Our informant is utterly reliable. It's a cougar on my friends' old family farm southwest of here, not too far from the pretty little Maple River and on the fringe of the semi-wild Loess Hills.
The cat report his morning touched off a small Facebook gigglefest about a trick one of the guys played on my No. 2 grandson a few years ago on the hunt where he came of age. He had just been promoted to armed hunter from his previous condition of servitude -- barehanded, bipedal, auxillary bird dog. The party was walking a wooded draw on the farm when the wag warned him, "Watch out for the cougars." -- sending the lad into a full tactical crouch for the second it took him to realize the chain jerk.
The boy, now man, is, of course, being reminded today that as an experienced lion hunter, it is his job to venture forth and slay the beast. The old people are advising him on weaponry. The female (who, sigh, routinely outshoots all of us) suggested a mag tube extension for his shotgun. I countered that he had a new .30-06. It's only a matter of time before he's told that nothing less than .50BMG will do.
---
I've seen only a couple of cougars (far west of here a long time ago) and never encountered one up close. So I know Jack Schidtt about it. From my reading, though, I don't think the gun bore makes much difference. Br'er Puma apparently likes to jump you from above and behind. He shakes you by the neck a few times, snaps off an appetizer, takes a minute to pee on the gun you never got into play, and hauls you off to a nice picnic spot.
---
Cougar sightings are becoming almost, but not quite, routine here. They're rare enough to be interesting. They're common enough to make a guy smile when he thinks of the Iowa DNR experts who for years said there ain't no such critter round these parts; then that, if there were, they were just pets that grew up and got dumped. Or escaped from the circus. It's only about now that the game cops are admitting that the big cat, like many wild things, can be highly adaptable. Unlike your basic game cop.
Showing posts with label Ludditical delight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ludditical delight. Show all posts
Jan 3, 2014
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 9, 2013
Elsewhere at the gun auction...
I semi-promised a price log, but it just wasn't interesting enough to bother with. It was a consignment sale apparently built around a couple of small dealers who were reducing inventory or getting out of the business. Most of the offerings were junkish old shotguns and ho-hum NIB stuff, heavy on the Glockenpoppers and Fry Points. In general, these WalMart--ish pieces brought less money than we've come to expect. Several NIB Glockers went for pre-Obama prices --$400-$500.
The Garand, a little better than the average example, brought $1,000. The Rockola carbine brought $750, one bid better than my top; very, very nice but with a Blue Sky import stamp.
Yours truly still spent too damned much money. Foolishly. Why the heck does he want a Nagent? He has no sentimental ties to Tula. 'cuz it was cheap, that's why, and pretty as a Russian Lady Tractor Driver.
The nice 1953 Savage 99 was a little more defensible. Ever since his buddy in the GMA lucked into one, he' been beside himself with envy. (Fun fact: The .300 Savage round was built to match original .30-06 military ballistics.)
The other two were junkers, one Stevens Little Krag, complete and $20 and one non-shooting Mossberg, bought for the price of the magazine which was needed here for the 152 -- the Mossy .22 with the flip-down fore end to make a kid feel like John Wayne with a Thompson.
(If I don't watch myself I'm going to get seriously and expensively interested in collecting boys' rifle.)
Some other stuff, too, but not worth mentioning except as they affected the total day's tab, the size of which made me grateful for friends who fed me last night.
The Garand, a little better than the average example, brought $1,000. The Rockola carbine brought $750, one bid better than my top; very, very nice but with a Blue Sky import stamp.
Yours truly still spent too damned much money. Foolishly. Why the heck does he want a Nagent? He has no sentimental ties to Tula. 'cuz it was cheap, that's why, and pretty as a Russian Lady Tractor Driver.
The nice 1953 Savage 99 was a little more defensible. Ever since his buddy in the GMA lucked into one, he' been beside himself with envy. (Fun fact: The .300 Savage round was built to match original .30-06 military ballistics.)
The other two were junkers, one Stevens Little Krag, complete and $20 and one non-shooting Mossberg, bought for the price of the magazine which was needed here for the 152 -- the Mossy .22 with the flip-down fore end to make a kid feel like John Wayne with a Thompson.
(If I don't watch myself I'm going to get seriously and expensively interested in collecting boys' rifle.)
Some other stuff, too, but not worth mentioning except as they affected the total day's tab, the size of which made me grateful for friends who fed me last night.
Song of the South
There's a generation of reloaders who think the finest bullet -- serious target and hunting stuff --should cost a nickel or less. They cringe at the Obama-era tab of two bits and up for one bullet, even when paid for in Bernanke's Federal Reserve Cartoons.
So this pleased me yesterday:
A fresh thousand of them (.224 and 55 grains) grace the reloading shack. They set me back more than a nickel per, but way less than a piece of zinc with a hokey picture of George Washington carelessly stamped on it.
Veterans might recognize it, but it's been off the market for a long time, and youngsters might not identify it as a vintage Nosler, one of the first commercial solid base designs, meant to expand but hold together.
I included the picture to show the oddly wide machined cannulure. It was supposed to a lot of good -- reduce pressure slightly, grip the case mouth tightly, improve accuracy, reduce the national debt, and prevent the UN from admitting Red China.
Mr. Nosler called it his "Zipedo." Love it. Zipedo doo dah, zipedo day...
So this pleased me yesterday:
Veterans might recognize it, but it's been off the market for a long time, and youngsters might not identify it as a vintage Nosler, one of the first commercial solid base designs, meant to expand but hold together.
I included the picture to show the oddly wide machined cannulure. It was supposed to a lot of good -- reduce pressure slightly, grip the case mouth tightly, improve accuracy, reduce the national debt, and prevent the UN from admitting Red China.
Mr. Nosler called it his "Zipedo." Love it. Zipedo doo dah, zipedo day...
Nov 4, 2013
Cottonwood boles at 20 paces
Just a place holder here. I'm fully occupied reducing logs to firewood. The splitter works like a dream, even if it looks hardly at all like a product from The Sharper Image.
I'm pleased to have it, but I fear the wood will not burn so brightly. It will lack the seasoning sweat, the hand-splitter vulgarities hurled at knots and school marms, the indefinable charm of nature put to good use without the intervening stink of gas and oil. Still, as I say, it's a good thing to own for a man approaching the years of his maturity.
I'll be back before long, and among the first orders of business I intend to challenge Rand Paul to a duel.
I'm pleased to have it, but I fear the wood will not burn so brightly. It will lack the seasoning sweat, the hand-splitter vulgarities hurled at knots and school marms, the indefinable charm of nature put to good use without the intervening stink of gas and oil. Still, as I say, it's a good thing to own for a man approaching the years of his maturity.
I'll be back before long, and among the first orders of business I intend to challenge Rand Paul to a duel.
Oct 29, 2013
Warm
The concrete picnic table on the Utulei beach was ugly and uncomfortable, so uncongenial that it simply had to be a relic of United States Navy rule over American Samoa. Nevertheless, I began my working days there, in company with island society, Governor Coleman; his indispensable sidekick and my best island friend, Pete Fanene (RIP); a few traditional chiefs; and assorted bureaucrats, hangers-on and suck-ups of high station and low. The caste system notwithstanding, traditional Polynesia presents itself as a rather egalitarian community.
Gossip circulated. Hangovers were nursed with canned papaya juice and styrofoam cups of lukewarm Nescafe. The governor would hint at what he was thinking about today. His listeners often enough responded with what he should be thinking about when he eases himself into the executive chair behind his acre of desk.
Further description is unnecessary for the reader familiar with the regular morning coffee-shop klatch in every small town and city neighborhood in America. Only the local color differed, palm trees instead of utility poles, coral sand under foot rather than potholed tar, and nearly all the men wearing skirts.
---
The main island of Tutuila lies a little more than 14 degrees south of the Equator, firmly in the realm of the southeast trade winds. Which is to report that it is year-around mild on the skin of a palagi who grew up in the continental roaring 40s, a thousand miles and more from any tempering ocean, where avoiding frostbite was a primary concern for months of every year.
So it took me a while to become accustomed to the occasional picnic-table observation, "cold this morning" as the Samoan man gathered his lava lava closer about his knees and buttoned his aloha shirt to the neck. Lord yes, it must be down to 67 or 68 degrees. Mighty unusual weather for July in the other hemisphere. But near the end of that year-long contract I did get used to it and would agree in classic Heartland understatement, "Yep. A bit nippy."
---
The pleasant recollections dropped full force on me this morning as I tempered the oak fire with a sprinkle of water and threw open some windows and doors to get the temperature of my quarters back down to something under 85.
(Friends complain that my place is often overheated, and perhaps it is. If I feel like defending myself I use the excuse that my blood was thinned by too many hundreds of mornings breakfasting in jungle shade to music of mynah birds.)
But 85 degrees in here is excessive, and even New Dog Libby got grouchy, abandoning the foot of my bed for the cooler wood floor of the kitchen.
I blame a new-found feeling of wealth, untold riches. You see:
The jury-rigged log splitter functions as designed! (A writer is allowed one exclamation point per 10,000 words, and I make no apology for employing this month's quota here.)
It works better, in fact, and in the remaining 10 minutes of daylight after beta testing was completed yesterday, I laid in perhaps four days worth of old cured burr oak, perfectly sized for my small firebox.
By hand, that would be the labor of a couple of hours or more at the added expense of an ibuprofen or two and the occasional wound dressing. The mechanical ease of letting Archimedes' thinking meet my fuel processing needs leads to the rich feeling that I have won a significant battle over the fossil-fuel thugs who enjoy impoverishing humans such as I, citizens who wish merely to retain an acceptable core body temperature even as the winter Alberta wind eyes our homes with evil intent.
---
And to think they laughed when I sat down to play the hydraulics.
Gossip circulated. Hangovers were nursed with canned papaya juice and styrofoam cups of lukewarm Nescafe. The governor would hint at what he was thinking about today. His listeners often enough responded with what he should be thinking about when he eases himself into the executive chair behind his acre of desk.
Further description is unnecessary for the reader familiar with the regular morning coffee-shop klatch in every small town and city neighborhood in America. Only the local color differed, palm trees instead of utility poles, coral sand under foot rather than potholed tar, and nearly all the men wearing skirts.
---
The main island of Tutuila lies a little more than 14 degrees south of the Equator, firmly in the realm of the southeast trade winds. Which is to report that it is year-around mild on the skin of a palagi who grew up in the continental roaring 40s, a thousand miles and more from any tempering ocean, where avoiding frostbite was a primary concern for months of every year.
So it took me a while to become accustomed to the occasional picnic-table observation, "cold this morning" as the Samoan man gathered his lava lava closer about his knees and buttoned his aloha shirt to the neck. Lord yes, it must be down to 67 or 68 degrees. Mighty unusual weather for July in the other hemisphere. But near the end of that year-long contract I did get used to it and would agree in classic Heartland understatement, "Yep. A bit nippy."
---
The pleasant recollections dropped full force on me this morning as I tempered the oak fire with a sprinkle of water and threw open some windows and doors to get the temperature of my quarters back down to something under 85.
(Friends complain that my place is often overheated, and perhaps it is. If I feel like defending myself I use the excuse that my blood was thinned by too many hundreds of mornings breakfasting in jungle shade to music of mynah birds.)
But 85 degrees in here is excessive, and even New Dog Libby got grouchy, abandoning the foot of my bed for the cooler wood floor of the kitchen.
I blame a new-found feeling of wealth, untold riches. You see:
The jury-rigged log splitter functions as designed! (A writer is allowed one exclamation point per 10,000 words, and I make no apology for employing this month's quota here.)
It works better, in fact, and in the remaining 10 minutes of daylight after beta testing was completed yesterday, I laid in perhaps four days worth of old cured burr oak, perfectly sized for my small firebox.
By hand, that would be the labor of a couple of hours or more at the added expense of an ibuprofen or two and the occasional wound dressing. The mechanical ease of letting Archimedes' thinking meet my fuel processing needs leads to the rich feeling that I have won a significant battle over the fossil-fuel thugs who enjoy impoverishing humans such as I, citizens who wish merely to retain an acceptable core body temperature even as the winter Alberta wind eyes our homes with evil intent.
---
And to think they laughed when I sat down to play the hydraulics.
Oct 26, 2013
Packrattery to the rescue; interim report
Its engine died a few years go, and the old home-made log splitter* has been a yard decoration ever since while I refined bulky cellulose into fuel with a six-pound maul.
Then, last week, my buddy from down the road, a man who owns an International Harvester M**, stopped by to wonder if we could jury-rig "my"*** splitter to his hydraulics. In theory, a lot of screwing around and head-scratching, but no conceptual problem, just run new hoses from the M's hydraulic pump to the splitter valve.
For one of the few times in my life, "in practice" seems to be hand-in glove with "in theory," better, in fact. For less money than I expected and after only one trip to the farm supply store for hoses, I have test-fitted all of the new plumbing. Result: we're just a few dabs of pipe-thread compound away from beta testing.
(Or, as the NASA Apollo 13 engineer said, "Looks okay to me, Percival. Let's give her a whirl.")
Packrattery? Yes, because it both dishonorable and a pain in the butt to keep running to town. A man is supposed to have the junk he needs..
There were sundry needful items in the box labeled "misc iron pipe stuff" that worked, topped by a lucky find elsewhere. I absolutely had to have a 3/4 to 1/2 reducing ell. None in the aforementioned box, but in desperation I checked another one labeled "odd brass crap." Eureka. (We don't intend to operate it submerged in salt water, so galvanic corrosion should be a minor annoyance at worst.)
If it works I'll post a picture of a big new woodpile. If it doesn't, I'll deny having written this post.
---
*Built in the 60s or 70s by my pals K and B, based on a humongous I-beam salvaged from a road grader and allegedly including parts from a B-29.
**For my urban friends, that's a tractor, the cat's meow of high tech agriculture when introduced in 1939.
***Actually, title still rests with the builders, but I have hopes of negotiating a relatively long-term lease.
Then, last week, my buddy from down the road, a man who owns an International Harvester M**, stopped by to wonder if we could jury-rig "my"*** splitter to his hydraulics. In theory, a lot of screwing around and head-scratching, but no conceptual problem, just run new hoses from the M's hydraulic pump to the splitter valve.
For one of the few times in my life, "in practice" seems to be hand-in glove with "in theory," better, in fact. For less money than I expected and after only one trip to the farm supply store for hoses, I have test-fitted all of the new plumbing. Result: we're just a few dabs of pipe-thread compound away from beta testing.
(Or, as the NASA Apollo 13 engineer said, "Looks okay to me, Percival. Let's give her a whirl.")
Packrattery? Yes, because it both dishonorable and a pain in the butt to keep running to town. A man is supposed to have the junk he needs..
There were sundry needful items in the box labeled "misc iron pipe stuff" that worked, topped by a lucky find elsewhere. I absolutely had to have a 3/4 to 1/2 reducing ell. None in the aforementioned box, but in desperation I checked another one labeled "odd brass crap." Eureka. (We don't intend to operate it submerged in salt water, so galvanic corrosion should be a minor annoyance at worst.)
If it works I'll post a picture of a big new woodpile. If it doesn't, I'll deny having written this post.
---
*Built in the 60s or 70s by my pals K and B, based on a humongous I-beam salvaged from a road grader and allegedly including parts from a B-29.
**For my urban friends, that's a tractor, the cat's meow of high tech agriculture when introduced in 1939.
***Actually, title still rests with the builders, but I have hopes of negotiating a relatively long-term lease.
Oct 22, 2013
Bitch Bitch Bitch
It's been a little negative around here lately. No apologies, the provocation has been extensive, even without mentioning the thieving admirals and generals. I even got to thinking I was wimping by saying only once that the shutdown revealed the puerile pettiness of Obama and all who wield power in the federal zoo.
But everyone needs a breather, so herein is one of the constructive solutions which will be the hallmark of my campaign to be your president.
My first legislative proposal from my Oval Office will be a resolution to repeal the 26th Amendment. With too few exceptions to mention, young citizens who have not reached their 21st birthday continue to confuse their procreative urges with ratiocination.
I expect the first tweet will hit the air within three seconds and moan "If'n I'm old enuf to fite i Am old enuf to Vot."
I'm ready:
"By golly Joe Bob that's a good point. Thank you, and as commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the United States, I hereby issue then following order: "No person under the age of 21 shall serve in United States armed forces."
It's a start.
But everyone needs a breather, so herein is one of the constructive solutions which will be the hallmark of my campaign to be your president.
My first legislative proposal from my Oval Office will be a resolution to repeal the 26th Amendment. With too few exceptions to mention, young citizens who have not reached their 21st birthday continue to confuse their procreative urges with ratiocination.
I expect the first tweet will hit the air within three seconds and moan "If'n I'm old enuf to fite i Am old enuf to Vot."
I'm ready:
"By golly Joe Bob that's a good point. Thank you, and as commander-in-chief of the armed forces of the United States, I hereby issue then following order: "No person under the age of 21 shall serve in United States armed forces."
It's a start.
Sep 18, 2013
I hear voices, too.
Nagging, insistent, they keep yammering, "Write. You're supposed to a writer, so make with some words."
Unfortunately, that's just one voice. Another lately assaults, "Finish the damned floor!"
It has been half-carpet, half oak for years. Finally the carpet became too toxic even for my relaxed housekeeping standards. Replacing it would have been cheap and easy, but I've come to detest the stuff, especially when sharing a home with a high-shed lab. Besides, I've accumulated a some planking, and I always overestimate how long ambition will endure for any given project. So:
That was Monday. There's been a little progress since, three more planks laid (exhausting the oak inventory), all pegs driven, and 40-grit rough sanding. But between me and elegance lies another series of sandings from 60 grit down to the (xxx) level of smoothness.* Then, of course, the miracle varnish, whatever seems most miraculous when I go shopping. And is on sale.
It occurs to me that this report is so far devoid of any public service. Because I really care, let me correct that with a graphic depiction of an invention for tightening the seams between the strips of renewable, natural, recyclable, material. (Another way to describe all that is "not quite straight.")
You screw the block to the old floor and drive wedges to jam the new board tight. Works well, but I believe I am unable to receive a patent.
When it's all done I'll return to keeping an eagle eye on the state of the Republic. No, wait. There's another voice: "Big northerns are biting over at Ingham Lake. Load up the dog and the camper. Go fishing. Go fishing."
Damned old voices.
---
*A professional would go to about 120 grit or even finer. Jimmy the Tweak has learned of the project and established an over-under of 81. Bet the under. I mean, Hell, I'm just going to walk on it.
Unfortunately, that's just one voice. Another lately assaults, "Finish the damned floor!"
It has been half-carpet, half oak for years. Finally the carpet became too toxic even for my relaxed housekeeping standards. Replacing it would have been cheap and easy, but I've come to detest the stuff, especially when sharing a home with a high-shed lab. Besides, I've accumulated a some planking, and I always overestimate how long ambition will endure for any given project. So:
 |
It occurs to me that this report is so far devoid of any public service. Because I really care, let me correct that with a graphic depiction of an invention for tightening the seams between the strips of renewable, natural, recyclable, material. (Another way to describe all that is "not quite straight.")
You screw the block to the old floor and drive wedges to jam the new board tight. Works well, but I believe I am unable to receive a patent.
When it's all done I'll return to keeping an eagle eye on the state of the Republic. No, wait. There's another voice: "Big northerns are biting over at Ingham Lake. Load up the dog and the camper. Go fishing. Go fishing."
Damned old voices.
---
*A professional would go to about 120 grit or even finer. Jimmy the Tweak has learned of the project and established an over-under of 81. Bet the under. I mean, Hell, I'm just going to walk on it.
Jun 18, 2013
The Left-Handed Gun
My youngest heir and assign -- who is everything you could possibly want in a lad -- soon becomes a legal adult. He intends to celebrate his emancipation with his first very-own-bought-it-myself-center-fire rifle. A respectful young man, he has been seeking my counsel. (OK, maybe he's just humoring me, but I prefer to think otherwise so never mind.)
It's complicated because he shoots from the wrong side, limiting his selection in bolt guns and sending him in search of pumps and semi-autos. I've been trying to steer him away from autos, apparently not very successfully.
Last evening's exchange was about his newly discovered lust for a Remington Model 8 (!). I understand. It is admittedly a beautiful rifle in a findy sickle sort of way, so an admirable share of Gramps' penchant for tradition remains alive in the blood line.
I suppose that's balanced by an equal ratio of willfulness, so he may actually wind up with one despite my gentle suggestion that this JMB-design is now a better collector than it is a shooter. For instance, you need ammo in the midst of a mulie hunt down in the high Uncompahgre desert. Do you really think you can find a box of .25-.35 at the one-pump gas station, bar, and trading post over on the reservationroad jeep trail?
The discussion continues. I'll see what I can do about pointing him at a Remington 760 or the like while we look hard for a proper wrong-side bolt-action. Wish me luck.
---
I like semi-autos just fine. I also like the ideas of (a) greater field dependability of hand-operated guns and (b) a young man concentrating on careful one-shot marksmanship before he gets too ratatattatty.
---
EDIT: An astute reader questions .25-.35. It's a little obscure but the reference is ".25 Remington (also called .25-.35)..."
It's complicated because he shoots from the wrong side, limiting his selection in bolt guns and sending him in search of pumps and semi-autos. I've been trying to steer him away from autos, apparently not very successfully.
Last evening's exchange was about his newly discovered lust for a Remington Model 8 (!). I understand. It is admittedly a beautiful rifle in a findy sickle sort of way, so an admirable share of Gramps' penchant for tradition remains alive in the blood line.
I suppose that's balanced by an equal ratio of willfulness, so he may actually wind up with one despite my gentle suggestion that this JMB-design is now a better collector than it is a shooter. For instance, you need ammo in the midst of a mulie hunt down in the high Uncompahgre desert. Do you really think you can find a box of .25-.35 at the one-pump gas station, bar, and trading post over on the reservation
The discussion continues. I'll see what I can do about pointing him at a Remington 760 or the like while we look hard for a proper wrong-side bolt-action. Wish me luck.
---
I like semi-autos just fine. I also like the ideas of (a) greater field dependability of hand-operated guns and (b) a young man concentrating on careful one-shot marksmanship before he gets too ratatattatty.
---
EDIT: An astute reader questions .25-.35. It's a little obscure but the reference is ".25 Remington (also called .25-.35)..."
Jun 16, 2013
Fathers: Tool-using creatures
From the grandfather, b. 1893, to the father, b. 1916, to me; and, God willing, on down line. Forgive a rare mystical moment, but I believe that rock maple has absorbed a good deal of love.
Jun 14, 2013
Celebrate
Flag Day.
Run it up, despite everything.
We're not honoring a government. We're celebrating an aspiration. "Sweet land of liberty" sums it up. Perhaps we'll get there some day.
Run it up, despite everything.
We're not honoring a government. We're celebrating an aspiration. "Sweet land of liberty" sums it up. Perhaps we'll get there some day.
May 18, 2013
Is there a .govbot in the house?
Three patriots understood that one can not make America a better place to live by hanging around a tea party. Even personal debt reduction must yield to to the need for action now.
Thus they sortied to a loophole, that is, a gun show, at 0804 this date, all in search of enhanced firepower. One of them was particularly enthusiastic about bringing a battlefield weapon to the mean streets of Smugleye-on-Lake.
Designed in part to resist enemy assaults, the (semi) automatic rifle with quick-change detachable bullet clips, was also intended to permit American freedom fighters, both professional and militia, to participate in assaults.
This one came from a federally licensed dealer, so the armed American exploited the gun show loophole by providing identification, a state permit in lieu of an NICS check, and filling out what has become a four-page form 4473.
---
She's been rebarrelled (sharp, shiny rifling) but otherwise appears about original. The condition is somewhere near the high end of average, and I expect her to shoot rather well for a dowager born on the high river bluff of Springfield in March, 1943.
Even if she doesn't, I'm glad she's here, especially for a bride price well below the usual 1,000 FRC asking.
I did remark to a loophole companion that the M1 was not especially fun to shoot and that I never found it handy.
"So why did you buy it?"
Because an American should own a Garand.
.
'
Thus they sortied to a loophole, that is, a gun show, at 0804 this date, all in search of enhanced firepower. One of them was particularly enthusiastic about bringing a battlefield weapon to the mean streets of Smugleye-on-Lake.
Designed in part to resist enemy assaults, the (semi) automatic rifle with quick-change detachable bullet clips, was also intended to permit American freedom fighters, both professional and militia, to participate in assaults.
This one came from a federally licensed dealer, so the armed American exploited the gun show loophole by providing identification, a state permit in lieu of an NICS check, and filling out what has become a four-page form 4473.
---
She's been rebarrelled (sharp, shiny rifling) but otherwise appears about original. The condition is somewhere near the high end of average, and I expect her to shoot rather well for a dowager born on the high river bluff of Springfield in March, 1943.
Even if she doesn't, I'm glad she's here, especially for a bride price well below the usual 1,000 FRC asking.
I did remark to a loophole companion that the M1 was not especially fun to shoot and that I never found it handy.
"So why did you buy it?"
Because an American should own a Garand.
.
'
May 13, 2013
3D printer gun, the short version
The latest Oh My Gawd and Gee Whiz! panic -- the plastic gun from your 3D printer -- is this year's version of Y2K when the zombies leaped from your computer and chewed up your brains.
The hand wringers hope above hope that no one will Bing "zip gun" and notice the 63,700,000 references. Piece of pipe, Gorilla tape, couple of springs (rubber bands can work), hunk of steel, nail. If you want to get fancy you can add a handful of machine screws and a tap and die set from Home Depot.
Look, I'm only a tinkerer, but if I can't make a better pistol out of stuff found in half the home workshops of America, I'll kiss your Cloraxed arse on the front porch of 505 27th Street in Ogden, Utah, and let you hire the Tabernacle Choir for a warm-up act.
The hand wringers hope above hope that no one will Bing "zip gun" and notice the 63,700,000 references. Piece of pipe, Gorilla tape, couple of springs (rubber bands can work), hunk of steel, nail. If you want to get fancy you can add a handful of machine screws and a tap and die set from Home Depot.
Look, I'm only a tinkerer, but if I can't make a better pistol out of stuff found in half the home workshops of America, I'll kiss your Cloraxed arse on the front porch of 505 27th Street in Ogden, Utah, and let you hire the Tabernacle Choir for a warm-up act.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 14, 2013
Retro-reloading note
Just locked up the loading shack pondering the latest mystery. What the heck kind of brass is that?
About 25 of them from the "miscellaneous to-do" box were plainly head stamped as .257 Roberts from Remington and Winchester. They refused to chamber after sizing. Another dozen Winchesters, stamped "W-W Super" worked fine. I didn't feel like pulling the data sheets and getting out the mike, but I suspect I might have a couple dozen "improved" cases.
Minimal rechambering was a popular project for few decades just after World War 2. The usual goal was to increase case capacity by reducing taper and sharpening the shoulder of a standard caliber. The big attraction was the ease of making the improved cases. You just fired a factory round in the altered chamber and, presto, you had your "improved" brass. They called it "fire forming" or "blowing out."
P.O. Ackley was the Improvement Godfather, and he was candid in admitting that some of his (and other's) wildcats weren't worth the bother. How much trouble do you want to go to for for an extra couple hundred feet per second?
But it's fun to own a handful of "improved" cases for a caliber already steeped in nostalgia. Makes a guy feel all fuzzy and retro. I will not, repeat not, even think about acquiring an improved .257 to fit the odd cases. At most I'll give them some warm milk and a soft place to sleep.
---
All the .223 McNamara Stalemate is ready to prime. There were fewer than estimated, just over 300, enough to feed a mere ten magazines of the proper size. Maybe I can hustle some more at the local loophole.
About 25 of them from the "miscellaneous to-do" box were plainly head stamped as .257 Roberts from Remington and Winchester. They refused to chamber after sizing. Another dozen Winchesters, stamped "W-W Super" worked fine. I didn't feel like pulling the data sheets and getting out the mike, but I suspect I might have a couple dozen "improved" cases.
Minimal rechambering was a popular project for few decades just after World War 2. The usual goal was to increase case capacity by reducing taper and sharpening the shoulder of a standard caliber. The big attraction was the ease of making the improved cases. You just fired a factory round in the altered chamber and, presto, you had your "improved" brass. They called it "fire forming" or "blowing out."
P.O. Ackley was the Improvement Godfather, and he was candid in admitting that some of his (and other's) wildcats weren't worth the bother. How much trouble do you want to go to for for an extra couple hundred feet per second?
But it's fun to own a handful of "improved" cases for a caliber already steeped in nostalgia. Makes a guy feel all fuzzy and retro. I will not, repeat not, even think about acquiring an improved .257 to fit the odd cases. At most I'll give them some warm milk and a soft place to sleep.
---
All the .223 McNamara Stalemate is ready to prime. There were fewer than estimated, just over 300, enough to feed a mere ten magazines of the proper size. Maybe I can hustle some more at the local loophole.
Mar 13, 2013
Tales from the reloading shack
I finally said to Hell with it. The Catholics could probably pick a new Pope without my counsel, so I switched off the idiotic cable channels and hit the reloading room.
Turns out I was right about the Pope, of course. A Pope from the Pampas. First Jesuit ever, and I suspect that will be interesting. I had a great grad school buddy, a Jesuit priest who -- true to type -- liked to fool around with Aristotelian logic, a discipline overdue for renewed respect here in the image-mad 21st Century, and I -- as a backslid Methodist -- can find no reason whatsoever why my Catholic friends should not lead us out of the of darkness of reasoning via sound bites and photo ops.
But I digress. Worse, I intrude on arcane and complex theological matters, a field best left to such experts such as Tammy Faye, Jerry Wright, and Jimmy Swaggert.
---
It began as a .30-06 afternoon for no better reason that these noble dies were in the press. Production was just one box, 20 rounds, carrying a 125-grain SP, Sierras (I think) at a book speed of just under 3,000. It's a little heavy for gophers, somewhat under powered for woolly mammoths, but usable for either. (Obligatorily: "If I do my part.")
Besides, it's fun to reload, hefty enough for a big-handed guy to handle without tweezers and pretty forgiving from any reasonable safety stand point.
But not that forgiving, and I took a spiritual break during the process to thank Whomever that I am such a frightened old woman when in the vicinity of high combustibles. The partial green box of bullets was plainly marked 125 grain SP. Something doesn't feel quite right. So weigh one. 150 grains. Weigh them all. 150 grains each. Recall that I buy a lot of components at auctions and loophole shows, and some sellers are just not trustworthy. Dig out the actual 125 grainers and proceed as planned, then on to the real chore that's been nagging at my conscience.
A few hundred unprocessed 5.56x45 mm cases (also known as the .223 McNamara Stalemate) have been kicking around the shack since about 2006. It isn't that there's a shortage of ready rounds at hand. It's more like a spiritual obligation. Any empty cartridge case calls to Heaven. "I feel so empty. Help me, please. So lonely. Prime me. Fulfill me."
Compassionate to even the most inadequate, I yielded to the little devils. I yielded for quite a while, enough to get about half of them ready for primers. Then even my patience ran out. Perhaps tomorrow.
But seriously, folks, I have nothing other than my assaultish looking rifle in which to shoot these things, and I do understand that they can be supremely accurate in an actual gun. If I organize those facts into a rationale for buying yet another bolt-action rifle, I do so hope you will be understanding.
Turns out I was right about the Pope, of course. A Pope from the Pampas. First Jesuit ever, and I suspect that will be interesting. I had a great grad school buddy, a Jesuit priest who -- true to type -- liked to fool around with Aristotelian logic, a discipline overdue for renewed respect here in the image-mad 21st Century, and I -- as a backslid Methodist -- can find no reason whatsoever why my Catholic friends should not lead us out of the of darkness of reasoning via sound bites and photo ops.
But I digress. Worse, I intrude on arcane and complex theological matters, a field best left to such experts such as Tammy Faye, Jerry Wright, and Jimmy Swaggert.
---
It began as a .30-06 afternoon for no better reason that these noble dies were in the press. Production was just one box, 20 rounds, carrying a 125-grain SP, Sierras (I think) at a book speed of just under 3,000. It's a little heavy for gophers, somewhat under powered for woolly mammoths, but usable for either. (Obligatorily: "If I do my part.")
Besides, it's fun to reload, hefty enough for a big-handed guy to handle without tweezers and pretty forgiving from any reasonable safety stand point.
But not that forgiving, and I took a spiritual break during the process to thank Whomever that I am such a frightened old woman when in the vicinity of high combustibles. The partial green box of bullets was plainly marked 125 grain SP. Something doesn't feel quite right. So weigh one. 150 grains. Weigh them all. 150 grains each. Recall that I buy a lot of components at auctions and loophole shows, and some sellers are just not trustworthy. Dig out the actual 125 grainers and proceed as planned, then on to the real chore that's been nagging at my conscience.
A few hundred unprocessed 5.56x45 mm cases (also known as the .223 McNamara Stalemate) have been kicking around the shack since about 2006. It isn't that there's a shortage of ready rounds at hand. It's more like a spiritual obligation. Any empty cartridge case calls to Heaven. "I feel so empty. Help me, please. So lonely. Prime me. Fulfill me."
Compassionate to even the most inadequate, I yielded to the little devils. I yielded for quite a while, enough to get about half of them ready for primers. Then even my patience ran out. Perhaps tomorrow.
But seriously, folks, I have nothing other than my assaultish looking rifle in which to shoot these things, and I do understand that they can be supremely accurate in an actual gun. If I organize those facts into a rationale for buying yet another bolt-action rifle, I do so hope you will be understanding.
Mar 11, 2013
School non-shootings
I like to think of the big school in Wells, Minnesota, as the best disciplined one in the country. For at least one day a year it is as thousands of gun freaks crowd the halls. Probably the rest of the year, too. Politeness is contagious.
We made our annual pilgrimage Saturday and came home happy even if not significantly more lethal -- except for our youngest loopholer, 10. He loopholed a tactical sharp thing. It has so many "features" I refuse to honor it with the term "knife," but it made him smile and that's the general idea.
I settled for about 300 pages of hilarity, an excellent hardback copy of the 1960 "Professional Guides Manual" by Minnesota's own George L. Herter.
(Sample: "If a bull moose will not give you a good sidewise look and you have to judge his rack from the front, look carefully at his ears. If his ears are real long, you can be sure he has a trophy rack.")
Plus an almost unused 1950-ish powder measure and stand, also from Mr. Herter. I've set it up and it works as expected. How could a measure weighing something like 20 pounds be less than perfect?
---
Next week is our little local loophole. Y'all come. I'll be the guy with the interesting useless crap on his table, waving Federal Reserve Cartoons, begging you to sell me something made of steel and walnut.
We made our annual pilgrimage Saturday and came home happy even if not significantly more lethal -- except for our youngest loopholer, 10. He loopholed a tactical sharp thing. It has so many "features" I refuse to honor it with the term "knife," but it made him smile and that's the general idea.
I settled for about 300 pages of hilarity, an excellent hardback copy of the 1960 "Professional Guides Manual" by Minnesota's own George L. Herter.
(Sample: "If a bull moose will not give you a good sidewise look and you have to judge his rack from the front, look carefully at his ears. If his ears are real long, you can be sure he has a trophy rack.")
Plus an almost unused 1950-ish powder measure and stand, also from Mr. Herter. I've set it up and it works as expected. How could a measure weighing something like 20 pounds be less than perfect?
---
Next week is our little local loophole. Y'all come. I'll be the guy with the interesting useless crap on his table, waving Federal Reserve Cartoons, begging you to sell me something made of steel and walnut.
Mar 8, 2013
A Jayhawker Stands His Ground
As a general thing, I oppose Kansas farmers shooting down Iowans, but I'm not unreasonable on the subject. Even a good herd benefits from an occasional and careful culling.
That leads me to applaud the actions of the sherf and prosecutors down in the Free Soil country of Sumner County where an unnamed farmer ended the career of a probation jumper from Creston, Iowa. They're giving him a self-defense pass, and knowing my fellow rustics as I do, I suspect his neighbors will throw a barbecue in his honor.
Kansas has a stand-your-ground law, and it appears to me that it was written specifically to cover cases like this where fugitive Joe Lamasters died in barn after making a bad tactical decision -- to leap from behind a pile of feed sacks into the enfilade area of Farmer's shotgun. As the sheriff reported, the perp "deceased right there."
Cops across the area had been looking for Lamasters and added the courtesy of going door-to-door to tell citizens of a bad guy skulking around. (in a county with a rural population density of maybe four per square mile, "door-to-door" takes on a special meaning.)
It's worth noting that Farmer had Lamasters under the gun twice. The first time the fugitive turned and ran. Farmer decided to have no truck with back-shooting. But the perp made the mistake of fleeing toward another farm where the good citizen believed a woman might be home alone. Farmer went there, found the house empty, and decided to check the outbuildings.
Courage, good judgement, and the shotgun did the rest, but please don't take this as an endorsement of Double-Barrel Biden. My take on the subject would be just the same even if the Kansas farmer had used a Bushmaster with a shoulder thingie and 40 bullets in the clip. But he probably didn't even own one.
Ain't no call for that plastic crap when a feller's got a real nice 12-gauge hanging over the back door. :)
That leads me to applaud the actions of the sherf and prosecutors down in the Free Soil country of Sumner County where an unnamed farmer ended the career of a probation jumper from Creston, Iowa. They're giving him a self-defense pass, and knowing my fellow rustics as I do, I suspect his neighbors will throw a barbecue in his honor.
Kansas has a stand-your-ground law, and it appears to me that it was written specifically to cover cases like this where fugitive Joe Lamasters died in barn after making a bad tactical decision -- to leap from behind a pile of feed sacks into the enfilade area of Farmer's shotgun. As the sheriff reported, the perp "deceased right there."
Cops across the area had been looking for Lamasters and added the courtesy of going door-to-door to tell citizens of a bad guy skulking around. (in a county with a rural population density of maybe four per square mile, "door-to-door" takes on a special meaning.)
It's worth noting that Farmer had Lamasters under the gun twice. The first time the fugitive turned and ran. Farmer decided to have no truck with back-shooting. But the perp made the mistake of fleeing toward another farm where the good citizen believed a woman might be home alone. Farmer went there, found the house empty, and decided to check the outbuildings.
Courage, good judgement, and the shotgun did the rest, but please don't take this as an endorsement of Double-Barrel Biden. My take on the subject would be just the same even if the Kansas farmer had used a Bushmaster with a shoulder thingie and 40 bullets in the clip. But he probably didn't even own one.
Ain't no call for that plastic crap when a feller's got a real nice 12-gauge hanging over the back door. :)
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