze he feels
A moment now or maybe less
to feel her head upon his breast
The morning nears and last she gasps
alone with him the time now past
He draws on now her heavenly name
and for her confessed the very thing
that for none else he’d ever feel
no one can know she haunts him still
A hurried mind and wayward glance
he searches for and now at last
The lilac’s shed her last remorse
and drowns out now her final course
He mouths her words from time to time
a fleeting thought, within the mind
But while he sighs she speaks on still
of far-off place, on greener hill
She’ll haunt him now forever more
the morning breaks and on she goes
to visit him from time to time
and longing scream her name divine
Oft she comes against the fold
But she again he’ll never hold
For what’s it to love this fair of skin
when nothing left holds her to him?
-Jonathan E. Kenworthy
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Japan, a Picture Painted
U.S. Army Japan, A Picture Painted:
So, ok. Here’s my rant for today. I’ve been on this island of Kyushu here in Japan for about five days now. Give or take a half day lost to moving forward in time to the day after. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it though, because we’ll get back that same day on the back-side when we make the return trip. It’s interesting how you can come out of the U.S. and travel 36 hours and end up 48 hours out, but when you come back you travel the same 36 hours and somehow arrive on the same day you left. Whatever. Suffice it to say, you’re pretty much dog-squeeze when you arrive and then two weeks later when you try to make the adjustment you lose all steam at three in the afternoon. It’s hell on a guy’s Circadian rhythm I tell ya.
OK, so where were we? Oh, well there are some things that I’ve taken note of. Many positive, quite a few negative but if you’ll bear with me, I think we can laugh at both. So, first off, the first thing is the tents we’re living in. Let’s back up, so let me paint you a picture. See, most all of us are staying on a make-shift camp in an “LSA”. I’m not entirely sure what that stands for, but the, “L” is most likely “Living” and “A” is most likely, “Area”. That leaves the “S” which could be a four-letter word of the most unsavory kind. Who knows really? Some Command Sergeant Major I guess. OK, on this, “LSA” there are in approximate 700 Soldiers of the U.S. variety and a whole slug of Japanese dudes. They have their tent area, we have ours. So, these tents, are aligned, as though a surveyor aligned them. You want to talk about anal? Well the Japanese invented it. Our tents are canvas, green of course, and square in measurements of perhaps 15x15’. There’s a center pole and a nice little kerosene heater that has a five-gallon can outside that needs daily filling. There’s a single light in the center, and a dual plug for plugging in 100 volt appliances and cell phones and what-not.
Outside the tent, about 200 yards away, are a bank of port-o-lets numbering perhaps 30 and four or five mobile shower units each containing about 20 shower stalls. The shower stalls are individual with a locking door and a spigot that is about 18” off the ground and a long dangly wand that you can switch to for the shower option. Everything is about 2/3 the correct size, to include the toilets and the shower height. Also important to note is the fact that the water alternates from 211 degrees to 88 degrees with nothing in between. 1/50th turn on the hot or cold water will make the instant change to either extreme.
We eat chow in a “Dining Facility”. We’re eating, “UGR” meals for morning meal and evening meal. UGR stands for something I’m sure and you’re welcome to Google it on your own time. They are basically pre-packaged meal sets that have enough portions for fifty people within each UGR. Just heat and eat. No stirring, no mixing and all the same delicious flavors you’ve come to expect from Army Chow. Some of the delights we’ve been treated to of late include, Rubber Eggs, Corndog Pancakes with Sausage Surprise, and my personal favorite, Chicken Cordon Bleu. (Heavy on the “Blew” please). Sorry, I’m working in between my ranting. Where were we? Ah yes. So, then there’s the little issue of having no butter. In fact, I Can’t Believe There’s No Butter. How exactly am I expected to choke down my Wonder Bread without butter/butter substitute. I guess we’re all getting a little fat or something. Speaking of chow-halls and ridiculous, I got politely corrected yesterday for looking around the sneeze guard. I couldn’t see through the film as to what the private was putting on my cardboard tray. I can’t hear very well, so I was peering around and got a sharp, “Sir! Can you PLEASE move back behind the sneeze guard?!” It was pretty humiliating because I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t see through the make-shift stretchy syran wrap sneeze guard they had jerry rigged. So, whatever. Anyhow, then inside this chow hall, they have tables which are about six inches too short. So short that you can’t put your legs under the table. So you end up all hunched over, about ten inches too far away from the action, dribbling rubber eggs down the front of your uniform. Couple with that the fact that they pack the tables about two feet too close together and you’ve got yourself a dining experience worth writing home about.
So, I mentioned before about the toilets. Well, see in Japan, the toilets are basically a porcelain hole in the ground that flushes. Imagine your camping, and you have to go po-po, but you’ve happened along a tree that just so happened to be outfitted with a porcelain receiving area. Anyhow,that’s what we’re working with here. Additionally, someone had the brilliant idea(r) to mount a western toilet over the top of the porto-let hole. Only, they mounted it about six inches too close to the door. Oh, forgot to mention that the starting hole was elevated about ten inches off of the landing inside of the port-o-let. So, what you end up with, is a jacked-up (and I do mean JACKED-UP!) toilet that when you decide to Numero Dos, you have to strategically approach. I mean, picture this, you have about five inches of space betwixt the front of the aforementioned toilet, and the closed (presumably) door. So, when you’re ready to partially disrobe, you lean forward (as is customary) to debrief, bang your head on the door, and scrape the back of your pants down the front of the toilet. NOW, if you’re successful in navigating this obstacle, you can mount said toilet. Only, it’s too tall. So you end up, with your tippy-toes on the floor jammed between the door and the toilet, your paper butt-gasket you made slipping away into the john and your left sorta hanging there. Well, imagine then you have to reverse the process, only, there’s that one little issue involving single-ply Charmin to contend with. Yeah, suffice it to say, a Chinese gymnast would be challenged to complete the transaction.
OK, whatelse? Oh, yeah, then, because you’re surrounded by an entire Corps (an “Army” in the truest sense of the word) staff of people, you have every Sergeant Major and every Colonel known to man expecting to excise their authority on the masses. So, for example, we’re walking back from, “Friendship Hall” (A place to drink beer with your Japanese counter-part) and it’s dark, on account of it’s, well night time. So, I’m walking with this young lieutenant, and it’s about four degrees. So, the LT, because it’s cold has his hands (wrongfully) in his pockets trying to keep the skin from freezing instantly I would assume. Well, of course, some pogue (see also, “Douche”) Sergeant Major is walking towards us with his full-bird Colonel and says, (ironically on his WAY to Friendship Hall) “Sir, you want to take your hands out of your pockets please?” So, of course the LT does. But we are stunned at the ridiculous nature at which the Army places importance on tradition over Soldier wellness. REALLY? REALLY there Sergeant Major?! That’s our biggest concern involved in protecting mainland Japan against aggression by China or North Korea?! THIS is our issue? Some poor aviator lieutenant trying to keep his hands warm after being forced to interact with non-English speaking Japanese while listening to ten chicks and two dudes in Kimono playing four-stringed ancient guitars??! This is what we’ve come to?! Seriously. Google, “Ass-Bag” and see if your picture doesn’t come up as a result.
OK, so, I forgot to mention the walk-ways on the LSA. Betwixt the tents I alluded to earlier, are boardwalks of the slickest variety of plywood. They’re really nice in the event of mud, however at four in the a.m. on your way to take a tinkle they’re down-right slickery. In fact, some major biffed it right outside our tent last night and probably broke a tailbone.
Whatelse? Oh, the MWR tent. Yeah, we have an MWR tent which is open from 0900-about 2100. Pretty much allowing for one hour of use after you work all day and have some of that scrumptious chow I alluded to earlier. WHY with 700 Soldiers they can’t just open the damn thing 24 hours a day is beyond me. So you have ten computers with internet access, three hours of potential use, and 700 Soldiers to use them. Yeah, do the math genius. 24 hour ops might be a good way to go here. Oh, I forgot to mention the MWR (Morale Welfare and Recreation) tent is well heated, has a giant TV and a projection movie (which you can’t hear the dialogue) two table tennis and a slew of romance novels and self-help books. Oh, and at last count, they now offer free copies of the, Stars and Lies Newspaper. So you got THAT going for you, which is nische.
So, I’m excited to say that I’m still in spite of that all having a good time. The Japanese are the best of hosts. We’ve acetated the shiz out of this war against the good guys (forgot to mention we’re playing the part of bad-dudes). Oh, and acetate, is a clear film that goes over the top of maps. You put really official looking icons on them which represent tank companies and infantry and helo’s and what not. It’s like playing the official home version of Axis and Allies only the Army has a whole Field Manuel just for the icons. Anyhow, you feel a little like General Patton, planning the demise of the German Army. Only they took away my pearl handled pistols and riding boots and handed me back some Sharpie markers and some swell looking tan boots that set off my eyes just so.
Whatelse? Yeah, not much more I guess. Tonight I’m going to be adopted by some Japanese family. I had to go get a gift in preparation. See they’re going to serve us dinner and take us in for the evening. It’s gonna be great. I imagine about fifty of us are going. They’ll have us meet in front of the PX here in a couple of hours. I asked the major I’m working with if they are going to pick us out like puppies. I haven’t as yet decided whether to be the hyper –active whiney aggressive puppy, or the tubby little fat puppy at the back of the pen that’s sleeping. Some people like one and others like the other. I guess it’s a crap shoot at this point.
OK kids, I am going to close this for now. Only ten more days of this active-duty ridiculousness. I had forgotten how much I hate the mundane day-to-day that the Active Component insists on exercising. We’re seriously discussing in the senior Non Commissioned Officer leadership (aka “Sergeants Major”) whether the cold weather hat must be worn with gloves or not. Idiocy I tell you. You go to war with the gloves you have, not the gloves you want. OK, so, you two both be good. I’ll have little packets of sugar and some empty chocolate milk containers for you when I get home if you behave for your mother. Don’t do anything I might do, but if you do, do it four times and then beg forgiveness. You only go round once in this world and you might as well leave an impression where e’r you go.
Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts. I gotta go.
J. -Out!
So, ok. Here’s my rant for today. I’ve been on this island of Kyushu here in Japan for about five days now. Give or take a half day lost to moving forward in time to the day after. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it though, because we’ll get back that same day on the back-side when we make the return trip. It’s interesting how you can come out of the U.S. and travel 36 hours and end up 48 hours out, but when you come back you travel the same 36 hours and somehow arrive on the same day you left. Whatever. Suffice it to say, you’re pretty much dog-squeeze when you arrive and then two weeks later when you try to make the adjustment you lose all steam at three in the afternoon. It’s hell on a guy’s Circadian rhythm I tell ya.
OK, so where were we? Oh, well there are some things that I’ve taken note of. Many positive, quite a few negative but if you’ll bear with me, I think we can laugh at both. So, first off, the first thing is the tents we’re living in. Let’s back up, so let me paint you a picture. See, most all of us are staying on a make-shift camp in an “LSA”. I’m not entirely sure what that stands for, but the, “L” is most likely “Living” and “A” is most likely, “Area”. That leaves the “S” which could be a four-letter word of the most unsavory kind. Who knows really? Some Command Sergeant Major I guess. OK, on this, “LSA” there are in approximate 700 Soldiers of the U.S. variety and a whole slug of Japanese dudes. They have their tent area, we have ours. So, these tents, are aligned, as though a surveyor aligned them. You want to talk about anal? Well the Japanese invented it. Our tents are canvas, green of course, and square in measurements of perhaps 15x15’. There’s a center pole and a nice little kerosene heater that has a five-gallon can outside that needs daily filling. There’s a single light in the center, and a dual plug for plugging in 100 volt appliances and cell phones and what-not.
Outside the tent, about 200 yards away, are a bank of port-o-lets numbering perhaps 30 and four or five mobile shower units each containing about 20 shower stalls. The shower stalls are individual with a locking door and a spigot that is about 18” off the ground and a long dangly wand that you can switch to for the shower option. Everything is about 2/3 the correct size, to include the toilets and the shower height. Also important to note is the fact that the water alternates from 211 degrees to 88 degrees with nothing in between. 1/50th turn on the hot or cold water will make the instant change to either extreme.
We eat chow in a “Dining Facility”. We’re eating, “UGR” meals for morning meal and evening meal. UGR stands for something I’m sure and you’re welcome to Google it on your own time. They are basically pre-packaged meal sets that have enough portions for fifty people within each UGR. Just heat and eat. No stirring, no mixing and all the same delicious flavors you’ve come to expect from Army Chow. Some of the delights we’ve been treated to of late include, Rubber Eggs, Corndog Pancakes with Sausage Surprise, and my personal favorite, Chicken Cordon Bleu. (Heavy on the “Blew” please). Sorry, I’m working in between my ranting. Where were we? Ah yes. So, then there’s the little issue of having no butter. In fact, I Can’t Believe There’s No Butter. How exactly am I expected to choke down my Wonder Bread without butter/butter substitute. I guess we’re all getting a little fat or something. Speaking of chow-halls and ridiculous, I got politely corrected yesterday for looking around the sneeze guard. I couldn’t see through the film as to what the private was putting on my cardboard tray. I can’t hear very well, so I was peering around and got a sharp, “Sir! Can you PLEASE move back behind the sneeze guard?!” It was pretty humiliating because I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t see through the make-shift stretchy syran wrap sneeze guard they had jerry rigged. So, whatever. Anyhow, then inside this chow hall, they have tables which are about six inches too short. So short that you can’t put your legs under the table. So you end up all hunched over, about ten inches too far away from the action, dribbling rubber eggs down the front of your uniform. Couple with that the fact that they pack the tables about two feet too close together and you’ve got yourself a dining experience worth writing home about.
So, I mentioned before about the toilets. Well, see in Japan, the toilets are basically a porcelain hole in the ground that flushes. Imagine your camping, and you have to go po-po, but you’ve happened along a tree that just so happened to be outfitted with a porcelain receiving area. Anyhow,that’s what we’re working with here. Additionally, someone had the brilliant idea(r) to mount a western toilet over the top of the porto-let hole. Only, they mounted it about six inches too close to the door. Oh, forgot to mention that the starting hole was elevated about ten inches off of the landing inside of the port-o-let. So, what you end up with, is a jacked-up (and I do mean JACKED-UP!) toilet that when you decide to Numero Dos, you have to strategically approach. I mean, picture this, you have about five inches of space betwixt the front of the aforementioned toilet, and the closed (presumably) door. So, when you’re ready to partially disrobe, you lean forward (as is customary) to debrief, bang your head on the door, and scrape the back of your pants down the front of the toilet. NOW, if you’re successful in navigating this obstacle, you can mount said toilet. Only, it’s too tall. So you end up, with your tippy-toes on the floor jammed between the door and the toilet, your paper butt-gasket you made slipping away into the john and your left sorta hanging there. Well, imagine then you have to reverse the process, only, there’s that one little issue involving single-ply Charmin to contend with. Yeah, suffice it to say, a Chinese gymnast would be challenged to complete the transaction.
OK, whatelse? Oh, yeah, then, because you’re surrounded by an entire Corps (an “Army” in the truest sense of the word) staff of people, you have every Sergeant Major and every Colonel known to man expecting to excise their authority on the masses. So, for example, we’re walking back from, “Friendship Hall” (A place to drink beer with your Japanese counter-part) and it’s dark, on account of it’s, well night time. So, I’m walking with this young lieutenant, and it’s about four degrees. So, the LT, because it’s cold has his hands (wrongfully) in his pockets trying to keep the skin from freezing instantly I would assume. Well, of course, some pogue (see also, “Douche”) Sergeant Major is walking towards us with his full-bird Colonel and says, (ironically on his WAY to Friendship Hall) “Sir, you want to take your hands out of your pockets please?” So, of course the LT does. But we are stunned at the ridiculous nature at which the Army places importance on tradition over Soldier wellness. REALLY? REALLY there Sergeant Major?! That’s our biggest concern involved in protecting mainland Japan against aggression by China or North Korea?! THIS is our issue? Some poor aviator lieutenant trying to keep his hands warm after being forced to interact with non-English speaking Japanese while listening to ten chicks and two dudes in Kimono playing four-stringed ancient guitars??! This is what we’ve come to?! Seriously. Google, “Ass-Bag” and see if your picture doesn’t come up as a result.
OK, so, I forgot to mention the walk-ways on the LSA. Betwixt the tents I alluded to earlier, are boardwalks of the slickest variety of plywood. They’re really nice in the event of mud, however at four in the a.m. on your way to take a tinkle they’re down-right slickery. In fact, some major biffed it right outside our tent last night and probably broke a tailbone.
Whatelse? Oh, the MWR tent. Yeah, we have an MWR tent which is open from 0900-about 2100. Pretty much allowing for one hour of use after you work all day and have some of that scrumptious chow I alluded to earlier. WHY with 700 Soldiers they can’t just open the damn thing 24 hours a day is beyond me. So you have ten computers with internet access, three hours of potential use, and 700 Soldiers to use them. Yeah, do the math genius. 24 hour ops might be a good way to go here. Oh, I forgot to mention the MWR (Morale Welfare and Recreation) tent is well heated, has a giant TV and a projection movie (which you can’t hear the dialogue) two table tennis and a slew of romance novels and self-help books. Oh, and at last count, they now offer free copies of the, Stars and Lies Newspaper. So you got THAT going for you, which is nische.
So, I’m excited to say that I’m still in spite of that all having a good time. The Japanese are the best of hosts. We’ve acetated the shiz out of this war against the good guys (forgot to mention we’re playing the part of bad-dudes). Oh, and acetate, is a clear film that goes over the top of maps. You put really official looking icons on them which represent tank companies and infantry and helo’s and what not. It’s like playing the official home version of Axis and Allies only the Army has a whole Field Manuel just for the icons. Anyhow, you feel a little like General Patton, planning the demise of the German Army. Only they took away my pearl handled pistols and riding boots and handed me back some Sharpie markers and some swell looking tan boots that set off my eyes just so.
Whatelse? Yeah, not much more I guess. Tonight I’m going to be adopted by some Japanese family. I had to go get a gift in preparation. See they’re going to serve us dinner and take us in for the evening. It’s gonna be great. I imagine about fifty of us are going. They’ll have us meet in front of the PX here in a couple of hours. I asked the major I’m working with if they are going to pick us out like puppies. I haven’t as yet decided whether to be the hyper –active whiney aggressive puppy, or the tubby little fat puppy at the back of the pen that’s sleeping. Some people like one and others like the other. I guess it’s a crap shoot at this point.
OK kids, I am going to close this for now. Only ten more days of this active-duty ridiculousness. I had forgotten how much I hate the mundane day-to-day that the Active Component insists on exercising. We’re seriously discussing in the senior Non Commissioned Officer leadership (aka “Sergeants Major”) whether the cold weather hat must be worn with gloves or not. Idiocy I tell you. You go to war with the gloves you have, not the gloves you want. OK, so, you two both be good. I’ll have little packets of sugar and some empty chocolate milk containers for you when I get home if you behave for your mother. Don’t do anything I might do, but if you do, do it four times and then beg forgiveness. You only go round once in this world and you might as well leave an impression where e’r you go.
Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts. I gotta go.
J. -Out!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Japan
On the ground in Japan. Living in a tent. Kerosene heater works well. Computer access highly limited. Showers alternate extreme heat to luke-warm on a pulse. No sinks to shave in, shave in the shower. Waking up at 0400 and lying their 'till 0700 with nothing but a revolving door of my thoughts. Plenty of time to think, nothing I can afford to think about. Not to worry kids, all is well in the land of the Rising Sun. Five minute warning on the computer terminal. Miss the family and my wonderful brilliant wife. How DOES she put up with me? Guess we'll never know. Time for chow. Japanese are nice folks but hard-headed. Look to your right before crossing the street, cars on the wrong side. Lived here fifteen years ago or so, not much different. It's the Mecca for hooker-boots. Hold all my calls, I'll be back directly. Keep it between the lines, keep your head on a swivel, love without boundaries and never give up.
Gotta go, soup's on.
Gotta go, soup's on.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Elk hunting with Josh
So, this morning I was lying there in bed. Trying to be still. I just can't sleep much past seven or so. So, I knew the baby had Stacey up late (and puked on her) and Stacey is really tired. But I lay there, thinking about things. One of the things that went through my mind (and why wouldnt it?) while holding Ms. Kitty up next to me was the elk hunt where Josh and I went with my father-in-law on the bow hunt. It was a couple of years ago. Maybe three or four. Not germaine really. Anyhow, Clint is my father-in-law. He's really a great man and I have a lot of respect for him. But see, he's always making fun of my bow. I have a bow that is not less than 20 years old. Over the years since I've married Stacey, we've gone out to maybe two archery shoots and practiced less that two or three times together. This was the first ever hunt we've ever been on together.
We were going down to the Gooseberry, near Salina, Utah. Clint was bringing his travel trailer, and Josh and I were to be guests along with Scott who's Clint's long-time hunting buddy. Anyhow, within the previous weeks, months and years, Clint has always seen fit to pretty much discount my bow. I think I paid 90 bucks for it around 1989. It's a Bear. A Whitetail II model. It's a simple compound bow, with a 75lb draw. It shoots the old 2117 arrows and a hodge-podge of old-school Satellite broadheads (see also, "Cheap"). I tell you what, I dont spend a lot on my gear. When I was a kid, I'd buy two dozen arrows each season. Practice with one dozen, and hunt with the second dozen. Usually, I can get two or three seasons out of the same two dozen arrows. Anyhow, I shoot about a 30" draw, with no over-draw, no trigger system, no peep sight. It's pretty bare bones. Just four pins of brass design which actually have different color fingernail polish to make them stand out. I'm that dang cheap. Anyhow, Clint continually tries to get me to purchase a new bow at a minimum of $500 bucks, usually $700 with another $300 bucks in accoutrement. Money a young father of four just doesnt have as a priority.
Anyhow, we'd scheduled four or five days. Days 1-3 were pretty uneventful. We'd gotten up to the hunting areas in my mind almost at the tail end of prime hunting time each morning. I was getting frustrated with the pace with which we were moving. So on the later-half of the third day, while we were out riding on the four-wheelers looking over a canyon, we finally spotted from 1500 yards away a single elk. So, that evening I asked Josh if he would like to put on some more miles and we'd hike over to the bluff and see what we could find. Well I'll be honest, Josh impresses me EVERY time we hunt together. I think at the time I think he was seven. Well the kid just doesnt complain. You can hike him over hill and dale and he'll keep pace the best he can without murmuring. Anyhow, we drove the ATV down to the trail head and then headed out across the little valley and into the treeline. On our way in we saw some older sign and it made me feel like we might even see an animal that day.
Well we hiked up to the end of the tree line and walked along a ledge. It was steep and hard-going, but Josh was in his usual top form. Well we walked up on a ledge of sorts that was really a cut in the side face no more than maybe 20 yards across. There was a nice manicured trail and we decided to cut across the side-face on the trail making our way up the canyon. We walked for maybe ten minutes and heard our first bugle. See a bugle, for the uninitiated, is probably the second greatest sound in the world. I'll tell you the first greatest sound in the world someday when you're a little older. Anyhow, a bugle, is a bull elk's way of telling the world he's pissed off, but interested in finding a nice lady friend or six to keep time with. It happens in the fall when they go into rut. I will honestly tell you one of the greatest things in life, is to have stand on a mountain on a crisp September morning and hear the deep throaty call of a bull elk in rut. It sounds like "EEEEEEEEEEEooohh ochh ohch ocohchhc " and when you add in the surreal nature of where you're standing, and smell the elk scat, the deep mountain pines and the rustle of the aspens giving way to the beginning of Winter's call, it's insane. It's truly one of the most incredible things you can experience. Additionally, when you see these 700-900 lb animals up close, blissfully unaware of your presence, raking the hell out of some poor tree you get a real feel for exactly how wild these animals are. The deep brown eyes blazing with anger, his fore and hind legs tensed ready to crush an opposing bull smelling his muddy coat rife with urine and earthy power, it's crazy.
Anyhow, we heard this bugle ahead of us. I immediately took a knee, knocked and arrow and listened to a distant retort to the bugle. Another bull was talking trash. Challenging our bull. It's important to note that female elk, "Cows" talk too. They have a "mew" that they do. You can often stop a bull in his tracks with a soft mew because he's so blind with rage at trying to find a gal-pal that he'll sit up and take notice. Anyhow, there are calls for all that, and a whole library of techniques on how to do it which frankly are just too much for me to handle. All I know is bulls bugle and get pissed, and cows mew and calm things down. It's that simple.
So, as we're sitting there, debating on how far away the first bugle was, I looked up, and diagonally down and to our left a young spike bull was walking toward us on a parallel trail. Of course, the moment which I am about to describe is the best moment and the entire reason you are even in the field to start with. He was walking, head down, at about seven miles per hour. They are so large that their natural gate keeps them moving on the hop. Anyhow, he walked between three trees on the trail and I drew. I knew without even guessing that this animal was dead-to-rights at between 17-20 yards. He was so close that if I had really wanted to I could have hit him right in they eye. I have no doubt that I can hit anything inside a 2" circle at 20 yards, a 4" circle at thirty yards, an 8" circle at forty, and I'd hit him in the chest at fifty yards. So, suffice it to say, he was pretty much already in the freezer it was just the formality of getting him into packaging.
So, this beautiful animal, with spikes about 18" long stops at a cant at maybe 17 yards. Using my twenty yard pin and with tunnel vision I threaded the arrow deep into his chest. I heard a "thunk" and saw him wheel down and jump off the trail. In his haste I saw the arrow buried high in the chest and protruding no more than 8" out of his chest cavity. I immediately stopped, marked the spot with the GPS and orange tape and proceeded to hyperventilate while reliving the moment again and again with Josh. I was "STOKED" to say the least. The reality of taking a bull elk with my son, on his first bow hunt with me in such a manner was just too much to take in.
I counted the thirty minutes while we walked over to where he dove off the trail. By the way, that's the longest thirty minutes of your life. You can't immmediately chase an animal after you shoot him with a bow, because he needs to bleed out and lay down and die. If you start chasing him immediately, he'll jump up over and over and you'll lose the blood trail. If you let him lay down, he'll usually travel less than a couple hundred yards and you'll find him after an extensive (and again intense) search looking for bloodlets on the fauna and ground. The tracking usually takes place when your buddies show up and you cut concentric circles looking for blood and culminates in the moment of discovery. Well, Josh and I started looking for blood and didnt find a drop. What we did find, was an incredibly torn-up trail that cut diagonally down into the tall grass. I went up and down and up and down that trail until the last possible moment of daylight looking for a single drop of blood. To no avail. I was sick inside.
Well, we finally realized it was time to get off the mountain. Josh was getting nervous as the fleeting rays of sun began to settle on the mountain behind us. We had quite a bit of defeated walking to do back to the ATV.
We got back to camp, recounted the story to all that would listen and settled in for another sleepless night. I hate to waste game. I hate it with a passion. I believe that ethical hunting demands you do everything you can to find animals that you hit and harvest them. I believe they are a blessing and should be treated with great appreciation at the opportunity God has given us to harvest them accordingly. So this animal was the second animal in my life I've ever lost and was assuredly dead somewhere.
Well the next day came and went with little or no incident. I'd hit the first one on Friday, and Saturday was pathetic. Sunday there was a light misting rain, and I asked Josh if he wanted to go back up where we'd hit the first one. This time we came in from the other end of the trail and walked toward the trail where we'd hit our bull. I was feeling pretty defeated and I just wanted to sit beside the trail with Josh. I had seen a giant pine that was about 20 yards off the trail. There was about a 30 yard wide by 50 yard long flat spot we could watch and sit out the drizzle while we commiserated on the final day's hunt.
Whenever I sit, I start to mark off mental distances to certain objects. 20 yards to that stump, 35 yards to that tree, etc. As I was doing this, and making a nice little sitting area for us, I heard a snap immediately to our left on the side face. Turning, and looking over the top of Josh, I saw a spike bull walking through the high tall grass. He was at once about 25 yards from us, and closing the distance fast. I whispered to Josh to crouch down and move out of the way and drew my bow. The bull stopped, looked right at us, and then started walking toward us again. His chest was half covered in the high grass, and when I walked the pins across his chest it filled the 20,30, and 40 yard pins. There was no way he was much more than 15 yards away. I let the arrow fly and it burrowed deep into his chest. He wheeled around, and I knocked another arrow. He started to run back the way he came, and I asked Josh to do his, "mew". Josh did, and the young bull stopped. However there was a tree across his vitals and I couldnt let the second arrow fly. Finally the bull got nervous and made a move forward. However his rear end dropped out from under him and he kicked violently to get up. He got up again, staggered, and then proceded to tumble over and over down to the trail. Start to finish first arrow to death was probably 30 seconds. It was incredible.
Seriously, I was in shock. Two days before, Josh and I had lost a bull, and here we were, standing over a 700 lb animal. A 33 year old man and a seven year old boy. Now what? Well I tried in vain to get anyone on the radio. Finally I field dressed him and then sat on a rock. Blood up to my shoulders. Me and the boy. Sitting there. With this giant animal. So finally I decided I would cut him in half just below the ribs and start down with the rear quarters. I cut off his legs below the hock and cut slits behind the hock for my hands to slide through. I towed him down the mountain, Josh carrying my bow and losing arrows along the way. Finally about 500 yards down the hill, we ran into Scott. I have since that day found a deeper appreciation for the work a man can do in his mid-fifties. Scott was a God-send that day. We got the rear end down with considerable effort. I would say the rear end was in excess of 300lb. We went and retrieved Scott's ATV and recovered the rear and went back for the one front quarter and the tenderloins out of the back-strap. We had everything worth taking off the mountain and back on the ATV by 1:00.
Well, back at camp I had the dubious honor of telling Clint how my twenty yhear old, ugly, marred, and less-than-sexy bow had killed another bull. See, I still say, I really dont care how much you spend on gear. No matter how shiny it is. It doesnt matter how much you spend. You of course must start with quality, but all the bells and whistles dont mean squat if you never even see the animal. I think I taught my boy some things that trip. Things about ethical hunting. Things about enjoying the outdoors. Things about the animals themselves. But most off all, I think at seven years old he understood. It aint the price of the magic wand, but the magic within. If you can't shoot, you cant shoot. I dont care how much that bow costs. If you stick to the fundamentals, then all the add-ons in the world are nice-to-haves but you should really focus more of your efforts on educating yourself, and practicing with your gear.
I enjoyed that hunt. It will live on forever in my heart. Not because of the animal, but because of my son. For that time which to me is priceless. For the opportunity, which I consider golden, to teach him the value of things, and instill in him how much I love him and how, with dependable gear, and a can-do attitude, you can make things happen in this world.
Gotta run now, time to get ready for church.
We were going down to the Gooseberry, near Salina, Utah. Clint was bringing his travel trailer, and Josh and I were to be guests along with Scott who's Clint's long-time hunting buddy. Anyhow, within the previous weeks, months and years, Clint has always seen fit to pretty much discount my bow. I think I paid 90 bucks for it around 1989. It's a Bear. A Whitetail II model. It's a simple compound bow, with a 75lb draw. It shoots the old 2117 arrows and a hodge-podge of old-school Satellite broadheads (see also, "Cheap"). I tell you what, I dont spend a lot on my gear. When I was a kid, I'd buy two dozen arrows each season. Practice with one dozen, and hunt with the second dozen. Usually, I can get two or three seasons out of the same two dozen arrows. Anyhow, I shoot about a 30" draw, with no over-draw, no trigger system, no peep sight. It's pretty bare bones. Just four pins of brass design which actually have different color fingernail polish to make them stand out. I'm that dang cheap. Anyhow, Clint continually tries to get me to purchase a new bow at a minimum of $500 bucks, usually $700 with another $300 bucks in accoutrement. Money a young father of four just doesnt have as a priority.
Anyhow, we'd scheduled four or five days. Days 1-3 were pretty uneventful. We'd gotten up to the hunting areas in my mind almost at the tail end of prime hunting time each morning. I was getting frustrated with the pace with which we were moving. So on the later-half of the third day, while we were out riding on the four-wheelers looking over a canyon, we finally spotted from 1500 yards away a single elk. So, that evening I asked Josh if he would like to put on some more miles and we'd hike over to the bluff and see what we could find. Well I'll be honest, Josh impresses me EVERY time we hunt together. I think at the time I think he was seven. Well the kid just doesnt complain. You can hike him over hill and dale and he'll keep pace the best he can without murmuring. Anyhow, we drove the ATV down to the trail head and then headed out across the little valley and into the treeline. On our way in we saw some older sign and it made me feel like we might even see an animal that day.
Well we hiked up to the end of the tree line and walked along a ledge. It was steep and hard-going, but Josh was in his usual top form. Well we walked up on a ledge of sorts that was really a cut in the side face no more than maybe 20 yards across. There was a nice manicured trail and we decided to cut across the side-face on the trail making our way up the canyon. We walked for maybe ten minutes and heard our first bugle. See a bugle, for the uninitiated, is probably the second greatest sound in the world. I'll tell you the first greatest sound in the world someday when you're a little older. Anyhow, a bugle, is a bull elk's way of telling the world he's pissed off, but interested in finding a nice lady friend or six to keep time with. It happens in the fall when they go into rut. I will honestly tell you one of the greatest things in life, is to have stand on a mountain on a crisp September morning and hear the deep throaty call of a bull elk in rut. It sounds like "EEEEEEEEEEEooohh ochh ohch ocohchhc " and when you add in the surreal nature of where you're standing, and smell the elk scat, the deep mountain pines and the rustle of the aspens giving way to the beginning of Winter's call, it's insane. It's truly one of the most incredible things you can experience. Additionally, when you see these 700-900 lb animals up close, blissfully unaware of your presence, raking the hell out of some poor tree you get a real feel for exactly how wild these animals are. The deep brown eyes blazing with anger, his fore and hind legs tensed ready to crush an opposing bull smelling his muddy coat rife with urine and earthy power, it's crazy.
Anyhow, we heard this bugle ahead of us. I immediately took a knee, knocked and arrow and listened to a distant retort to the bugle. Another bull was talking trash. Challenging our bull. It's important to note that female elk, "Cows" talk too. They have a "mew" that they do. You can often stop a bull in his tracks with a soft mew because he's so blind with rage at trying to find a gal-pal that he'll sit up and take notice. Anyhow, there are calls for all that, and a whole library of techniques on how to do it which frankly are just too much for me to handle. All I know is bulls bugle and get pissed, and cows mew and calm things down. It's that simple.
So, as we're sitting there, debating on how far away the first bugle was, I looked up, and diagonally down and to our left a young spike bull was walking toward us on a parallel trail. Of course, the moment which I am about to describe is the best moment and the entire reason you are even in the field to start with. He was walking, head down, at about seven miles per hour. They are so large that their natural gate keeps them moving on the hop. Anyhow, he walked between three trees on the trail and I drew. I knew without even guessing that this animal was dead-to-rights at between 17-20 yards. He was so close that if I had really wanted to I could have hit him right in they eye. I have no doubt that I can hit anything inside a 2" circle at 20 yards, a 4" circle at thirty yards, an 8" circle at forty, and I'd hit him in the chest at fifty yards. So, suffice it to say, he was pretty much already in the freezer it was just the formality of getting him into packaging.
So, this beautiful animal, with spikes about 18" long stops at a cant at maybe 17 yards. Using my twenty yard pin and with tunnel vision I threaded the arrow deep into his chest. I heard a "thunk" and saw him wheel down and jump off the trail. In his haste I saw the arrow buried high in the chest and protruding no more than 8" out of his chest cavity. I immediately stopped, marked the spot with the GPS and orange tape and proceeded to hyperventilate while reliving the moment again and again with Josh. I was "STOKED" to say the least. The reality of taking a bull elk with my son, on his first bow hunt with me in such a manner was just too much to take in.
I counted the thirty minutes while we walked over to where he dove off the trail. By the way, that's the longest thirty minutes of your life. You can't immmediately chase an animal after you shoot him with a bow, because he needs to bleed out and lay down and die. If you start chasing him immediately, he'll jump up over and over and you'll lose the blood trail. If you let him lay down, he'll usually travel less than a couple hundred yards and you'll find him after an extensive (and again intense) search looking for bloodlets on the fauna and ground. The tracking usually takes place when your buddies show up and you cut concentric circles looking for blood and culminates in the moment of discovery. Well, Josh and I started looking for blood and didnt find a drop. What we did find, was an incredibly torn-up trail that cut diagonally down into the tall grass. I went up and down and up and down that trail until the last possible moment of daylight looking for a single drop of blood. To no avail. I was sick inside.
Well, we finally realized it was time to get off the mountain. Josh was getting nervous as the fleeting rays of sun began to settle on the mountain behind us. We had quite a bit of defeated walking to do back to the ATV.
We got back to camp, recounted the story to all that would listen and settled in for another sleepless night. I hate to waste game. I hate it with a passion. I believe that ethical hunting demands you do everything you can to find animals that you hit and harvest them. I believe they are a blessing and should be treated with great appreciation at the opportunity God has given us to harvest them accordingly. So this animal was the second animal in my life I've ever lost and was assuredly dead somewhere.
Well the next day came and went with little or no incident. I'd hit the first one on Friday, and Saturday was pathetic. Sunday there was a light misting rain, and I asked Josh if he wanted to go back up where we'd hit the first one. This time we came in from the other end of the trail and walked toward the trail where we'd hit our bull. I was feeling pretty defeated and I just wanted to sit beside the trail with Josh. I had seen a giant pine that was about 20 yards off the trail. There was about a 30 yard wide by 50 yard long flat spot we could watch and sit out the drizzle while we commiserated on the final day's hunt.
Whenever I sit, I start to mark off mental distances to certain objects. 20 yards to that stump, 35 yards to that tree, etc. As I was doing this, and making a nice little sitting area for us, I heard a snap immediately to our left on the side face. Turning, and looking over the top of Josh, I saw a spike bull walking through the high tall grass. He was at once about 25 yards from us, and closing the distance fast. I whispered to Josh to crouch down and move out of the way and drew my bow. The bull stopped, looked right at us, and then started walking toward us again. His chest was half covered in the high grass, and when I walked the pins across his chest it filled the 20,30, and 40 yard pins. There was no way he was much more than 15 yards away. I let the arrow fly and it burrowed deep into his chest. He wheeled around, and I knocked another arrow. He started to run back the way he came, and I asked Josh to do his, "mew". Josh did, and the young bull stopped. However there was a tree across his vitals and I couldnt let the second arrow fly. Finally the bull got nervous and made a move forward. However his rear end dropped out from under him and he kicked violently to get up. He got up again, staggered, and then proceded to tumble over and over down to the trail. Start to finish first arrow to death was probably 30 seconds. It was incredible.
Seriously, I was in shock. Two days before, Josh and I had lost a bull, and here we were, standing over a 700 lb animal. A 33 year old man and a seven year old boy. Now what? Well I tried in vain to get anyone on the radio. Finally I field dressed him and then sat on a rock. Blood up to my shoulders. Me and the boy. Sitting there. With this giant animal. So finally I decided I would cut him in half just below the ribs and start down with the rear quarters. I cut off his legs below the hock and cut slits behind the hock for my hands to slide through. I towed him down the mountain, Josh carrying my bow and losing arrows along the way. Finally about 500 yards down the hill, we ran into Scott. I have since that day found a deeper appreciation for the work a man can do in his mid-fifties. Scott was a God-send that day. We got the rear end down with considerable effort. I would say the rear end was in excess of 300lb. We went and retrieved Scott's ATV and recovered the rear and went back for the one front quarter and the tenderloins out of the back-strap. We had everything worth taking off the mountain and back on the ATV by 1:00.
Well, back at camp I had the dubious honor of telling Clint how my twenty yhear old, ugly, marred, and less-than-sexy bow had killed another bull. See, I still say, I really dont care how much you spend on gear. No matter how shiny it is. It doesnt matter how much you spend. You of course must start with quality, but all the bells and whistles dont mean squat if you never even see the animal. I think I taught my boy some things that trip. Things about ethical hunting. Things about enjoying the outdoors. Things about the animals themselves. But most off all, I think at seven years old he understood. It aint the price of the magic wand, but the magic within. If you can't shoot, you cant shoot. I dont care how much that bow costs. If you stick to the fundamentals, then all the add-ons in the world are nice-to-haves but you should really focus more of your efforts on educating yourself, and practicing with your gear.
I enjoyed that hunt. It will live on forever in my heart. Not because of the animal, but because of my son. For that time which to me is priceless. For the opportunity, which I consider golden, to teach him the value of things, and instill in him how much I love him and how, with dependable gear, and a can-do attitude, you can make things happen in this world.
Gotta run now, time to get ready for church.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Grandparents. The Unappreciated Birth Control.
OK, so here's my rant today. Grandparents, neighbors, Jehovah's Witnesses, Tithing Offering Deacons and anyone else that comes to my door on a Friday or Saturday. Here's why. See, I work 4-10's. That is to say, I work a minimum of ten hours for four days each week. Well that's the minimum. Then see we have another 2 days a month for drill; always a Saturday and a Sunday. Then you have your TDY (Temporary Duty) which is work out of town. This year I have traveled to Turkey twice, Japan and I'm leaving for Japan again in a few days for a couple of weeks. Add into that all of August, September, October and half November or Josh's football each and every Saturday and then the requisite deer and elk hunts and days off are pretty much at a premium.
So here's the scenario. WHEN I finally get a Friday off, AND the kids are not off "track" at school (we go year-round for school with 3-5 weeks off sporadically through the year), well let's just say that "Quality Time" uninterupted alone with Stacey is almost non-existant. So, on Fridays, I like to wake up "late" at 07:00, make a big breakfast for the kids, usher them on out the door at 08:35 and hope and pray that Baby Olivia gets ready for a nap at say, between 10-11 am. Well, assuming ALL those planets align, you can rest assured, should we "spontaneously" escape to the respite of our room (closet/bathroom/frontroom/hallway) you can just damn-near bet that either my mother, or Stacey's dad will show up. Occaissionally it's Stacey's mom, and half again as often it's my dad. Sprinkle in the unpredictable neighbor kid looking for a friend and their mother looking for a cup o' sugah, and you got yourself my typical Friday.
I tell you what, it's amazing to me. It doesnt matter if the total eclipse is at 09:27, 11:38, 14:46 or WHAT time, as soon, and I DO mean AS SOON as we begin the romantic inflections and the knowing glances and the light holding of hands (amongst other techniques) well, you'll be surprised how loud the diesel pickup sounds idling in your driveway as your father-in-law opens your garage door which you so innocently gave him the code for over four years ago. Well, if that's not the case, and let's say that the kids ARE home, but you've managed to carve out seven seconds of alone time, well, then you'll be halfway to home-base and you'll hear the withering sound of your mother talking at 1.5 times acceptable volume to your children in the front room asking, "Where's your mom?"
So, today, being JUST like any other stolen moment in time, it happened again. You wouldnt believe it if you were me. I mean, seriously, I had my game on. I was removing all the makeup she had so deliberately placed on her face, I was truly in the zone. I mean, this is one she could brag about at Bunko night. (She can't talk about it at Relief Society anymore, because of the gag-order ((dont read anything into that))).
So, of course, I'm there, I mean mentally, are hearts have become one, we are a symbiotic beating, we are the epitome of biblical knowledge, and...I hear my mother's voice. You know, I'm telling you, it's times like these I WISH I had an Oedipus complex. Because, as you can guess, you just cant make that time up again. It's gone. Once it's gone, it's...gone.
So, after my Olympic Dismount (I made that part up) I go to the door, quite in a huff, (and now dressed again) and open the french doors. To see my mother, UPSTAIRS immediately outside my door, looking from room to room for Stacey or I. So, I can't contain myself. I start into a beautifully proseful speech about the importance of CALLING FIRST and finally after I see it just fails to register said, "I was TRYING to have a romantic moment with my lovely wife of fourteen years, but I guess you're having a difficult time calling first." She apologizes profusely, but the damage is done. There is no coming back from this. It's like an episode of, "Everybody Loves Raymond". Same hairstyle, same ingorance of reality, and the same look of surprise that ANYONE could do such things during daylight hours.
So, as I pen this here this evening, I'm thinking how funny it was, to give her the speech as I follow her down the stairs. Quite forcefully and direct as to the importance of quality time with a loving and heavenly eternal companion. OK, I didnt say it like that but it would have been better if I had, because as I hit the bottom of the landing, out of my kitchen walks my mother's friend, "Bernice" whom says, "Hi Jon" as though it's Tuesday and we just passed each other in the grocery store looking for Sprite. So, I lose all ability to recover from this embarassment, and just decide that we're aparently going to have a brunch conversation with my mother, my former babysitter, and my wife is going to hide upstairs from the embarassment.
So, I guess I have NO point in this whatsoever. Other than the comedic value, of the irony. I mean, I actually got away with MORE when Stacey and I were messing around in her mom and dad's basement. So it's ironic to me that when it's sanctioned and holy union by God, I cant catch a freakin' break. But if it's illicit, ugly and hurried, well, we got all the opportunity and time in the world.
So, anyhow, I guess my hope is that someone out there will feel my pain and laugh along with us. That you'll see a little of yourself in this little diatribe of ridiculous proportions. Most importantly, I hope that since misery loves company, if ever YOU get a time where the baby slept through the entire night, and the kids are all on "track" and the moon is full, and the planets align, and Sagitarious is in line with Uranus, well, I hope someone comes along and thwarts your plans too. I hope that it's the Jehova's Witnesses, or your Visiting Teachers. I hope it's the Cable Guy offering free Skinamax. Hell I even hope it's the Deacons looking for fast-offerings. But what I'd never wish on you? Is that your mother or father would invite themselves in unannounced, that you'll suffer the pain of irony at how 17 years later you just CANT catch a break. I hope they bring a catalogue of bullet reloading equipment, or better yet, they want to convince you to allow them to take your kids to a movie, and that you have zero opportunity to share any semblance of a romantic interlude together until you're well into your sixties and you'd just plain rather watch, "Little House on the Prarie" episodes rather than suffer the inglorious emotional deflation of missed opportunity.
Have a good night kids. I know I wont.
So here's the scenario. WHEN I finally get a Friday off, AND the kids are not off "track" at school (we go year-round for school with 3-5 weeks off sporadically through the year), well let's just say that "Quality Time" uninterupted alone with Stacey is almost non-existant. So, on Fridays, I like to wake up "late" at 07:00, make a big breakfast for the kids, usher them on out the door at 08:35 and hope and pray that Baby Olivia gets ready for a nap at say, between 10-11 am. Well, assuming ALL those planets align, you can rest assured, should we "spontaneously" escape to the respite of our room (closet/bathroom/frontroom/hallway) you can just damn-near bet that either my mother, or Stacey's dad will show up. Occaissionally it's Stacey's mom, and half again as often it's my dad. Sprinkle in the unpredictable neighbor kid looking for a friend and their mother looking for a cup o' sugah, and you got yourself my typical Friday.
I tell you what, it's amazing to me. It doesnt matter if the total eclipse is at 09:27, 11:38, 14:46 or WHAT time, as soon, and I DO mean AS SOON as we begin the romantic inflections and the knowing glances and the light holding of hands (amongst other techniques) well, you'll be surprised how loud the diesel pickup sounds idling in your driveway as your father-in-law opens your garage door which you so innocently gave him the code for over four years ago. Well, if that's not the case, and let's say that the kids ARE home, but you've managed to carve out seven seconds of alone time, well, then you'll be halfway to home-base and you'll hear the withering sound of your mother talking at 1.5 times acceptable volume to your children in the front room asking, "Where's your mom?"
So, today, being JUST like any other stolen moment in time, it happened again. You wouldnt believe it if you were me. I mean, seriously, I had my game on. I was removing all the makeup she had so deliberately placed on her face, I was truly in the zone. I mean, this is one she could brag about at Bunko night. (She can't talk about it at Relief Society anymore, because of the gag-order ((dont read anything into that))).
So, of course, I'm there, I mean mentally, are hearts have become one, we are a symbiotic beating, we are the epitome of biblical knowledge, and...I hear my mother's voice. You know, I'm telling you, it's times like these I WISH I had an Oedipus complex. Because, as you can guess, you just cant make that time up again. It's gone. Once it's gone, it's...gone.
So, after my Olympic Dismount (I made that part up) I go to the door, quite in a huff, (and now dressed again) and open the french doors. To see my mother, UPSTAIRS immediately outside my door, looking from room to room for Stacey or I. So, I can't contain myself. I start into a beautifully proseful speech about the importance of CALLING FIRST and finally after I see it just fails to register said, "I was TRYING to have a romantic moment with my lovely wife of fourteen years, but I guess you're having a difficult time calling first." She apologizes profusely, but the damage is done. There is no coming back from this. It's like an episode of, "Everybody Loves Raymond". Same hairstyle, same ingorance of reality, and the same look of surprise that ANYONE could do such things during daylight hours.
So, as I pen this here this evening, I'm thinking how funny it was, to give her the speech as I follow her down the stairs. Quite forcefully and direct as to the importance of quality time with a loving and heavenly eternal companion. OK, I didnt say it like that but it would have been better if I had, because as I hit the bottom of the landing, out of my kitchen walks my mother's friend, "Bernice" whom says, "Hi Jon" as though it's Tuesday and we just passed each other in the grocery store looking for Sprite. So, I lose all ability to recover from this embarassment, and just decide that we're aparently going to have a brunch conversation with my mother, my former babysitter, and my wife is going to hide upstairs from the embarassment.
So, I guess I have NO point in this whatsoever. Other than the comedic value, of the irony. I mean, I actually got away with MORE when Stacey and I were messing around in her mom and dad's basement. So it's ironic to me that when it's sanctioned and holy union by God, I cant catch a freakin' break. But if it's illicit, ugly and hurried, well, we got all the opportunity and time in the world.
So, anyhow, I guess my hope is that someone out there will feel my pain and laugh along with us. That you'll see a little of yourself in this little diatribe of ridiculous proportions. Most importantly, I hope that since misery loves company, if ever YOU get a time where the baby slept through the entire night, and the kids are all on "track" and the moon is full, and the planets align, and Sagitarious is in line with Uranus, well, I hope someone comes along and thwarts your plans too. I hope that it's the Jehova's Witnesses, or your Visiting Teachers. I hope it's the Cable Guy offering free Skinamax. Hell I even hope it's the Deacons looking for fast-offerings. But what I'd never wish on you? Is that your mother or father would invite themselves in unannounced, that you'll suffer the pain of irony at how 17 years later you just CANT catch a break. I hope they bring a catalogue of bullet reloading equipment, or better yet, they want to convince you to allow them to take your kids to a movie, and that you have zero opportunity to share any semblance of a romantic interlude together until you're well into your sixties and you'd just plain rather watch, "Little House on the Prarie" episodes rather than suffer the inglorious emotional deflation of missed opportunity.
Have a good night kids. I know I wont.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Hadji-sicle- The Day We Thwarted Islamic Terrorism.
So, I haven't written in some time. Mostly because I've been unimpressed, uninspired, and unprepared to drone on and on about my little life in a nutshell for a while. Toward the end of the year I thought a post-game wrap up would be appropriate, to tell you all the horrific things we've endured as individuals, a couple, and extended family. Then I thought I'd take a more positive tone and go on about the potential inherent in the New Year. But of course, that's all been done before. So, I'll be perfectly honest with you. I got nothin'. No seriously, I got nothing. I dont have any deep introspective outlook on life to lend you. I dont have an over-whelming sense of understanding to convey to you. I suppose at times I find my muse in the oddest places. Sometimes I find it in people that impress me either because of, or in spite of their circumstances. Sometimes it's politically motivated, and sometimes when I feel it strong enough, I'll share things that are straight out of my soul in an effort to convey the true aspects of the human condition as I know it today.
I guess, if you'll all gather 'round I can tell you a story. It's a story about how no good deed goes unpunished. So there I was. The timeline is not important, except of course it must be JUST outside the statute of limitations for breaking a forest service lock. So, "Randy" and I (not his real-name) were out for a muzzle-loader hunt for deer. We were using traditional side-lock muzzle-loaders. Growing hair on our faces, smelling of pyrodex and other manly scents and flavors. So, after about three days of hunting, walking all over hale and dale we finally elect to go on a road hunt somewhere above Strawberry Reservoir in Utah. Well, my plan, is to drive along in the crisp November evening, find us a nice little buck, blast him, throw him in the truck and then high-tail it back to the trailer which was at that time poised were my father's cabin now sits at lakeside. So, anyhow, Randy and I make our way up Sleepy Hollow. No, there were no punkins and no horsemen and as it turns out deer in sight. So, after about an hour of driving up the switchbacks to the pinnacles we elect to drive back down to the Currant Creek road and out to the highway.
[Enter Stage Right Antagonist] On our way down the backside of the mountain, we come across a very disoriented foreign gentleman whom I'll call, "Hadji". Truth be told, he was actually another varient of middle-eastern descent but it makes the account a little more funny. So Hadji, is walking along the main dirt road, about five miles up from the highway. Well, I pulls ol' Betsy over and offers this fellah a ride. Mostly because I'd want someone to give me a ride, and the sun was hurredly making it's way to the opposite horizon and it was about to get cold. DAMN cold. So, I notice that Hadji is wearing this little thin blue jacket (sans liner) carrying a red backpack, has no headgear, and looks LOST. I mean, LOST. Homeboy has NO idea where he is. So, with my best foot forward I asks him, "Sir you need a ride?" To which he replies almost as a caracature (spell that later), "My friend. He has truck." And I'm like....ohhhhhhhhhh my. What did we get ourselves into? So, again I try (slower and louder of course), "Sir....cannnn weeee...helpppah...youuuu...find your cammmpah???". To which almost as a canned response he again retorts, "My friend, he has truck." So, by this time, I'm surveying the potential level of danger, the fact that Hadji might have a severed head in his backpack, the fact that we have two rifles in the truck, and only one seat betwixt Randy and me. So, I says to him, "Well hop in the back, we'll give you a ride down the mountain to the camp." See, I reasoned that Hadji's Truck Buddy couldnt POSSIBLY have left him off closer to Currant Creek, as that was almost 10 miles in the opposite direction. Addditionally, there were no other camp sites between here and Highway 40, so thereby, using the Associative Property of Stupidity, I could give him a ride down to a string of camp sites between heah and deah.
OK, so Hadji is shivering in the back, one mile goes by, two miles...BAM. Solid Forest Service gate. Locked. A little sign reads almost mockingly, "Road Closed Due to Elk Calving Season". Well of course NOW I'm pissed. P.I. Double S-DUH. So, I'm now realizing, that there are two ways out of here, ONE involves back-tracking WITH Hadji for the next hour and a quarter, OR heading back to Current Creek, at which point I'm almost assured to be bringing Hadji that much further away from, "Friend has truck". So, I being trained in the art of quick-thinking and decisive judgment, elect to break the through the gate.
So, Hadji bails out the back, and I have Randy bring the truck up to the gate. We both get out, review our perdicament, counsel together, and elect that we have indeed chosen the less ethical, but more expedient and righteous cause of both delivering Hadji, and making a simultaneous shot-across-the bow of the Elk Calving Gurus whom dont know there ass from a hole in the ground, because elk calve in the friggin' SPRING!!!
So, all the tools I have consist of a giant standard screwdriver, a star wrench, and a 10,000 lb nylon tow strap. So, I get the tow-strap, affix it to the shaft that sits down in the cup between gate Side A, and gate Tab B. So I direct Randy to reverse Betsy, and ease a little pressure on the strap and, "Pop" the shaft up out of the cup. Of course, to no avail. So, seeing that, I realized drastic times, call for drastic measures. I now realize that there is no way to get directly to the lock because Forest Service people are smart and they put metal hoods over their $8 locks. So, I find that there is a bent pin, about 3/4 inch in diameter, which slides through the shaft and is held in place by the aforementioned lock. So I fix the tow strap to the pin, and direct Randy again, to move forward, this time about five feet and then with a tad more haste put pressure on the lock. Which results in the rear tires peeling up some road-base and kicking it all over Betsy's white sidewalls.
NOW, I am pissed. Hadji is watching this whole event, and has NO idea what is going on. But now we've committed. So, I instruct Randall to come forward,this time almost all the way to the gate, and then floor it, in a generally backward direction. Which, he does. But, almost in slow motion, I see this truck, in a white flash...the tow strap become taught...the tow strap break loose, and then return, this time carrying the bolt, directly into the front of my grill. Almost immediately, I realize not only could either Randy or I have been potentially killed in this little endeaver, but now I've punctured the radiator and steam is spewing out of under Old Betsy's hood.
So, I slam the gate open, throw the lock AND the bolt as far as I can muster (which considering my state of upsettedness was rather far) and climb into the truck. But I'm seething and I yell, "Get in the truck Hadji!!!" which, in effect could have been construed by a jury as kidnapping any day of the week. So, as we're headed down the canyon, I'm pointing out every camp spot, which of course NONE belongs to our new friend. So I get all the way out to Highway 40, watching my heat guage for any element of change. So, I open the sliding window, and ask him, "Dude! Where's your friend live? Do you have a phone number?!" He says, "My friend he lives in Heber." I almost lose it on him. I said, "DUDE where were you camped?!" He says, "Do you know where Strawberry is?" and I just about choke the shiz out of him. "DUDE! THIS WHOLE FREAKIN' PLACE IS STRAWBERRY! THERE ARE OVER A MILLION ACRES OF STRAWBERRY!! THIS IS THE STRAWBERRY RIVER DRAINAGE!!!"
So, at this point, I have Hadji again mount Betsy and we floor it for the Strawberry Visitor's Center. But I'm so irate, at his stupidity that when we get there, I point to the building, and say, "There is the visitors center. If no one is there, the buildings over there are where the rangers live. If not, there is a phone on the side of the building!! Good luck!"
so, about an hour later, I've cooled down. We're having some manly stew or beef or something back at the trailer, recounting the story, and I start to process this. By this time it's about 20 degrees outside and I start to wonder if perhaps Hadji wasnt in fact in contact with proper authority and was in fact huddled alongside the visitor's center hugging his legs to retain warmth. So, I call the Sheriff's Office. (Wasatch County) and I recount the story (sans the part regarding the pesky little lock situation). So the dispatcher says, "You LEFT him???" I said, "Hell yes I left him! What else do you want me to do with him? Adopt him? Can you just send a cruiser by and check and make sure he's not still there?"I mean, I have a heart, and as much as I hated this guy for getting my radiator a nice perfectly quarter size hole all the way through it, he was in fact one of God's kids and deserving of a better jacket and to be saved from the laws of Natural Selection.
So, I guess it's important to note at this point (the end) of the story, that this was pre- September 11th. So, I choose to think of this as a pre-emptive (albeit accidental) strike by America against Al Queda. I believe the reason there wasn't a sixth plane crashing somewhere is because Randy and I were diligent Americans and on watch that particular day.
That Spring I watched the news quite carefully, halfway expecting them to announce they had found a Hadji-sicle once the snow melted down on the side of the Visitor's Center (Which now seems to be an oxymoronic name for the place). Anyhow, I think we did the best we could considering the situation.
Well, Spring came and went and no dead dudes with severed heads in their backpack were discovered, so, I guess he made it out ok. I look back now as where we could have changed things up a bit, how we could have done it all differently, what lessons were learned and...yeah, I come up with almost nothin'. Bottom line I guess, I honestly thought I was doing the guy a favor, and was rewarded with failure at each and every checkpoint along the way. So, I'm interested someday as to the rest of the story. Perhaps there's some dude in Pakistan writing a hate-blog about how America did him dirty. Perhaps he'll read mine and know I meant no harm.
It's just, no good deed goes unpunished. So, now you have the REST of the story. Jon Kenworthy, Good Day!
I guess, if you'll all gather 'round I can tell you a story. It's a story about how no good deed goes unpunished. So there I was. The timeline is not important, except of course it must be JUST outside the statute of limitations for breaking a forest service lock. So, "Randy" and I (not his real-name) were out for a muzzle-loader hunt for deer. We were using traditional side-lock muzzle-loaders. Growing hair on our faces, smelling of pyrodex and other manly scents and flavors. So, after about three days of hunting, walking all over hale and dale we finally elect to go on a road hunt somewhere above Strawberry Reservoir in Utah. Well, my plan, is to drive along in the crisp November evening, find us a nice little buck, blast him, throw him in the truck and then high-tail it back to the trailer which was at that time poised were my father's cabin now sits at lakeside. So, anyhow, Randy and I make our way up Sleepy Hollow. No, there were no punkins and no horsemen and as it turns out deer in sight. So, after about an hour of driving up the switchbacks to the pinnacles we elect to drive back down to the Currant Creek road and out to the highway.
[Enter Stage Right Antagonist] On our way down the backside of the mountain, we come across a very disoriented foreign gentleman whom I'll call, "Hadji". Truth be told, he was actually another varient of middle-eastern descent but it makes the account a little more funny. So Hadji, is walking along the main dirt road, about five miles up from the highway. Well, I pulls ol' Betsy over and offers this fellah a ride. Mostly because I'd want someone to give me a ride, and the sun was hurredly making it's way to the opposite horizon and it was about to get cold. DAMN cold. So, I notice that Hadji is wearing this little thin blue jacket (sans liner) carrying a red backpack, has no headgear, and looks LOST. I mean, LOST. Homeboy has NO idea where he is. So, with my best foot forward I asks him, "Sir you need a ride?" To which he replies almost as a caracature (spell that later), "My friend. He has truck." And I'm like....ohhhhhhhhhh my. What did we get ourselves into? So, again I try (slower and louder of course), "Sir....cannnn weeee...helpppah...youuuu...find your cammmpah???". To which almost as a canned response he again retorts, "My friend, he has truck." So, by this time, I'm surveying the potential level of danger, the fact that Hadji might have a severed head in his backpack, the fact that we have two rifles in the truck, and only one seat betwixt Randy and me. So, I says to him, "Well hop in the back, we'll give you a ride down the mountain to the camp." See, I reasoned that Hadji's Truck Buddy couldnt POSSIBLY have left him off closer to Currant Creek, as that was almost 10 miles in the opposite direction. Addditionally, there were no other camp sites between here and Highway 40, so thereby, using the Associative Property of Stupidity, I could give him a ride down to a string of camp sites between heah and deah.
OK, so Hadji is shivering in the back, one mile goes by, two miles...BAM. Solid Forest Service gate. Locked. A little sign reads almost mockingly, "Road Closed Due to Elk Calving Season". Well of course NOW I'm pissed. P.I. Double S-DUH. So, I'm now realizing, that there are two ways out of here, ONE involves back-tracking WITH Hadji for the next hour and a quarter, OR heading back to Current Creek, at which point I'm almost assured to be bringing Hadji that much further away from, "Friend has truck". So, I being trained in the art of quick-thinking and decisive judgment, elect to break the through the gate.
So, Hadji bails out the back, and I have Randy bring the truck up to the gate. We both get out, review our perdicament, counsel together, and elect that we have indeed chosen the less ethical, but more expedient and righteous cause of both delivering Hadji, and making a simultaneous shot-across-the bow of the Elk Calving Gurus whom dont know there ass from a hole in the ground, because elk calve in the friggin' SPRING!!!
So, all the tools I have consist of a giant standard screwdriver, a star wrench, and a 10,000 lb nylon tow strap. So, I get the tow-strap, affix it to the shaft that sits down in the cup between gate Side A, and gate Tab B. So I direct Randy to reverse Betsy, and ease a little pressure on the strap and, "Pop" the shaft up out of the cup. Of course, to no avail. So, seeing that, I realized drastic times, call for drastic measures. I now realize that there is no way to get directly to the lock because Forest Service people are smart and they put metal hoods over their $8 locks. So, I find that there is a bent pin, about 3/4 inch in diameter, which slides through the shaft and is held in place by the aforementioned lock. So I fix the tow strap to the pin, and direct Randy again, to move forward, this time about five feet and then with a tad more haste put pressure on the lock. Which results in the rear tires peeling up some road-base and kicking it all over Betsy's white sidewalls.
NOW, I am pissed. Hadji is watching this whole event, and has NO idea what is going on. But now we've committed. So, I instruct Randall to come forward,this time almost all the way to the gate, and then floor it, in a generally backward direction. Which, he does. But, almost in slow motion, I see this truck, in a white flash...the tow strap become taught...the tow strap break loose, and then return, this time carrying the bolt, directly into the front of my grill. Almost immediately, I realize not only could either Randy or I have been potentially killed in this little endeaver, but now I've punctured the radiator and steam is spewing out of under Old Betsy's hood.
So, I slam the gate open, throw the lock AND the bolt as far as I can muster (which considering my state of upsettedness was rather far) and climb into the truck. But I'm seething and I yell, "Get in the truck Hadji!!!" which, in effect could have been construed by a jury as kidnapping any day of the week. So, as we're headed down the canyon, I'm pointing out every camp spot, which of course NONE belongs to our new friend. So I get all the way out to Highway 40, watching my heat guage for any element of change. So, I open the sliding window, and ask him, "Dude! Where's your friend live? Do you have a phone number?!" He says, "My friend he lives in Heber." I almost lose it on him. I said, "DUDE where were you camped?!" He says, "Do you know where Strawberry is?" and I just about choke the shiz out of him. "DUDE! THIS WHOLE FREAKIN' PLACE IS STRAWBERRY! THERE ARE OVER A MILLION ACRES OF STRAWBERRY!! THIS IS THE STRAWBERRY RIVER DRAINAGE!!!"
So, at this point, I have Hadji again mount Betsy and we floor it for the Strawberry Visitor's Center. But I'm so irate, at his stupidity that when we get there, I point to the building, and say, "There is the visitors center. If no one is there, the buildings over there are where the rangers live. If not, there is a phone on the side of the building!! Good luck!"
so, about an hour later, I've cooled down. We're having some manly stew or beef or something back at the trailer, recounting the story, and I start to process this. By this time it's about 20 degrees outside and I start to wonder if perhaps Hadji wasnt in fact in contact with proper authority and was in fact huddled alongside the visitor's center hugging his legs to retain warmth. So, I call the Sheriff's Office. (Wasatch County) and I recount the story (sans the part regarding the pesky little lock situation). So the dispatcher says, "You LEFT him???" I said, "Hell yes I left him! What else do you want me to do with him? Adopt him? Can you just send a cruiser by and check and make sure he's not still there?"I mean, I have a heart, and as much as I hated this guy for getting my radiator a nice perfectly quarter size hole all the way through it, he was in fact one of God's kids and deserving of a better jacket and to be saved from the laws of Natural Selection.
So, I guess it's important to note at this point (the end) of the story, that this was pre- September 11th. So, I choose to think of this as a pre-emptive (albeit accidental) strike by America against Al Queda. I believe the reason there wasn't a sixth plane crashing somewhere is because Randy and I were diligent Americans and on watch that particular day.
That Spring I watched the news quite carefully, halfway expecting them to announce they had found a Hadji-sicle once the snow melted down on the side of the Visitor's Center (Which now seems to be an oxymoronic name for the place). Anyhow, I think we did the best we could considering the situation.
Well, Spring came and went and no dead dudes with severed heads in their backpack were discovered, so, I guess he made it out ok. I look back now as where we could have changed things up a bit, how we could have done it all differently, what lessons were learned and...yeah, I come up with almost nothin'. Bottom line I guess, I honestly thought I was doing the guy a favor, and was rewarded with failure at each and every checkpoint along the way. So, I'm interested someday as to the rest of the story. Perhaps there's some dude in Pakistan writing a hate-blog about how America did him dirty. Perhaps he'll read mine and know I meant no harm.
It's just, no good deed goes unpunished. So, now you have the REST of the story. Jon Kenworthy, Good Day!
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