Saturday, January 31, 2009

The Cache - Part 6 – Stalked!

During the night the weather began to change. The wind began to pick up and soon had dispersed the fog, but with the wind came dark gray clouds, the type of clouds that carried snow. Sometime after 2:00 am, flakes of snow began to fall; big wet ones that melted almost as soon as they hit. The temperature began to drop and soon the snow was starting to stick instead of melt.

He shivered slightly in his sleep, oblivious to the change occurring around him. He clutched the liner closer to him and rolled onto his side, drifting back into a deeper sleep. And while he slept, the world grew white.

The morning sun dawned on a different world. The grey of early winter had been replaced with white, sending nature notice that it was time to adapt to a new set of rules. Birds and small mammals must now search in earnest for their daily sustenance.

Plop! The sound of snow sliding off his shelter brought him to the REM sleep stage as his mind tried to decipher this new sound. He began to dream strange dream sequences, better suited to a Sci-Fi novel than a coherent thought pattern.

Shhhhhh…Ploppp!! The sound now caused his eyes to flutter open and struggle to focus on the source of his awakening. The birds twittering in the trees and brush about him greeted the rising sun as they awoke to perform their nature. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked around at the new landscape assembled for him as he slept. “Ohhhh Shittt!” he grumbled, knowing that this was not to his advantage as he fled his pursuers.

It was much colder now than before he had gone to bed, so he sat up and pulled his GHB over to him, rummaging thru it, pulling out the contents and setting them in a pile in front of him. He had his 4 pair of extra cotton socks, heavily worn now after his boots failed, his socks absorbing most of the abuse of his journey. Most of the damage was in the areas of the toes, and the rest was fairly serviceable still. He took the two worst of the 4 pair and cut the damaged ends off. He took off his hooded sweat shirt, then slid them over his bare arms, making a pair of detachable sleeves that instantly helped to warm him up. He then put on two of the brown t-shirts. They were initially cold from being stored in the pack, causing him to shiver, but began to warm slowly. He hurriedly put the sweatshirt back on and then looked to his feet.

When your feet are warm, it is easier to warm up the rest of your body. If your feet are cold, you will have a harder time warming up. With this in mind he removed his boots and took off his tattered wool socks. They were still serviceable, but they would need to be washed and repaired soon or they would be beyond saving. He pulled on one of the pairs of cotton socks, and then put the wool ones back on over the top of the cotton. The wool was damp feeling and he wanted to put something dry next to his feet.

No matter how you looked at it, the boots were going to let in moisture in their current condition. He slipped an empty 1 gallon Ziploc freezer bag over each foot and slid them into the damaged boots before lacing them up. It wasn’t a perfect solution, hell it wasn’t even a good solution, but it would help keep his feet from getting wet from the boots.

Now he examined the small pile of gear left in front of him. Two of the trash bags lay there awaiting the decision to put them into use. He took one and cut three holes in it; one for his head and one for each arm. He then slipped it over his other clothes and tied it at the waist with a piece of 550 cord.

Soon he was warmed up and turned his attention to getting the fire going again. There were still some coals in the fire pit so he added some wood shavings and twigs from a pile he had created the night before. It smoldered for a bit and then the tinder caught fire, flames growing taller as they woke and feed their latent hunger. He added more wood until he had another energetic fire, flames leaping from the pit. It was time for breakfast so he sorted through his remaining rations. There was so little left to choose from, so he took one of his remaining two packets of instant oatmeal and dumped it into his bowl, adding water from the pot heating in the coals.

He made a cup of coffee from the remaining water, crushed a Jolly Rancher and dumped it in his coffee. He stirred it in until it dissolved then sipped on it after finishing his oatmeal.

He had a dire emergency looming. He was nearly out of toilet paper from his kit and was not looking forward to the prospect of going without it. His food was about all gone also, meaning he either needed to forage some more cattails or catch some of the small mammals he had seen signs of in his journey thus far. He feared that hunger would dull his senses and render him susceptible to making mistakes. He couldn’t afford any mistakes!

If it wasn’t for having to move so stealthy, he would have had plenty of food available to reach C1. But as it was, he figured he was at least 3 days from C1 at his current rate of travel. He would be out of most everything by tomorrow. Just a handful of hard candies and his hot drinks stood between him and the looming hunger.

His flight from the dogs had caused him to travel far off the course he had intended to follow along the river bank. He would need to travel in a southeasterly direction to get back on his track. The river was an important navigation landmark for him as it passed close to the town were his house was. A large creek flowed into the river and meandered through town, not more than 3 blocks from his house!

Because of the snow clouds he could not determine his location by the shape of the surrounding mountains. Living in the same area for most of your life lets you become familiar with your surroundings as viewed from different locations. Using his compass he laid out two sticks in the form of a cross to mark the points of the compass. He studied the visible terrain as much as he could and guessed he was no more than 2 miles from his home. He knew that his house was probably watched, hell, they had probably already torn it apart searching for contraband!

He told himself that he was going to make someone pay for all this misery before he left the area for good! He needed now to focus on securing enough food to allow him to get to C1. The snow cover would prevent him from finding all but cattail from the plant kingdom, but he hoped he could snare some small game. He pulled out a 20’ hunk of paracord and began to pull the inner strand out to make some snares. He soon had made four that he felt confident in and set out to place them in likely places.

He was camped on the edge of an old clear-cut which was in the process of growing back into underbrush so he felt that the prospects were good for him being able to catch a rabbit or other small mammal. He located several likely areas and set up his snares. One critter popped out of his hole while he was in the process of setting one up, surprising both of them. It ran back down into it’s hole so he finished setting the snare anyway.

Once he had the snares placed he set out to find a wet area where he could collect more water and hopefully harvest some more cattails. He wanted about six pounds of roots so that he could focus on travel rather than on procuring food. It could be days before he actually snared something so he did not want to rely only on that source of food. He struck out east across the overgrown clear-cut and walked about 300 yards until he came up against the edge of a swamp.

There were plenty cattails growing in the old skidder tire ruts leading into the swamp so he soon had his six pounds gathered. He also gathered an armful of the dead leaves to use as insulation under his ground cloth. He stacked the leaves at the side of his trail, placed the sacks of roots on top, and then turned to look south. The swamp stretched out as far he could see and he wondered if it ran all the way to the river. He began to follow the edge, hoping to find a passage across that was not too much trouble.

He walked for what seemed like a mile when he came across an area that was too marshy to travel further. While he had been walking it began to snow a little harder, so he decided he would go back to his stash of cattails and return to camp for the night. He needed to gather more firewood to keep him overnight so he thought it was best to turn back now.

He began following his tracks back the way he had come, noticing that the snow was starting to fall a little harder. He wished that he had one of those little Coleman thermometers that are meant to hang from your jacket zipper. He could tell it starting to get colder as the flakes were getting smaller. His fingers were getting colder now too. He continued trudging along semi-lost in thought. Up ahead he could see the spot where he had left the cattails.

As he walked along, he noticed something different about his tracks. There were big paw prints following his track back the way he had just come. He stopped immediately and scanned his surroundings. Somewhere back the way he had come, he had passed something walking his trail. It must have hid in the brush as he passed it, but he didn’t remember seeing the tracks lead away from his. He stooped down to study the tracks and felt a shiver run up his spine! He was being stalked!

It was a cat, and a big one! Most likely a cougar come down from the snow covered hills to search for food in the lowlands. This was not a good development, as he had left his Taurus back at camp, secure in its waterproof packaging. He scooped up his gleanings and headed back to camp at a rapid pace, nervously looking around him as he made his way back. The cat tracks were still there, apparently following his tracks from the direction of his camp.

He was getting more worried now. If it had been in his camp, it wasn’t afraid of humans. This meant it was either a young male or a older cat that was looking for easy pickings. Finally he could see his camp ahead and the tracks veered off from it. It was probably uncomfortable around the smell of fire and so had skirted the camp. He unceremoniously dumped his load next to the tarp and dug out the .38 Special. He mechanically checked it all the while scanning the area around the camp for movement. Satisfied nothing was there, he placed the Taurus in his pants pocket and set to reviving the fire.

Once it had come back to life, he put some water on to boil for a hot drink and to cook up some of the roots. He then set out gathering enough branches from the top of the maple to last for a day. Just outside of his camp was a young alder, about three inches in diameter, and twelve feet tall. He cut it down and pulled it back to camp. He was going to make a spear about six feet long, that could also be used as a walking stick. Back in camp, he arranged the cattail leaves under his ground cloth and then laid out his bed.

While the roots boiled he sawed up the pile of branches and stacked them next to the fire pit. The wind was beginning to pick up again so he built several three foot high walls out of snow to help block the wind. He noticed how this made the area under his tarp much warmer and more comfortable. He had about an hour before sunset so taking his pistol out of his pocket, he went out to check his snares. The first one looked as though it had no activity so he left it in place. The second snare was in the same condition as the first.

The third snare had a small rabbit in it and his heart jumped for joy. He collected it and reset the snare, then moved on to the fourth one. When he got there he saw that the cougar had been there first. The area was tore up a bit as though there had been a struggle. All he found were bits of fur and lots of blood that told him a rabbit had died here. He retrieved his snare and carefully retreated back to his camp. Once there, he skinned and gutted the rabbit, and skewered it on a maple branch over the fire. As it began to cook, he started working on his spear.


Dusty snuggled the crossbow up to his shoulder and took aim for the snipers shoulder, and when he had the sight picture he wanted, he gently squeezed the trigger. Thhhrummmm! went the bow as the bolt sped to its target. He heard the man scream as the bolt pierced his shoulder and a slight smile crossed his lips.

He watched and listened for a moment and was rewarded with hearing the mans moans as he passed out from the trauma. Dusty rose up, shouldered the bow and worked his way down to the stricken man. Lifting him to his free shoulder, he grunted as he stood up and began to walk slowly down the hill towards the camp he had left earlier. He had to tend to the mans wound so that he would not die too soon. Dusty wanted some answers and he had to take care of Eddie also.

He froze in the underbrush as a group of men that appeared to be soldiers walked in front of him, down the tracks and across the bridge. Once they were out of sight he moved across and disappeared into the brush. Within minutes he had reached camp, where he dumped the wounded man without care. He retrieved his bolt from the mans shoulder which caused him to cry out, even though unconscious. Dusty cleaned up the broad head and put it and the crossbow back in their bundle which he then replaced in the small hut.

Dusty then tended to the mans wound, and once satisfied he was not going to die right away, he proceeded to bind him in such a way as his right hand was free but he could not move the arm. He then made a fire and heated up some leftover coffee. Sitting down he waited for the man to regain consciousness.

“For you Eddie!” Dusty said.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

France Seethes while US Cowers

France braces for mass walk-out
content edited due to low-life scum suing bloggers for alleged copyright infringement
Ok, we have seen the government of Iceland fall, now we are seeing the citizens of France rise up in protest of their governments ineptitude.

Why do Americans languish upon their butt's while the worst crap to come down the pike is rammed up their ass without a whimper? Has this truly become the land of the Sheeple?

Has the hope for "Change" blinded so many eyes that they have no clue as to the shenanighans being pulled to give those responsible for the financial problems even more wealth at our expense?

Have Americans lost their balls? Has too much sports and MTV changed our population into a huge flock of bleating sheep? Or is it cowering in fear of our out of control government?

What will it take to wake this slumbering bunch of sissy's into real men (and women)?

I don't know if I want to be around for the answer, for the pandemonium that will insue will be everything we have prepared against. It will surely test our mettle.

For now though, I feel safe knowing the sheeple cower in their homes, keeping Martial Law at bay (not Marshall Law).

Monday, January 26, 2009

Comments on The Cache

I received the following tips from a reader who evidently wished to remain anonymous as he emailed me this.

Thank you for sharing!

When I was an infantry soldier I learned to be almost comfortable, sometimes, living in the field.

If I were on this E&E with Henry I would suggest to him:

1. that he fold the mylar space blanket which allegedlyreflects 80% heat, cut a neckhole (reinforced with duct tape), and wear it as a liner under the hooded poncho; and

2. that the candle in a small hole would allow heat to rise inside his poncho. (or a candle lantern hanging on a stick across the hole or a small fire if wood is dry enough to not give off smoke); and

3. that we catch fish with the six fishhooks and braided 50 lb test Spiderwire that I always carry in my wallet .

The teacandle heats the aluminum body of the lantern which radiates much heat. I keep a candle lantern, with extra teacandles stored inside, in each vehicle and in my bicycle GHB .

Thanks once again! These are tips that we all can use!

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Fuel for the Gun Ban

I knew it would start soon. Because of these Left-wing Liberals turned murderers, the new administration will soon have the justification it needs to institute a new ban!

Gunman used AK-47 to fire on crowd, police say
content edited due to low-life scum suing bloggers for alleged copyright infringement

Police: 2 shot dead, 7 hurt at Kansas wake
content edited due to low-life scum suing bloggers for alleged copyright infringement

Look for more of this crap to happen and for it to fuel a Democraptic gun grab soon.

Readers Rifles

I have seen an increase in the amount of traffic to the blog post titled "The Marlin Model 60 Survival Rifle and have found it interesting that so many people have an interest in the Model 60. Seeing all this traffic, I thought that I would like to see how other people have dressed up their ladies! (or gents if you are a female!)

So, I am sending out a request for pictures of your Model 60's, complete with a description of your additions and if you have a unusual mod, please include the URL if purchased over the internet.

I know there is a lot of interest in our often overlooked but not forgotten choice in .22lr firearms, and accesories are much more difficult to find than those for the detachable magazine fed Ruger 10/22.

Also, I think a dream list would be nice, so that if any representatives of the aftermarket addon manufacturers happen across this blog, they will see the market demand for new innovations!

So, if you would like to show off your Lady, send me your info and pics to my email listed in my profile.

Happy Shooting!

Friday, January 23, 2009

The Cache - Part 5 - Confrontation

He was dreaming again.
And the strange thing was, in the dream, he knew he was dreaming! He was cooking something over an open fire on a spit. It looked like a tree rat but much bigger.

In his dream it was night, but the moon was out lighting up the woods with an eerie glow. He could see a figure walking towards him from the distance. Strangely, it did not alarm him at all. As the figure grew nearer he recognized it as his youngest son. His son drew closer until he was only several feet away. He could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear anything. It was if the night swallowed up the sound of his voice!

“What is it?” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

His son’s mouth moved again but still no sound issued forth.

“I can’t hear you!” he said.

His son shook his head, stepped forward and grabbed him by both shoulders, pulling him in closer to him. They locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity and then his mouth moved again.

“Dogs!” he said.

He bolted upright in his makeshift bed and said out loud: “Dogs!”

Sure enough, in the distance he could hear the baying of dogs, and what sounded like voices yelling into the still morning air. He jumped up and looked around him in a panic! Springing into action, he stuffed his makeshift bed into his pack. He then untied his poncho from the saplings he had attached them to. The knots had been tied in such a way as all he had to do was pull on one side of the cord and it came undone.

He donned the poncho without removing the cords and was off in less than 2 minutes time! He was moving fast, but his mind was racing faster!

“Dogs!” he thought. “How do you lose Dogs?”

The area that he was traveling in was still covered in fog. It was a strange experience traveling in the fog with the sun starting to rise. There were lots of small creeks and rivulets in this area, as it was a drainage to the river from the snowpack in the hills above. He started walking in a small stream and followed it until it turned back to the sound of the baying dogs. He then left the stream, traveling northeast until he came across the next stream.

Although his feet were starting to get numb from the cold water, he continued to follow the stream, always moving upstream and when it got too shallow, he moved on till he found the next. He continued moving in this fashion for the better part of an hour, until he could hear the dogs no more. He found another campsite, similar the one he had spent the night at before, and proceeded to dig a fire pit so he could dry out his shoes.

Though he could no longer hear the dogs, for a second he thought he heard a far off gunshot! He began the task of drying out his feet and began to think about that strange dream which had warned him of his peril. He wondered if his son was ok; he hoped it was not a visit from the spirit world, the spirit of his dead son come back to warn him. The possibility that one of his sons may be dead broke down the last remaining bastions of strength that he had. He began to sob, slowly at first, building in intensity until the sobs broke down any shreds of control that he had managed to maintain.


He woke late, after 5:00pm. At first he wasn’t sure where he was. Then it all came flooding back to him. He felt the rush of anger and of dread, and fought off the returning nausea as the scene replayed in his head. It was dark enough this time of year that he would need to use his Mini-Mag flash light with the red lens filter to find his way down to the river bank and to cross. The sky was overcast and he would not have the help of any natural light to effect his movement across the river.

Moving slowly, so as to make the least possible noise, he crossed the open area between his concealment and the goal of the riverbank. He could hear the voices of the soldiers guarding the trestle as they gathered around the small fire they had started. It was probably against orders to break light discipline in such a manner, but they were out here in the sticks where the probability of anyone catching them was near nil.

As he got near them, he shut off the light and closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, they were much more sensitive to the ambient light and that cast from the small fire, scant as it was. Moving slowly, he began to descend the riverbank, getting caught up on brambles and underbrush, slowly untangling himself until he stepped into the shallow riverbed. The water was slightly above his ankles as he started to ford the shallows. Moving slowly so as not to splash, he progressed until it was knee deep, and then it began to get shallower as he ascended the other side and stepped onto dry land.

Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the shapes of the soldiers huddled around the little blaze that they maintained against orders. Finding that his crossing remained undetected, he moved on up the bank, out of sight of the murderers behind him.


Dusty moved up the hill, silent as a shadow. He scanned the area before him, looking for a trace of the sniper. It seems that he had relocated from his earlier position and was better concealed than before. Dusty knew he was there. He could smell him! The sniper was a smoker, and though he had not lit up while Dusty was there, he carried the smell ingrained in his body’s pores, breath and clothing.

Just ahead and down the hill from the spruce. He saw a faint movement that betrayed the snipers position. Now he had him! Dusty slowly moved behind a small spruce that would conceal his actions. Opening the bundle he had retrieved from the hut, and he drew out a crossbow, complete with a scope.

Slowly and quietly he cocked the bow, and then placed a bolt with a four bladed hunting tip into it. He did not want to kill the sniper right away, so he would aim for his right shoulder. Once he had him, he would find out what he wanted to know. And he was good at extracting information.

Very, very good!


He had lain there for who knows how long, his body racked by the sobs. They were coming much further apart now as he regained a small measure of control. He needed to direct his thoughts to surviving the situation at hand, not reflecting on what might or might not be. He sat up and took measure of his current location: He had shelter, water, a dwindling amount of food, warmth from his fire. His feet were healing despite the constant traveling and repeated immersions in cold water. So overall the situation could be much worse.

He decided that a good hot cup of cider would be cheering right about now, so he retrieved his cooking pot and began to heat some water. It was a homemade pot, constructed from a larger Heineken beer can (24 fl oz). It was easy to build, just run a sharp pointed knife around the top (looking down) and when the knife point poked thru, cut out the top with the knife, leaving the ring on top for strength. An earlier experiment with cutting the ring off the top yielded a cooking pot that got bent in his pack because the aluminum had no strength to hold its shape. The pot was usable at this point, but he liked to sand down the sharp edge that was left, aiding in cleanup and reducing the chance of a cut.

His stomach began to grumble too, so he looked at his watch and to his amazement, he saw that over 8 hours had passed since he had first broken down! He couldn’t afford any more of that kind of behavior! His pursuers could have come up on him and he wouldn’t even have noticed until too late. Even so, he decided to spend the night in this camp and in the morning head back toward the river, and follow it until he reached a crossing point; ford or bridge.

When he had constructed the Ration Packs, he had included a vitamin pack in each one to help with the nutrition that he knew he would be missing. He was out of them now, as when he went to half rations he kept on taking the vitamins to keep up his health. He did not need to come down with a cold or flu while he was on the run. He thought about foraging again and then he remembered the cattail roots in his pack.

He pulled out his forage bag and immediately set to work peeling and slicing the pile of roots until he had enough to fill his cook pot. He boiled them for a while and when they were soft, he poured off most of the liquid into his cup, and then he mashed them up with a clean stick. He opened a packet of bullion, sprinkled it on top and then stirred it in with his spoon. He then added back in more of the water until he had a consistency of a thick soup. He tasted it and was surprised that it was almost like mashed potatoes!

Hungrily, he devoured it all and then cleaned up his kit. He always put everything back in his pack when not in use so as not to misplace it or leave it behind in the case of a sudden departure. He drank the still warm liquid he had poured off the roots; not too bad, but kind of bland. His new camp was only a few paces from a small rivulet that hurriedly flowed through the clearing where he was camped. He needed to replace his water supply, and was faced with the choice of using his Polar Pure or boiling. Since he had a fire going he chose to boil and thus save the crystals for a later time when he would be on the move and had no fire.

While the water was heating, he gathered more wood for the fire and began to saw it into manageable sized pieces that would fit in the fire pit. He filled all of his water bottles and after the last pot full had cooled sufficiently, he filled several of the Ziploc bags and tested them for leaks. Satisfied that they would not soak the contents of his pack, he placed them in a 1 gallon Ziploc freezer bag as further protection against leakage. By doing this, he increased his water supply greatly and would be able to travel in areas away from water supplies for a longer time.

Once he reached one of the more remote caches, he would setup a rainwater catchment to collect the runoff from his parka. He wished that he had his bug out bag. It had a wild foods trail guide that would be helpful in identifying wintertime wild foods. He remembered reading about Burdock root, and how it was best to harvest the first year rootstalk for cooking like potatoes. It was recommended not to peel it, but to scrub it well and after slicing it, simmer it for 20 minutes.

He removed his crumpled up Mylar blanket and straightened it out, folding it neatly in half. He then wrapped himself in the poncho liner, climbed in between the half’s of Mylar and tucked in the loose edges. Warm and fed, he drifted off to sleep once again.


He moved slowly up the riverbank, trying to not make any sounds, but the brush seemed to clutch at him and try its best to trip him up. It was agonizingly slow going until finally he stepped onto the gravel bed of the tracks once more. The sound of his feet in the gravel roared in his ears, but the river covered the sound with it’s constant chuckling as it flowed over the rocks. He gained the tracks and crouched down to erase any silhouette he might create. There was so little ambient light that he would be forced to travel using the Mini-Mag with the red lens.

Moving out east on the tracks, he attempted to step only on the ties as to avoid the crunching noise made when walking in gravel. It was an awkward form of travel, but he made fairly good time and found himself drawing nearer to the town. He could hear a lone vehicle travelling on the highway through town. He knew that he was getting closer to inhabited land, so he slowed his pace and began to look for a place to leave the tracks and begin moving through the underbrush.

Moving slowly gave him the advantage of hearing noises in the night, and now he heard gravel crunching up ahead. He switched off the light and moving quietly, he followed what seemed to be a deer trail off the tracks. It appeared as though the trail lead to the river once more, and the animals could drink at a low spot on the bank. He wished to skirt the people he heard on the tracks so he moved silently through the trees that grew on the edge of the right-of-way. He could smell cigarette smoke now, as the patrol took a smoke break.

He quietly moved down a game trail that ran parallel to the tracks, carefully keeping an eye on the place where the patrol had stopped. Suddenly, a light snapped on and a low voice sternly said “Halt” Identify yourself!”

All of his stealth had been for naught!
He had been discovered.

Signs of the Times

Special zones urged for people who sleep in RVs, cars in Venice.
Read More

content edited due to low-life scum suing bloggers for alleged copyright infringement

This will be happening in other communities also as the reality begins to sink into the thick heads of our local governments. Perhaps some enlightenment may cause them to rethink the "no farm animals" laws that keep poorer familys from raising their own food with small livstock. I doubt it though. Their heads are pretty thick!

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Next post of "The Cache"

Sorry for the delay, I have been sick and going to bed almost directly after getting home from work. The next installment is nearly half finished and will be posted Saturday. I am glad that so many of you are enjoying the story.

I have been pondering the recommendations of those who believe I should publish it. Once I am feeling better I may look into having it published by a professional company, or if I can't get any interest from them, on LuLu.

Whatever happens, I will finish it and for those who have requested a signed copy, I will have a few on hand.

Thanks all of you for your encouragement.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009


Obama takes a Crap!
It is reported that the president elect grunted and farted while committing his 1st serious action as president. It was widely reported to have no smell, or perhaps a touch of roses, leading to the wide spread speculation that his crap doesn't stink!
Environmental groups everywhere claim it will restore the environment!
Diane Fienstein, Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton swear it is good for a facial, removing wrinkles!
Government Scientists claim it will solve Global Warming! (Climate Change)
Bill Clinton claims he smoked it, but he didn't inhale!
Rolled in by dogs everywhere!
Hamas claims it is really their crap, stolen by Obama and the Israelis, a Zionist plot!
Hezbollah fires a crap load of rockets into Israel from Lebanon.
Putin ponders his own crap: how to peddle it to crap strapped Europe!

Stay tuned for more crap reports from the networks you can depend on to provide it!

Really, I swear, the media is all but worshiping the ground he walks on. Let's see how much they like him 12 months from now!

Here is a you tube video that sums up the liberal media's reaction to Obama's every move:

If some of you find this offensive, don't watch it!
For the rest of you non P.C. blogophiles, I hope you found it as humorous as I.

Monday, January 19, 2009

WTF – Washington State Carbon Tax

The liberal jackasses in our states congress have managed to ram a Carbon Tax up our asses while everybody was orgasming over Obama getting elected! It is Washington State Vehicle License Fee Bill SB6900

Way to go you bastards. Of course all of the sponsor’s of the bill are our friends in the Democraptic party. Who would have guessed? Brought to you courtesy of Senators Tom, Kohl-Welles, Pridemore, Keiser, Kline.

Here's the link for contacting your representatives so that you can raise hell with them:

These scumbags need to get the message that our wallets have been raped enough by them. No more bending over and taking it!

Here is some of this shit they call legislation:
5 NEW SECTION. Sec. 1. A new section is added to chapter 46.17 RCW
6 to read as follows:
7 (1) A vehicle engine displacement fee must be paid and collected
8 annually for motor vehicles subject to the fee under RCW 46.16.0621,
9 except motor homes. The amount of the fee must be based upon the
10 vehicle engine size in liters, which is correlated with vehicle size
11 and vehicle emissions. The fee imposed under this section must be used
12 for transportation purposes, and may not be used for the general
13 support of state government. The vehicle engine displacement fee is
14 that portion of the fee, as reflected on the engine size in liters set
15 forth in the schedule provided in this section, that is in excess of
16 the fees imposed under RCW 46.16.0621 and 46.17.010. For vehicles
17 registered on or after January 1, 2009, the vehicle engine displacement
18 fee under this section is due at the time of initial vehicle
19 registration and any subsequent renewal of vehicle registration.
p. 1 SB 6900
1 Engine Size (liters) Rate Schedule
2 Up to 1.9 $0
3 2.0 - 2.9 $70
4 3.0 - 3.9 $225
5 4.0 - 4.9 $275
6 5.0 - 5.9 $325
7 6.0 - 7.9 $400
8 8.0 or over $600

9 (2) For the purpose of administering this section, the department
10 shall rely on the vehicle engine size in liters as provided by vehicle
11 manufacturers, or other sources defined by the department, to determine
12 the engine size in liters of each vehicle. The department shall adopt
13 rules for determining engine size in liters for vehicles that do not
14 have a manufacturer-provided engine size in liters.
15 (3) The vehicle engine displacement fee under this section is
16 imposed to provide funds to mitigate the impact of vehicle loads on the
17 state roads and highways, as well as encourage the reduction of vehicle
18 emissions and is separate and distinct from other vehicle license fees.
19 (4) The vehicle engine displacement fee collected under this
20 section must be deposited into the multimodal transportation account.

Now I am not sure if it actually got enacted into law, but it reads like it did. Perhaps it didn't but the writing is on the wall, they want more of your hard earned dollars in the worst way, and will stoop to any low to get it. It doesn't matter how it may impact you, just cough up the cash!

If you don’t raise hell with your rep’s you will get what you deserve. This crap ain’t long in coming to the rest of the states, just you wait and see!

I see a day coming, when there will be a shortage of rope!

More to follow as I calm down and research this travesty...

Update: It appears that this bill died in committee last year with no support from either the Majority or the Minorty. That does not mean that it will not return in some aborted form again this year. We all know how these types like to spend "We the People's" hard earned cash. Also, something like this poisonous tripe may surface in your state legislature. Pay attention, or reap what they have sown!

New Update:
Another interesting note: It seems state senator Tom lives in the Medina area of Seattle. Upscale, as in Bill Gates neighborhood! No wonder he thinks that we all are made of money!

Sunday, January 18, 2009

The Cache - Part 4 – The Crossing

The day dawned grey and foggy, threatening to rain but never quite fulfilling that threat. He woke to the sound of a diesel motor, perhaps a semi tractor, travelling east on the highway. He was stiff and cold, and reluctant to move from the scant warmth of his makeshift bed. Groaning, he sat up and surveyed the surrounding terrain. A cloud or fog had crept in during the night and visibility was limited to less than 100 feet in any direction.

Hunger gnawed at his belly, so he retrieved his meager food supplies from his pack. He was now down to 2 days of half rations, and the prospects of adding to his supply were slim. He had no snares, no traps and the available plant life for foraging this time of year was limited severely. He knew he could find more cattail down by the riverbank, but normal ways of preparing it were better suited to a stationary camp, rather than being on the run.

Irregardless, it was food and would have to suffice for the time being. He broke camp and went down to the riverbank to gather more roots and perform his morning functions. After satisfying nature, he brushed his teeth and washed his face. In all he gathered about 2 lbs of roots which he washed thoroughly and stuffed into his forage bag, which he then put in his pack to process later.

Using some of the twigs he had gathered for the previous nights fire, he started a small fire in his tin can tea candle stove. It had been built to accommodate natural fuels as well as the tea candles. He brought some water to boil and then added it to his eating bowl, into which he had added a package of his oatmeal. He dumped a packet of Cider into his mug and poured the last of his hot water into it. The warm meal cheered him slightly and after cleaning up, he prepared for the dreaded river crossing.

The fog was thick on the river, great for hiding him as he crossed, but bad for his own visibility. For a few moments he debated the wisdom of fording the overgrown creek. Perhaps he should cross the road instead. The fog would hide him from view and he could skirt the few homes that were on that side of the road. The sound of a vehicle, coming from the west rendered that option useless for the moment.

He could hear the vehicle slow as it crossed the bridge, and it stopped a few yards down the road. He hurriedly donned his gear, just in case, and was validated mere seconds later as he heard the dogs disembark. It was time to move, no more time for exploring options. He had filled in the fire pit and erased all traces that he had been there when he broke camp. That had been a wise move as he had no time to do so now. He moved silently to the river and began his bone-numbing journey across the rain swollen expanse.

The tone of the dogs barking now changed; they were on to him! He only had moments to cross the river before the dogs reached the river bank! If he hurried too fast he could lose his footing and be swept away to drown! The water was up to his waist and rising fast. He could feel his body’s warmth being sucked away as he struggled to maintain his footing. He was halfway across now, and the water was getting no deeper. The current was tugging at him ferociously though, threatening to pull his feet out from under him at every step.

The fog was working for him, hiding his escape from certain detection under more normal weather conditions. As he reached the bank on the other side, the dogs finally made their way to the opposite shore. They were busy snuffling out his scent, and didn’t notice the faint movement in the fog across the river. He had eluded them once more!


He was having weird dreams.
Helicopters and talking bushes and lots of running.

Dusty rescued him from the bizarre by waking him. It was still dark, but Dusty had a fire going in the fire pit, so there was some visibility. Dusty handed him a cup of hot coffee, and began to cook up some sourdough pancakes. Sleepily, he looked around him, taking in what he could see and filing it away in his memory. They ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the events that were currently shaping their lives.

Dusty told him that he couldn’t go with him any further. He had a brother to lay to rest and vengeance to extract. He had a man to kill! They went seperate ways back at the tracks and Dusty gave him some parting advice:

“Stay off the tracks and keep to the brush. The next town is just a mile and a half ahead. Go slow and take your time. There is one more trestle ahead, do not cross it. Cross the river below the trestle at dark. It is shallow there and won’t wet you much above your ankles. Be safe my brother!”

That last bit, the “brother” part, was what he needed in the way of encouragement. That there were people in this world such as Dusty and his late friend Eddie cheered him and gave him the desire to overcome the odds, rather than be overcome by them. They said their goodbyes, gave each other a great hug, and set out upon their chosen paths. One man to escape certain death, the other to bring certain death to a man.

Dusty returned to the camp and retrieved a bundle from a small hut. He touched up his camo face paint and once again donned his Ghillie suit. He left the camp as silent as a shadow. Upon reaching the tracks, he headed west, back to the trestle and the sniper. He hoped the sniper was still there, for he intended to kill him. Not fast, like Eddie had died, but very slow and drawn out, as he had learned from the North Vietnamese. He was going to enjoy this very much. “For you, Eddie” he said in a whisper. He disappeared into the brush close to the trestle, silent as a ghost, intent upon its haunting.

He traveled as Dusty had suggested, slowly and keeping to the underbrush. Although it took a amazing amount of time to move such a short distance, he was glad that he had followed the advice, as he saw several patrols walking the tracks. He marveled that they were spending so much manpower to find him, and then he got a rude awakening!

When he reached the trestle, he could see why Dusty had told him to cross the river below it. It was patrolled by a 4 man squad that had arrived in a HUMVEE. A rural access road ran parallel with the tracks for about a hundred yards. An old Ford pickup was coming down the road, only to be stopped by the men from the trestle. They waved the truck over to the side of the road, and when it complied they made the occupants get out while they searched the vehicle.

One of the men, who appeared to be soldiers, found something which he waved triumphantly over his head. When the driver protested and tried to retrieve his property, he was cut down by the soldier manning the m-60 machinegun on the HUMVEE. The other 2 occupants of the truck were forced to kneel in the ditch next their truck, and the man who stopped them pulled out his pistol and put a round into each of their heads!

He was stunned and sickened! What the hell was happening that such an action could be justified? He shook with an unbridled rage at what he had just witnessed. He wanted to kill those men in the worst way! Slowly the rage subsided to be replaced by a numbness, and then a chilling fear. He wondered if his sons had gotten to safety. A dread crept over him, causing him to fear that they had met the same fate as those people in the pickup. Then he threw up.

Was this to be his and his family’s fate? Shot in the head on some back road like a rabid dog? He now desperately wished he had included a small AM/FM/Weather radio in his pack so that he could monitor the news. If he included an earbud, he could listen without a sound for the outside world to hear. He crawled deeper into the underbrush and laid down. At the moment, he just didn’t have the strength to face the scene of the spectacle he had just witnessed. He fell asleep, and stayed that way for hours, until it was dark.


He was wet from his chest down, and his legs were starting to feel numb. His elation at having eluded the dogs was replaced with concern as he knew that if he didn’t get dry and warm soon, he would die of exposure. To make matters worse, it was raining again. If only he had packed some wool clothes, he would be able to warm up, as everyone knew that wool will keep you warm even while wet.

The fog made it hard to navigate; it seemed thicker on this side of the river. He checked his compass to be sure he was heading north, and not in some big circle back to the river. He had travelled this way for about 30 minutes when he encountered a likely place to stop and rest. A large maple had fallen sometime past in high winds and created the perfect combination of a thick trunk to block sight from the south, and a source of dry wood to build a fire.

He quickly took off his poncho and lashed it to some dead saplings to form a shelter. His teeth were chattering and his fingers were getting numb, so he pulled out the Mylar survival blanket and wrapped himself in it. He then laid out his folded ground cloth and sat cross legged on it. Forming a small tepee like structure around himself, he pulled the tin can stove from his pack and placed a lit tea candle in it. Soon it began to warm up inside the makeshift tent an his shivering stopped.

He needed to raise his core temperature so he began to heat some water for a cup of hot soup. The last of the soup. He examined the contents of his last ration pack: 2 packets of hot chocolate, 3 instant coffees, 5 teabags, 4 hot ciders, 5 bullion cubes, 2 packages of instant oatmeal, 2 granola bars, 5 books of matches, 10 pieces of Jolly Rancher hard candy, 1 package of raisins, 1 package of smoked almonds and one packet cream of chicken soup. Most of this inventory was unconsumed items from previous ration packs which he consolidated after each day. He kept the empty Ziploc bags for later use. If they were in good condition, they would hold water for crossing areas known to be dry.

It is difficult to boil any amount of water with a tea candle stove. It’s main purpose was to be a heater, and to be used for times like this, when you needed heat fast and didn’t want to wait for building a decent fire. The water would warm up hotter than body temp, and that was his main wish. Getting hot liquids inside him to bring up his core temperature. He decided to start out with the hot chocolate for the sugar content. Sugar = energy, energy = heat. He would then have a cup of beef bullion before making the soup.

Once he had finished the bullion, he felt the chill subsiding and he knew that he had beat hypothermia once again. As soon as he finished the soup, he would dig another Dakota fire hole and begin the process of drying his clothes. He checked his boots, and retied the left one as it was fraying at one spot. If he could get to C1, he would be in fat city. All the consumables in his pack would be replaced, he would have a newer pair of boots as well as a pair of Moccasins for wearing around camp, a wool sweater, 50 rounds of .38 special hollow points that he had reloaded, as well as a wool blanket, a set of flecktarn camo BDU’s, and a shoulder bag for carrying his food supply. There were also 2 pairs of new wool socks, more tea candles and a larger first aid kit.

He finished the soup and set about digging the fire pit. The ground was soft from all the rain so the digging went relatively quickly. He soon had a crackling blaze started and he began the process of drying out his clothes. Off came his coat and shirt, which he suspended from paracord supported with sticks. He wrapped back up in the Mylar blanket so as not to lose any more body heat, even though the fire was throwing out a lot. He decided to have a cup of tea, Earl Grey, to help maintain his core temp.

Soon, his shirt and coat had dried so he replaced them with his pants and underwear. He put on a fresh pair of underwear from his pack, and before he removed his boots and socks to dry, he made a nature call, and then he dragged in some larger branches which he would saw into small pieces to feed the fire. Including the folding pruning saw in his GHB had been one of his best choices. It was virtually noiseless past 50 feet and invaluable in camp use. They were inexpensive to purchase also, and compact enough to not cause a problem with packing them.

He sawed up the branches while the rest of his clothing dried. His boots of course took the longest to dry, and before he put them back on, he examined them closely. They were a sorry sight. He decided to use some of the duct tape on them as well as the paracord, in hopes to stabilize the soles so his feet did not slide around so much, giving way to painful blisters. He also checked his feet, putting the duct tape on tender areas as well as checking the wounds. They were healing nicely, in spite of the fact he was on the move so much. He finished dressing, rolled up in his poncho liner as well as the Mylar blanket, and fell into a deep sleep.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

The Cache - Part 3 – The Hunted

He thought he heard voices!
He was going to put out the fire, but that might give away his position. As it was, using the dry wood produced no smoke, and almost no noise as there was no water in the cells of the branches to pop and hiss when it escaped as steam.

The voices were up on the road, moving west. It seemed from the sounds that it was a patrol, composed of three to five men, moving slowly down the road. He could not make out what they were saying as their voices were in competition with the sound of the river. The voices slowly faded as they moved down the road, and he gulped air as he realized he had been holding his breath, trying to discern what they had been talking about. “Not very professional” he thought to himself, “Lucky for me”.

He poured himself a cup of hot water, adding another teabag, Cranberry Apple this time. Waiting for his beverage to cool a bit, he put everything back in the pack that he wasn't using. He was obviously far enough off the road that he was invisible to those who used it. He still was not 100% comfortable with this but it could not be helped. He settled down and was soon thinking about the events preceding his current predicament.


After sending the code to bug out, he began following the tracks east in the brush that grew thickly on the right-of-way. He had been moving for about 15 minutes when he heard another chopper, coming in low. He had not yet donned the Alpenflage poncho so he stopped moving and tried to get as small as possible. The chopper zoomed by overhead, racing down the tracks and disappeared to the west.

Since he was stopped, he took off the pack and pulled out the parka and one of the bottles of water. He took a long pull at the bottle, surprised by his thirst. He transferred the contents of his lunch bag to the pack and then pinned the compass to his hooded sweatshirt's lapel. The sweatshirt was a darker grey in color and should not contrast too much with the brushy terrain. He removed the Taurus from it’s protective packaging, checked it for function and put it in his pants pocket. It would be difficult to retrieve from under the poncho but that could not be helped. Stealth was the order of the day, not firepower!

He considered discarding his lunch bag, but decided that it might come in handy later if he needed a pillow or a storage container. It was an insulated nylon coated bag, brown in color and about 10 quarts in volume. He secured it to his get home bag by using one of the D-rings had added when he modified the pack.

Next he clipped the Mora knife to his belt. It was a new military surplus model with a plastic sheath, sharp as hell. The Mini-Mag holster with it’s cargo followed next, then one of the water bottles in a homemade carrier. The last item he added was the pouch that contained his fire making tools. Closing up the pack, he swung it up and put it on once again. He then pulled the poncho on and set off through the brush.

He traveled slowly, fighting the brush and moving as quietly as possible. He was however aware, that no matter how quietly he tried to move, the dead branches and twigs covered by this Fall's discarded leaves, still crunched under foot. He had been moving this way for about half an hour when he saw the trestle about 200 yards ahead. He stopped and listened carefully for any sounds that might betray pursuit, but heard nothing. Satisfied for the moment that he was not about to be discovered, he moved out onto the gravel bed of the railroad tracks.

He moved to within what was 50 yards of the trestle and stopped to survey the terrain. Not seeing anything he started toward the trestle.

“I wouldn’t go out there if I were you” said a low voice.

Startled, he froze in place and slowly looked around for the source of the voice.

“I’m over here” said the voice, “behind you”.

He turned to the sound of the voice, seeing nothing. Then, a figure rose up from the ground just to his right, about 10 feet away. It was a man about 5’ 8” and dressed in a make shift Ghillie suit.

“Come on, follow me if you want to live. Quietly!!!” The man turned and moved silently into the brush.

He hesitated at first and then followed the figure deeper into the underbrush. They walked on what appeared to be an old game trail until they stepped into a small brushless area that was about 20 feet from the bank of the river.

The figure pushed back the hood of the Ghillie suit and revealed a face painted in green and brown camo. The man was older than him, 50 to 60ish, and had close cropped hair that looked military in nature. He grinned, stuck out his hand and said, “My name’s Dusty. This is our camp. My camp, now.” He said this last bit with a frown. “ Have a seat.” He sat on a chunk of log that was standing on end and turned to face his host.

Dusty looked hard at him for a moment and then said, “They’re looking for you, aren’t they!”

He was unsure what to say, so he just shrugged and replied, “I guess so”

"They killed my partner you know... they killed Eddie"

“Here’s the deal.” Said Dusty, and began to fill him in on who, what and where. It seems that Dusty and his friend Eddie were homeless Vietnam war veterans, Rangers, who lived here on the river bank. They had served together in the Nam, and after the war, they stayed together, living off the land, not fitting into society any longer. They moved up and down the river to different camps, foraging wild foods and snaring game, as well as fishing. They would go into town upon occasion to pick up their mail and buy some supplies.

Today, as they were getting ready to move east up river, Eddie had left camp about a minute ahead of Dusty. Dusty had hurried up with getting the gear packed, and moved quickly to catch up with Eddie, who was just about midway out onto the trestle.

Dusty was about 50 feet from the trestle when he saw a spray of blood and brains erupt from Eddies head. Eddie crumpled, and fell over the edge of the trestle, but his foot caught and there he hung over the river, bleeding out. Dusty faded back from the trestle and into the brush, seething with anger. He heard the chopper coming in low and saw it hover over the river, near the body. It was obvious that they were trying to ID the kill. A man then appeared on the bridge, dressed in Mossy Oak camo and holding a scoped rifle. He looked over the edge at Eddie, then shook his head in an exaggerated manner to signal the people in the chopper that what ever it was they wanted to know, was not in effect.

Dusty assumed that Eddie was not the target, but had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. This meant the target was presumed to be travelling down this path. He concealed himself on the edge of the right-of–way and waited. The sniper left the bridge and Dusty watched him return to his sniping position. It seems that Eddie was going to be left to hang, at least for the moment.

The sniper had chosen a hide that gave him the best shot as the target neared the center of the trestle. The rifle was silenced, as he had heard no gunshot. “Who the hell are these guys and who are they looking for?” he thought to himself. The chopper rose up over the treetops and moved west down the tracks, and then, 30 minutes later, the "hunted" had appeared!

He was going to miss Eddie.
“Goodbye my brother, I will avenge you if I can.”


The fire was out.
He had fallen asleep, and now waking, he was beginning to feel the cold again. He lay there and listened to the dripping of the trees, the muted rumble of the river, and the sporadic wind that rattled the trees.

He decided against starting the fire again. The thought of someone smelling some smoke seemed to him to be too great a risk. He checked his watch and saw that it was 2:24am. Daylight was still 5 hours away. He curled up under his poncho liner and tucked in the corners. He would have used the space blanket, but the shiny reflective surface was not well suited for stealth, so he left it in the pack, to be used at a later time he told himself.

If he reached an area where he felt it was safe to stay a few days, like C4 or C5, he would build a debris hut and use the space blanket to insulate and water proof the roof. He hoped it would also help against detection by thermal imaging, if they decided to resort to FLIR on their choppers.

He fell back asleep, slightly chilled but too tired to fight it anymore.


Dusty had led him to a vantage point that was well hidden, but gave a view of the hillside where the sniper waited. “See that big tall spruce half way up the hill? He’s to the left about 5 feet and next to that small maple.” He silently cursed himself for not including his compact folding binoculars in his get home bag. He looked very carefully, but could not make out the sniper. Then, he caught a small, out of place movement that could have been a small mammal moving about, but was the sniper shifting position. “He might be a good shot,” said Dusty, “but he is not very good at stealth.”

The two of them quietly made their way back to Dusty’s camp and discussed how to cross the river without being seen. They heard a chopper flying along the tracks, moving to the east. Dusty looked intently at him, and then said: “Man I don’t know what you did, but they really want your ass!” He shook his head and replied that he didn’t have a clue as to why they were after him.

After discussing their options at length, it was decided that it would be best to cross the river by floating across in Dusty’s little inflatable raft after dark. They agreed that to stay here would be bad, as the pursuers might send a team in on foot to look for him. The plan was to cross the river, travel east for a mile along the tracks, and then lay up in one of Dusty’s camps for the night and dry out. The two men talked at length as the sky grew darker, and when it was almost too dark to see, they moved to the riverbank, out of sight of the trestle, and crossed in the raft that was carefully hidden there. The crossing was uneventful, and a little over an hour later, they arrived at the 2nd camp.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

The Cache - Part 2 – Detour

It was nearly 11:00 pm, and past bedtime, but he couldn’t pry himself away from the computer screen. The news was all bad, with the passage of the latest slew of ill conceived legislation, a large segment of the American population had been turned into criminals in the space of a weeks time. Now, the blogs were screaming bloody murder and some of the ones he followed regularly had mysteriously fallen silent. This caused the rumor mill to go into overtime, speculating on their silence. Only a few came close to the mark.

The roundup had begun.

Reluctantly, he slid into bed and tried to fall asleep, in vain. He thought about his get home bag, about the fact he had been dragging his feet on repacking it. Finally, he decided he would repack it when his last order of gear arrived so that he wouldn’t have to repack it once again.

Unfortunately, that was not a good decision. The get home bag basically was a very light version of his bug out bag, which he kept packed and stored in his bedroom.

Get home bag contents were:

Permanent Gear:
Water purification in the form of Polar Pure Iodine crystals
Waterproof Matches, 2 Butane Lighters, Magnesium Fire starter
Dryer Lint in a medicine bottle (tinder)
1 folding knife, Mora knife & sheath
Garden Trowel
Folding pruning saw
80’ 550 paracord
4 large HD Contractor style trash bags
10 ea. 18” black nylon wire ties
15’ of brown duct tape, wrapped around 1 water bottle
4 mil sheet of clear plastic for ground cloth or expedient solar still, 7’ x 4’
US Woodland poncho
Mylar “Space Blanket”
Camo cotton work gloves
Tin can “Candle stove”
20 Tea Candles
Heineken Can cooking pot and storage sock
2 ea. 1 Qt. Powerade Water bottles (946 ml)
Recycled Campbell's “microwaveable” soup bowl
Camping Spoon and Fork
Small medical kit
1 roll Toilet Paper, flattened
Finger nail clippers
Floss, toothbrush
Pin on Compass
Mini-Mag flashlight with LED conversion, holster, red lens and 4 extra batteries
A .38 Special, Taurus 5 shot revolver with 3” barrel, loaded
7 each three meal ration packs.

Seasonal Gear:
U.S. Poncho liner
4 pair cotton socks
2 cotton tee-shirts
2 cotton briefs
Insect Repellent
Insect Head net

Wool Blanket
3 pair wool socks
1 pair polypropylene socks
Polypropylene thermal underwear with balaclava
2 cotton briefs
Thinsulate lined gloves
Mil-surp Wool sweater, OD
This was all arranged in a small sized Alice pack, without the frame. While at work he stored it in his locker in the men’s toilet/shower/locker room. All except the handgun, which was concealed in his lunch container. He had oiled it up, stuck it in a cut down sock, and then inside 2 layers of Ziploc bags to keep out any moisture. It had worked well so far.

On a whim, he decided to add another weeks worth of rations, just in case. It wasn’t that much more weight for the added security. Much of the smaller items fit inside the cooking pot and the pot nested inside the eating bowl, so it was a fairly compact kit, if you left out the clothes.

The wool blanket was the bulkiest item which is why he had not included it yet. It made it hard to fit the pack in his locker. He would have to keep the pack in the office, where it was sure to draw notice.

Thinking these thoughts, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.


He shook himself out of his reminiscing and added more wood to the fire. The reflector was doing it’s job very well and his feet were actually starting to warm up. The storm had let up for a bit and the wind had died down. Listening to the rain drip from the trees always sounded like stealthy footsteps, creeping softly up to surprise him when he was least prepared for it. He checked his watch and found that he had zoned out for about 3 hours.

The one item he had indulged in when creating the get home bag was hot drinks. He had a variety of teas, instant coffee, hot chocolate, bullion cubes and hot cider mix to choose from in each of his ration packs. Tea bags took up very little space so each days ration had 2 different types in it. It was a comfort to have these drinks when it was so cold and miserable one foot away from him on every side.

He poured some of the hot water from the pot into his mug and added a teabag to it: Lemon Soother, one of his favorites! Sipping on the very hot drink, he fell back into his thoughts, back to that Monday morning that led him to where he was now. The events that brought him to this current detour.


The day had started out normally with him rolling out of bed at 4:00am, having a cup of hot chocolate and reading the headlines while he got ready to leave for work. Living only 10 minutes from work was a blessing. He shuddered to think of all those who had to spend several hours a day commuting to a city job. Sure, he could make more money if he joined the morning commute, but the thought of all that wasted time on the road, not to mention sharing the road with so many morons just turned him off. He would keep his job, the drive was worth the disparity in pay.

He left home after shutting off all the lights the kids had left on and headed off to work. His job kept him in an office most of the day, sitting behind a computer and dealing with production issues. Occasionally he would go to the lunchroom for a cup of coffee or the mail room to pick up his daily accumulation of mail. He settled in for another routine day, bothered by the feeling that something was wrong. The silence of the bloggers that he made it a habit to read each day nagged at him.

Just before break time he slipped out to use the bathroom. He had once heard that a union rep had stated that "you should always crap on company time". Every time he remembered that he chuckled to himself. “Saves on buying toilet paper.” he thought humorously. The H.R. office was located just down the hall and around the corner from his and as he walked back to his office he heard voices around the corner. “Yes, he is in today. You say you checked and he is not in his office? I know he is here, maybe he is back in his office by now. I’ll call. Just wait a moment and I will see if He is there.”

He stepped into his office and closed the door quietly, wondering who "They" were looking for. Just then his phone began ringing, freezing him motionless. He quickly stepped to the window and peeked out the blinds covering it. Outside were parked three black Suburbans with blacked out windows and what appeared to be Government plates. One was blocking his car in its parking space. He put on his coat, emptied the food from his drawers as well as his coffee cup into his lunch pack, grabbed his keys, and carefully looked out his office door. No one was in sight, but he could hear low voices around the corner.

His heart pounding, he slid out the door and quickly entered the mailroom. It had a side door from which he exited into the hallway. From there he entered the training room which gave him an unobstructed view of the parking lot. Four burly looking men in black trench coats were examining the inside of his car and the trunk. There was nothing for them to find, but they were looking anyway. Now he was scared shitless! Who were these guys and what did they want? One man’s coat flopped open in the breeze and the sight of a sub machinegun propelled him out the other door of the training room and down the hall.

“Don’t run, don’t run” he kept telling himself. He quickly walked the 150 feet through the production area to the men’s rest room. A few people smiled at him and waved. He waved back, trying to seem normal. Ducking into the rest room he retrieved his pack from the locker, stuffed his lunch pack into the little free space left in it and walked out the door. He heard the same voices again: “Yeah, I just saw him walk towards the restroom, if you hurry, you will probably find him in there.”

He darted out the back door and headed for the underbrush near the railroad tracks. Ducking down in the scotch broom, he looked back to see 2 of the pursuers exit the same door. They stood there examining every possible route of escape. Finally one spoke into his lapel, listened for a moment, and then went north around the building while the other went south.

He was shaking so much that he thought for sure that he would be spotted! Both men passed out of sight and after waiting about a minute, he snuck off through the underbrush and followed the tracks until he was well away from his place of work. That was when he heard the first helicopter and was forced to lay flat on the cold, wet ground amongst the stickers. The chopper passed over him,  headed towards his place of employment, searching for him most likely.

Hunkered down in a brush thicket, he pulled his prepaid cell phone out and sent 2 quick text messages, one to each son: “To your scattered bodies go”. It was code for them to bug out and meet him at a prearranged gathering point. It was also the name of a book that he had read, written by Philip Jose Farmer. That was all he could do for now. He removed the battery and put the phone back in his pocket. He slung the pack on his back and started hurriedly down the tracks for his hometown, to C1.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

How to Survive and Thrive in the City

M.D. Creekmore has an fairly in-depth article over on his blog titled "How to Survive and Thrive in the City". Now I must admit that I just skimmed over it quickly due to time constraints (and being sick with a cold), but it appeared to be a good article worthy of your time.

I plan to read it over a hot chocolate this afternoon after I get off work. Give it a read, I think you will enjoy it.

Right after it quit snowing, we got a pineapple express to firehose us and rapidly melt our snow, causing some of the worst flooding conditions that I can remember for some time. Interstate 5 was closed in multiple places, and all the passes were closed by snow removal and avalanches. I think this is going to be more of the normal weather patterns in the future, and the mild maritime climate will be replaced by extreme weather. Time will tell if I am right.

Monday, January 12, 2009

The Cache - Part 1 – Out of Reach

His feet were cold.
They were always cold now.
His wool socks had become threadbare from constant use. His lightweight Chinese made boots had started falling apart after the 5th day of hard travel. Not that he had gotten very far. He had a new pair of the same quality, lightly broken in so as not to cause blisters, in C1.

C1, that is cache 1, was only half a mile away, but it might as well be a thousand. They were between him and the contents that would ease his escape. He shivered in the cold dawn air, damp with the morning rain that had awaken him, his poncho blown aside in the night. He must have rolled over in his disturbed sleep, letting the wind pluck at the edges of his poncho until it triumphantly pulled it away, exposing him to the elements.

He was so tired that he had not noticed until he was awakened by the dogs barking. That meant he needed to move, undetected if he could...

So there he was, laying in the thickest part of the underbrush, listening to the sounds of the woods in winter. If only he had not put off repacking his get home bag for winter conditions. He “was” going to do it… this weekend? He had almost lost track of how many days he had been on the run.

He had repacked his bag in early summer, taking out the wool socks and replacing them with brand new cotton ones, 4 pair to be exact. Cotton briefs and tee-shirts, dyed brown to make them less noticeable, poncho and poncho blanket, replaced the wool blanket and thermal underwear he had packed last winter. He had gotten sloppy, lazy. Who would have thought that they would have moved so fast!

His shoes were falling apart, the soles tied on with 550 cord. He began to retie them every night before falling to sleep, just in case. The first time they had fallen apart he had been running across a patch of rocks, trying to get out of sight of an approaching chopper.

He had made it to the brush, barely, but his feet paid the price with lacerations and punctures from the sharp rocks. It had laid him up for acouple of days, waiting for the pain to lessen. He doctored them up with Bag balm and gauze, and then put his last clean pair of cotton socks over the gauze. He was hungry now too, most every moment that he was awake.

He had packed his bag with 14 days worth of homemade ration packs, but had been on half rations since day 7, when he realized he could not cross the half mile or so to C1. There was C2, a stealthy three day walk to the east, but he had to cross the damn road to work his way to it also, there just wasn’t enough cover down the road to chance it and now that they had dogs…

He looked around him as he lay there, learning his surroundings almost unconsciously. There ahead of him he saw hope, in the form of a dilapidated cattail flower. He crawled ahead slowly until he reached the plants, and began to dig up the roots with his hand trowel. The main equipment in his pack did not change throughout the year, just his clothing and footwear. If they had not surprised him at work, he would have had a more extensive bag of gear and food to escape with.

His get home bag was not designed as a bugout bag, just a stop gap to get him back to home base. He was armed, if you could call it that, with a .38 five shot revolver with a 3 inch barrel. No extra cartridges as he wasn’t anticipating fighting his way home. He was able to get to his hometown, 5 miles away, by following the railroad tracks just off the right-of-way, out of sight, in the woods.

But now he needed to cross the road so that he could re-supply from his carefully hidden cache. C1, one of ten strategically placed at intervals that would take no more than 1 day to reach at a cautious pace. As long as you were on the right side of the road!

He peeled the cattail roots and began to slice them up into small, chewable sized pieces. He drew his poncho about him, making a small tent-like shelter, and lit his candle stove. It used the small tea-light candles that you could get at any dollar store. The candle began to heat the tin can stove and the hot metal in turn warmed the inside of the poncho until he was quite comfortable.

The candles would burn for about an hour before going out, time enough to warm some water and make a little instant coffee. He hated instant but it was better than nothing. And with his dwindling reserves, he felt lucky to have what he did. He had only three days left at half rations, so he had to do something soon.

His best bet was to backtrack to the bridge west of town and cross the small river at that point. He could then hole up in the deeper woods and dry out his clothes before hypothermia set in. He would have to chance a fire, there was no way around it. Hopefully he could find some dry hardwood so that there would be little smoke. He would dig a Dakota fire pit and that would help keep the flames from being visible from the road. He would also build a fire bed from the coals after he dried out his clothes.

Gathering his supply of cattail roots up and putting them into a bread sack that he used for a forage bag, he moved out cautiously back the way he had so laboriously traveled a few days before. He would stop and listen every hundred feet or so, to see if he could hear any sounds of discovery or pursuit.

He traveled this way for hours, cautiously stepping to avoid making noise, but failing nonetheless. Traveling through un-cleared woods in the winter was not a very quiet undertaking. When he reached the bridge, he stopped for the night, as it was getting dark. It was only 2:30pm, but a storm was rolling in and he wanted daylight to cross the rain swollen river.

He was counting on the rain to wash away his scent so that the dogs would not detect him. In a suitable brush thicket he made camp, tying off his poncho to form a small tent under which he would spend the night. He carefully laid out his sheet of 4 mil plastic ground cloth, so as not to poke any holes in it. Around the drip edge of his poncho, he dug a small ditch to channel the rain away from where he lay. Fortunately, there were plenty of small alder branches about, buried under this seasons maple leafs and still dry as summer.

Just outside of his shelter, he dug a Dakota fire pit and built a small fire to heat some water and hopefully direct some heat into his shelter with a reflector he made from a scrap piece of plywood he found near the bridge. Now he settled in to wait, as the storm broke around him, with more wind and rain in store.

He had a pile of small branches stacked up so he was ready for the night. His water boiled and he made a dinner of cheesy mashed potatoes and raw cattail root. He cleaned up after himself and lay back, stomach full, and began to reflect on how he got here in the first place.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Snow Bound!

Living in the Pacific Northwest during the winter is usually a wet experience. Snow seldom drops into the lower elevations, preferring to hang out in the elevations above 1000 feet. Not this year though! Starting on december 17th, it began to snow, and buried my vehicles in snow drifts! I was virtually stuck at home for nearly a week and a half, unable to get my car out of the driveway and on to the street. Now I have 2 4x4 vehicles; a 87' Nissan pickup, and a 87 Suzuki Samurai, and should have had no problem, right?

Wrong. The truck was completely buried by the blizzard we were having. The winds, which are a normal part of our weather, whipped the snow around, creating huge drifts that were difficult to navigate. Lucky for me, the company I work for had decided that since the month of December is usually the worst for their sales, they would be closed the last 2 weeks of the year, beginning on 12/24, and starting up operations on Jan 5th 2009. The Samurai was prepped Sunday night for work on Monday 12/22, and off to bed I went.

The trip to work the next morning was strange. I heard a funny sound whenever I dropped below 30 mph. The car was feeling a little odd also in the way it was handling. Half way to work I decided to pull over at a gas station and check it out. The passenger side rear tire was flat! I had aired it up the night before because it had looked very low, but it had been sitting for a while so I was not surprised.

I run oversize tires on it and don't have a spare that is the same size yet. I was also missing the jack which was buried in the snow under a huge drift. $@7!!*%^$. I tried to air the tire back up but the damn air machine was frozen, and by the time the heat from my hands had thawed the nozzle out, the timer ran out and I got no air. The station wasn't open so I couldn't get any more change or a refund. SHIT!

Left with no choice, I had to drive home on the flat tire. I called into work and told them my situation. I took vacation for the days that I had planned to work. I settled in and enjoyed some hot coffee and breakfast. It was snowing and blowing so I stayed inside that whole day. When I looked outside the next morning, this is what I saw.

Hopefully, the tire is not ruined. But if it is, I will break down and buy a new set of tires with a proper size spare. The tires I have on it are Toyo's LT215-75 R15, and they are at least 19 years old! That’s right, 19! I had them on my S-10 4X4 PU back in 1989-90. They sat around for a while and then I put them on the Samurai. It is so light that they just don't seem to wear out.

The buried truck!

So my lesson learned is to keep the proper tools with their intended vehicles, Maintain a full sized compatible spare tire and keep a portable air compressor in the vehicle that is planned for use. The problem with the Suzuki is that the tweakers keep breaking into it by pulling the top off it’s snaps so I don’t like to leave anything of value in it. I am thinking of selling it and getting a Jeep Cherokee to use as a primary BOV. I really like the Samurai, as it will go most anywhere and gets decent mileage, but it has very little cargo room and is very underpowered in it's stock form. The oversized tires really suck the power out as the gearing is for stock tires.

The power never went out although it blinked a couple of times. We had plenty of food and water and only after a week and a half did we run out of fresh milk, eggs and sliced bread. I have three sources of heat so that wasn't a problem. And I had 2 sources of battery backup power for my CPAP machine.

Overall everything was covered. I didn't really need to go anywhere so being snow bound was just an inconvenience rather than a disaster. But if I had needed the vehicles, I would have had a problem.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

The End Of Silence

I have watched over the last few months, how close to the brink civilization has staggered. Wars, and rumors of wars. Man’s greed becoming as dust in his mouth, his wealth evaporating before his eyes, and still the fool’s dance on.

Wake up sheeple, disaster is upon you even as you flip thru 200 channels of mind numbing drivel. The media has done its job well; dumbing down the masses to follow every edict of the powers that be.

The time to prepare is all but gone; the value of your currency all but transformed into smoke as the economy melts down, taking the American Dream for its last joy ride in Detroit’s folly.

If you cannot see the looming disaster, you will be sucked into the horror that will ensue, when you no longer can feed your family with the sweat of your brow, as you slave for the beast that consumes you.

The day of the sheeple is nearing its end. Burying your head in the sand like an ostrich will not make the boogieman go away; you have created him with your indifference, nurtured him with your silence, and elected him with your inaction.

I have watched with approval, the growing voices in the form of blogs, of those who recognize the peril we face. It is no longer a fringe element that voices their concern with our path. It is mainstream, for every voice that is raised in alarm, ten’s, and maybe hundred’s or thousands seek out the knowledge and encouragement written by the few who dare voice their concern online.

I salute all you who have taken up the task of preparing for the inevitable collapse. You will be those who’s spark will relight the next great nation, built upon the foundation of the old, as our pioneer forefathers built that which has been usurped by those bent upon it’s destruction.

God Bless You All