"Gratitude - not only the greatest of all virtues, but the parent of all others." ~ Cicero
Happy Thanksgiving!
Happy Thanksgiving!
23 November 2011
18 November 2011
Fixed
Just wanted to take a moment and thank the local folks for repairing my 5 weight WT and honoring the warranty. Butter is back!
08 November 2011
06 November 2011
Another Whirl
It's five thirty in the morning, Sunday. Today the clocks went back an hour and I am awake. There's no coffee, so I went the tea route until a bit later when we will make a coffee run prior to other activities.
I got home late Friday night. I think over a couple of hours a group of us had played something like a dozen games of squash, rotating among friends. I was pretty hammered, but the sauna felt great. Something I've not experienced in a long while. "Are we still going tomorrow morning?" I asked my daughter who was a bit bummed Todd had decided to take in the Griz game Saturday, rather than go hunting. But, replied "yep." I suggested we go ahead and sleep in as there was no rush and I knew some new muscle groups would be in agony for me in the morning as well.
"Look in one of the bins in the garage." My wife said the next morning. Between Sponge Bob episodes and breakfast, we were looking for some a pair of her brother's old winter boots. Sure enough, another hand-down to the rescue. One of the advantages of having three kids, except as the youngster will protest, "not for him." I finished some oatmeal and we filled the thermos with coffee. She likes coffee, but we keep it in check and generally decaf. Her brothers don't get her coffee thing.
"Maybe the cows will still be there." I said as we drove the truck down the road. Missoula experienced its first snow Friday evening. As skiers, we celebrated seeing it on the top of the grill looking out on the deck from the kitchen window that evening. Driving along, there was a quiet "Hope so." response to the cow comment. "Which spot are we going to?" She asked. I proceeded to explain a spot south of town where I used to go with a former neighbor when we lived in Lolo a while back. The former neighbor is now retired living in bird heaven in the Dakotas, formerly employed with the U. maintenance department.
We parked at a gate not too far off of the main drag and assembled our gear. She had a bolt action .270 with a Mauser type action. 150 grain Noslers. At this point I'd have to confess I am a fan of Mr. .270. I still today enjoy O'Conner's writing and have most of his works. One of the pleasure's of the Devil's Slide race (it's been a long time) was going to his museum in Lewiston. I think he generally stayed with a 130 grain, but I like a little insurance. I think once again the game in town takes some pressure off of the woods as there was no one else in the area. There also was not much snow, but just enough to be able to point out sign.
"What are those?" She asked looking down. "Pine squirrel tracks." I replied. It was maybe ten thirty or so as we walked up the road. In the thirties and occasionally snowing with the breeze. The boots were a bit too large for her, but seemed to be working out well. "Slow down." I whispered. Not sure where she picked up such a fast gait, but she loves to cruise along at a pretty good clip. "Look up into the hillsides and into the trees. Look at the sign on the ground in the snow." And so it went as we wound initially north up a road. "Which way is out?" I asked her. "I don't know." "Southeast." We left the road and had hiked up to a ridge top. We looked across the valley and I noticed another hunter walking a road through a clear cut far off in the distance. "Do you see him?" I asked. "I had no idea this orange was that bright." She said. He was a small orange dot, but visible and watching us too no doubt.
On top of the ridge, we cooled off with some water. We observed the wind and talked about staying silent going across through the trees. Many were now pines turning yellow. There were no human footprints. We pulled out two compasses, and discussed orientation. "This is the one we used in our class." She said, recalling her hunter safety class and showing me which way was southeast on the non-lensatic compass. We reviewed both and then started slowly working our way across through the trees. "Once in that bottom we watched two bulls sparring with one another. The neighbor took a pretty long shot and missed. I did not have a scope that day, so I did not take a crack at one of them as well." Looking down into the bottom where the lower road junctions I had recalled the old story.
"Wait a minute, don't just go cruising out into the open. Look first, take a few steps and then look again." Still on the ridge, we were coming into a little more open area where I've seen quite a few whitetails, most of which have generally seen me first and bounded explosively off of the ridge. We did not have rounds chambered which is the general approach when hunting with my kids. We saw nothing along the ridge and wound our way closer to where I saw the elk last week. While taking another break, drinking water and having some jerky I recalled another story about hiking out one night alone in the dark when a bear came up from the creek after me. I was sidehilling it out of there on a weekday evening when I had slipped out of work early to get in a quick evening hunt. The bear was running up the mountain towards me and growling. It echoed across the hillsides and I went pale. Finally I shot over the animal, just before seeing it. A long flash of yellow and red came out of the barrel and the woods went silent. A few days later, some other hunters confirmed that there was a dead elk calf in the creek bottom the bear had been feeding on. They were aware of the bear as well.
Approaching the top of the drainage, I had pointed out numerous deer tracks and we discussed simple things like "What direction is it going?" Which she figured out. There were no beds on top in the snow and there were no elk tracks. However, after a few miles and finally getting close to the main area, I smelled that familiar elk smell and enquired if she smelled it as well. "Yes, I smell something." The breeze was coming from the west, off of the mountain in a thickly treed gulch that I was not going to go down into. It was encouraging, however. On top in the open clear cut we glassed the entire section and I noticed a whitetail buck on a distant hill side. "Do you see it?" I asked. "No." She said. "We'll work our way over there by doing a loop across the top and down. But, this is where I saw the elk recently, so let's focus on that." I continued. "But, I want to go get the buck." She said. "Relax, he'll still be there when we go across." I said explaining the approach and going across first looking into the east among the clear cuts as well. I had taken a picture of a cow moose last year in the same general area as where the deer happened to be at the moment. She was so enthused though. "Is he still there? Where did he go?" She asked as we occasionally looked back southwest, while continuing north to the uppermost end of the ridge looking for elk. I could not believe my ears.
Unfortunately we bumped a whitetail doe which quickly sprang forth in the southwesterly direction towards the male on the distant hillside. We had finally reached the area where I could observe all directions with the field glasses and noted no elk. It was snowing. So, we dropped carefully down in the direction of the two deer. This meant digging in the heels and being safe going down and across to the west. She was in the front. We had followed the doe and she had gone across an old skid trail, up another small ridge, and probably back down still west to where the main large hillside was where the buck had been seen. That of course was not good news. We scampered up the little ridge and crept across the top. "Slow down." I said again. We peeked over and down to the base of the hillside and three deer, maybe a hundred yards away, sprinted up the lower hillside among pines. The buck was in the front, and he was a nice animal.
Last year my oldest had some issues holding the rifle steady while hunting. Even taking a rest against a tree was difficult. So, for my daughter, I picked up a cheap aluminum portable V job to have along to help in these situations. It also makes a nice walking stick. She put in a shell and I helped her get the rifle situated on the rest. "He's behind the tree above the does. Be ready he may walk out briefly in the open again." I said. The two does were legal for her and standing in plain view, but she was not interested. It was a pretty good distance, and when he went through the brief opening, it was too fast. I whispered "shoot" but the window was too brief and the three of them scampered quickly up the hillside to the top of the ridge. There are many small ridges all going north, fingers, to a main ridge that runs west and east.
We went to the top to where they were last seen and briefly followed their tracks. They had gone south down the ridge. To our west was a road which we could hike down which parallels its way south, to the west of the ridge the deer were on. We drank some water on the road and looked across and saw the buck standing with the two does many football fields across a drainage between us on the ridge side. "They may go all the way down to the bottom where these join back up." I mentioned. She liked the idea of the road walking out, so up above we had made the decision not to follow the animals. Once spooked, their hard to get back up on anyway. We never saw the deer again. After a chat about where I had once seen two large bull moose together where the road junctions in a section, we called it a day and headed for a hot thermos of coffee. "Dad, can I go tomorrow?" My son asked when we got home.
I got home late Friday night. I think over a couple of hours a group of us had played something like a dozen games of squash, rotating among friends. I was pretty hammered, but the sauna felt great. Something I've not experienced in a long while. "Are we still going tomorrow morning?" I asked my daughter who was a bit bummed Todd had decided to take in the Griz game Saturday, rather than go hunting. But, replied "yep." I suggested we go ahead and sleep in as there was no rush and I knew some new muscle groups would be in agony for me in the morning as well.
"Look in one of the bins in the garage." My wife said the next morning. Between Sponge Bob episodes and breakfast, we were looking for some a pair of her brother's old winter boots. Sure enough, another hand-down to the rescue. One of the advantages of having three kids, except as the youngster will protest, "not for him." I finished some oatmeal and we filled the thermos with coffee. She likes coffee, but we keep it in check and generally decaf. Her brothers don't get her coffee thing.
"Maybe the cows will still be there." I said as we drove the truck down the road. Missoula experienced its first snow Friday evening. As skiers, we celebrated seeing it on the top of the grill looking out on the deck from the kitchen window that evening. Driving along, there was a quiet "Hope so." response to the cow comment. "Which spot are we going to?" She asked. I proceeded to explain a spot south of town where I used to go with a former neighbor when we lived in Lolo a while back. The former neighbor is now retired living in bird heaven in the Dakotas, formerly employed with the U. maintenance department.
We parked at a gate not too far off of the main drag and assembled our gear. She had a bolt action .270 with a Mauser type action. 150 grain Noslers. At this point I'd have to confess I am a fan of Mr. .270. I still today enjoy O'Conner's writing and have most of his works. One of the pleasure's of the Devil's Slide race (it's been a long time) was going to his museum in Lewiston. I think he generally stayed with a 130 grain, but I like a little insurance. I think once again the game in town takes some pressure off of the woods as there was no one else in the area. There also was not much snow, but just enough to be able to point out sign.
"What are those?" She asked looking down. "Pine squirrel tracks." I replied. It was maybe ten thirty or so as we walked up the road. In the thirties and occasionally snowing with the breeze. The boots were a bit too large for her, but seemed to be working out well. "Slow down." I whispered. Not sure where she picked up such a fast gait, but she loves to cruise along at a pretty good clip. "Look up into the hillsides and into the trees. Look at the sign on the ground in the snow." And so it went as we wound initially north up a road. "Which way is out?" I asked her. "I don't know." "Southeast." We left the road and had hiked up to a ridge top. We looked across the valley and I noticed another hunter walking a road through a clear cut far off in the distance. "Do you see him?" I asked. "I had no idea this orange was that bright." She said. He was a small orange dot, but visible and watching us too no doubt.
On top of the ridge, we cooled off with some water. We observed the wind and talked about staying silent going across through the trees. Many were now pines turning yellow. There were no human footprints. We pulled out two compasses, and discussed orientation. "This is the one we used in our class." She said, recalling her hunter safety class and showing me which way was southeast on the non-lensatic compass. We reviewed both and then started slowly working our way across through the trees. "Once in that bottom we watched two bulls sparring with one another. The neighbor took a pretty long shot and missed. I did not have a scope that day, so I did not take a crack at one of them as well." Looking down into the bottom where the lower road junctions I had recalled the old story.
"Wait a minute, don't just go cruising out into the open. Look first, take a few steps and then look again." Still on the ridge, we were coming into a little more open area where I've seen quite a few whitetails, most of which have generally seen me first and bounded explosively off of the ridge. We did not have rounds chambered which is the general approach when hunting with my kids. We saw nothing along the ridge and wound our way closer to where I saw the elk last week. While taking another break, drinking water and having some jerky I recalled another story about hiking out one night alone in the dark when a bear came up from the creek after me. I was sidehilling it out of there on a weekday evening when I had slipped out of work early to get in a quick evening hunt. The bear was running up the mountain towards me and growling. It echoed across the hillsides and I went pale. Finally I shot over the animal, just before seeing it. A long flash of yellow and red came out of the barrel and the woods went silent. A few days later, some other hunters confirmed that there was a dead elk calf in the creek bottom the bear had been feeding on. They were aware of the bear as well.
Approaching the top of the drainage, I had pointed out numerous deer tracks and we discussed simple things like "What direction is it going?" Which she figured out. There were no beds on top in the snow and there were no elk tracks. However, after a few miles and finally getting close to the main area, I smelled that familiar elk smell and enquired if she smelled it as well. "Yes, I smell something." The breeze was coming from the west, off of the mountain in a thickly treed gulch that I was not going to go down into. It was encouraging, however. On top in the open clear cut we glassed the entire section and I noticed a whitetail buck on a distant hill side. "Do you see it?" I asked. "No." She said. "We'll work our way over there by doing a loop across the top and down. But, this is where I saw the elk recently, so let's focus on that." I continued. "But, I want to go get the buck." She said. "Relax, he'll still be there when we go across." I said explaining the approach and going across first looking into the east among the clear cuts as well. I had taken a picture of a cow moose last year in the same general area as where the deer happened to be at the moment. She was so enthused though. "Is he still there? Where did he go?" She asked as we occasionally looked back southwest, while continuing north to the uppermost end of the ridge looking for elk. I could not believe my ears.
Unfortunately we bumped a whitetail doe which quickly sprang forth in the southwesterly direction towards the male on the distant hillside. We had finally reached the area where I could observe all directions with the field glasses and noted no elk. It was snowing. So, we dropped carefully down in the direction of the two deer. This meant digging in the heels and being safe going down and across to the west. She was in the front. We had followed the doe and she had gone across an old skid trail, up another small ridge, and probably back down still west to where the main large hillside was where the buck had been seen. That of course was not good news. We scampered up the little ridge and crept across the top. "Slow down." I said again. We peeked over and down to the base of the hillside and three deer, maybe a hundred yards away, sprinted up the lower hillside among pines. The buck was in the front, and he was a nice animal.
Last year my oldest had some issues holding the rifle steady while hunting. Even taking a rest against a tree was difficult. So, for my daughter, I picked up a cheap aluminum portable V job to have along to help in these situations. It also makes a nice walking stick. She put in a shell and I helped her get the rifle situated on the rest. "He's behind the tree above the does. Be ready he may walk out briefly in the open again." I said. The two does were legal for her and standing in plain view, but she was not interested. It was a pretty good distance, and when he went through the brief opening, it was too fast. I whispered "shoot" but the window was too brief and the three of them scampered quickly up the hillside to the top of the ridge. There are many small ridges all going north, fingers, to a main ridge that runs west and east.
We went to the top to where they were last seen and briefly followed their tracks. They had gone south down the ridge. To our west was a road which we could hike down which parallels its way south, to the west of the ridge the deer were on. We drank some water on the road and looked across and saw the buck standing with the two does many football fields across a drainage between us on the ridge side. "They may go all the way down to the bottom where these join back up." I mentioned. She liked the idea of the road walking out, so up above we had made the decision not to follow the animals. Once spooked, their hard to get back up on anyway. We never saw the deer again. After a chat about where I had once seen two large bull moose together where the road junctions in a section, we called it a day and headed for a hot thermos of coffee. "Dad, can I go tomorrow?" My son asked when we got home.
03 November 2011
Squash
"You know who his favorite writer was?" Todd asked walking into the room as I was lying down reading Franklin's autobiography. "Locke?" I asked. "How'd you know?" A nifty little chat began at that point about a past class of his and studying Mr. Franklin. I'm not completely sure if Locke is correct; however, I'm reasonably certain it (he) is. It's refreshing to note that Franklin in the initial pages of his work indicates his reason for writing was to provide some account of his life for his son. Todd also pointed out that William was not in the end a fan of Ben's. An ironic lesson. Locke made the early pages as well. Now, where was I going? Ah, yes.
"I hear you're dusting off the old racquet?" Came a question from a friend. I still have not located the racquet which is buried somewhere in a closet with second one that had year's ago been a gift to my oldest by another player. I had dropped the sport cold turkey following a knee injury skiing and a local facility with courts closing. The mountain bike happily filled the gap - and still does.
Squash is an amazing sport. Excellent for fitness as one has to "go to" the ball, which is soft and dies with proper drops or lobs. The sport involves technique as well with court boundaries and an annoying lower tin on the front wall. At higher levels, rallies can be quite long and fatiguing.
The sport, as rowing, still may be viewed today by folks as somewhat highbrow, where courts were once mainly found only at the nation's top schools. However, many of the best players in the world and at all levels for that matter come from all walks. Perhaps this was also the appeal of Saint Sing's rowing work. I have fond memories of whacking the ball around with my father year's ago in CharlieWest. I picked the sport back up in the late '80s playing at a court facility in Allston while at Huskyville as a student, where I met a CJ major and the head of the outing club, who was to eventually become my wife.
Squash is about fitness and fun. It is humbling to get severely beaten by a large former rugby player from England who simply knows the game - court knowledge and shot placement equal less running around. Perhaps we can squeeze in a few matches. There are new courts in town.
"I hear you're dusting off the old racquet?" Came a question from a friend. I still have not located the racquet which is buried somewhere in a closet with second one that had year's ago been a gift to my oldest by another player. I had dropped the sport cold turkey following a knee injury skiing and a local facility with courts closing. The mountain bike happily filled the gap - and still does.
Squash is an amazing sport. Excellent for fitness as one has to "go to" the ball, which is soft and dies with proper drops or lobs. The sport involves technique as well with court boundaries and an annoying lower tin on the front wall. At higher levels, rallies can be quite long and fatiguing.
The sport, as rowing, still may be viewed today by folks as somewhat highbrow, where courts were once mainly found only at the nation's top schools. However, many of the best players in the world and at all levels for that matter come from all walks. Perhaps this was also the appeal of Saint Sing's rowing work. I have fond memories of whacking the ball around with my father year's ago in CharlieWest. I picked the sport back up in the late '80s playing at a court facility in Allston while at Huskyville as a student, where I met a CJ major and the head of the outing club, who was to eventually become my wife.
Squash is about fitness and fun. It is humbling to get severely beaten by a large former rugby player from England who simply knows the game - court knowledge and shot placement equal less running around. Perhaps we can squeeze in a few matches. There are new courts in town.
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