Well what to follow up on last night's commute with? Obviously we need to go to the other extreme this morning, as I'm driving down a remote mountain 2-lane road at zero-dark-thirty. Suddenly, without so much as even a courtesy wave, Bambi's dad runs out of the woods and jumps down off of a rock ledge right into the roadway ahead of me, close enough that the impact came before I even got my foot down on the brake. WHAM!!!
Great. Just great.
I banged a U-turn and went back to find a good-sized four-point buck lying right next to the road, obviously dying but still trying to get back to his feet to flee. But his neck appeared broken and he wasn't going to ever get up again, so I did the only humane thing I could--I drew my pistol and sent him on his way. Then I called the Sheriff's Dept. and told them who I was and what I'd just done. As expected, they had no problem with it, and certain protocols have to be followed.
The damage to my Jeep was incredibly light as far as I could tell in the dark, appearing to consist of just a dent on the corner of the hood where his head snapped over and antlered it. That came as a surprise as the last couple that I've hit have practically demolished the front end of whatever I was driving at the time. (Yeah, I average one every couple of years.) But it looks like I just caught this fella in the neck. Looking back now, I wish that I'd called in sick today and dragged the deer home for some field-dressing and then found a good local processor.
Woulda, coulda, shoulda... Now I'm pissed because:
A.) I played a part in destroying a beautiful creature for no reason; and:
B.) all that meat went to waste.
The dented hood is just icing on the cake.
Hope your days all go better than this one's starting to.
Showing posts with label deer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deer. Show all posts
Friday, November 14, 2014
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
She returns.
A herd of deer came by at dusk. There were ten of them in the group, all munching on the corn that I put out earlier. I scanned the group carefully, checking out each deer in detail as I looked for the doe with the broken leg from the earlier post. At first I only counted nine, and they all walked fine. But then I saw her, back on the edge of the pack. There was no mistaking her as with every step, the broken leg twisted out from under her, making her stumble. Cautiously, she came into the open, stopping right where I'd seen her two nights ago. But she was hesitant to come in. Much as she seemed to want the corn, something was holding her back. I stood at my back patio door, rifle at ready. I just had to slide it open ever so slowly.
She bent down to take some corn--corn that I'd thrown to that spot just for her. But as she did, another larger doe charged her and drove her back away from the food. Dammit! For a second, I thought about dropping that deer just as a payback for her meanness. But that's nature. And I had another job to do.
The broke-leg doe inched back towards the corn. She was again about ten yards out. I resumed sliding the door open slowly. A few of the deer eyeballed me but none of them jumped off; they're used to me for the most part. But stalking one deer alone is easier than one in a herd. Whereas most of these deer are fairly be resistant to startling, the whole herd tends to scatter if any deer startles. And just as I was bringing the rifle up again, one of them startled and the whole herd flushed. The deer scattered off in ten different directions, Broke-leg among them. I missed her again.
I spent the next half hour sitting on a chair in my darkened kitchen with the door open, waiting with my rifle ready. Half of my house is now twenty-five degrees, the same temperature as the back yard. Most of the deer eventually came back for the corn. She wasn't one of them.
Dammit.
That's strike two.
She bent down to take some corn--corn that I'd thrown to that spot just for her. But as she did, another larger doe charged her and drove her back away from the food. Dammit! For a second, I thought about dropping that deer just as a payback for her meanness. But that's nature. And I had another job to do.
The broke-leg doe inched back towards the corn. She was again about ten yards out. I resumed sliding the door open slowly. A few of the deer eyeballed me but none of them jumped off; they're used to me for the most part. But stalking one deer alone is easier than one in a herd. Whereas most of these deer are fairly be resistant to startling, the whole herd tends to scatter if any deer startles. And just as I was bringing the rifle up again, one of them startled and the whole herd flushed. The deer scattered off in ten different directions, Broke-leg among them. I missed her again.
I spent the next half hour sitting on a chair in my darkened kitchen with the door open, waiting with my rifle ready. Half of my house is now twenty-five degrees, the same temperature as the back yard. Most of the deer eventually came back for the corn. She wasn't one of them.
Dammit.
That's strike two.
Sunday, March 02, 2014
The Deer.
Those of you who have followed this blog for a while know that the area around The Lair is infested with deer.
They're all over the pace on any given day, and yes, I do put corn out because I like to watch them.
I started it back when I got hurt because I had nothing else to do all day. I figured I'd put feed out, then I could watch them, and come hunting season, I could take one or two for the freezer.
Alas, come hunting season, I'd spent time sitting on my chair watching them every day. I could tell them apart, I knew which fawns had come from which does, and far too many of them had informal names. It just kind of happened, and by rifle season, the idea of harvesting them was off the table.
It's been going on for years now. While I loves me some good venison same as any other American, the ones that come into my yard and walk right up to the back door get a pass; they're protected and safe from harm, at least so long as the're in the yard. These are MY deer.
And they're pretty much tame, to be fair. When they hear me throw the corn, some of them--a pair of young bucks in particular, run down towards me like dogs at dinnertime. If there's no corn out there, the deer will often wait, backing off a bit when I come out to throw some, but never actually running off. They know I have corn only for them and they want if more than they fear me.
But this afternoon, as I looked out and saw deer looking for their snack, I noticed one of the deer--a doe--was limping. Looking closer, I could see that her left front leg was broken, flexing unnaturally every time she put her weight on it to walk. I could just make out bone protruding through the skin and I can only imagine what that has to feel like.
Actually, no. I don't have to imagine at all. I can identify with that deer. Only in the case of the deer, I know that there's no fix. No vet helicopter is coming and no doctor or hospital is going to set and cast that leg. She's going to keep hobbling on that broken leg in constant pain until she dies. Fuck.
I made my decision. As I hobbled up to the gun room on MY messed-up leg, I called the Sheriff's Dept. and let them know that I was going to put this deer down unless they wanted to come out and do it. As expected, they didn't want to, but they blessed my action on a recorded phone line as I selected a special rifle, turned on the optics, loaded and inserted the magazine, and made my way to the kitchen door. The deer was still there, just ten to twelve yards off. As I slid the door open, she looked at me like the deer always do when I step out to feed them. But then, inexplicably, she seemed to know that this time was different. As I brought the rifle up and took the safety off, she stepped back behind a couple of trees.
She didn't run away. The other deer that were around her picked up the same message and they left, but she stayed there behind those trees, watching me. I braced the rifle on the door frame and brought the sight to bear. For a brief second, she gave me a perfect straight-on chest shot, but as I centered the dot on her and took up the trigger slack, she stepped back behind the trees again, giving me just a glimpse of half of her head. I moved the dot up, but it wasn't enough of a target to take the shot at. I locked my arm in the sling and steadied the rifle, using the door frame as a rest. I just needed a bit more deer and I'd finish this. There was plenty of corn on the ground right in front of her, and as soon as she bent her head down to grab the first kernel...
But she didn't. She knew. Somehow she knew. And the deer that would have ignored me on any other occasion just stood there, watching me with one eye, the rest of her head and body behind those trees. And for over a minute, we stood there looking at each other, not ten yards between us, me with the safety off and my finger on the trigger.
And then she backed up, keeping the tree between us. And then she was gone. I sighed and put the safety back on, feeling like I'd failed that deer in a duty that I'd owed her.
Now it's dark outside. But the back lights are on and the rifle is hanging on my office door knob. I know that she'll come back, if not tonight, then tomorrow. She's part of the regular herd and she'll be back. And when she comes again, hopefully I can finish this. But then again, maybe she won't come back. Maybe one of the local stray dogs will take her down first since she's easy prey with that leg. Or maybe she just won't come back because she knows.
Alas, come hunting season, I'd spent time sitting on my chair watching them every day. I could tell them apart, I knew which fawns had come from which does, and far too many of them had informal names. It just kind of happened, and by rifle season, the idea of harvesting them was off the table.
It's been going on for years now. While I loves me some good venison same as any other American, the ones that come into my yard and walk right up to the back door get a pass; they're protected and safe from harm, at least so long as the're in the yard. These are MY deer.
And they're pretty much tame, to be fair. When they hear me throw the corn, some of them--a pair of young bucks in particular, run down towards me like dogs at dinnertime. If there's no corn out there, the deer will often wait, backing off a bit when I come out to throw some, but never actually running off. They know I have corn only for them and they want if more than they fear me.
But this afternoon, as I looked out and saw deer looking for their snack, I noticed one of the deer--a doe--was limping. Looking closer, I could see that her left front leg was broken, flexing unnaturally every time she put her weight on it to walk. I could just make out bone protruding through the skin and I can only imagine what that has to feel like.
Actually, no. I don't have to imagine at all. I can identify with that deer. Only in the case of the deer, I know that there's no fix. No vet helicopter is coming and no doctor or hospital is going to set and cast that leg. She's going to keep hobbling on that broken leg in constant pain until she dies. Fuck.
I made my decision. As I hobbled up to the gun room on MY messed-up leg, I called the Sheriff's Dept. and let them know that I was going to put this deer down unless they wanted to come out and do it. As expected, they didn't want to, but they blessed my action on a recorded phone line as I selected a special rifle, turned on the optics, loaded and inserted the magazine, and made my way to the kitchen door. The deer was still there, just ten to twelve yards off. As I slid the door open, she looked at me like the deer always do when I step out to feed them. But then, inexplicably, she seemed to know that this time was different. As I brought the rifle up and took the safety off, she stepped back behind a couple of trees.
She didn't run away. The other deer that were around her picked up the same message and they left, but she stayed there behind those trees, watching me. I braced the rifle on the door frame and brought the sight to bear. For a brief second, she gave me a perfect straight-on chest shot, but as I centered the dot on her and took up the trigger slack, she stepped back behind the trees again, giving me just a glimpse of half of her head. I moved the dot up, but it wasn't enough of a target to take the shot at. I locked my arm in the sling and steadied the rifle, using the door frame as a rest. I just needed a bit more deer and I'd finish this. There was plenty of corn on the ground right in front of her, and as soon as she bent her head down to grab the first kernel...
But she didn't. She knew. Somehow she knew. And the deer that would have ignored me on any other occasion just stood there, watching me with one eye, the rest of her head and body behind those trees. And for over a minute, we stood there looking at each other, not ten yards between us, me with the safety off and my finger on the trigger.
And then she backed up, keeping the tree between us. And then she was gone. I sighed and put the safety back on, feeling like I'd failed that deer in a duty that I'd owed her.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Shooting the Martini-Henry
Since I needed a break from dealing with dogs who snack on rat poison, I spent the morning assembling my first batch of test rounds for the Martini-Henry rifles.
As you can see, I have three at present, a Martini-Henry MKIV from Nepal (top), a MKII back from Afghanistan (middle) and an Orange Free State carbine from South Africa (bottom). I dedided that I want to continue shooting these old warriors so for the past coupe of months I have been scrounging up supplies to make new ammunition for them since nobody anywhere still makes .577-450 cartridges any more.
I finally found what I needed from a couple of key sources, one man who makes the proper bullets as a custom run and another man who re-sizes brass 24-gauge shotgun shell cases to the proper shape for the Martini-Henry cartridges. Then I had to find a source for FFG black powder. Fortunately another man runs a small shop supplying Civil War re-enactors just 45 miles away. I drove over there last week and got some powder and black powder grease from him. Then I was all set.
This morning, I primed five test cases with Winchester Large Rifle Magnum primers then belled the case mouths using the new Lee dies that Murphy so thoughtfully un-boxed not too long ago. Next, I filled each case with 85 grains of black powder and packed it down good. 85 grains was the old British service load. I then filled the remaining space in the case with a filler to eliminate any air space, which is crucial in black powder loads. For a filler, I used cream of wheat. (Don't laugh--the seasoned black powder cartridge loaders swear by the stuff.) Then I put a wad in the case neck, a bit of lube, and another wad. This is known in black powder parlance as a "grease cookie" and it keeps the black powder residue from fouling the rifle. Finally I seated the 480 grain bullet and set it aside. I just made five for test purposes, figuring that way, if the first one blew my face off, I wouldn't be out for a bunch of extra rounds.
Here's the chosen test rifle, the MK II, with it's new ammo.
This one was factory-new in 1878. Eventually the Brits took it to Afghanistan and apparently lost custody of it to the locals, who kept is and undoubtedly put it to good use driving out foreigners and settling tribal disputes until the Americans came along with cash, at which point this one wound up in a local bazaar, probably traded in on a new used AK-47. Not long afterwards, it wound up in my collection.
A new .577-450 round shown next to a .22LR cartridge.
Then I set my target out, humming "Men of Harlech" as I took it down.
The target: Whitest. Zulu. Ever.
I went back, loaded the rifle, took aim, and fired. There was a large smoke cloud and I got a pretty significant shove back, but when the smoke cleared and I checked the target, I was pleased to see that the first shot was on-target--a head strike at 100 yards.(I was aiming center-mass, but I'll take it anyway.)
I fired off the remaining four rounds, and each of them punched a big .462 hole the target as well. The old rifle's battle sight is clear but it's trigger pull leaves a fair bit to be desired. No appreciable group, but they all hit it. In actual shooting, that target would be one dead Zulu/Redcoat/DHS gun-grabber/etc.. I should have rested the rifle to see how it really shoots but I was caught up in the moment and fired them all standing off-hand while yelling "At one hundred yards...volley fire...FIRE!" like in the movie. After firing, I savored the warm feel of the barrel steel in my hand, wondering how long it's been since this old war-horse has been so heated. This won't be it's last time, that's for sure. It shoots great, and there was no obvious deformation of the brass, so I can probably keep reloading these same cases for some time to come.
When I got home, I saw this deer "hiding" in my driveway.
Someone needs to explain to Bambi the difference between concealment and cover, and just because you can't see me doesn't mean I can't see you. Pity I didn't have one round of .577-450 left.
This deer's prospects of surviving the upcoming hunting season:
As you can see, I have three at present, a Martini-Henry MKIV from Nepal (top), a MKII back from Afghanistan (middle) and an Orange Free State carbine from South Africa (bottom). I dedided that I want to continue shooting these old warriors so for the past coupe of months I have been scrounging up supplies to make new ammunition for them since nobody anywhere still makes .577-450 cartridges any more.
I finally found what I needed from a couple of key sources, one man who makes the proper bullets as a custom run and another man who re-sizes brass 24-gauge shotgun shell cases to the proper shape for the Martini-Henry cartridges. Then I had to find a source for FFG black powder. Fortunately another man runs a small shop supplying Civil War re-enactors just 45 miles away. I drove over there last week and got some powder and black powder grease from him. Then I was all set.
This morning, I primed five test cases with Winchester Large Rifle Magnum primers then belled the case mouths using the new Lee dies that Murphy so thoughtfully un-boxed not too long ago. Next, I filled each case with 85 grains of black powder and packed it down good. 85 grains was the old British service load. I then filled the remaining space in the case with a filler to eliminate any air space, which is crucial in black powder loads. For a filler, I used cream of wheat. (Don't laugh--the seasoned black powder cartridge loaders swear by the stuff.) Then I put a wad in the case neck, a bit of lube, and another wad. This is known in black powder parlance as a "grease cookie" and it keeps the black powder residue from fouling the rifle. Finally I seated the 480 grain bullet and set it aside. I just made five for test purposes, figuring that way, if the first one blew my face off, I wouldn't be out for a bunch of extra rounds.
Here's the chosen test rifle, the MK II, with it's new ammo.
A new .577-450 round shown next to a .22LR cartridge.
The target: Whitest. Zulu. Ever.
I fired off the remaining four rounds, and each of them punched a big .462 hole the target as well. The old rifle's battle sight is clear but it's trigger pull leaves a fair bit to be desired. No appreciable group, but they all hit it. In actual shooting, that target would be one dead Zulu/Redcoat/DHS gun-grabber/etc.. I should have rested the rifle to see how it really shoots but I was caught up in the moment and fired them all standing off-hand while yelling "At one hundred yards...volley fire...FIRE!" like in the movie. After firing, I savored the warm feel of the barrel steel in my hand, wondering how long it's been since this old war-horse has been so heated. This won't be it's last time, that's for sure. It shoots great, and there was no obvious deformation of the brass, so I can probably keep reloading these same cases for some time to come.
When I got home, I saw this deer "hiding" in my driveway.
This deer's prospects of surviving the upcoming hunting season:
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
I look out my window and what do I see?
Tasty venison looking back at me.
View from my bathroom window.
There were two of those bucks out there, plus a doe.
Here's the other one.
Before I could get a group shot, Murphy realized that I was looking at something and went into the kitchen to look out the patio door for himself. When he saw the "trespassers", he registered his objection in true German Shepherd fashion and they skedaddled.
But they'll be back. They always come back.
There were two of those bucks out there, plus a doe.
Here's the other one.
Before I could get a group shot, Murphy realized that I was looking at something and went into the kitchen to look out the patio door for himself. When he saw the "trespassers", he registered his objection in true German Shepherd fashion and they skedaddled.
But they'll be back. They always come back.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Good Morning, Deer.
Outside my window currently.
Young fella. Still has the fuzz on his antlers and hasn't learned to be wary like the seasoned bucks yet. Does and young bucks come all day, but the big bucks only come around under cover of darkness when the house is still.
And this is one of the reasons why I live where I do instead of down in the middle of the rat race where I work.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
How to serve deer on Thanksgiving
Murphy and I serve them corn.
I guess the feral cat was a plus one.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
I guess the feral cat was a plus one.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Guess who I saw this morning.
The first thing that I saw when I looked out my window was a big buck eating the deer corn that I'd put out last night. I watched him for a bit, wondering. Could it be?
Then he moved off, and I saw that he was limping and moving like he was 90 years old.
Yep. Gotta be. The one that I hit two days ago. It happened less than a mile from here so it's gotta be the same one.
Half of me wants to put out even more corn just to help him along and make him feel better, and the other half of me--the half that likes my SUV and has to try to fix it today--wants to shoot him now just to keep that from happening again.
And he is a beaut. Looks like an 8-pointer and pretty good sized. No wonder my grill guard gave way.
Sigh.
Then he moved off, and I saw that he was limping and moving like he was 90 years old.
Yep. Gotta be. The one that I hit two days ago. It happened less than a mile from here so it's gotta be the same one.
Half of me wants to put out even more corn just to help him along and make him feel better, and the other half of me--the half that likes my SUV and has to try to fix it today--wants to shoot him now just to keep that from happening again.
And he is a beaut. Looks like an 8-pointer and pretty good sized. No wonder my grill guard gave way.
Sigh.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Bagged a buck
What a great way to start out the day. Driving down the road, minding my own business, and all of a sudden freaking Bambi runs right out in front of my SUV.
WHAM!!!
I thought that the bucks were supposed to be the smart, wary ones.
Well he got up and staggered off, and now I get to try to bend my grill guard back out again. But better that then replacing a whole front end and a radiator.
Just another happy, happy, joy, joy morning here in Banjo county, WV.
Sigh...
WHAM!!!
I thought that the bucks were supposed to be the smart, wary ones.
Well he got up and staggered off, and now I get to try to bend my grill guard back out again. But better that then replacing a whole front end and a radiator.
Just another happy, happy, joy, joy morning here in Banjo county, WV.
Sigh...
Monday, July 18, 2011
Sometimes I think I run a deer motel
Because when I look out my window, I see nature. And nature sees me.
It's hot, so she's just lounging. Waiting on the evening corn throw.
It's hot, so she's just lounging. Waiting on the evening corn throw.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Thirty miles. Love my bike.
I took the bike out today.
I drove to Brunswick, MD with it, parked at the train station, and headed off down the C&O Canal, getting on at milepost 55. My goal is to top the last ride's 24 miles, and this time I'm shooting for thirty.
Almost immediately I was required to act to save a turtle.
The first mile of the towpath is actually a dirt road that goes to a sewage plant and a campground. Past the campground, it becomes trail again. As I pedaled down the road, I saw a little car ahead of my stop and a teen girl in the front seat jumped out and grabbed what turned out to be a huge painted turtle with a shell about a foot in diameter. She jumped back in the car with it as I rode up and I heard her exclaim "MY turtle!" In the car were four other teens who looked like typical teens for that part of Maryland--the kind that make you think that there's a pot farm or meth lab somewhere nearby.
"You need to put the turtle back," I said as I stopped next to the car. She ignored me but the driver turned to look at me so I repeated it. "Put the turtle back." He kept looking at me, so I said it a third time, this time doing my best to sound like Obi Wan Kenobi telling stormtroopers that they didn't need to see his identification. That seemed to work. He turned to the girl and said "We need to put the turtle back." Now they all looked at me. "You can't take wildlife off of the federal land," I said. This seemed to work as another boy got out of the back seat, took the turtle from her, and set it back down in the brush next to the road. "They make lousy pets anyway," I said as he got back in the car. They drove off--slowly--no doubt contemplating coming back for it after I rode away. Once they were out of sight around the bend, I picked up the turtle and took it through the thick brush down the steep, thorn-covered hill, and set it down in the muck next to the water in the bottom of the canal a short distance away, placing it under some brush so it'd be hard to see. Based on it's size, that old turtle had a lot of years on it and here this girl, who quite likely still lived with her parents, was going to snatch it up out of it's world and try to keep it in a box or aquarium somewhere as a novelty. I'm betting that the turtle would have died before she figured out what to feed it or how to keep it. It was only after I rode on that I realized that I'd forgotten to take a picture of the turtle. Doh!
But there are lots of other turtles. Practically every log sticking out of the water has one or two on it. Like these guys.
Here's Lock 28. It's dry now, but you can see all of the stonework that was cut and laid by hand. The whole 184-mile canal was dug and built by hand, using contract workers, indentured servants from Europe, and rented slaves. They died by the hundreds from disease while building it.
So what do you do when your canal comes to a river that you want it to cross, all while maintaining your level course and keeping your canal a closed system? You build an aqueduct and take the whole canal over a bridge, mules, boats and all. This is the Monocacy Aqueduct that takes the canal over the Monocacy River.
The Park Service is rebuilding this aqueduct now and you can see the dry bed where the water use to run and hopefully will run again someday.
Here's the span from the east end. Sorry about the group of Frednecks in the picture (Rednecks from Frederick, MD). I tried to wait them out but they showed no sign of leaving any time soon.
And here's Lock 27, about half a mile past the Aqueduct, with a view that shows the lock keeper's house. The lock keeper had to be available to operate the lock any time of the day or night so the canal company gave him and his family a house, a small garden plot, and a minimal salary. Usually his family supplemented their income by selling vegetables from the garden to the canal boat crews or trading them for coal.
This is what I saw when I got to Lock 27. Water! There's water in the canal again!
Now this is what the canal used to look like, only without the trees between the towpath and the canal--they would have interfered with the mules trying to pull the canal boats. And off to my right, the Potomac River flows about 25 feet away.
Milepost 40. I'm 15 miles away from my vehicle now. This is the planned turn-around point.
I really do want to ride on. These last few miles in particular have been beautiful and it looks like more of the same ahead. But I keep hearing the voice of one of my early role-models reminding me that "a man's got to know his limitations", coupled with the knowledge that it's a long ride back and I have things to do. So with one more wistful look down the canal, I turn my back on the potential sights and adventures that lie that way and head back. But I SO wish that I were still going this way.
And here's the view heading back up the canal. So peaceful. I half expect to see a canal boat coming down.
These guys think that the canal is just ducky.
When you ride quietly and pay attention on remote parts of the towpath, you'll see that you're seldom alone.
Finally I arrived back at my vehicle, not quite four hours after heading out. (I stopped on the way to check on the turtle I saved. It seems to have moved on...hopefully not to some teen girl's bedroom.)
It was a great ride, and I topped it off with an excellent Burrito from my new favorite Brunswick eatery, El Sloppy Taco. I'm fairly tired but very little can ruin this day now.
"BYE!"
I drove to Brunswick, MD with it, parked at the train station, and headed off down the C&O Canal, getting on at milepost 55. My goal is to top the last ride's 24 miles, and this time I'm shooting for thirty.
Almost immediately I was required to act to save a turtle.
The first mile of the towpath is actually a dirt road that goes to a sewage plant and a campground. Past the campground, it becomes trail again. As I pedaled down the road, I saw a little car ahead of my stop and a teen girl in the front seat jumped out and grabbed what turned out to be a huge painted turtle with a shell about a foot in diameter. She jumped back in the car with it as I rode up and I heard her exclaim "MY turtle!" In the car were four other teens who looked like typical teens for that part of Maryland--the kind that make you think that there's a pot farm or meth lab somewhere nearby.
"You need to put the turtle back," I said as I stopped next to the car. She ignored me but the driver turned to look at me so I repeated it. "Put the turtle back." He kept looking at me, so I said it a third time, this time doing my best to sound like Obi Wan Kenobi telling stormtroopers that they didn't need to see his identification. That seemed to work. He turned to the girl and said "We need to put the turtle back." Now they all looked at me. "You can't take wildlife off of the federal land," I said. This seemed to work as another boy got out of the back seat, took the turtle from her, and set it back down in the brush next to the road. "They make lousy pets anyway," I said as he got back in the car. They drove off--slowly--no doubt contemplating coming back for it after I rode away. Once they were out of sight around the bend, I picked up the turtle and took it through the thick brush down the steep, thorn-covered hill, and set it down in the muck next to the water in the bottom of the canal a short distance away, placing it under some brush so it'd be hard to see. Based on it's size, that old turtle had a lot of years on it and here this girl, who quite likely still lived with her parents, was going to snatch it up out of it's world and try to keep it in a box or aquarium somewhere as a novelty. I'm betting that the turtle would have died before she figured out what to feed it or how to keep it. It was only after I rode on that I realized that I'd forgotten to take a picture of the turtle. Doh!
But there are lots of other turtles. Practically every log sticking out of the water has one or two on it. Like these guys.
Here's Lock 28. It's dry now, but you can see all of the stonework that was cut and laid by hand. The whole 184-mile canal was dug and built by hand, using contract workers, indentured servants from Europe, and rented slaves. They died by the hundreds from disease while building it.
So what do you do when your canal comes to a river that you want it to cross, all while maintaining your level course and keeping your canal a closed system? You build an aqueduct and take the whole canal over a bridge, mules, boats and all. This is the Monocacy Aqueduct that takes the canal over the Monocacy River.
The Park Service is rebuilding this aqueduct now and you can see the dry bed where the water use to run and hopefully will run again someday.
Here's the span from the east end. Sorry about the group of Frednecks in the picture (Rednecks from Frederick, MD). I tried to wait them out but they showed no sign of leaving any time soon.
And here's Lock 27, about half a mile past the Aqueduct, with a view that shows the lock keeper's house. The lock keeper had to be available to operate the lock any time of the day or night so the canal company gave him and his family a house, a small garden plot, and a minimal salary. Usually his family supplemented their income by selling vegetables from the garden to the canal boat crews or trading them for coal.
This is what I saw when I got to Lock 27. Water! There's water in the canal again!
Now this is what the canal used to look like, only without the trees between the towpath and the canal--they would have interfered with the mules trying to pull the canal boats. And off to my right, the Potomac River flows about 25 feet away.
Milepost 40. I'm 15 miles away from my vehicle now. This is the planned turn-around point.
I really do want to ride on. These last few miles in particular have been beautiful and it looks like more of the same ahead. But I keep hearing the voice of one of my early role-models reminding me that "a man's got to know his limitations", coupled with the knowledge that it's a long ride back and I have things to do. So with one more wistful look down the canal, I turn my back on the potential sights and adventures that lie that way and head back. But I SO wish that I were still going this way.
And here's the view heading back up the canal. So peaceful. I half expect to see a canal boat coming down.
These guys think that the canal is just ducky.
When you ride quietly and pay attention on remote parts of the towpath, you'll see that you're seldom alone.
Finally I arrived back at my vehicle, not quite four hours after heading out. (I stopped on the way to check on the turtle I saved. It seems to have moved on...hopefully not to some teen girl's bedroom.)
It was a great ride, and I topped it off with an excellent Burrito from my new favorite Brunswick eatery, El Sloppy Taco. I'm fairly tired but very little can ruin this day now.
"BYE!"
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Old Stone Fort with Murphy
This morning, wanting to see if the latest round of fixes to my leg in the form of my temporary modifications to it were going to hold up, I decided to take the Murphster up to the Old Stone Fort on Maryland Heights above Harpers Ferry.
For those who've never been, you can simulate the experience by walking up a steep hill for 45 minutes straight. Back during the War of Northern Aggression (known to many today as "the Civil War"), the Union had a large fort with massive guns up here. Abraham Lincoln actually came out to visit the troops there once after the Battle of Antietam but the climb got the better of him and he and his party turned around and went back down well short of the summit.
As I reached the top today, drenched with sweat and able to actually hear my heart tachycardically hammering at the inside of my chest, I can't say as I blame him. But then if it's not hard, it's not exercise, right?
Here's Murphy up on one of the walls of the Inner Fort, almost two thousand feet above the Potomac River below.
After some water and a granola bar snack, (Always bring plenty of water for you and your furry pal on hikes like this one.) we just sat up here for a while.
I read a book I'd brought, then I broke Murphy's Furminator out of the pack and gave him a good brushing, figuring after that climb, he'd be too tired to fight me and I could get the rest of his winter undercoat out. That worked for the most part, and soon there were large tufts of dog hair all around the tree we'd been sitting under.
Doesn't he just look cooler now?
After brushing him, we went over to sit on the wall and partake of the nice cool breeze blowing over the top of the mountain. As we moved, I head something and looked about 50 yards farther along the trail just in time to see this deer rise up from where she'd been lying in the grass.
She'd probably been there the whole time, and it just goes to show what you can see in the woods if you're not talking or otherwise making a ton of noise like so many other hikers out here seem to do.
We weren't there five more minutes before a couple of hikers appeared. It was the all-too-typical pairing: one smoking hot gal and one slovenly-looking scrub of a guy who appears not to have had a shave, a haircut or trip to the laundromat in a long time. (Can anyone explain how that works? Maybe I've got to let my grooming go for a few months before the truly hot gals start to find me attractive? I do not get that.) They climbed over the wall, him prattling on about something and disturbing the tranquility, and they came to the flattened out spot in the tall grass where Murphy and I had just been. She looked down at the matted grass and the tufts of fur and said "What do you suppose was here?"
Her boyfriend, obviously a descendant of Jim Bridger, loudly and authoritatively stated that it was a spot where a bear had been sleeping. "Probably a black bear," he said.
"Wow," she replied, apparently impressed with his knowledge of foresty stuff.
"It looks like it wasn't here too long ago," he continued. "They can be mean, but don't you worry. If it shows up here, I'll hold it off while you climb up a tree for safety. Bears don't climb trees."
Now if he hadn't sounded like such an arrogant little prick--and maybe if she hadn't been hot enough to make me a bit jealous--I wouldn't have said anything. But I spoke up:
"Actually that's German Shepherd fur," I explained. "I just brushed my dog over there." I think I even smiled a bit as she turned and looked at him as if she was just realizing for the first time that he was full of it.
"Oh, and black bears are basically harmless, but they're also excellent tree climbers," I continued, twisting the knife a bit more. The look that she was now giving him made it all worthwhile.
My job now done, I grabbed up Murphy and we departed, heading down the trail towards the old 100-pounder gun battery. Here's more of the remains of the fort walls, all made up of stones that, like everything else, had to be hauled up the mountain from the river below by oxen or available soldiers.
Heading back down to Harpers Ferry, I took Murphy to the Swiss Miss ice cream shop for his cone. Sad news there. Sharon, the long-time owner and benefactor of countless ice cream-loving dogs, is closing the place up by the end of June due to a dispute with the landlord. As of the end of the month, this Harpers Ferry institution will be no more. I'm kind of glad that Lagniappe didn't live long enough to see this. It would have broken his heart.
Oh--the leg mods seem to be working. A bit more testing and then it's back into the leg shop to have them made permanent. Yay, me!
For those who've never been, you can simulate the experience by walking up a steep hill for 45 minutes straight. Back during the War of Northern Aggression (known to many today as "the Civil War"), the Union had a large fort with massive guns up here. Abraham Lincoln actually came out to visit the troops there once after the Battle of Antietam but the climb got the better of him and he and his party turned around and went back down well short of the summit.
As I reached the top today, drenched with sweat and able to actually hear my heart tachycardically hammering at the inside of my chest, I can't say as I blame him. But then if it's not hard, it's not exercise, right?
Here's Murphy up on one of the walls of the Inner Fort, almost two thousand feet above the Potomac River below.
After some water and a granola bar snack, (Always bring plenty of water for you and your furry pal on hikes like this one.) we just sat up here for a while.
I read a book I'd brought, then I broke Murphy's Furminator out of the pack and gave him a good brushing, figuring after that climb, he'd be too tired to fight me and I could get the rest of his winter undercoat out. That worked for the most part, and soon there were large tufts of dog hair all around the tree we'd been sitting under.Doesn't he just look cooler now?
After brushing him, we went over to sit on the wall and partake of the nice cool breeze blowing over the top of the mountain. As we moved, I head something and looked about 50 yards farther along the trail just in time to see this deer rise up from where she'd been lying in the grass.
She'd probably been there the whole time, and it just goes to show what you can see in the woods if you're not talking or otherwise making a ton of noise like so many other hikers out here seem to do. We weren't there five more minutes before a couple of hikers appeared. It was the all-too-typical pairing: one smoking hot gal and one slovenly-looking scrub of a guy who appears not to have had a shave, a haircut or trip to the laundromat in a long time. (Can anyone explain how that works? Maybe I've got to let my grooming go for a few months before the truly hot gals start to find me attractive? I do not get that.) They climbed over the wall, him prattling on about something and disturbing the tranquility, and they came to the flattened out spot in the tall grass where Murphy and I had just been. She looked down at the matted grass and the tufts of fur and said "What do you suppose was here?"
Her boyfriend, obviously a descendant of Jim Bridger, loudly and authoritatively stated that it was a spot where a bear had been sleeping. "Probably a black bear," he said.
"Wow," she replied, apparently impressed with his knowledge of foresty stuff.
"It looks like it wasn't here too long ago," he continued. "They can be mean, but don't you worry. If it shows up here, I'll hold it off while you climb up a tree for safety. Bears don't climb trees."
Now if he hadn't sounded like such an arrogant little prick--and maybe if she hadn't been hot enough to make me a bit jealous--I wouldn't have said anything. But I spoke up:
"Actually that's German Shepherd fur," I explained. "I just brushed my dog over there." I think I even smiled a bit as she turned and looked at him as if she was just realizing for the first time that he was full of it.
"Oh, and black bears are basically harmless, but they're also excellent tree climbers," I continued, twisting the knife a bit more. The look that she was now giving him made it all worthwhile.
My job now done, I grabbed up Murphy and we departed, heading down the trail towards the old 100-pounder gun battery. Here's more of the remains of the fort walls, all made up of stones that, like everything else, had to be hauled up the mountain from the river below by oxen or available soldiers.
Heading back down to Harpers Ferry, I took Murphy to the Swiss Miss ice cream shop for his cone. Sad news there. Sharon, the long-time owner and benefactor of countless ice cream-loving dogs, is closing the place up by the end of June due to a dispute with the landlord. As of the end of the month, this Harpers Ferry institution will be no more. I'm kind of glad that Lagniappe didn't live long enough to see this. It would have broken his heart.Oh--the leg mods seem to be working. A bit more testing and then it's back into the leg shop to have them made permanent. Yay, me!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Just another Thursday
It's Thursday. Didn't do too much today. Dropped Lagniappe off at the vet for a check-up (told them to check the oil and rotate the paws) and then I went to the gym.
Still can't run. Tried a light run on the treadmill, but had to quit after two minutes when the pain started to ramp up. I learned my lesson a week ago--if it doesn't feel right, stop.
But it shouldn't be much longer--a few days at the most. I have a goal, and I'm so close!
So I lifted weights for a bit and swam a mile, then I went out to do some shooting. It's important these days to be doing some kind of training, both fitness and tactical...Obama's grand plans are liable to crash our economy and bring on all sorts of troubles and that damned Browning's not going move itself into position.
Then I picked Lagniappe up, bought a bottle of wine and some ice cream (I got this idea for some wicked Riesling floats...) and came back to the Lair.
We spent the rest of the day just relaxing and I finished reading a great book, Fighter Pilot, the story of the life of Air Force legend Robin Olds, as put together by his daughter Christine Olds and author and fighter pilot Ed Rasimus. If you like history or aviation, you'll have a hard time putting this book down. I know that I did. Seriously, get on Amazon.com today and get yourself a copy.
On the animal front, I saw what I believe to be my new snake again today, looking none the worse for wear at it peered out from between a couple of rocks and watched me trim a tree.
The other day, someone asked me what the difference is between a snake and a Democrat. Hell, that's easy. I'd never cut a Democrat out of a net.
And I'm guessing that there's going to be baby deer around here soon too, as I just saw a doe that's either pregnant as hell or else Rosie O'Donnell's been reincarnated as an Odocoileus virginianus. And since the deer didn't really look all that stupid, I'm guessing that fawns are on the way.
So now I'm thinking that this evening, before we try my new adult dessert experiment, Lagniappe and I will take a walk around the neighborhood for a bit, and I'll at least pretend to intend to clean a few guns and tidy up the Lair.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a Thursday. Hope yours is going well.
Still can't run. Tried a light run on the treadmill, but had to quit after two minutes when the pain started to ramp up. I learned my lesson a week ago--if it doesn't feel right, stop.
But it shouldn't be much longer--a few days at the most. I have a goal, and I'm so close!
So I lifted weights for a bit and swam a mile, then I went out to do some shooting. It's important these days to be doing some kind of training, both fitness and tactical...Obama's grand plans are liable to crash our economy and bring on all sorts of troubles and that damned Browning's not going move itself into position.
Then I picked Lagniappe up, bought a bottle of wine and some ice cream (I got this idea for some wicked Riesling floats...) and came back to the Lair.
We spent the rest of the day just relaxing and I finished reading a great book, Fighter Pilot, the story of the life of Air Force legend Robin Olds, as put together by his daughter Christine Olds and author and fighter pilot Ed Rasimus. If you like history or aviation, you'll have a hard time putting this book down. I know that I did. Seriously, get on Amazon.com today and get yourself a copy.On the animal front, I saw what I believe to be my new snake again today, looking none the worse for wear at it peered out from between a couple of rocks and watched me trim a tree.
The other day, someone asked me what the difference is between a snake and a Democrat. Hell, that's easy. I'd never cut a Democrat out of a net.
And I'm guessing that there's going to be baby deer around here soon too, as I just saw a doe that's either pregnant as hell or else Rosie O'Donnell's been reincarnated as an Odocoileus virginianus. And since the deer didn't really look all that stupid, I'm guessing that fawns are on the way.
So now I'm thinking that this evening, before we try my new adult dessert experiment, Lagniappe and I will take a walk around the neighborhood for a bit, and I'll at least pretend to intend to clean a few guns and tidy up the Lair.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a Thursday. Hope yours is going well.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Long time, no see.
Since the snows came, my regular deer visitors have been conspicuously absent. But today, for the first time in a couple of weeks, I've been graced with yard guests.
They apparently just stopped by to say hi and remind me that firearms deer season is only a little more than eight months away.
They apparently just stopped by to say hi and remind me that firearms deer season is only a little more than eight months away.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Sometimes I think I spoil these deer.
Wasn't it enough that I put out corn every now and again? Now it looks like I'm running a deer Bed and Breakfast.
This particular doe has been hanging around here fairly regularly recently. She just lays in the shade about 30 feet from the house and waits for me to put more corn out. When I do, she gets up, saunters down to eat it, and then returns to her little den there. She doesn't even bother getting up when I walk outside now.
Something tells me that I'd better make sure that she never sees where I hide the spare key to the door or I'm liable to come home and find her in the guest room one of these days.
This particular doe has been hanging around here fairly regularly recently. She just lays in the shade about 30 feet from the house and waits for me to put more corn out. When I do, she gets up, saunters down to eat it, and then returns to her little den there. She doesn't even bother getting up when I walk outside now.
Something tells me that I'd better make sure that she never sees where I hide the spare key to the door or I'm liable to come home and find her in the guest room one of these days.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Animal Day at the Lair
And it's not just black German Shepherds this time.
First of all, I had three yearling bucks come down to eat the corn in the back yard. But before I could photograph them, this adult doe charged in and chased them away, claiming the corn for herself.
So I watched her for a while, and then I went to go sit on the front deck and eat some peanuts.
But alas! The peanuts were almost gone. And this was a new bag, just purchased the other day. Where'd they all go?
Then I thought about it. Nicki had left the bag outside on the deck--open of course. Who, other than us, would have eaten them? Suddenly I had my answer as a Blue Jay swooped down and snagged another peanut out of the bag and flew off. Whoa! Those Jays had just cleaned me out of two pounds of peanuts in a couple of days.
Here's one of the culprits snatching another one out of the bag. They're bold enough that they don't even care that I'm standing right there.
Guess I've got to train someone to not leave open bags of peanuts out on the deck.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Quote of the Day
"Oh my God! Do they bite?"
Exclaimed by Nicki--with more than a tinge of panic in her voice--upon seeing real, live deer step out of the woods and cross the road during an evening walk with Lagniappe and I this past Saturday night.
Sarah Palin, she's not. ;-)
Exclaimed by Nicki--with more than a tinge of panic in her voice--upon seeing real, live deer step out of the woods and cross the road during an evening walk with Lagniappe and I this past Saturday night.
Sarah Palin, she's not. ;-)
Monday, March 09, 2009
West Virginia musing
Ah, stereotypes...everyone loves 'em, usually because there's some truth behind them.
One of my favorites about West Virginia is the image of the typical resident sitting on his porch with a shotgun, yelling "Git off'n my land!" at anyone who passes by.
Now last night was nice and warm, so Lagniappe and I did our best to live up to that fine state stereotype as we sat out on the porch cleaning guns and linking machine gun ammunition.
Alas, we're not rude enough to tell people to get off our land, but we did wave to several neighbors who passed by, oblivious to the fact that we were assembling eleven-foot lengths of "carnage in a can", otherwise known as 240 rounds of .30, linked, mixed 4 M2 Ball to 1 M25 Tracer.
We've been running the reloading press heavy this past week, figuring that we might as well load up all of the loose components sitting around since everyone is panicking over the pending Obama gun bans. First I loaded enough for my matches and expected practice sessions, and then I put the remainder into links for the Browning. And I'm here to tell ya that after I clean and resize the brass, swage the primer pockets, trim the cases, put new primers in the cases, charge the cases with power, seat the bullets, put the bullets onto the links and fold the belts up into the cans, I have so much time invested that I almost don't want to shoot it now.
But it is fun to shoot. And Lagniappe agrees. Just look at that smile.
We packed four cans last night. We're ready for Deer Season.
Yep. You read right. Deer Season.
You see, Obama wants to ban all of the so-called "assault weapons". Well Lagniappe and I don't have any of those. We just have this "deer rifle". No nasty, dangerous "assault weapons" around these parts. Heck, I don't even know what an "assault weapon" is, do you? I think that someone said that it's a gun with a bayonet lug on it. Well this 1919A4 clearly doesn't have one of those, so it's obviously not an "assault weapon".
We're just a couple of deer hunters here, Lagniappe and I are. And all we have is this deer rifle. The Democrats always promise that they only want to ban "assault weapons" and that they have no desire to ban hunting guns. So we got rid of all of our "assault weapons" (whatever they are) and all we have now is hunting guns like this Browning.
Now I know that someone will say that we don't need a gun like that to hunt deer. But I beg to differ, and I offer this photo of the back yard of the Lair, taken just this morning. If the deer are going to come in squad strength, we need firepower sufficient to harvest them all.
Venison steaks, anyone? We're fixin' to have plenty.
One of my favorites about West Virginia is the image of the typical resident sitting on his porch with a shotgun, yelling "Git off'n my land!" at anyone who passes by.
Now last night was nice and warm, so Lagniappe and I did our best to live up to that fine state stereotype as we sat out on the porch cleaning guns and linking machine gun ammunition.
Alas, we're not rude enough to tell people to get off our land, but we did wave to several neighbors who passed by, oblivious to the fact that we were assembling eleven-foot lengths of "carnage in a can", otherwise known as 240 rounds of .30, linked, mixed 4 M2 Ball to 1 M25 Tracer.
We've been running the reloading press heavy this past week, figuring that we might as well load up all of the loose components sitting around since everyone is panicking over the pending Obama gun bans. First I loaded enough for my matches and expected practice sessions, and then I put the remainder into links for the Browning. And I'm here to tell ya that after I clean and resize the brass, swage the primer pockets, trim the cases, put new primers in the cases, charge the cases with power, seat the bullets, put the bullets onto the links and fold the belts up into the cans, I have so much time invested that I almost don't want to shoot it now.
But it is fun to shoot. And Lagniappe agrees. Just look at that smile.
We packed four cans last night. We're ready for Deer Season.
Yep. You read right. Deer Season.
You see, Obama wants to ban all of the so-called "assault weapons". Well Lagniappe and I don't have any of those. We just have this "deer rifle". No nasty, dangerous "assault weapons" around these parts. Heck, I don't even know what an "assault weapon" is, do you? I think that someone said that it's a gun with a bayonet lug on it. Well this 1919A4 clearly doesn't have one of those, so it's obviously not an "assault weapon".
We're just a couple of deer hunters here, Lagniappe and I are. And all we have is this deer rifle. The Democrats always promise that they only want to ban "assault weapons" and that they have no desire to ban hunting guns. So we got rid of all of our "assault weapons" (whatever they are) and all we have now is hunting guns like this Browning.
Now I know that someone will say that we don't need a gun like that to hunt deer. But I beg to differ, and I offer this photo of the back yard of the Lair, taken just this morning. If the deer are going to come in squad strength, we need firepower sufficient to harvest them all.
Venison steaks, anyone? We're fixin' to have plenty.
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