Ol' Timers Never Die

When I started this blog I posted quite a few pieces on some of the guns I own and have used in a lifetime of being around shootin' arns and the folks who use them. But I haven't done that for a while and thought I would remedy that with a little ditty about tradition.

Despite all the modern and up-to-date handguns I own, and use, I still have a real soft spot in my heart, if not head as well, for the traditional single-action revolver. There is no doubt that a contemporary Ruger is a mechanically superior gun to the old-style five-shooter. Nevertheless, the classic Model P still has a lot going for it, even after 137 years. (The one illustrated is not, alas, original, but is so close that all parts interchange.)

For one thing, they are one of the safest revolvers around. Particularly for someone who works in rough environments. You can't get much safer than keeping the hammer (on which the old-style firing pin resides)down on an empty chamber. In that position, an accidental discharge is simply impossible, no matter how far you fall off that hinky horse or ATV. Even when cocked, the gun can still be kept safe by hooking your thumb over the hammer until you are ready to shoot or de-cock the piece.

The old Colt-pattern single-action is also smaller and lighter than the Ruger, and by quite a good bit. This makes for a slightly easier and more comfortable carry, especially on a wide, thick, soft leather belt. Plus, it just feels better in the hand. (Ruger's New Model Vaquero goes in the right direction but isn't there yet.)

My favorite caliber for a traditional SA is .45 Colt. That big, all-lead bullet does not need any fancy jackets or big hollow points to perform well. It's accurate, hits hard, and suits someone who likes old-style, traditional things instead of the latest, fastest, etc. They've sure served me well over the years.

Garden Prognosis Poor

Last year we had an infestation of grasshoppers. Yet, they pretty much gave the garden a pass and there was virtually no damage. Considering how many there were I hoped we might get a reprieve this year.

Apparently not. This picture is from last year, and I have no 'hoppers this big yet. They're tiny little suckers, less than a half-inch long. But so far they have eaten the leaves off my mint plants, completely made away with the lettuce, and have made lacework out of the peppers' leaves. They seem to be leaving the tomatoes and squash alone. Maybe they're saving them for desert.

So far the Plague of Locusts is winning.

Death in the Desert

I did some walking yesterday and came upon the scene above. (You may have to click on it to make it engorge itself.)

Many years ago, when I lived in Tucson, I was told that the most common form of death in the desert was drowning. Seems paradoxical but if you live in the desert for a while you understand it. One doesn't usually associate the desert with super-saturated wetness, but flash floods can be very convincing. The country is full of dry washes, as in the accompanying picture, and when the run-off from the hills and high places from a sudden storm comes down the washes they are not good places to be.

Most dry washes, unlike the one shown (looks like a road but isn't), are dug in a bit, with high sides. I have seen sides ("banks" if you will) that are six inches high and I have seen them ten feet high. The higher ones seem out of place until you have seen a wall of water six or eight feet high rushing down from a high-country storm.

Taking Stock

The Fourth of July is a good time to take stock. I try to use it to ask myself "How are we doing?" Not that I don't ask that question at lots of other times, but I think Americans have been doing that on 7/4 for a long, long time. And this is the 234th iteration of the original.

How are we doing? Not so good, I'd say. We have an economy in tatters and an executive and legislature that don't seem to know what to do about it. We are probably more divided and polarized as a people than we have been since the 1860s. I keep looking for signs that our CEO really loves the outfit he heads up and don't see them. Confidence in, and respect for, our Congress is at a low ebb, beaten out maybe (but just barely) by how we feel about the press. I won't even venture into how we feel about the Groves of Academe.

Dark times for the nation. Republics are often posited to have a life-span of about two hundred years. If that's true then we're already on borrowed time and have been for quite a while.

I'm not sure about this, but I think it was Mark Twain who coined the word "pessimoptimist" to describe how he looked at the world. Seems to me there is hardly a better way to go through life: Hoping and working for the best, but keeping an eye on what happens in the real world most of the time.

I keep telling myself that we'll get through this. We've done it before. We can do it again. But I can't help but wonder, and fear. And I don't think I'm alone.

The Commonplace Landscape

I'm really fond of the "commonplace landscape." Ansel Adams sought and made glorious, dramatic, romantic, perfect pictures of amazing places. He also made less well-known images of less picturesque places. I confess to a fondness for the commonplace landscapes that let you plug into what a country really looks like on an every-day basis.

Obviously, commonplace landscapes are everywhere, and a little order and rhythm can be imposed on most of them with some patience and empathy. Roads are a special favorite of mine. They've all got a story to tell.

A Wild Night

Where I live "a wild night" usually has nothing to do with night clubs, drunken orgies, or mid-street shoot-'em-ups. It most often refers to Mother Nature doing another one of her famous numbers on you. Just before dusk yesterday we had a storm system slip in from the west and give us quite a time for a while. My internet is by satellite and when we get a big storm I usually lose it at some point. But before it went blotto yesterday I could see on the weather map that we had tornado activity just west of me. I watched it for a while as it got closer, but then it slid southeast and disappeared. So far so good.

We got a little hail, a sudden, brief downpour, and then it began to taper off as it moved east. In less than a hour it had passed through and things got back to normal— although exactly what "normal" is on the High Plains is hard to say.

These violent, sudden storms can be beautiful and awe-inspiring, but they can also be pretty scary. Sometimes living on the plains can be a lot like sailing in a small boat: mighty big ocean, mighty small boat. It kinda gives you special understanding of what "helpless" can mean.

But, oh, the terrible beauty of it all!

Tatanka

The Big Herd was on the move today, and spent most of the day on the high hills overlooking my place from the east. They have almost 100,000 acres to wander around in and so they get over by me only every couple of months or so.

The big old bulls, like this fellow, are pretty solitary and tend to keep to themselves, not too much interested in what the herd is doing, although they do of course keep tabs on them.

It was easy for us to almost exterminate an entire people when their main source of subsistence was so concentrated, and so vulnerable. Not so easy anymore what with McDonalds, Walmart, and MREs by mail order. But despite our best efforts, Tatanka lives, and his numbers increase. And the irony is that he and his might be flourishing when we have quaffed our last oil cocktail and, for whatever ultimate reason, joined the ranks of the extinct.

Prairie Rainbows

I like 'em. They're nice ways to end a pleasant day, and out here you can almost always see both ends.

Memories

For the last couple of days I have been sorting and filing images and other files from four different stand-alone hard drives that have been accumulating "stuff" for over ten years. There's a staggering amount of material to deal with. Where did all this stuff come from?

Some of it is pictures of dogs. Yesterday I found a particularly moving one. When I got my first Shorthair I was concerned about how the resident Rottie, Vito Luigi, would react to an interloper. Shouldn't have given it a thought. He thought she was the greatest present I had ever bought him!

From the first day she came into the house Vito made Róisin Dubh (roe-SHEEN doov, "dark Rosaleen") his number one priority. And she loved him back. The relationship of those two is one of my fondest doggie memories. Both of them were very special critters in my life. They're gone now, but never ever to be forgotten.

No ponies for them!

Kids out here are special. They ride like Comanches, work alongside the grown-ups, and pull their own weight -- even if it is only about sixty pounds. As long as we have kids like this there is hope for the country. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed there'll be enough of 'em.

A great branding

I went to a really fine round-up and branding just the other day. This one always draws some great riders and ropers. We filled the branding corral twice, starting at a little after sun-up and finishing by eleven-thirty. Then it was back to HQ and an excellent meal and some good fellowship, characterized by tall tales and friendly lies. If there is a "social season" out here it would have to be the round-ups and brandings and the attendant camaraderie. It's sad to think they are part of a vanishing America. But I plan to enjoy it while it's here!

Tapas

Well, sorta. Prairie tapas, best I can do anyway.

Tapas is a wonderful Spanish culinary tradition. It's an informal meal, usually evening, built around an array of finger-foods combined in various fashions. I was told that tapas as a tradition originated when small "covers" of finger-foods, such as slices of jamón serrano (a delicious dried ham) or bits of toast, would be used to cover glasses of port and protect them from flies and other pests drawn to the sweet, fragrant wine.

One of my favorite restaurants in Ireland was a Spanish place that served tapas, as well as a great paella among other goodies, and port out of the barrel that had never seen glass before José set the glass before you.

Living where I do now I have to "make do." No jamón serrano available, nor pickled octopus. So I improvise, because I like the spontaneous creativity and informality of a tapas supper even when I am alone.

The one I have pictured above is a quick-and-dirty that is nevertheless very satisfying. This one consisted of a main element of a scrumptious venison sausage (made with honey), lightly grilled in an iron skillet, and served with two kinds of crackers, and two varieties of cheese (extra sharp cheddar and a fine jalopeño jack), plus green onion shoots and a snappy wasabi paste. A glass or two of red (merlot in this instance) completes the menu.

Tapas is the most civilized of meals. You build your bites according to your taste of the moment and none of the preparation need interfere with conversation and camaraderie (not really a problem for me, with my dogs the only companions usually available).

Variations are endless. Canned smoked oysters. Grilled smoked mackerel. Thin sliced cappacola, prosciutto, or pastrami. Grilled, spiced chicken breast medallions. Canned crabmeat. Even thin-sliced crispy-grilled Spam! The sky's the limit where tapas is concerned, even when it's exported to the High Plains of the U. S.