RiverRatRanger

He Returns... Yeah... Again

2011-10-28T07:33:00.000-07:00

The years flip by like fanning cards in a worn deck. I haven't blogged since June of 09... and the things that have happened since then... two more granddaughters born... a new President... and of course the continuing issues with my health. Two more river trips. The one in 2010 with my friend Trinity turned out to be a disaster. It rained and rained and rained. The Skunk River went out of its banks. After a couple days we gave up. I tried going by myself to camp alone by Lake Rathbun and promplty broke a molar on a peice of homemade jerky. End of trip.

This year was different. I went down the Iowa River. Mrs. RRR dropped me off by Eldora and I floated down to the Big Water... The Mighty Mississip. Camped on islands and sandbars and generally had a great time. The State Tournament came and went... took two firsts and a third.

I continue preaching a couple times a month. We're going through the book of Daniel right now.

Social Networks have almost killed blogging, it seems. For me it was when my job firewalled blogspot. But today is special. A crew is putting a new roof on the cabin and I'm sitting by the fire glad it's them shivering up on the roof and not me.

The River Rat Ranger Floats On

2009-06-17T16:03:00.000-07:00

Where is he?, both my fans have asked. I have returned from the 2009 float trip and this time will write about it. My neglect has been partly due to a chemical experiment. For about the last year I've allowed myself to come under the infuence of anti-depressent medication. I smile a lot, stared into space a lot and accomplished even less than usual. By this spring I had had enough. These feelings are MINE darn it, and I'm going to feel them regardless of VA promises of a disability and the chance to babble happily time to time. So I weaned myself off them.

Then I attended a men's spiritual retreat in northern Minnesota based on the philosophy of John Eldridge's book, Wild At Heart.

Then, totally off the meds, I slapped Shermona, my 12' jon boat into the Wapsipinican River and spent the next weeks floating downstream. I'll write about soon and you shall hear more.

RRR

Bad Times, Good Times

2008-09-23T01:19:00.000-07:00

The River Rat Ranger has not blogged in over a year. Many issues, not the least being my health have interfered, but sometimes you just have to rise above it.

Sunday was the annual shooting competition of the state reserve law officer association. I was scheduled to work the weekend and tried desperately to find someone to cover. It seemed it was all going to fall into place, then the person I was counting on had a terrible family tragedy. Thus I had to go compete after being awake at work all night. Mrs. RRR brought in my guns and gear and met me in the parking lot at 0730. We grabbed a snack and a thermos of coffee at Quick Trip and were off to the range at the Fort. I switched from a hospital logo t-shirt to a sheriff's office one and was ready to go.

30+ of the 700 reserve officers in the state dared to show up for the state tournament. The competition is always stiff. Some of the very best shots in the state participate. My chronic heel pain interfered, as did my fatigue... but I muddled through.

When the smoke cleared.... it was... Revolver, Marksmanship division 1st place... The RRR. Auto Pistol, Sharpshooter division 1st place... The RRR.

Life is good.

I went home and slept like the dead till 2130 (9:30 pm to non-rangers) and back to work.

The Termination Of The Suction Pipe Follies

2007-07-02T09:33:00.000-07:00

The RRR tells the sad story of the end of the Suction Pipe story. Eventually, the parts arrived, my leg healed and I installed the part and the new hydraulic filter and fluid. I started the tractor, the transmission worked fine. But before I could start driving I noticed hydraulic fluid leaking from the filter. I shut down and pulled the filter I'd just installed. My filter wrench had torn a hole in it. The new brand name filter was a fraction of the thickness of the old one. I drove the eight miles to town and bought another filter of a different brand and a new filter wrench guaranteed not to cut the metal. Back at home I carefully installed the new filter, tightened all the nuts on the suction pipe and started the Cub Cadet again. No leaks. I began cutting grass. It worked better than it ever had. But then a vibration started.

At first I thought a blade was bent on the mower. I stopped twice and checked the blades. They were OK. I continued to cut. The vibration became more severe. So I decided I would stop at the end of that turn around the yard when I got close to the shop. Suddenly the vibration because explosive. The tractor shuddered to a stop. Oil ran out of every opening in the side. Pieces stuck out of places they weren't supposed to. The transmission was, as we used to say in the '60's... lunched. It was all over. The one hundred plus dollars... the time... gone and wasted except for being one more installment of tuition in The School Of Hard Knocks.

I went back to the shop to begin the resurrection of my old Sprawl Mart lawn tractor. The case looked hopeless. Mrs. RRR and I consulted. It seemed the best idea was to get Bubba, the 1987 Dodge pickup running so we could go buy another garden tractor and bring it home. Bubba needed the fuel tank removed and the intake tube unplugged. I spent the next several hours siphoning the old gas out and began trying to remove the fuel tank straps. One bolt out of four came out. The other three would obviously need to be cut. Then replaced.

As a lay under Bubba contemplating the Meaning Of Life And Other Things... usually the thoughts that occur to me at such a time... I noticed what looked like a hole in the frame of the truck by the fuel tank. I poked it with my finger. My finger went THROUGH the frame. I punched it. My fist went through the frame. Bubba was a total loss, maybe with a salvageable motor and transmission, but nothing else. I decided there was much more to the Meaning Of Life And Other Things than I had ever imagined.

The next day I began the Final Resurrection of the old Murray lawn tractor. It runs now, not well, and parts are in the mail to overhaul the carburetor.

I mowed the yard close to the cabin with the push mower and wherever possible with my antique H Farmall. And now I look out the window at the yard that already needs mowed again and one more time ask myself do I REALLY understand The Meaning Of Life And Other Things.

Wild Communion

2007-07-02T05:52:00.000-07:00

The RRR continues his journal of the River Trip with perhaps the most difficult day to write about. It does not come easy for me to describe spiritual experiences. It produces a feeling of being caught in public without one's clothes on or that it might be taken as braggadocio. I will attempt to describe things accurately and let the chips fall where they may.

In her book, Wild Communion, Ruth Baetz gives the following two quotes in the introduction:
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”... John Muir.

“'El-Shaddai!” the patriarch cried in anguish... 'In the town will we know you as we have known you in the desert?'
'Inside the walls it will not be easy for me to speak with you,' the deity answered, 'but I shall be there.'”
The Source... Michner.

I was on a Quest, not just a journey and I did not expect what the day would bring. It was Thursday, May 24th. I had slept to the rumbling voice of the drift dam and the muttering gossip of the river. The little oasis where my tent stood came alive with bird music at 0540. I once more wriggled out of the Wenzel and faced ominous, dark clouds. As I made my morning hot and cold drinks I noticed the Russian army pants were developing new tears. I got out the sewing kit and stitched them up for the last time.

That a storm was coming was obvious from the sky, the feel of the air, the odd gusting of the wind, and the cries of the birds swooping low to the water. Today it did not stir up the dread and panic it had before. See what Muir says above about their energy entering you. In the prelude to the storm, the gnats and mosquitoes seemed to frenzy into desperate feeding. The bug eating birds by the river joined the frenzy uttering those odd... “a storm is coming! Hurry! Hurry!” cries as they wheeled and snatched insects about the boat. With my bush hat gone I was wearing the head net closer to my face and it disturbed my vision more. The distant rumbling of the thunder moved inexorably closer. Now separate flashes of light from the lightening became visible. I began the count. Flash of light, “one, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand.” Then the crash of thunder. Sound moves about 1000' per second, approximately the speed of a .45 caliber bullet. Six, one thousand means the lightening was a mile away. It got that close, then closer. I slipped on my rain overalls and tugged them down over my rubber boots, noting that I'd developed a blister on the right great toe the day before portaging. I pulled my Swiss Army poncho on and snapped it up and pulled the hood over my head as lightening illuminated the day from perhaps a 1000 feet away and the thunder's crash had a physical presence.

The rain enveloped me in a roar. I sat in Shermona like a monk meditating in his cell, my legs crossed, the oars suspended over the water. The hood of the poncho and the head net tunneled my vision and shrunk it somehow. The river around me was churned to mist as the rain drops seemed to bounce and explode. The air and river seemed to merge into a new substance, not liquid, not atmosphere. The day had turned greenish with the light sometimes described before tornadoes. The birds were gone. The insects were gone. It was the river, the rain, and I... and we merged. Peace flowed into me and over me. Oneness was achieved. This is where the Quest becomes the Quester. Unconsciously, my breathing slowed... in through nose, out through mouth as a woman does preparing to give birth. The peace and energy of the storm became mine... no... Ours. I thanked God and tears ran down my cheeks, joining the moisture of the rain. The whole journey, all its preparation and trouble were worth that moment. But the moment stretched on and the Peace of Greenness stayed with me. I had the feeling I would never be the same.

The wind stayed brisk and when the river turned into it, the boat stood still or was even pushed backward, but today there was no fatigue. I rowed into it, sometimes singing army marching songs to the beat of the oars... “You had a good home and you LEFT... you're Right! Sound off, One Two.. Sound off, Three, Four... Bring it on down, One Two Three Four... One Two!” And... “Ain't no use is goin' home, Jody's got your gal and gone... Ain't no use in going back, Jody got your Cadillac... One Two Three Four...” etc. It was a happy madness. A flurry of rowing shouting into the wind and then rounding a bend to float downstream pushed by that same wind and immediately into a deep meditative peace. I talked to God as though he were right there beside me in the boat... and of course he was.

Toward evening, as though it were Planned, I went under a bridge and on the left was a boat ramp. I let Shermona turn sideways and with a quick flurry of rowing scraped her up onto the ramp just as a truck pulling a boat trailer arrived. They got entertained by watching me quickly unload all my gear, then flip the boat over beside the ramp. We talked fishing a little, then they were off upstream whilst I picked out a camping spot and began organizing for the night. The rain had stopped of course and the sky was brighter, though still overcast. The spell of the day's Experience still clung to me and I often felt I was moving in slow motion.

I had a sudden urge to fish. The people I meet along the river seem almost hurt or suspicious if I do not and rather than have my promise to the fisherman be a lie, I dug out my tub of Catfish Charlie's diddy pole and trotline bait and cut a short limb from a mulberry tree. I used bright pink mason's cord for line and put on a big treble hook buried in a gob of bait and jammed the pole into the bank. As I was scrambling back up to my campsite, an old pickup pulled up and the bearded man behind the wheel sat looking at me, as though trying to make up his mind about something. At last he made his decision and got out and walked over. His name was Hank and he is a genuine river rat. He and his brothers choose to live close to the Skunk and drive 100 miles each way to work rather than live in town. He knew every bend in the river, every fishing hole and snag. He sympathized with my dilemma of the snag dam the day before. He told me there had once been a railroad crossing there years before. The snag dam had started with drift trees getting caught up in the old bridge pilings. Different methods have been tried over the decades to clear it, but none successful.

Generously, he offered me the names of his brothers and the places they were camping downstream so I could visit as I went by or get help. This to a stranger. But perhaps there are no true strangers among river rats. I did not tell him the experience of the Oneness. It was still too fresh and too private. I am not sure I should be sharing it now. Darkness fell. And with it the clouds of gnats and hordes of mosquitoes were magically gone. I seemed in slow motion and puttered about getting ready for bed. And then things seemed to be going terribly wrong. Usually I have brought my body under submission by the the fifth day of a river trip and don't need to be constantly getting up to drain my bladder. But not this night. I hadn't been in the tent 20 minutes and the “urge” was upon me. I had unscrewed the lens of my mini Mag Lite to use like a candle. I couldn't find the lens, scrambled out in my skivvies to relieve myself and got chilled. Once back in the tent I couldn't find the lens which has to be screwed in to shut off the light. Now I was shivering, yet sweaty from the humidity in the nylon tent. Eventually I took the new LED bulb from the light to shut it off.

I became more chilled. And being more chilled had to go to the bathroom again. I was feeling desperate and had an odd detachment as though I was watching all this from a distance. Once back in the tent I pulled on pants and tee shirt and my canvas shirt and still I shivered but was so exhausted I fell asleep anyway, but awakened soon again needing to leave the tent and this time with a strong feeling of dread. I became faint outside and stumbled against a tree and panted. The stars which had come out as the sky cleared seemed to be receding and then coming closer. I got back into bed, this time putting on socks first and a stocking cap. Then covering my blanket bag up with the poncho. At last I was warm and could concentrate on what was happening in my body. And what was happening was not good. I was in atrial fibrillation. My heart beat was about 140 and highly irregular. I was miles from any medical help, though I did have a cell phone. My medication was out under the boat in the Possibles Bucket. But like a warm blanket, the awareness of the day's spiritual experience floated over me.

I deliberately relaxed my body and put myself back into the green rainy peaceful world. I felt the tension flow out of me... my heartbeat slowed... became regular.. and I drifted into sleep. It has never, never happened to me before. A miracle had occurred. I slept like a baby the rest of the night.

"A Man Needs A Little Excitement In His Life..."

2007-06-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

The River Rat Ranger now tells the story of Wednesday, May 23rd. On Tuesday I'd gone under a bridge and a biker on a huge old Harley, gear strapped on, his lady behind him slowed down to observe this now grizzled river rat traveling down MY highway. He raised his fist in salute and roared on. Our paths had crossed at that point. The image of that fist raised to the sky stayed with me. I awakened to the bird chorus at 0540 and for once things seemed to click. It looked as though I was going to be "on river " by 0830. Then, as I took down the tent down I noticed the attachment for the guy rope at the back had pulled from its seams. So down into the Possibles bucket for the East German Army sewing kit. The tiny folded bit of green cloth held needles, pins, safety pins, a man sized thimble, and military looking thread for every purpose from darning socks to repairing web gear. As I sat on my bucket stitching the tent, I noticed a tear was developing above the leg pocket of my deteriorating Russian Army pants. So I sewed it up. And the new matching one on the right leg. None of them were pretty, but the one on the tent held just fine the whole trip.

The day was sunny and beautiful. I must confess I ate my trail mix early and finished off the last of the summer sausage. I took off my hat and laid it beside me on the seat and stretched and enjoyed the awe inspiring view up into the seemingly endless sky with its fluffy non-threatening clouds. I went under highway 149. Then straight for a bit... then the river bent to the left. I heard noise ahead, somewhat sinister. As I swept around the bend, there was a large snag, or drift on my right. A snag is a dead tree that fell into the water somewhere upstream and was carried along by high water until it stuck at a shallow place. More trees, tree limbs, and other floating debris came along and got caught in it. The flotsam stays and more trees catch, etc. Often snags are the foundation for new islands or redirect the river channel to change its shape.

As I rowed around to the side another snag appeared on the left bank seemingly reaching out for me. The roaring of water as though a rapids became louder. The channel cut hard to the right and sped up. I was pushed along toward the right, then left. The whole river had become a gigantic snag dam. The way ahead was blocked by a tree lying cross ways from one drift to another and the river, narrowed now and faster churned and bubbled mostly under and somewhat over it. I tried to spin Shermona around and row against the current. Major error. I hit the crossdam sideways.

Let me quote from no less expert than John A. Richardson, professional River Rat, in the July 2007 Fur-Fish-Game magazine....
"One of the most dangerous places on any stream is where a fast flow takes the boat directly into a drift pile....If you get caught in the current and cannot avoid a collision, don't try to kick the boat sideways. It can roll under the drift and take you with it. It's better to hit it head on. If you ever believe that the boat is going to sink or roll, forget about the equipment. Get out of the boat and climb onto the drift. You may not stay dry, but you won't drown. A man needs a little excitement in his life, and you can worry about the equipment later." (Copyrighted 2007, J.A. Richardson and F-F-G)

In other words, the boat hits the log, starts to slide up on it, the upstream gunnel dips into the current which turns it into an undershot waterwheel and boat and all in it tumbles UNDER the snag and is trapped. So... I hit... sideways... the boat slid a little way up onto the log.. the gunnel dipped. I shouted a demanding prayer... "No God!... NO!!" As though an invisible hand cupped it, the boat leveled and sat upright with the water streaming under and around it. I got very humble and very thankful very fast. How far did the boat tip? My new bush hat on the seat beside me tumbled over the 6" of gunnel above the seat and was swept away. Not a drop of water got over the side.

Now I sat helpless in a strange world. A snag dam is a living thing. Its voice is the roaring and splashing and bubbling of the river. It groans as the trees and driftwood grind and rub each other. The smaller trees move... slowly undulating. There are sudden snaps and cracks and pops as limbs and sticks break. It's as though you've been swallowed by a giant organism and it's trying to digest you.

My thought was of Jonah in the belly of the whale. But now my breathing had slowed and my pulse slowed and I had time to look around. Perhaps 10 meters up stream on my right (I was facing the right bank) a huge log lay with one end up in the air and the other close to the water. I secured my gear as best I could, coiled the bow rope on the deck to the left of my feet, the stern rope to the right. I coiled the anchor chain between my feet with the grappling hook on top. Then I bowed my head and prayed to the chorus of the snag dam. "God, I need strength, please help me." I pushed away from the log with my left oar and began rowing straight up into the current. My readers should know that time after time during my trip I tried rowing upstream. Old Man River was more of a man than I was. I simply could not do it any time I tried except that one day in the fastest current I faced. I got further and further. Closer to the log. Closer. Grabbed a limb, slid back, and rowed again and at last was beside the log. Wrapped the bow line around a limb in the mess of drift under the log. Tossed the grappling hook over. It caught. And sat there panting, praying "thank you" out with each breath. If you look closely at one of the pictures, you'll see the grappling hook hanging over the log, holding Shermona.

I scrambled up and quickly slowed to a crawl, realizing how much that short row had taken out of me. At last I stood by the base of the log leaning on my walking stick, looking at the endless jam of trees and drift. I hope you will not be disappointed in me that I toyed with the idea of calling Mrs. RRR on the cell phone and abandoning the Quest and having her come an get me. But sanity returned and after hauling my gear up to dry ground and pulling the boat up over the log, I set off to find my way around. I am blessed with an exactly 2 1/2 foot stride. So I knew by the time I'd stumbled through woods and swamp that it was 1150 feet to a sand bar beyond it where Shermona could be refloated. Next I had to clear a path for the portage wide enough to get the boat through. In one spot I had to use my Swiss Army knife to cut through the limbs of a dead, flood floated tree to make a path wide enough. Then the portage began. The task seemed physically impossible to a tired old man. But first I organized. Everything was divided into piles of a trip each, the first being with an oar across my shoulders with a 6 gallon water jug at each end. Many of us are familiar with meditation. If we think of a Hindu or Buddhist doing it, we think of them sitting cross legged, hands cupped palm upwards on thighs putting their minds into neutral. But many do not know that such meditation is only one type of three in Eastern tradition. Another type is meditating while walking or running. I have no interest in offending God by worshipping the Buddha or Vishnu or whoever but the knack for going into a worshipful trance while walking is one that is very helpful to the soldier, hiker, or any other Ranger. It saved my life at least once in Vietnam. The movie The Tribe will give you some idea of what I mean.

So I prayed. And put one foot ahead of another and with the snag dam beside me groaning and bubbling and the birds singing and bugs buzzing about me stepped and stepped. And drank water. And prayed. And hummed and sang. And put one foot ahead of the other and by 1700 the job was done and a new camp established below the Monster Snag. The picture on an earlier blog of all my gear was taken at the end of that portage.

Sometime during these walks I missed my hat. This is why I carry a number of triangular bandannas. They make good hats. I tied one around my head and flipped the front tail back as you must do and remembered my friend the biker, wearing a similar one, and raised my fist to the sky in salute. And quickly found that mosquito headnets made for use with hats are not as effective with bandannas. The campsite was in the sand. I made enough more tent stakes for a complete set. Supper was garlic potatoes and pancakes. I called Mrs. RRR and told her about the day.

The last entry in my journal for May 23 says "Beautiful campsite. Water half gone.".

Sandbar Camping

2007-06-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

The River Rat Ranger takes a break from his float trip journal to express his opinion on sandbar camping. There is one main advantage to it and one main disadvantage. And they are both the same thing – sand. Sand is smooth, soft underfoot, easy to drive tent stakes into, easy to dig in. And it is at the same time a gritty mess. It WILL get into your food, your clothes and your bed despite all you do to avoid it. It adds a whole new dimension to eating my favorite breakfast food, grits. Nonetheless, it can be handy. A fistful of sand will scour the cooked-on food out of any fry pan or pot. Just be sure to rinse it out with boiling water, remember where that sand has been.

One major problem with camping in sand is the useless teeny wire tent stakes that come with almost all tents. Long ones are needed. The picture shows boughten and homemade. The purchased type on the left are heavy steel and can be driven into rock. They are the only thing that will work in rocky conditions such as Big Bend National and State parks in Texas. They cost 50 cents at Sprawl Mart and about a buck in campground stores. Their major disadvantage is the weight... a full set for my Wenzel Starlite weighs more than the tent, poles, and ground cloth! Homemade such as are pictured weigh much less, are made on the spot, and cost nothing but your time. However, it is illegal to cut green trees in some wilderness areas. They work well, though and look “woodsy”. Beware the ones shown in camping handbooks that are made with a notch cut out near the top instead of utilizing a side branch. They always, always, ALWAYS break right at the notch as they are driven in. Also, many ultralight tents have only tiny loops for the stakes and the notched type won't fit. But the side branch style can be driven in next to the loop with the “hook” going down into it.

One good plan for keeping as much sand as possible out of food and gear is to pull the boat up onto the bar and flip it over. Yes, it will be sandy, but a few buckets of river water will sluice the sand off and you now have a stable convenient mostly sand free table to cook on and roll up bedding, etc. This is where the jon boat shines compared to a canoe. Also, try to curl up under a canoe during a gale force hailstorm sometime. You'll be a jon boat convert forever.

A few words about picking out a sandbar. First, make sure it's sand. In Midwestern rivers there are as many mudbars as sandbars. Step off onto a fresh, wet mudbar and you will be lucky to escape at all and for certain it will swallow your rubber boots. Secondly, be certain it's high enough above the water. Even small rivers can rise several feet during the night. You don't want to have to swim out of your tent in the dark of night and try to catch your gear before it floats away. Or your boat. Which is why when the likely sand bar that pops up round the bend at dusk is fairly low to the surface of the water, tie the boat to a tree on shore or a large log. As all my gear is in buckets or my waterproof bag, I endeavor to run the bow or stern line (on boats it's “line” not “rope”) through all the handles of the buckets, strap of the bag and the handles of the water carriers, tying it to the last one. Now, should the river rise rapidly and you're suddenly wet and struggling in the dark, the only gear you have to worry about is yourself and your tent. You'll be wet. You'll be miserable. But you'll be alive and have everything you arrived with. The tent will pull easily from the wet sand. Tumble into the boat with it. Drag your other stuff aboard and count your blessings.

Always fasten your boat wherever you camp. “Johnny Sneakum” is alive and well in rural America and nothing seems quite so funny to such a character as to push a camper's boat into the stream and watch it float away. Bow and stern lines can also be cut or “borrowed” so I have a light anchor chain permanently padlocked to the bow and lock the other end to an immovable object. The two padlocks are keyed the same and the key NEVER leaves my person if I have to wear it on a string around my neck.

Sandbars are also wonderful places to build fires. Just scoop out a depression in the sand and you have a fireplace out of the wind. There is one more advantage. In most states in America, the banks on each side of the river are privately owned. It can be criminal trespass to camp on them. But sandbars, being in the river bed are usually considered public property. On smaller streams the landowner also controls the river bed and thus the sandbars, but the water belongs to the public. Most states allow “reasonable” trespass for the purpose of seeking out portages, checking out rapids, etc. This may not include the right to camp by the letter of the law, but the float tripper has a couple more things going for him. One is that the landowner has to be able to get to where you are and order you to move. The other is that very few float trip canoes, jon boats, or inflatable rafts have lights, making operation after dark not only dangerous, but illegal. Speaking as a part time sheriff's deputy, no cop wants to drag campers from a sandbar, take them in, house them in the jail overnight, inventory and secure their gear, be laughed at by the judge in the morning, and get chewed out by their boss. The worst that could be likely to happen is that the irate landowner will call the sheriff and be told that if the camper is still there the next morning to call him back. Or if the deputy or DNR man actually is dragged out to the campsite, they will tell you to move on come daybreak and likely be envious of you and want to chat. I've befriended DNR men all over the state. Once had one for a backup at a shooting incident. They like camping. They like river rats and they're usually rangers themselves. Only once in my life have I ran across a landowner who stridently said I couldn't camp on his land. My son and I talked gently and respectfully and took the time to get to know him and he invited us to stay wherever we wanted.

There is only one more trespass issue. That is if you should happen to stumble across someone's pot plantation or meth lab site. In this case you may be threatened with violence. It has never happened to me, but I've heard of it. The cell phone is your best defense in these situations. In fact, it has changed the whole face of backwoods travel. Johnny Sneakum never knows anymore if the person he is harassing is already in contact with the law. Many times just the sight of a cell phone is enough to back down belligerence. If you are a purist who doesn't want to carry one, buy one that doesn't work on a garage sale and gut it, using the inside as a storage place for waterproof matches.

Need I add in closing that you deeply bury all garbage and human waste and put out your fire totally, burying the burned sticks and ashes and leave only tracks and take only memories? It's the Ranger Way.

Day Three... The Rain Cometh

2007-06-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

A float trip down a river for the RRR is not an adventure, it is a quest. But on any real quest there are many adventures. The RRR continues the story of the river trip with the story of Day Three.

Tuesday, May 22. Again the light and birds awakened me. And again the swarms of mosquitoes and gnats welcomed me as I low crawled from the tent. I was glad I was wearing my long sleeved canvas shirt. Shermona, upside down near the tent served as my breakfast table and kitchen. I sat on one of the padded lid buckets and made my milk, Gatorade, grits and coffee. Doing the dishes was easy. One indulgence I allow myself boat camping that I cannot backpacking is to bring along a couple rolls of paper towels. I use the macho blue shop towels available from auto parts stores. They are expensive but as tough as cloth and even somewhat reusable. So I dipped one end in hot water and with a small squirt of liquid camp soap washed my cup and cook pot and used the dry end to dry them. One more blue towel partially dampened served as washcloth and towel for what Dolly Parton calls a “Possible Bath”. You first remove your shirt and wash from the top of the head down as far as possible. Then replace the shirt and drop the trousers and wash as far up as possible. Then, after looking all around to be sure you are offending no one except the wild creatures, you quickly wash Possible.

The two blue towels and the ones from supper the night before, plus all the cooking trash of empty bags, etc. went into the bio-degradable plastic bag that lined the toilet bucket. The last act before loading the boat and hitting the river was to bury the bag far back in the woods in a hole dug with the entrenching tool. Riverside wooded areas that have been flooded make this very easy. The swirling waters scoop out depressions around the roots and trunks of fallen trees and one need only drop the bag in and cover it up.

At first the Day Three sun was hot and bright. I wear only a tee shirt under the life vest on such days so I had to use sun block. I have the remains of a “No-Ad” brand bottle of SP30 that youngest son and I “borrowed” from Mrs. RRR years ago when we took the first of the River Trips. The gnats and skeeters being the worst I've ever seen this year, I ran a bead of SP30 down each arm and squirted DEET onto it and rubbed the lotion into the exposed skin. I came home from the trip darkly tanned, but not burned.

But the sunshine did not last. Long before noon, thick gray clouds were threatening. I got my rain pants and poncho and rubber boots close and ready and waited for the storm to hit. But the threatening weather seemed to bring out the wild life. I've never seen so many birds. It made me wish once again for a waterproof spiral bound edition of Peterson's bird guide. I saw the usual blue herons, geese and ducks, but hundreds of others that I could only guess at. Beaver and muskrat shared the river with me. Raccoons trundled along the shore, fishing and looking for crawdads and minnows and shellfish. I saw otter slides and their dining places piled high with shells. Deer came down to drink. As they often do before a rain, owls stayed awake low on tree branches and shouted back and forth with me as I mimicked their liquid hooting. Fish jumped in the river. Carp nuzzled the shore spawning. Squirrels danced over snags looking for edibles and sipping from the river.

You would think that such experiences would make me joyful. Instead, the magic that starts to happen on about the third day was beginning. It takes that long for a human used to high speed four lane highways and alarm clocks and schedules to begin to slow down to the 2 m.p.h. speed of the river and the pace of walking animals. The man or woman on a float trip without sail or motor is no longer an observer of nature, but a player. You enter the wilderness, but the wilderness also enters you. The pre-storm anxiety that had infected the wildlife, causing them to scurry about eating and drinking and chatter nervously was affecting me also. I kept glancing over my shoulder at the darkening sky and doing some scurrying of my own with the oars. Foolishness, but foolishness based on what I was absorbing from my fellow creatures.
There was a sudden silence. The wind died. The tree leaves which had been turning “inside out” from the gusts of wind down the river channel drooped. The only sound was the continual and suddenly more intense buzzing of the gnats and the ever closer grumbling of thunder. The world turned bright pink, blindingly, with a near flash of lightening and the thunder crashed almost instantly and the rain poured like from a faucet. I sat stunned and deafened for a moment and scrambled into my rain gear. Then, as silly as the cliff swallows swooping desperately along the water, I began rowing like crazy. I stopped, panting, chuckling at my foolishness. The rain poured, often so hard that the drops seemed to bounce and explode off the surface of the river. The gnats who had gathered under my hat brim to escape the downpour tried to feast on my face. I brushed them away and rested on the oars watching, learning. I found myself praying, not asking or anything... just talking to God about His creation, His sky, His weather. “The skies declare His handiwork and the firmament His glory”, the Bible says. It was a phrase I found myself repeating almost like a mantra for much of the rest of the trip.

Of course the rain stopped. All rain stops. The sky became merely cloudy. The sounds of nature returned. Sometime during all this I had eaten my trail mix and a couple thick slices of summer sausage. My canteen beside me stayed cool from the water accumulated in the bottom of the boat evaporating through its cover. I sipped and steered with the oars and watched the ever changing panorama of the river bottoms glide by. The anxiety was gone. The fear of storm and shipwreck evaporated. As the time passed I naturally looked for a place to spend the night, but without the desperation of before. Sure enough, just at the right time a sand bar appeared on the left, or should I say?, port side. Shermona ran aground easily. I gathered the rain gear I'd shed and walked about my new little island picking out spots for cooking, tent etc. I had one worry. The sky still looked like rain and the process of rigging the tarp as a fly had been a time consuming hassle with a tree to tie to and here would require double guying of my walking stick/push pole. In the picture you can see it stuck in the sand as I tried to figure the easiest way to do it. Then I had an inspiration. I'd spread the tarp on the ground to keep the sand off my bed as I prepared to shove it into the tent. Why not make the tarp part of the bed? So with the tarp spread out I first unfolded the East German Army closed cell foam sleeping mat on it, then unrolled my sinfully indulgent self-inflating air mattress, and on top of them rolled out my blanket bag – the French Army wool blanket fastened with blanket pins. I folded the tarp up over the sides and ends and folding the whole bunch lengthwise, slid the whole “burrito” in through the door opening wiping the sand off as I did. Once inside the diminutive tent it flopped open. The rain problem was solved. Water could and did run down the inside of the tent later, but the tarp kept me up out of it and I slept dry every night. Once, when the rain poured so hard it misted through the nylon roof of the tent, I pulled my poncho over myself and again the rain ran down to the sides.

It was time to cook supper. According to my journal I cooked instant brown rice with chunks of summer sausage and made pancakes. This time I got the mix correct. On the pancakes... Parkay margarine and dried maple syrup crystals. Oh readers... what a meal. My journal also states that for the first time I got out my new Coleman ultralight backpacking lantern and that it started a little finicky, but worked fine. The padded carry bag Mrs. RRR had sewn for me worked fine. The mantle was not broken nor the globe cracked. Fishing my cell phone from its waterproof bag, I called Mrs. RRR and told her about the day. Then I called Grandpa Ranger and let him know how far I'd gotten so he could share the trip vicariously. That done, I sat on my cushioned bucket reading some passages from the Bible and from the AA Big Book. Darkness fell and the gnats left. Even the mosquitoes diminished. Owls hooted. Bugs and swamp creatures sang their songs. All was good. I worked my feet into my new burrito bag and fell asleep to their music. It was the end of Day Three.

The Big River Trip Continues

2007-06-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

The RRR returns to his journal for the big River Trip. When we last looked at the story. It was Sunday May 20th. I'd found a spot by a field at the top of a tall scramble up the bank. I learned several things that night. First, the Wenzel Starlite tent might be CALLED a 1 and ½ man tent, but they would have to be 1 ½ very small men. It was so tiny that I could not turn around inside it. So when bedtime came I was obliged to lie on my back with my feet facing the doorway and wriggle in as though putting on a pair of pants. I could see right away there was going to be a problem for a man my size... 6'2” and 270 lbs... to follow the manufacturer's instructions and not allow myself or any gear to touch the roof or walls in case of rain.
But in the meantime I was cooking supper. I made noodle soup and decided to thicken it by adding three powdered eggs. Mistake. The bubbling soup foamed up and over the edge of the pan and put out the stove. This is not good thing in the encroaching darkness as mosquitoes diving in to the attack. Then I compounded my problems by putting too much water into my biscuit mix bag and making a watery goo instead of biscuit dough. I should say that I had put enough biscuit mix for one meal into separate zip lock freezer bags. Theoretically, I only had to add a little water and knead the bag and squeeze out the dough. Obviously it does not always happen exactly that way. So I poured the watery gruel into a hot greased fry pan and cooked it quickly into a sort of cracker like mess which served the purpose in the soup that had remained in the pot. I made sure to mark my territory in three spots around the tent to discourage other large predators and slithered into bed. That was the end of Day One.
I was awake by 0600. The birds were telling me exactly what they thought of someone who would still be in bed at such a late hour. The mosquitoes were not nearly so enthusiastic this morning. There are only two sure repellents for the little vampire bugs in my experience. 100 percent DEET and smoke from a fire. I didn't want to build a fire. I try to avoid it when “borrowing” a campsite on private property. So liberally doused with DEET, I prepared breakfast and broke camp. Mrs. RRR and I discovered in desert camping that it makes sense to have an almost liquid breakfast so that only one pot needs cleaned. While the little Coleman stove sputtered away still burning out the previous night's spillage, I mixed a cup of powdered milk in my Sierra cup. Colin Fletcher always used a Sierra cup, so I must also, right? Then my juice... powdered Gatorade. Wiping the cup clean, I put in two pouches of Quaker Instant Grits.
Grits! What are grits? I can hear my yankee and foreign readers asking. While my southern purists are demanding, Instant! Who would eat instant grits? Well, my rebel friends, they're a whole lot quicker and easier on the trail. My other readers should know that grits are a variation of “cold flour”, the original trail food. It is the predecessor of all instant cereals and such foods. Everything from Malto-Meal to Hamburger Helper to Bisquick can trace it's ancestry to cold flour. Grits are a staple of life in the south and almost unknown elsewhere. Both sides of the civil war marched and fought on cold flour. It was part of the provisions of every exploratory company in the west and in every wagon of wagon trains and in every cowboy's saddle bag. Hominy, first cooked, then ground like flour and some sugar or spices sometimes added is what cold flour and now grits consist of.
So I added boiling water and mixed to the right consistency. And what is the right consistency? Go to any Waffle House diner of which I've already waxed eloquent on occasion in these pages and order a dish of grits. Tell them the River Rat Ranger sent you. Then add butter. And you're snacking like Kit Carson, Joe Walker, Major Drummond, and Lewis and Clark did. John Wayne has nothing on you.
Once the grits were down; my favorite breakfast is Cheddar Cheese and Country bacon, one pouch of each with Parkay squeezed on; I began to make coffee. I am a coffee snob. Not a purist, mind you, but a snob. I had with me a pound of Columbian Supremo roasted whole beans. I set the tiny backpacker's coffee grinder on coarse and ground and shook and ground and shook. The shaking seems silly till you remember the historically ludicrous but detail accurate film, Dances With Wolves. The young officer makes coffee for the Indians the first time by grinding the beans in an old fashioned wood and cast iron coffee grinder and hops about shaking it as he does so. At last my coffee was ground. I tipped the fresh ground delight into my cook pot. The water had stayed cold because I dipped the fleece covered canteen into the river the night before making it an evaporative cooler. I lit the stove and sat the pan on and very quickly the mixture started to bubble. I raised it a couple times when it began to foam, then set it off the fire and splashed in a dollop of cold water to settle the grounds. THAT, my readers, is coffee. I've tried instant. I've tried the coffee bags. NOTHING is like fresh ground Columbian Supremo boiled in a pot in the out-of-doors.
Then I had to get the gear down to the boat. I took a long piece of parachute cord and put through the handle of each bucket and swung it out and let it drop down to the boat, slowing the drop by braking the cord as it ran through my hands. Ranger Advice, readers. Wear gloves or wrap your hands with rags during this operation. Nylon parachute cord burns like a hot iron when it whips through your grasp. After each piece of gear was safely down I let go of one end of the cord and if I pulled the other end slowly and carefully, got the rope back without scrambling down and back up. With everything stowed in Shermona, I was on the river by 0900. Three hours from wake up to cast off seemed to be the story for the whole trip. Once more I wished for a companion to share the duties.
At 1130 I dug in the food bucket for lunch. There was one ziplock bag of homemade trail mix for each noon meal. It consisted of 16 almonds, 4 dried apricots, and ¼ cup raisins. Of course I craved more fat and protein. The large summer sausage that had waited frozen in the deep freeze since Christmas had stayed cold in Mrs. RRR's careful wrapping of old newspapers and plastic grocery sacks. By 1530 (3:30 PM to non Rangers) I had reached Glendale Access, a public boat ramp and camping area. The area had flooded earlier and was still swampy, I was greeted by a cloud of determined gnats and mosquitoes. The DEET helped, but I put my experience of night One to use and dug out my long sleeved canvas shirt. From then on, I put it on before landing at night and took it off after pushing off in the morning.
As Glendale Access looked easy to find on the map, I called Mrs. RRR on the cell phone hoping she could drive over and join me for supper. Fortunately she wasn't home yet, because when I walked up to the bridge you can see in the background of today's picture, I saw a road closed sign which would have caused her a very difficult detour. I was disgruntled, but made myself a big supper. 4 Cheese instant potatoes with pieces of summer sausage simmered in the water before the taters were stirred in. I was very fatigued after and continued my trip routine of wiggling into the tent and falling asleep, only to wake up later and gradually get myself into the blanket bag as the night grew cooler. You can observe from the picture, that I tried solving the problem of not touching the tent walls by rigging my REI tarp over the tent as a fly. Later I discovered a simpler way.
It was the end of Day Two.

Ranger Recovery

2007-06-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

The RRR continues with more news for his anxious readers. The suction pipe arrived that was mentioned in the previous blog. Unfortunately I have not been able to install it. Not for lack of enthusiasm... but once more sickness has reared its ugly head. A small sore on my leg and toe became infected. This turned into cellulitis. This infection of the subcutaneous tissue thrives in edema, which is like a petri dish for it. As I am on loads of blood pressure medications including Cardizem which causes edema... I was a prime candidate. But other problems encouraged the growth also. My diabetes which decreases circulation to the feet and lower legs and slows down healing there. Hepatitis C which knocks down the immune system. And lastly, I have a long history of cellulitis. The first time was in Vietnam. Perhaps a sand flea bite when I was on the beach on R and R in Australia, perhaps from a bug bite in 'Nam, or any of a dozen little problems could have caused it. That story is worth a whole posting in itself. Suffice it to say that it was an “interesting” occurrence that could have cost me my right leg.
I have had it a number of times since. Once after surgery to the back side of my left knee. A wheel kick during a Tae Kwon Do sparring match had caught me there and folded me up like a jack knife some years earlier. A calcification developed and had to be removed. The incision was closed with staples. I decided it was silly to pay to have a doctor's office assistant take them out so I removed them myself with a needle nosed pliers. Cellulitis resulted. Again, days of sitting with my leg elevated, taking potent antibiotics and waiting for healing. Another time I had it in my face after nicking myself shaving. In the face it's called Aurosipilis, which I have not spelled correctly, but I'm getting no help from Open Office spell checker.
I believe personally that having it once sets you up to have again during your life. I've had that theory pooh poohed by doctors, but my old Merck Manual backs me up. Anyway, I sit here now, on day two of treatment. My leg up on a pillow, wrapped with a wet towel which is wrapped with a garbage bag which is wrapped with a heating pad. The whole sandwich sits on a chair and I sit at the computer with the keyboard in my lap.

The Suction Pipe Follies

2007-06-10T13:32:00.000-07:00

... or, how the River Rat Ranger saves time and money by fixing his own garden tractor.... My grass gets its major trimming from an ancient Cub Cadet garden tractor. How ancient? The serial number is under 700,000 which puts the elderly Model 682 back a quarter of a century. They were red for some years back there because they were owned by International Harvester, the now defunct farm implement company bought out by Case Tractors. My H Farmall is an IH, as were most of the tractors on the farm where I grew up.

Naturally the Cub Cadet belonged to Grandpa Ranger, my father, and naturally as it deteriorated over the years he bought a new one and I inherited it. It is a massive, troublesome beast with a two cylinder Kohler engine and the innovation that was supposed to set the world on its ear in 1985... a hydrostatic transmission. No gear changing on the 682, no clutch, very little braking. Just one lever that makes it go forward when you push it up and in reverse when you pull it back. And the further you push or pull it, the faster it goes... in either direction.

It was beginning to misbehave this year, getting touchier and touchier about the forward and back stuff. Like it was slipping, so I called the local Case International Dealer for advice. How long since I'd changed the oil filter and fluid on the hydrostatic. "There's a filter on the hydrostatic?" Oops. I bellied down on the ground beside the Cadet and reached up into its bowels with a rag and started wiping grease. Guess what? A spin on filter. How often should I change it? Every 50 hours of operation. And the transmission hydraulic fluid? Every 150 hours. Both a MINIMUM of once a year. I called Grandpa Ranger. How often had HE changed the filter in the 20 years he used it. "Uhhh.... once maybe." Hmmmm.

So I'm off to the Case International dealer. This is where the Real Farmers go. My diminutive Geo Metro, the Green Hornet, looked ludicrous among the the monster 4 wheel drive farmer trucks parked in the lot. So I wandered over to the used tractor lot and admired an H Farmall that is in even worse condition than Helen Wheels, my H and is priced at $2,200. Mine cost $750. So things are looking up. I went in and perched on a tattered bar stool in front of the parts counter. Very manly. ALL parts counters in real auto, truck, tractor, etc. stores have tattered bar stools. There may be a law requiring it. My turn came. "Filter and transmission fluid for a 682 Cub Cadet." I demanded bravely. The clerk sneered at me and came out from behind the counter. Instant shame and mortification. The things I needed were on the display shelves. A REAL man would have known this and brought them to the counter himself. I was an unmanly interloper on the worn-out bar stool. I didn't fit in. I didn't belong. I paid my forty dollars and retreated in embarrassment.

Then I took those goodies home and attacked the 682's guts again with an oil rag. There was NO drain plug... none. I called Grandpa Ranger. He thought there might be one, but it had been so many years. Back to my friend, Ebay, which listed service manuals for 682's for around $50 or the same on a CD for $15. I ordered the CD. Eventually it showed. 232 pages on Adobe Reader. No drain plug. I went through each of all those pages. I used the search option.... nothing. So it must be in the Owner's Manual rather than the service manual. Ebay had one of those too... 15 more dollars. I ordered one. It arrived with sickening speed Priority Mail. The owner's manual made it plain. Don't touch the hydrostatic... take it to the dealer. After all... THEY have the service manual!

I stumble back through the service manual. And there, like an afterthought, in instructions for replacing some pump it says.... "... place pan under transmission and unfasten the SUCTION PIPE from unit and swing it aside... allow transmission to drain." That's gotta be it, right? So back to the underside of the Cadet. By this time Mrs. RRR is losing her patience with me running out to the shop, wallowing about in the dirt and grease, running back in, standing on the deck while she sweeps me off before I can look for more info on the computer. None the less, 35 years of marriage to me have instilled a certain amount of resignation and she refrained from beating me with the broom.

I look again... there is the suction tube, just as advertised. I go to remove the bottom end flare fitting and discover that it is 1" in diameter. My largest flare wrench, indeed the largest flare wrench I've ever seen anywhere, is only 7/8". So I make do with a regular 1" wrench. And skin my knuckles and bang my head and stretch and ache and at last loosen the flare nut.... and nothing happens. Wait! A drop of burned looking red fluid, about the color of a garnet or cheap ruby. Another drop. Another. Then nothing. No movement at all. So how do I "swing it aside?" Well obviously I must loosen the other end of the suction pipe. The old filter is in the way. Back with the grease rag... then the filter wrench. More of the nasty used fluid, maybe a 1/4 cup, but nowhere near the 6.3 quarts the transmission is supposed to hold. And the fitting on the other end is 1" also. I put the wrench on it. And tug. And pry. And hammer. Nothing. "Tighter than the bark on a tree", my Grandfather would have said.

So Mrs. RRR and I are off to find a 1" flare wrench or a 1" crows foot flare socket. First to the County Seat. Nothing at Sprawl Mart. Nothing at the Farm and Home store. Nothing at the hardware store. Around the Big Lake to Dutchtown. Nothing at the auto parts store, not at either parts store. Nothing at the hardware store there. I'm stymied. Other than an ice cream cone for Mrs. RRR which she graciously shared, the trip is a bust. Strengthened by righteous indignation I attack the fitting again. I put both feet against the rear wheel and grab the tractor frame with the left hand and with the right hand PULL. Movement! I try again. It's incredibly hard, though. It should break loose and spin freely. I look underneath. I am slowly, forcibly twisting the suction pipe into a knot. I spray everything with Kroil. I turn backward and forward. Every movement twists the pipe. So I give up and twist it off. And from the ruptured pipe runs the hydraulic transmission fluid into the coffee can I'd placed there.

I held the twisted off end of the pipe in my hand. Up under the bowels of the Cadet was another fitting screwed into the transmission. The flare fitting had fastened to IT. I was supposed to put my 1" wrench on that fitting and a 1" flare on the other and brace with one and turn the other. I sat on the shop floor and looked at the pieces in my hand and had long thoughts about The Meaning Of Life and other things. One more trip to the cabin. Once more Mrs. RRR sweeps me off. Back to the Internet, source of all expensive things. I went to the Cub Cadet website. They sell parts for every model made. No listing for a suction pipe. At last I go to the schematics and go from page to page looking. Eureka! There is a picture. It's no longer a suction tube. Now the official name is Tube Assy-Hydraulic. The part number is 927-3008 should you care. The price $26.09. The shipping... $8.99. Now I am up to $100 for this project. About what it would have cost to take it to the dealer and had the same thing done.

There is a lesson in all this somewhere.

(as an aside... the pic I snatched off the Net shows a 782 instead of a 682, but the appearance is the same except for the model number.)

River Gear

2007-06-06T02:22:00.000-07:00

The RRR answers the criticism.... "what do you need all that STUFF for?"

You see in the pic, Shermona, the jon boat and displayed on her all the stuff I'd just portaged around the Big Snag which will be addressed later. My first jon boat is named Shermon for General Shermon and his famous March to The Sea. As the "new" boat was smaller and more feminine she became "Shermona".

On the far left is my red REI dry bag which holds two weeks worth of clothes in zip lock feezer bags. Socks, underwear and tee shirts enough to change every two days. One canvas shirt, a jacket, a stocking cap and two pairs of pants. Also in the bag is the French army blanket made into a bag with blanket pins, a ground pad, a soft and very luxurious self-inflating air mattress and the tiny Wenzel Starlite ultra light tent.

Next to that is the white toilet bucket. It is has a clever snap on lid with a toilet seat manufactured in Canada. I just line it with a bio-recyclable plastic bag and I have a bathroom. The rest of the time it is quick access storage for my poncho, rain suit, and maps.

There are four other buckets as you can see. Two have waterproof spin on lids. One is my cooking gear including Coleman backpacking stove and the other holds two weeks of trail food. The other two have snap on padded seat lids. Once holds tools, gear for the boat, stove fuel, my miniature Coleman lantern, extra rope, repair kit, personal items, first aid kit, insect repellent, etc. The other is my tackle box for fishing gear.

The oars lean next to the buckets. They are simple, inexpensive items purchased from Sprawl Mart and have been totally satisfactory and show no wear after 5 trips. Plastic grocery sacks have been wrapped around each as drip rings. Next to them is my 6' Chinese white waxwood walking stick. It serves as a push pole, yoke for carrying, temporary anchor jammed into the mud, tent pole, and more.

Then come two 6 gallon Canadian water containers. I use about 2 gallons of water a day for cooking, drinking and hygiene. In the "possibles" bucket is the equipment to treat and drink river water, but I prefer to carry fresh if I can.

Next is the boat/stadium seat which makes it possible to row facing forward all day with back support and a degree of comfort. On top of it is my Swiss Army entrenching tool. The blade edge is sharpened so it can be used as an axe. It's also my hammer for driving tent pins and boat repair and serves as a temporary anchor jammed into the ground to tie the boat to. I even dig with it to bury trash and the toilet bag each morning.

Then are my canteens. Aluminum French Army on the left along with the canteen cup that served as a baler and a soft American Army 2 quart that doubles as a handy pillow. My rubber boots lay on top of my life vest. I almost never took it off the whole trip whenever on or around the water. It has pockets that hold my ID, cell phone, compasses and fire starters. From past sad experience I know to have in each bag and bucket some way of starting a fire. You never know.

The River Rat Ranger hits the River

2007-06-03T22:42:00.000-07:00

So the journey began. The RRR and Mrs. RRR returned from the trip to Dallas and loaded the "new" little jon boat into the Suburban and all the gear and left for the river. We drove to the town of Pella, Iowa and north to a bridge over the South Skunk River. It was in flood stage. First we unloaded all the gear beside the bridge. How do I accumulate all this stuff? Then we slid the jon boat out and down along the bridge abutment, across a barbed wire fence and down a mud bank to the river. We slid the boat in and I tied the bow rope to a small tree stump and started backing down the bank. As I stepped into the boat there was a load "pop" and the rope went slack and I fell into the boat almost rolling it over. Water slopped over the gunnel, soaking me. The stump had pulled out by the roots! Mrs. RRR dived on it and grabbed it before boat, stump, and I floated away downstream.

She found a better place to secure the bow line and began dragging the camping and boating gear through the mud. Soon with the help of Bay Toe Ven who ran about getting in the way barking and whining and generally being under foot, we had the boat loaded. A quick kiss from Mrs. RRR and I was off.

At last! Headed down river and into Nature and away from the things of man. It was a good, good feeling. The once a year quest I live for was at last beginning. A blue heron waited around the first bend and flew off squawking as I approached. A vulture circled overhead. "Not today bro.." I called out... "not today". It was 1615 or 4:15 p.m. to non-rangers. The clouds over head tumbled and rearranged themselves, the sunshine glowed on the water and all was good with the world. I began watching for a place to spend the night. The handiest on a river trip is a high sand bar. Being part of the river, there is no issue of property rights. It is more open to the breeze with less infestation of mosquitoes and gnats and has easy access back to the water. But this was a time of flooding and most of the sandbars were under water or washed away. I started looking to the steep river banks for a place to tie up.

I became somewhat worried. It was getting later and later, eventually almost 2000 (8:00 p.m.) and dusk was descending, when I found a tree leaning out over the river and footholds among the roots going upward. I swung the boat about and fought the current to it and grabbed on and lashed the boat to the tree trunk. Then I scrambled upward. It was an ideal spot. I was on the edge of a farmer's field. The field had flooded earlier this spring and he had chosen not to plant it. So I had a flat, sandy area to pitch my tent. I hurried to get the gear from the boat. Carrying each bucket or bag upward, then sliding back down for more. The mosquitoes descended in fury, so I quickly put on my canvas long sleeved shirt and doused my hands and neck with Deet and kept them somewhat at bay. Once the tent was up, I made supper. Then I called Mrs. RRR and checked in. She had herded the old Suburban home safetly and was glad to know I was ok.

I wriggled into the tiny one man tent and listen for a moment to the hum and song of the insects and river creatures and the night and fell asleep smiling.

It was the end of day One.

Qualifying Again

2007-06-03T00:22:00.000-07:00

Today was the day for the annual weapons qualification for the RRR's volunteer job as a Reserve Deputy Sheriff. As almost every year it was on a week end when I am working my regular job. So I had been up all night working in the hospital, then rushed home and packed my stuff and drove to the shooting range. We began the pistol shooting and my gun would not fire! When I had cleaned it, I had reassembled it incorrectly. The other officers were making fun of me. I went to the car and got out my back up gun, a Smith and Wesson 25-5.

A bit of history. When the U.S. didn't have enough .45 automatics beginning in WWI, the military contracted with Colt and Smith and Wesson to make revolvers that would shoot the same ammunition. The wonderful model 1917 was born. It was the anscestor of the famed S&W .44 magnum... Dirty Harry's "most powerful handgun in the world". But the .44 mag is actually .429 inch in diameter, the venerable old .45 is .454, so it is actually 1/4" bigger! In the 1950's Smith and Wesson updated the Model 1917 and called it the 25-5. I have one. They are beautiful revolvers with 5" barrels. I am teased about it because it is so big. "Don't you have wheels for that cannon?"

So I approached the firing line with what the tester called my "hog leg". First we had to throw ourselves prone and shoot six rounds and kneel behind a post and shoot three with one hand, then three with other, then six standing behind the post. Then run forward and draw and shoot again on command, etc. With the old gun I hit the target 46 of 50 shots, or 92%! My only four misses were firing with my left hand in a hurry after a "border shift"... drawing and firing rapid fire six rounds with right hand, then reloading and doing same with left. Then we fired combat shotgun, rapid loading and firing of 12 gauge slugs from 50 yards, 25 yards, 17 yards. I did not have one miss. 100%. So my total qualification score was 96%. Very respectable.

I came home and bragged to Mrs. RRR, then called my father who taught me to shoot and told him. Mrs. RRR gave me a big lunch of ham and asparagus and I went to bed.

Combat Onion Rings

2007-05-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

The year... 1970. The place.... several kilometers south east of My Lai 4 on the peninsula south of Chu Lai, Vietnam. The RRR was the radio operator for a Land Clearing Platoon. We had 4 bull dozers to uncover enemy tunnels and bunkers with and enough personnel to operate, maintain, and protect them. We had established a "night laager" site on top of a hill that we operated from.

We were hungry, desperately hungry for fresh vegetables. For 6 weeks we'd lived exclusively on C-rations, army canned individual meals. We craved fruit and vegetables. Each time I called the rear support area with the lieutenant's daily report and equipment requests I begged for fresh food. Finally the opportunity came to contact the rear "secure". Part of my equipment was what was then a top secret scrambling device for the radio. It was huge, heavy, unreliable and absolute magic allowing me to talk to our company headquarters "in the clear" with out using code and communicate freely. It was a measure of how seriously the secrecy surrounding this equipment was taken that I was issued a .45 caliber pistol and a thermite grenade with orders to destroy it if needed to prevent its falling into enemy hands and to kill myself with to prevent information about it from being tortured out of me. I had no difficulty with the idea of following the latter orders. I'd seen the remains of soldiers who had been questioned by the Vietcong and had no desire to share their experience.

In the clear I demanded over the scrambler that we be sent some fresh food. The First Sgt. got on the radio and explained that there had been a hold up in shipments for the entire division, not just us, but that they would send SOMETHING. We anxiously awaited the next resupply helicopter. Along with our mail, ammo, and bulldozer repair parts, the helicopter crew chief tossed out a wooden crate of fresh onions. It was all they had. The mess Sgt. had included four pounds of butter to fry them up with. We stood around staring at the crate of onions. I peeled the skin off one and began eating it like an apple. But the lieutenant had a sudden idea... "Let's make onion rings!" And make onion rings we did.

Soon two of the men were slicing the onions with bayonets. Another dug through the box of cast offs from the c-ration packs, digging out every powdered cream packet and salt and pepper. We crushed "hard tack", the army crackers and mixed that with water, cream and spices to make a batter. The demolition man opened a case of c-4 plastic explosive and burned a quarter stick inside an empty .50 caliber ammo can to cook the paint out. The ammo can became our french frier. For a fry basket we took a tall quart and a half juice can and perforated it with a clip full of ammo from an M-16. A piece of wire from a c-ration crate made bail for our "fry basket". We sat the ammo can on 4 rocks, put the butter in it and started burning little dabs of c-4 under it to melt and heat the butter. The onion rings were dipped in batter and placed in the basket and dipped into the hot butter. An M-16 made a handy stick to hang the fry basket from.

The were DELICIOUS! The dozen or so of us ate onion rings and ate onion rings and ate onion rings. We devoured the entire crate. We ate till we were as full as ticks. It was 5 years before I could contemplate eating onion rings again, but that night, that one night I ate all I wanted.

That's the way it was... it really, really happened.

Celebrate!

2007-05-18T14:40:00.000-07:00

The RRR is pleased to report the pathology results from Midkid's surgery. Negative. No cancer. Benign. Thank you God.

Grappling With Destiny

2007-05-18T11:48:00.000-07:00

The RRR and Mrs. RRR are in Dallas. Someone loves this city. Perhaps they will comment on this blog. But I didn't start this posting to express my obvious disgust with the Hollywood of the South. First I wish to say that Midkid has had her surgery and came through it stunningly well. The growth removed seems benign, tests are in progress but the pathologist seems 99% certain. My daughter is brave and strong. Her husband is wonderful and supporting. The granddaughters are beautiful, loving, and intelligent. These things are all good.

Meantime I did the last minute shopping for the Big River Trip. I needed an ultralight tarp. So Son In Law and I went to REI, the yuppie equivalent of Campmor.com. REI is known for $70 tarps. And there among them was a Chinese import that looked like exactly what I wanted for a whopping $3.50. I bought it on the spot. That left one more thing I needed... a grappling hook. They were originally used by pirates to snag the railings of ships they had caught to pull them together. The old wooden ship navy used them for the same thing. These days SWAT teams have them to toss on the roofs of buildings to ascend the walls. An investigation of Ebay showed the police type for a whopping $20 plus shipping and they were way too small... about 4" across (10 cm.). My Son In Law came up with a brilliant idea.

He purchased a couple pieces of rebar... concrete reinforcing rod a foot long (30 cm.) and 3/8" in diameter (about 10mm). We took them down to the end of his driveway at the apartment and bent them to shape using the the cast iron sewer grate for a vice and the handle of an adjustable wrench for a bending too. Naturally, it took two more trips to the hardware store but eventually with the help of both of our creativity, two 3/8" cable saddle clamps, and a 3/8" 8" long eye bolt, we completed it. Now I have a really for cool grappling hook which is the size I wanted for only about $7.

Now to answer everyone's burning question... what do I need with a grappling hook? It's because I'm floating down the river alone. I don't have a strong partner to hold the boat in one place while I tie off to the bank or stop when a hazard appears suddenly. The grappling hook will go on the end of the bow anchor chain. When I need to stop, I'll toss it into the woods on the bank of the river. It will catch on a limb, branch or tree trunk and I will come to a stop. When the trip is finished, I'll report how well it worked.

The River Rat Ranger Reboots...

2007-05-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

The RRR's youngest daughter Midkid... complained that he hasn't blogged in 3 months. She's right... here it is.... Outside under the Sugar Maple the new to me, old and battered jon boat bought for $50 waits upside down as the glue on the hull leaks dries. Beside me on the living room floor are 5 gallon buckets. One full of dried food. One full of cooking gear. Mrs. RRR is sewing a padded bag for the new Coleman Exponent dual fuel lantern. There is a poem on the new lantern's box.....

"I will EXIT the beaten path. I will
Exit the beaten path to ESCAPE
The urgency of clocks. I will exit
The beaten path all BECAUSE I
Enjoy a good CHALLENGE. To
RECHARGE my batteries. To
REBOOT. I will exit to hear my
Spirited shouts ECHO off the
Cliffs and back to me... back to
ME... to me. I will exit the beaten
Path to REDISCOVER who I
Actually am. I will exit the beaten
Path, and in my SOUL, not return."

Tomorrow Mrs. RRR and I leave for Texas to be with Midkid and her family as she has surgery. Saturday night we will head back for my beloved river valley. Sunday afternoon we will put the boat and the gear into Das Boot, our creaky ancient diesel Suburban and drive to another river. And Sunday night I will be where the frogs sing and the blue herons squawk sardonically.

Call me an escapist, call me a waster of time and energy, but till June..... call me long distance.

The Ignasecond

2007-02-21T15:22:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger tells the sad story of a second of ignorance, otherwise known as an "Ignasecond". I have gone wild using my new camping oven. Today, Mrs. RRR was due home at 1330 (1:30 p.m. to non-rangers). At 1300 I put the oven on the kitchen stove to warm up. As it heated, I used the oven to thaw some sausage patties and mixed up scrambled eggs. I mixed a cup of biscuit mix per my previous blog's recipe. At 1315 I tipped the sausage into the fry pan and greased the warm pie plate I was using for a baking pan. Into the pan went 4 large dollops of dough and into the oven. Then it was time to turn the sausages. I filled the teakettle and started the water boiling for Mrs. RRR's hot drink. The sausages were soon done. They went on a paper towel under the skillet lid and the egg mix went into the fry pan. I quick set the table. At 1325 the eggs were done. They went to one side of the pan and the sausages in with them to keep warm. At 1330 the steaming hot biscuits came out and went to the table. I poured Mrs. RRR's coffee and sat the eggs and sausages down as she drove up to the cabin.

We ate the biscuits with butter and fruit jam. Then I had frozen fruit for dessert. But as any diabetic will tell you... biscuits are high carb. My two hour post meal blood sugar was 186. Eye damage starts at 150. The little vessels in the back of the eye sugar cure like a smokehouse ham. So I needed the poor man's insulin... a long, brisk walk. As Iowa is in a mucky thawed out mess today, I drove down to the river to a state park with Bay Toe Ven, the Inside Dog. We're not to the ignasecond yet, but we're getting closer.

We took off on the paved trail along the river. Bay scrambled through the snow up a hill after squirrels, then slid back down. He trotted along sniffing happily. Other people were enjoying the unseasonable warmth also, bicyclists and joggers, not to mention fishermen. We walked all the way to the Big Dam. There is a door in the side that I always try the door on. Some day it will be open. Then back. Bay was getting pooped out at 40 minutes. He kept lagging behind. So I put his leash on and led him. But like the RRR, Bay is getting old. Long, brisk walks will soon be a thing of the past.

By the time we'd reached an hour on the trail and arrived back at the Green Hornet, he was ready to quit. I opened the hatch on the Hornet, pulled the keys out of the lock, held them in my hand with his leash and helped him hop in. I tossed the leash into the back of the car and slammed the hatch down. The Ignasecond occurred as I saw the keys flying into the seat with the leash through the hatch window as it latched shut.

There I stood. I thought about kicking a window in with rage. Instead I stood with my hands in my pockets staring and thinking long thoughts about the meaning of life and creeping senility.
"Did you lock yourself out?" a friendly voice asked. It was one of the joggers. He held out his cell phone. I called Mrs. RRR. She laughed at me. I deserved it.

So for the next 20 minutes I continued to walk around the parking lot till she arrived. In a moment I was back in the Green Hornet and headed home. On the way I stopped for the mail. A fund raising letter from the National Alzheimer's Association. They'd arrived just in time. And oh yes... my blood sugar? Down to 125 where it belongs.

Ranger Biscuits

2007-02-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger tells of another aquisition and another recipe. Mrs. RRR and I were checking the clearance aisle at Sprawl Mart and I wandered back to sporting goods. I stopped, dumbfounded. There was a Coleman Campstove Oven on clearance at less than half price. My American readers know Coleman as the lantern company who makes heavy, clunky, but totally reliable camping gear. I once bought a Coleman backpacking stove that had sat for over 30 years untouched. I oiled the leather on the pump, filled the tank with fuel and it roared into instant life.
The Campstove Ovens are a special treat. They fold up to the size of an encyclopedia, then pop open to about a foot square. There is an oven rack inside and a thermostat on the door. They are designed to sit on the burner of a classic, green, Coleman Campstove. They also work on gas burners of conventional stoves and on wood burning cookstoves. One big advantage is that for a small amount of baking you don't have to heat up the whole oven and save significantly on gas usage. It should go without saying that I couldn't wait to try it out. I made River Rat Ranger Biscuits and they were a huge success. So I will give the recipe...
River Rat Ranger Biscuits
1 Cup flour (purists will want to use 1/2 C each whole wheat and white)
1 Tablespoon baking powder (Rumsford's non-aluminum, of course)
1/4 Teaspoon salt. (freshly ground sea salt naturally)
2 Teaspoons dark brown sugar (ok, so blackstrap mollasses or honey would be more politically correct)
As the oven preheats to about 400 degrees, mix just enough milk with the above ingredients to make a stiff dough. Don't stir too much, it "kills" the baking powder. Divide into about a half dozen dollops on a greased pan. Bake for 10-15 minutes till the "wave tops" are getting brown and the biscuits sound hollow when snapped with a finger nail. Remove, give thanks, break, butter and devour. A snack MUCH too good for a king.

Juan and Pablo.... Outlaws

2007-01-25T16:36:00.000-08:00

Another true adventure of Juan and Pablo, the Gringo brothers....
Return with us now to those days of yesteryear... 35 years ago. Juan and Pablo, the Gringo brothers, were living in Juan and Philipa's trailer on the banks of the Leon River in Central Texas. Philipa was still pregnant with Juanito and Forita, the soon to be born Gringo twins. The tiny house had a 110 volt water heater tucked under the kitchen counter by the sink. One day there was no hot water. The electric element in the water heater had burned out. The brothers drove to the nearby town of Gatesville to purchase another and found that none was available at the hardware or plumbing stores. They had only 220 volt elements. However, the local Sears and Roebuck DID have a miniature 110 volt water heater for which replacement parts would be available at any Sears store. Juan used almost every cent he and Philipa had saved to buy it. The brothers also bought the plumbing fittings they were sure they would need and went back to the trailer to do the installation. They found out several things. The unit that had come with the trailer had apparently been built in as the house was assembled. They were forced to cut the front of the cabinet and remove it to begin working on the switch over. It had to be drained and the fittings disassembled. Water ran everywhere and had to be soaked up. Knuckles were scraped. Tools were borrowed from neighbors. Tempers flared. At last the old tank was out and the new ready to install. It was then they discovered that the plumbing fittings on the Sears water heater were all in totally different locations. There was more cutting and flaring of copper tubing. More tightening in impossibly small spaces. The job went on and on. At last it seemed they were almost done.
Suddenly Juan had a terrible premonition. He vaguely remember that when they unpacked the new unit, there was an extra hole in the top with a plastic plug in it. He reached up over the top of the heater, rescraping his knuckles on the bottom of the counter top in the incredibly tight area. He could just reach the plug with his fingertips, but that was enough to pop it out. The hole was meant for an overflow pipe and there was simply no way that an elbow and fitting would go in there. He sat on the floor, devastated. It was now 2:00 in the morning. He and Pablo would have to be up in four hours to go to work. The water was off. The toilet would not flush. Pablo reached his hand back up under the counter and measured the hole with his finger tip. "We need a 3/4" pipe plug." he announced. In the middle of the night. Something tickled at the back of Juan's mind. A 3/4" plug. Where had he seen 3/4" plugs before? Then he remembered! The bung hole plug on 55 gallon barrels is always a 3/4" plug and every barrel made in America had one. But where to find an empty barrel? The brothers searched the trailer community by flashlight. Nothing. Then at almost the same time they remembered that the local farmer's co-op had a storage yard about a mile from where they lived.
Soon they were driving down the country road with the lights on the car off. The storage yard had a high chain link fence around it and the gate was chained shut and padlocked. They hid the car in the brush and crept to the fence and climbed over. They didn't dare use a flashlight for fear a neighbor would see and call the sheriff. They felt their way around the storage yard till they came to a pile of empty barrels. Pablo held a barrel still while Juan used an adjustable wrench and a small pipe wrench to unscrew the rusty plug. They quaked at each screech as it came loose. Once they dived to the ground and hid behind the barrels as a car went by. At last they were back over the fence and in the car, dirty and scratched from the fence and triumphant in their own daring. They drove boldly home with the headlights on.
As there was no way of knowing what poison might have been in the barrel, Philipa boiled the plug in a pan on the stove for ten minutes. Then they soaked it in alcohol, then in chlorine bleach, then boiled it again. At last they put pipe thread compound on it and began the process of worrying it into place, getting it turned in and tightened in a space barely larger than the wrench. Pablo went outside and turned on the water. Juan let the air out through the kitchen sink faucet till the water rushed out. They checked all the fittings, especially the pipe plug fitting. All held without a drop of water leaking. Then they checked their wiring job to the electric box. Everything seemed fine. Juan turned on the switch. After a little while, the soft singing sound of water heating could be heard by putting one's head against the side of the heater. Overjoyed, they washed up in cold water and lay down for a couple hours of sleep. All too soon it was time to get up. And they both took hot showers. Philipa had hot water to do the dishes in and the brothers drove the long drive to work more pleased with themselves than had they been able to pay a plumber and revelling in the fact they were now true outlaws, having trespassed in the night and stolen a thrown away bung hole plug.
It really, really happened.

Juan and Pablo and the "Kicker"

2007-01-11T18:18:00.000-08:00

In response to numerous (at least two) requests, The RRR tells another true story from the adventures of Juan and Pablo, The Gringo Brothers.

Before I begin, I must give some nomenclature background or my Asian readers will be hopelessly lost. In the southern USA is a rural white culture totally different from the rest of the country. It has been treated humorously in such TV shows as The Beverly Hillbillies, Hee Haw, and The Dukes of Hazard. One of the favorite euphemisms for white, southern rural people, especially men, is S*** Kicker, or to be more gentle Crap Kicker or more literal, Manure Kicker. The idea being of a young male hick wandering about a pasture kicking over piles of cow manure. It started as an insult and became a point of perverse pride. As any radio station west of the Mississippi in the U.S. must start their call letters with "K", rural country music stations often have names such as. "KICK", "KIKK", or "KIKR", etc. Each station has a fiercely loyal listener base who often identify themselves with bumper stickers on their cars or pickups (almost always pickups) that proudly proclaim which station they listen to. These bumper stickers are called "Kicker Stickers". You must know all this to understand the story.

It was late in 1972. Juan and his very pregnant wife were living in a travel trailer out in the woods by the Leon River in central Texas. Pablo, who had just broken up with his fiance' up in Iowa had moved in with them. The brothers were one day wandering the woods looking for Armadillos to shoot for the 25 cent bounty offered by the landowner. It is a measure of their poverty that this is how they spent their spare time. Juan had a .22 caliber Iver Johnson revolver to shoot the destructive little beasts with. Each bullet cost 1 and 1/2 cents which left a clear profit of 23 and 1/2 cents for each Armadillo, not to mention they got to keep the meat to barbecue. (The RRR can provide recipes upon request). They had had no luck this day and as they crossed a clearing a local man came out of the brush and confronted them. He was in his twenties and wearing a cowboy hat, faded Western shirt, faded jeans and, naturally, scuffed, down at the heels cowboy boots. He was also carrying a short, double barrelled shotgun.

He let it casually wander towards the Gringo Brothers...

"Whatcha all doin'?" he asked.

They told him they were hunting Armadillos for the bounty, as was he. He made some general sneering comments about Yankees. Neither brother liked the way he kept waving the sawed-off shotgun about.

"What's that you have there?" asked Pablo. The cowboy gave an evil grin...

"This here is my n*****-getter..... and it works for Yankees... too."

It would be a toss up whether the Gringo brothers were more angered by the racist comment or the implied threat to themselves, but regardless, Juan put his hand on the butt of his revolver. The shotgun turned toward him and steadied. Pablo, unknown to the cowboy, was carrying a Mexican bowie knife. They are different from American bowies in that they have a hook on the end of the handle so when carried between the shoulder blades under a shirt they can be whipped out quickly with one hand. A casual scratching of the back of the neck or adjustment of a cowboy hat puts the weapon within easy reach.

In a flash Pablo held the blade inches from the man's throat.

"Waal" Pablo said in his best southern drawl... "This here is my Kicker Sticker".

The man with the gun was in a difficult position. With the shotgun steadied on Juan he was helpless against the nickle plated blade that glittered by his throat. If he turned toward Pablo, Juan would be able to draw and fire before he could regain his aim. He let the shotgun down to dangle by his side and swallowed quickly. The brothers watched as he faded back into the brush, then rapidly left and went back to the trailer. The 25 cents suddenly didn't seem so important.

There it is friends... it really, really happened.

Ranger Holidays

2007-01-11T17:10:00.000-08:00

It's been a month since the RRR blogged.... and what a month, Ranger Readers. Starting in November Mrs. RRR began getting the cabin ready for the Big Visits. Rooms were rearranged, cleaning done. We bought two new 6' tall bookcases and I sorted and organized and cleaned up the piles of books that were dripping off tables, shelves and chairs. Then the happy influx began. Our oldest Son, his wife, their two lovely daughters and handsome son arrived from Kentucky. His twin sister was the only one who couldn't make it... but with good reason to be explained later. Their younger sister flew in from Dallas with her husband and two more wonderful granddaughters. Then youngest Son, his wife and daughter arrived from Monterey, California. At last Grandpa and Grandma Ranger drove in. My Dad and Step mom. 16 people to spend Christmas. Such a happy, wonderful time. We all ate a huge meal. Then I read the Christmas Story from the book of Luke and we at last opened presents. I got more books which will show up on my next reading list. Mrs. RRR gave me a new set of uniform trousers for my Sheriff's work and a set of clunky cool Russian Army wrist compasses and a brand new Mora, Swedish Army sheath knife. Grandpa and Grandma Ranger... gave me the money to get this year's hunting and fishing license.

But the greatest fun was watching the herd of grand kids open presents and play. It was such a happy time. And three days later the new fun began.

We all drove up to the Minneapolis area for oldest Daughter's wedding! Yes, she at last met the man of her dreams. I knew at once from the tone of her voice on the phone after she had first met him. He is a good fit into the Ranger household. Well educated, loves to read, and loves the out of doors. They were married in a large, formal wedding. The church was decorated with hundreds of roses. The sanctuary was full to overflowing. An orchestra played. After everyone was seated, seven of the bride and groom's nieces, all eight years and younger, and wearing fluffy little white dresses walked down the aisle ringing silver bells. Then a moment of silence and from the balcony started the moaning wail of Scottish Bagpipes. I took her arm and we walked slowly to the altar accompanied by the wild, winsome music of my father's heritage. At the front the preacher waited wearing white and gold robes. We stood side by side as the ceremony continued and she and her man gazed at each other oblivious to the rest of us. Then my line came..

"Who gives this woman to wed?" asked the preacher.

"Her mother and I do." I said in my bravest voice, trembling a little in my rented suit.

I turned toward her and we hugged. "You're the most beautiful bride in the world," I told her. Then I put her hand in his and went to sit by Mrs. RRR. The tissues youngest Daughter gave me before the wedding came in handy. Something seemed to be in my eyes. Oh friends, she was so beautiful and looked so happy.

The reception followed in the church basement. The food was great and so the companionship. After it was over, Mrs. RRR and I and my parents helped clean up down there while the groom's parents helped clean upstairs. The four of us stopped for coffee after and reminisced. Good times. Happy times.

Tonight Mrs. RRR and I took down the Christmas tree and packed away all the decorations we've accumulated over the years. We still have some of the original balls that we bought for our first Christmas together in 1971. How long ago that seems, yet in another way, just yesterday. We were so poor. It took almost every cent we had to buy that tree, two boxes of balls, a string of lights, and some tinsel. But there was no star for the top of the tree. I took the cardboard back off a note pad and drew a five pointed star on it. Then cut it out and covered in with aluminum foil. We punched a hole in the center for one of the little lights on the string, and we had our star.

I've looked at expensive "tree toppers" many times since... blown glass stars and angels... but none will ever replace that homemade one. It wouldn't be a Ranger Christmas without it.

Ranger Reading

2006-12-10T17:07:00.000-08:00

The RRR tells what he's currently reading...

On the left side of the recliner... Shelters, Shacks, And Shanties by D.C. Beard

“In 1887, when the writer was himself a bachelor, he went out into the wilderness on the shores of Big Tink Pond, upon which he built the log house shown in the sketch. At first he kept bachelor hall there with some choice spirits, not the kind you find in bottles on the barroom shelf, but the human kind who love the outdoor world and nature, or he took his parents and near relatives with him for a vacation in the woods. Like all sensible men, in the course of time he married, and then he took his bride out to the cabin in woods. At length the time came when he found it necessary to shoulder his axe and go to the woods to secure material for a new piece of furniture. He cut the young chestnut-trees, peeled them, and with them constructed a crib; and every year for the last eight years that crib has been occupied part of the season. Thus, you see, a camp of this kind becomes hallowed with the most sacred of human memories and becomes a joy not only to the builder thereof but also to the coming generation.”

On the right side of the recliner... magazines and catalogs including, The American Rifleman, Uplook, Fur-Fish-Game, Wilderness Way, The Back Up... Campmore and Sportsman's Guide.

By the computer to read during long downloads.... Knights In Athens by Edward H. Smith.

“As the night wore on, I found it increasingly difficult to differentiate between nightmares and reality. Reality could be a nightmare on occasion.”

On the kitchen table... The Holy Bible, King James version.

“And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; they people shall be my people, and the God my God:”

On the left end of the couch... Great Days With The Great Lives by Charles R. Swindoll.

“We desperately need role models worth following. Authentic heroes. People of integrity. Great lives to inspire us to do better, to climb higher, to stand taller.”

Under my side of the bed... Bible Questions Answered by Pettingill.

“What is the purpose of 'the new earth?'.. It is believed by many enlightened teachers that the new earth will be the permanent home of redeemed Israel. The promise to Abraham was 'that he should be the heir of the world' (Rom. 4: 13)”

Beside the throne.... Tortured For Christ by Richard Wormbrand.

“Once the communists came to power, they skillfully used the means of seduction toward the Church. The language of love and the language of seduction are the same. The one who wishes a girl for a wife and the one who wishes her for a night in order to throw her away afterward, both say, 'I love you.'”

This list is not exhaustive. It does not include the catalogs and magazines by the throne, nor the mystery novel hidden in the file cabinet by my desk at work or the adventure novel under the seat of the car or the spy novel in the pocket of my coat... but you get the idea.

A Gift From Malaysia

2006-12-04T02:51:00.000-08:00

Visithra, who often comments on this blog published the following poem after the death of the Littlest Ranger.... Thank you.

"For Shamgar

God bless the little angel and all of you.

By Rabindranath Tagore
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.

When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not there!"--mother, I am going.

I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.

In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep mother, sleep."

On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.

I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.

When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.

Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, "Where is our baby, sister? Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul...."

The Parable

2006-12-04T02:18:00.000-08:00

The RRR appreciates the sentiments and support his family received during their recent loss. But the wheel keeps turning. Life goes on. The cold has come to Iowa. It is 19 F... well under 0 C. The days get shorter and shorter. Today I received a humorous story I must share....

An elderly American lady decided to go on a photo safari to Africa. She could not bear to be separated from her also elderly French Poodle. So she spent the necessary money for him to have all his shots and inspections and took him with her. Soon they were out on the veldt. As dogs are wont to do, her poodle wandered off. Suddenly he realized he was being stalked by a young leopard. Thinking quickly, he leaped onto a nearby pile of bones and began chewing them enthusiastically. "Ahhh..." he said, "that is the best leopard I ever killed and ate." The young cat slunk away, grateful to have escaped death from the jaws of this strange interloper. But a monkey watched this with disdain. He went to the leopard and told him how he had been fooled and asked that he be rewarded with part of the meal when the leopard took his revenge on the poodle. Infuriated, the spotted predator allowed the monkey on his back and loped back to where the poodle was sniffing new odors. Taking the situation in at once, the poodle stood looking around disgusted. "Where IS that monkey?" he demanded loudly. "It's been an hour since I sent him to fetch me another leopard!".

The leopard fled in terror, but soon dined on monkey.

The moral of the story?

Don't mess with old dogs... age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill.

He Goes Home

2006-11-23T08:07:00.000-08:00

It was about 1430... 2:30 P.M. on November 22, 2006... A tiny
hand knocked confidently on the pearley gate. The Littlest Ranger had come home.

Twilight

2006-11-21T18:07:00.000-08:00

It is the next evening now. The wheel turns. Once more I was asleep in preparation for going to work the night shift. Once more I awakened suddenly in the dark bedroom with a nameless sense of anticipation, expecting Something to happen. Out in the great room the phone rang. I got up. Mrs RRR saw me come out of the bedroom. "No, he's awake... here he is..." and she handed me the phone.
My brother this time. The Littlest Ranger's grandfather. We talk. The end is in sight now. The tiny tyke is down to only brain stem function. No more liver function, no bowel, no kidney. It's all almost over. Still the heart tries valiantly to beat. Still the respirator blows air in, stops and gravity pushes it out. That is all. The options are down to almost none. I've already said my piece. My brother and I reminisce gently of the loss of our mother. I tell him some deeply personal memories of patients that have eased past the veil as I cared for them. I think of all those affected.
The child's mother, grandmother, sister, aunties, cousins... all the women who long to hold him and caress him and cherish him and help him grow up feeling safe and loved. The father, grandfathers, great grandfathers who would raise him up to be a man, to stand tall before his God, to ride, rope, shoot straight and tell the truth. Even his great uncle, me, who would teach him to spot the best route through a rapids, to pick a camp sight, start a fire, read the signs of the woods. All of us wait. On the other side of the veil... the Littlest Ranger's Lord waits also, for him to be welcomed to the arms that WILL hold him.
And one more prayer.... "Thank you God, for this tiny life that has touched ours. Thank you for the lessons he is teaching us about You and ourselves. Help everyone not to hurt. Please comfort his mommy and daddy, and all of us. God bless us... every one."

The Battle Draws Closer To The End

2006-11-21T02:40:00.000-08:00

Two decades ago or longer Papa Ranger, then about 60, lay in a coma in a small hospital in a little town in rural Canada. He had contracted encephalitis. My mother sat by him. Suddenly his eyes opened. He spoke his first words. "Has my son called?" At once the door opened and the nurse stuck her head in and said to Mom and Him, "Your son is on the phone."

It was me. I had felt a sudden urge to call. Last night before I went to work, I suddenly awakened at 8:35 p.m. I lay in the dark room, suddenly alert. The phone began to ring. It was Papa Ranger. News about his great grandson of whom I've written these last days.

The news was not good. The Littlest Ranger is no longer fighting. His partially formed tiny heart beats on, but only the machine filling his lungs and letting them deflate is keeping him alive. He is totally flacid. The tests show massive brain damage. His organs are shutting down or already have. Papa had held him and marveled at his beauty and asked all the "why" questions. The medications have been stopped. Only the sound of the ventilation machine continues. His parents have the night to consider the few options left.

Only Heaven holds the answers. And soon he will be there... and suddenly he will be everything he was meant to be. Please Dear God... comfort those who hurt, dry the tears of those who weep. Please....

The Battle Continues

2006-11-19T22:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight the RRR called his niece, the Littlest Ranger's mommy. Things do not look good. More tests are being done. She and her husband are facing one of the toughest of decisions. Praying for a miracle. Praying for wisdom. Asking The One who sweated great drops like blood on His knees in a garden that "this cup" be passed from them. And like Him, saying "nevertheless... not MY will but THINE".

Oh, but it's so hard.

Today at the chapel, I preached about another cup, the one Joseph had hidden in Benjamin's sack of grain in the book of Genesis, chapter 44. We talked about the Middle Eastern tradition that it was an insult for a host to give a guest a cup smaller than his own to drink out of. And how it's the greatest of honors to offer the guest the hosts own cup to drink from. The ultimate compliment for a guest of honor, as Benjamin had been in chapter 43. And how the ultimate insult that guest could give would be to steal the host's cup. And suddenly the chapter opens to your mind and you realize why it was his own personal cup Joseph chose to put in the sack.

If only that little boy in the hospital could have his situation suddenly make sense.

I walked Bay Toe Ven before leaving the cabin to drive in to work tonight. The stars were starkly bright against a black velvet sky. The great calendar has turned. Pleiades is very high up in the Eastern sky, below at about East East South is Orion, my good friend and companion of the night. The stars keep turning and burning... The life of the universe will continue.

Another Prayer

2006-11-18T12:45:00.000-08:00

In an incubator... on a ventilator... tubes in and tubes out of his tiny body... The Littlest Ranger fights for life. His kidneys are not functioning. His malformed heart tries to pump. There is blood on his brain, blood in his urine, his bowels may not be working either. The family gathers. The nurses, those soft hearted, ultra competent technicians try to shut off their feelings and be mechanical. I am a nurse. It does NOT work. Each life that slips away is a failure in your heart whether you admit it or not or agree it's logical or not. Each twist and turn and moan of pain becomes YOUR pain. It doesn't go away when you run your card through the time clock. The faces haunt you. The cries become part of you. God help them. God help the family. God love and cradle that little boy to your bosom. Please Dear God.

A Plea To The Creator

2006-11-17T14:18:00.000-08:00

The RRR has a solemn tale to tell. The Littlest Ranger was born 4 days ago. His father, a genuine cowboy, his mother my younger brother's daughter. This would make him my great nephew. From the moment of his birth something was wrong. It was found he had way too few white blood cells and x rays showed his heart to be enlarged. He was rushed to a hospital with Neonatal Intensive Care. It was found that he was born with almost half of his heart missing. Then he developed pneumonia and had to be placed on a ventilator. He was placed on an air ambulance and flown to a major medical center specializing in children's diseases. There he was stabilized in their Intensive care unit. Now we await anxiously the tests that will show if any other congenital problems exist and for the first of the many, many operations it will take to save his life. At once we heard, word went out to all the relatives across America. They called their churches and relatives. Over a thousand people are now praying for him and the family regularly. Oh Dear God... let this tiny one live. Hold him and his family in your love. Comfort them and give them strength... please Dear God.

Possum Guilt

2006-11-15T14:58:00.000-08:00

The RRR tells a story of small scale violence. It starts with Jake. Jake farms the land on two sides of the cabin. Each year it's either corn or soybeans... this year beans. When he harvested them in October, there were suddenly tens of thousands of mice homeless and with their food source removed. And right there close was the Ranger homestead. They decided to move in. We knew the invasion had started when there were rustlings in the walls of the cabin and Mrs. RRR found mouse droppings on the bathroom floor. I opened up the crawl space and reset all the traps, baiting them with peanut butter. Then I went into town and bought a bucket of poison bait chunks. I have two feeding stations outside the shop and three inside and one about 40 feet from the cabin. In a day the bait was gone from all six locations. I kept putting out more... it disappeared. And more. I bought another bucket. But my conscience was prodding me. Something more than mice HAD to be getting my poison. When I went out with a flashlight and saw a raccoon waddling away from a feeding station, I knew I was hurting more than mice. I LIKE raccoons. They are the worse scamps in nature, but delightful to watch and I wanted no part in causing them miserable deaths. So I made mouse feeding stations from old buckets with firmly fastening lids. I cut holes big enough for mice, but too small for anything else and too small for the bait chunks to be removable.
A quick check the next morning showed the bait mostly intact, but nibbled at and mouse droppings in the buckets. I had succeeded. And I prayed the raccoons did not suffer. But this afternoon I went out to the shop and there found a very sick possum, properly spelled "opossum" lying on the shop floor. He had been at my bait before I sheltered it and was now dying. I have no love for possums. They are nasty little rats. Eat carrion and only fight when cornered. But I hate to see anything suffer. I went to the house and got a .22 and scooped up the possum and took him in a pail out to the woods to a secluded ravine. Laying him on the fallen leaves, I apologized for his suffering and ended it quickly.
A plea to Ranger Readers. If you MUST put out mouse and rat poison and I know many of us must... take the time to make bait stations accessible only to the target animals. Our Creator made us stewards over all creatures. We have the power of life and death to them. Let us not misuse it by making any creature suffer unnecessarily.

Ranger Apple Crisp

2006-11-14T19:15:00.000-08:00

The RRR helped tonight with the production of the World's Best Apple Crisp. This evening I was puttering about the cabin... ok, I was curled up with a good book, the classic Two Years Before The Mast by Dana. Mrs. RRR had gone out to the shop. She came in from the frosty out of doors breathing out vapor and with her glasses fogging. She was carrying a 5 gallon bucket of apples. "It's time for more apple crisp." She announced. I did NOT argue. I took our nifty apple peeler/corer/slicer from it's box and clamped it to the kitchen table. It is a wonderfully mechanical device whose design hasn't changed in over a hundred years. My 1906 Sears catalog reprint shows one just like it. We put a cup of lemon juice into a large bowl and added enough water to make a quart. Actually we save the mix from one apple peeling session to another, keeping it in a jar in the refrigerator and adding water or a little juice as needed. The juice is an important part of the recipe. It prevents the slices from turning brown and adds a tangy tartness to the taste of the apples. By that bowl I sat another with a strainer in it. And next to that, Mrs. RRR put a large stainless steel dishpan. I sat the cutting board by the peeler and sharpened my homemade paring knife with my EZ Lap diamond sharpening stone. EZ Lap stones are the best I've found. I have a short one I carry on river and desert trips and a tiny fountain pen sized one for backpacking. My father made the paring knife from an old broken one. It fits my hand just right.
I reached down into the bucket on my right and took the top apple, a Golden Delicious. The stem twisted off easily and I impaled the fruit on the prongs and turned the crank. THIS is where technology should be going. The crank moves the apple toward the peeling arm and engages it. The arm swivels as it peels and being spring loaded follows the shape of the apple. As the apple moves past the peeling blade, it engages another circular blade that cores it and the support blade which spiral slices it. If all goes well, the newly peeled apple slides off the core and I had only to slice it in half to make about 20 apple slices. These I dropped into the lemon juice mixture to prevent browning.
Mrs. RRR let them soak a little and dropped them into the strainer to drain. Then she checked for bad spots I'd missed and dumped them in the dishpan. There were plenty of scraps not quite right for baking for us to gobble as we went along. Soon the bucket was empty and the dishpan full. Mrs. RRR divided the slice between three glass cake pans she had greased with butter. Then she covered the apples completely plus a little more with her premixed apple crisp topping. Here is her recipe:
3 1/2 Cups of dark brown sugar, 2 Teaspoons Salt, 1 1/2 cups of butter, 1 Tablespoon cinnamon, 4 Cups of oatmeal, 1 1/2 Cups of whole wheat flour.
She mixes these all together in multiple quantities and freezes until needed. She takes it out to thaw while we slice and soak the apples.
When the apples are in the dish and covered with topping, they go in the oven at 350 degrees for 25 to 35 minutes. Set out to cool.
While they were cooking Bay Toe Ven and I walked down the lane through the icy mist to get the mail. We took the apple peelings and cores along and left them for the four legged clean up crew down by the bridge. It was pitch dark in the woods along the lane so I used my miniature flashlight and my walking stick to keep from slipping. As we came back down, another flashlight bobbed towards us.. Mrs. RRR coming to meet us and escort us home. Back in the snug cabin the wonderful appley sugary smell greeted us. When the bell on the timer rang she set the pans out to cool. After 15" she covered the pans with waxed paper to keep the moisture in. But FIRST she cut out two pieces and placed on plates, each with a scoop of ice cream on it. She brought mine into the great room, the apple crisp steaming and the ice cream melting. Heaven wasn't half a mile from here.
Now, as the warmth from the oven leaks away into the cold night, I'll light the gas fireplace and we'll crawl under the blankets on the pallet in front of the fire. Life is good.

A Day Described

2006-11-13T18:15:00.000-08:00

A simple description of a day in the life of the RRR. This morning the clock was set for 0445 for Mrs. RRR to get up to go to work. As usual I awakened about 30 seconds before the alarm went off. I groaned and rolled off the pallet in front of the gas fireplace and was stretching when the buzzing of the alarm started. Mrs. RRR also groaned and covered her head with the quilt. I stumbled about and shut off the clock and went into the kitchen and peered out into the pitch blackness. Why do the days have to get shorter? Yes, yes, I KNOW why, but I don't want them to. I poured fresh water from the water filter into the tea kettle and started Mrs. RRR's morning libations. She begins every day with a cup of Columbian Supremo coffee, a cup of green tea with ginger, and a half cup of home made tomato juice with a tablespoon of cider vinegar in it and hot water added. In a few minutes the cups were in a row and the tea kettle was beginning to hum and pop, clearing its throat to sing. She hurried out to face the day and I returned to the pallet before the fire to finish the dream my anticipation of the alarm clock had interrupted.
I was vaguely aware of the quick kiss and the cool blast of frigid outside air as she went out to walk Bay Toe Ven and warm up her car. The door slammed. Bay Toe Ven padded by and curled up with a sigh by my pillow. I heard the noise of her car turning around... saw the flash of light from the headlights... heard the rumble as she drove over the plank bridge and I was back in dreamland. At about 0615 I was awake again. I groaned and stretched some more and called Mrs. RRR at work. We talked a little about how her job was going and then I checked my blood sugar. 136. Not a bad fasting sugar for a diet controlled diabetic who loves fresh fruit. Then it was time for the daily visualization.
I draped the heating pad over my liver and leaned back in the recliner. Next came the deep breathing exercise, then I visualized as I've described before, striding through the caverns of my liver, destroying the vicious little bright yellow Hep C birds with my sword. Now I've added the kidney and adrenal cysts. They are clear globules hanging now and then from the sides of the tunnels. I slice each open with my sword and drain it. After an hour the heating pad timed out. I sipped back from trance state to sleep, then awakened. It was full daylight outside. I folded up the sleeping pallet and put it away.
Now it was time for my breakfast soup. A quart of water, a tablespoon of beef bullion, a left over hamburger patty, 3 carrots cut up, an onion cut up, cilantro, parsley, a large double handful of chopped chinese cabbage, a half cup of tomato juice and the whole mess allowed to simmer. Meantime I sat and watched the squirrels in the yard scamper about while I sipped my own cup of green tea with ginger. Then I read in the current book as I sipped the soup. I savored it for a long time and finally pulled myself together to begin canning tomato juice.
Yes, Ranger Readers.... though it's the 13th day of November, there are still tomatoes to can. We thought there would be almost no crop at all, then rains came in September and the plants bloomed anew and put on hundreds of tomatoes. But they were all green and not nearly mature when the first hard frost came in October. Mrs. RRR refused to part with them. She picked 45 gallons of green tomatoes and stored them on a large table out in the shop and covered them with a blanket. Then she brought in a five gallon bucket full and spread in trays in the sun to ripen. As they turn red, it becomes time to preserve some. And today was time. We have it down to a science.
I dumped them into the kitchen sink and rinsed and sorted. The bad places I cut off, along with the stems, then halved or quartered based on the size and put in the large pot to boil. eventually the 20 quart pot was almost full of simmering tomato goo. While this was happening, I clamped the Victorio strainer to the table. Then I lifted the pot over to the table and started ladling the stewing tomatoes into the hopper of the strainer. Mr. Victorio of Italy has my undying appreciation for his invention. I turned the crank. Tomatoes juice flowed into one pot and the seeds and skins into another. Within 25 minutes I had over 10 quarts of juice. I put that pot on the stove and sat up my jars and lids. They were sterilized in a roasting pan. I fished out a jar with tongs lifted it to the other side of the stove, put in the funnel, added a heaping half teaspoon of sea salt and ladled in the boiling juice. Then I took a lid and ring from the boiling water and placed on the jar and screwed it down tight. One more quart of juice. There were ten full jars and a half cup left over to sip hot while I listened to the lovely "ping" of lids sealing.
Then I took all the pots, strainer, etc., out to the hydrant and sprayed the excess tomato off with the high pressure hose. The seeds, skins and other tomato scrap went into the creek to feed the raccoons, muskrats, and other assorted members of my clean up crew. I started washing the pots and equipment and was almost done by the time Mrs. RRR arrived home from work. She made a fantastic lunch to celebrate us going over 100 quarts of tomatoes canned. We had left over turkey, asparagus with cheddar cheese melted on, lettuce and cottage cheese salad. And then dessert... oh... oh... oh... dessert. Fresh apple crisp from the apples I'd peeled and sliced a few days ago with a scoop of ice cream! No one eats better than the RRR... no one. After lunch I again visualized my battle with the Hep C's and Mrs. RRR and I and Bay Toe Ven and Sam the Outside Dog took a long walk in the woods.
It didn't take long for me to realize that I am still far from recovered from the trauma of my Cardiac Ablation. I was very fatigued by the time we got back to the cabin. But how beautiful that walk was. Birds soared above us. Rabbits and squirrels bounded out of our way and we saw some huge deer tracks. The leaves are almost all gone from the trees now and the woods have reopened so that it's easier to see the cycle of nature moving through them. I collapsed in a chair after I cleaned the mud from our boots while Mrs. RRR picked out another 5 gallons of tomatoes to ripen. We had a half cup of her homemade yogurt with strawberries in it for supper. Then she started doing paperwork for her job while I wrote letters and now this blog.
One day in the life of the RRR. One more day.

A Ranger Ablation

2006-11-12T12:42:00.000-08:00

"Where has the RRR been?" some Ranger Readers have asked. To answer... right here, often wallowing in self pity over his health problems. At least one I've finally been able to take some action on... that is the cardiac arrhythmia or atrial fibrillation as it's called. The episodes continued. At the last one I waited in the cardiologist's office with Mrs. RRR for a bed to open up on the telemetry unit at the hospital. The Dr. came in to announce I could now go to the hospital and be prepped for a "jump start", defibrillation. But moments before she entered, I "converted" back to normal sinus rhythm. That was enough. We scheduled a procedure called a Cardiac Ablation. In this treatment, an endoscope is introduce through a large vein in the groin and another tube in the opposite side and the Dr. "crawls" it up into the heart. There he or she maps the areas where the incorrect electrical impulses are sourcing and running and then burns the improper areas out with a cautery or laser. It involves at least one perforation of the central cardiac wall and is scary to think about, much less undergo.
The Thursday before the Monday procedure, I stopped taking my blood thinner... coumadin. Something else scary. As my blood got more and more able to clot quickly, the danger of stroke or pulmonary embolism increased. Then Sunday night I stopped eating and drinking at 2200 (10 P.M. to non-rangers). Saturday Papa Gringo, my father, and my Step Mom drove Mrs. RRR and I to the hospital. The ablation was to start at 0800. At 0810 a nurse came out to the waiting area and said they were doing an emergency pacemaker placement on another patient and that I'd have to wait about 3 hours. She was exactly correct. By 1100 I was tremendously thirsty and sitting with my family in a tiny changing room wearing only a hospital gown and slippers. They rolled a cart into the room. I kissed Mrs. RRR goodbye, hugged the folks and got on the cart.

They rolled me into the cardiac cath lab, which should be named, as is my cheap pup tent, The Ice Palace. In order to naturally slow down the patient's heart beat and metabolism, the room is kept agonizingly cold. And I had on only a thin cotton gown. The nursing staff had me get onto the stainless steel table. I had only THOUGHT I was cold up to that point. My bare body rested on the icy steel from head to heels. Then two staff lifted my torso and slapped a cold gel pack to my back for a grounding device for the electronics. I began to shiver. They lay me back down and stuck more gel pads to my torso and legs for the EKG monitors and the cautery. By this time my gown was folded down to my waist. Two staff strapped my wrists down to "help you remember not to move." Then my legs were spread and ankles restrained. I felt the deep stick of an IV being started in my right hand. The gown was pushed further down and a restraint fastened around my belly. Now I lay totally helpless.
The nurse lifted the bottom of the gown and flopped it back over my belly. Barely bothering to drop on a small towel for a little and I mean LITTLE modesty she began shaving my groin. "If you find my lost dignity down there," I complained, "will you please leave it in my suitcase in the changing room"?

"I'm starting the sedation now." The other nurse said as she fussed with my IV. And I was out. Five hours later I came to in my room on the cardiac floor, more chilled than I've ever been in my life and ravenously hungry. They piled on the blankets and brought a dinner. Mrs. RRR fed it to me a bite at a time and I rewarded her by vomiting back up spectacularly. The ward nurse rushed to give me a shot of compazine and once more I descended into the fog. I awakened at midnight, entangled in dozens of blankets and not certain where I was. By noon the next day I was discharged and Papa Gringo and Step Mom drove me back to the cabin. In the days since the monstrous bruises that covered me from knees to chest have finally began to fade. I had to take shots in my belly to re-thin my blood. That's done too now. And thankfully... the newly resculpted heart keeps beating regularly. If it keeps on doing it for a year, I can start tapering off the blood thinner and if I've lost enough weight, the blood pressure meds.

Meantime... the RRR plods on. One step. Then another step. Each one the first on the journey of the rest of my life.

A Ranger Bouquet

2006-11-12T11:43:00.000-08:00

Mrs. RRR occasionally surprises even the author of this blog... here's how it happened. On occasion I will bring home a bouquet of flowers for her and leave them in a vase on the kitchen table, then tease her about how long it takes for her to notice. She decided that turn about was fair play. Thursday afternoon I arrived home from the Big City exhausted from having taught Management of Aggressive Behavior all day at the county hospital. I collapsed gratefully in a chair at the table, glad the long class was over. Usually we have at least two instructors and we trade off lectures. But this day there were only three students, so they got the full benefit of my knowledge only. By the middle of the afternoon I was hoarse and the students had heard my voice enough for one day.

I ended the class and drove home. I poured myself a steaming mug of Columbian Supremo coffee and sipped it and wondered why Mrs. RRR was smirking at me. I eventually used the old interrogator's trick of seeking not what the suspect is looking AT but what they are avoiding. Mrs. RRR was carefully not looking at the table. So I did. And there, on a plate in the middle of the table was a huge, fresh pineapple. That was my "bouquet". It had sat for 20 minutes right in front of me and I hadn't noticed! We laughed about it and admired it for the next few days. Today, Sunday, I cut it open, sliced out the core and trimmed off the skin and we stuffed ourselves with the delicious, tart fruit.

Fresh pineapple has about as much in common with canned as fresh sweet corn has with institutional canned corn. Oh it's delicious! And what a wonderful surprise from Mrs. RRR!

Once AGAIN The RRR Returns!

2006-11-08T14:37:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger at last writes after months. Youngest Daughter explained to me that if I keep waiting to blog until I have formulated all my catching up, I will never blog again. She is right, of course. So I am blogging again. The present is what matters. For right now, the US is fixated on the recent Swing To The Left evidenced by the mid term elections. My Asian readers may be scratching their heads in confusion over our incomprehensible politics. What does it all mean?
Nothing. That is right... nothing. Because of our odd system whereby our Lower House has re-elections every two years and the Upper House every six, divided into thirds and the presidential every 4 with a two term limit. Is this confusing enough? But the last 2 year election of an 8 year presidential cycle almost always results just like yesterdays. And means almost nothing.

Ranger Tamale Steamer

2006-08-02T03:05:00.000-07:00

This is a tamale steamer like the one my daughter-in-law purchased for me at a Mexican grocery store and I used to cook sweetcorn. It will become part of my regular camping gear for heating wash water, etc.

River Walk Saturday

2006-08-02T01:31:00.000-07:00

The RRR continues the story of the graduation of Youngest Son from Air Force Basic training. In the picture my son, his wife, little Jelly, and their friend.

Once again I did not need the alarm Saturday morning. I awoke in the French Army tent and realized that I had not prepared a Ranger breakfast for the ladies yet. I dug out my cooking gear and dug through my camping food. By the time they were awake and out of their tent I had the little Coleman backpacking stove roaring and was desperately multi-tasking to get a meal for four ready on one burner. I cut up some bacon (preserved with cider vinegar) and fried it up in the little Boy Scout frypan, saving the grease. Whilst the bacon was cooking I mixed 1 cup of water with a cup of powdered eggs making a dozen scrambled eggs. To that I added a handful of powdered cheddar cheese. The cheese comes from macaroni and cheese packages. I buy them on sale and separate out the noodles which go into Mrs. RRR's pasta canister and the cheese that I save for camping. The eggs were pre-measured into a zip lock freezer bag so all I had to do was add the cheese and water, rezip the bag and knead it.

Then I put the little pieces of cooked bacon into the egg mix and cooked one half at a time in the tiny fry pan. While the eggs cooked I added water and powdered milk to bisquick and started kneading that bag to make pancake batter. When the eggs were cooked, I put them on a plate under another plate and placed a folded towel over it to keep them warm and began frying pancakes. The girls ate them with squeeze margarine and dark brown sugar instead of syrup. I also made coffee and mixed up powdered milk to drink. It was all quite a trick using only a little one burner stove, but certainly no more difficult than doing the same job with a camp fire.

The ladies left to greet Son at the Air Base and I heated water and washed the dishes and cleaned up the camp, then drove in to join them. We all met at the reception center and drove into San Antonio to spend the morning sightseeing. San Antonio had a small river running through down town. To prevent flooding, they have dug it down and lined it with concrete and made the whole length into a garden-like park. Little shops and sidewalk craft businesses line the canal. And there are boats to ride. We had a wonderful morning walking and shopping and drinking gourmet coffee in outdoor cafes. Then we went back to the campground.

At my request, my daughter-in-law had purchased an tamale cooker for me to use camping. It is a 3 Gallon (about 12 liter) galvanized bucket with a rack in the bottom to keep the food out of the water. In other words it is a steamer. We bought a dozen ears of sweet corn. While I prepared the corn and began the water in the bucket boiling, my son put on the swimming trunks I loaned him and he and the girls walked to the swimming pool at the campground for a dip. At the same time I started some charcoal burning and cooked hamburgers over the charcoal. They returned from swimming and we gorged ourselves on fresh corn and burgers. The girls drove him back to the base while I cleaned up.

My call to Mrs. RRR that night was a long, happy one. I fell asleep feeling all was right with the world.

The Graduation

2006-07-31T23:49:00.000-07:00

The RRR returns to the narrative of Youngest Son's graduation... Thursday night turned to early morning. I'd set my travel alarm clock and as always woke up a few minutes before it rang. False dawn was glowing in the east and birds were singing in the woods. I walked down the path to the shower room. A slow moving rattle snake slithered quietly away from the camp and towards the tangle of forest by the creek. I watched him with some concern, having little Jelly to think about back at the tent. But he continued sluggishly east minding his own business, that business likely involving a mouse or prairie dog. So I minded my business, that being showering.

Back in camp my daughter-in-law was up grooming to go watch her husband graduate. We left Jelly and d-in-law's friend sleeping quietly and drove to the air base as the sun rose behind us. We stopped at a WhataBurger for breakfast. WhataBurger is a Texas institution, a sort of cowboy McDonald's. The workers are always friendly, the food always tastes homemade. We had breakfast burritos and strong coffee. Then drove to Lackland's visiting area. We boarded a bus that delivered us to the parade ground. This being South Texas, the bleachers had roofs to keep off the sun. We found seats as close to where son would stand as possible. Then I went to the bus stop to wait on Jelly and friend. The Air Force wisely had a concession area open and I bought a cup of good military coffee. "As black as sin, as strong as temptation and as bitter as remorse." to quote Raymond Chandler. At the very last of the last minutes, friend and Jelly rushed up. I took them to our seats.

I could not help but compare the situation to my graduation from Army basic in 1970. For 300+ airmen there were over 1000 spectators. At mine, perhaps 3 dozen. The formalities began with the leaders of the training unit marching onto the field. Then each "flight" of airmen marching in formation. My son was in one of the honor flights, so he was carrying one of the state flags. Following tradition hundreds of years old, the training leaders delivered their flights to the squadron commander. She accepted their salutes, then stepped up to the microphone and led the hundreds of airmen in a repeat of their oath of enlistment:

"I,___________________________________, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

Those strong young voices boomed across the parade ground. The squadron commander came to attention and saluted them. They snapped back her salute and as they did a huge Air Force plane roared low over the field and banked away in it's salute. It was dramatic. I have goose bumps as I write this. When the ceremony was over, once again we found him. Everyone hugged and hugged and he was ours until afternoon. I watched them together remembering another home coming and hug 35 years before. I got off the plane at night in South Dakota, newly home from war, feeling like I was walking on eggshells. I walked down the portable stairway that had been pushed up to the plane and peered into the darkness to see if anyone was waiting. Out of the darkness ran the future Mrs. RRR. She threw her arms around me and we hugged and hugged.

We walked around the parade ground and looked at the old planes on display. Several I walked up to and patted. Old friends. Comrades in arms. A couple I owe my life to. Then we went to the BX (Base Exchange) to do some shopping and drove to a park for a noon picnic. And talked and talked and talked and just reveled in being together again. All too soon we had to take him back to the barracks. But the Air Force had arranged that we could meet again that evening at a Minor League baseball game. The San Antonio Missions never had a more enthusiastic crowd. Minor League ball is what baseball used to be in America and should still be. And we talked and talked. It was so GOOD to just be with him. At last it was time for the Airmen to get on the buses and return to duty. We went back to the camp ground. The ladies went to bed in the tent and I walked up to the phone again to tell Mrs. RRR all about it.

Then I walked around the sleeping camp, listening to the night sounds and praying, "Please dear God, keep him safe. Protect his comrades, confuse his enemies." I crawled into my tent and watched the stars twinkle through the trees and prayed some more.

And one more day was done.

The RRR's Antique Coleman Lantern

2006-07-30T03:59:00.000-07:00

I bought a lantern just like this cheap on Ebay. It needed a new globe and leathers, but after they were installed fired up just fine. It has served faithfully on the expedition to Big Bend, the trip to Youngest Son's graduation and numerous river trips.

A Girl Named Jelly

2006-07-30T03:27:00.000-07:00

The RRR returns to his narrative of the events surrounding the graduation of Youngest Son from Air Force Basic Training. After I was able to greet my Airman at the parade ground he quickly had an ecstatic reunion with his wife and beloved daughter. Then, as he and his Mrs. and their friend wandered off to talk I took over carrying for the little girl. Just over two years old, she is one of those charming children who has a seeming wiseness beyond her years. She is an absolutely delightful child. It's indicative of her personality that she decided suddenly to change her name. One day, asked by an adult what her name was, she responded correctly, then suddenly came to a decision and said, "NO, my name is Jelly". And as such she has referred to herself ever since. Frequently she will refer to herself in third person, especially when she knows she has misbehaved. She will wave her finger and say, "No, no, Jelly, that's naughty!" In a way she's become her own imaginary friend. So Jelly and I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about the base with her entertaining me with her chatter and explanations.

That evening we took my son to a buffet supper at the open mess hall on post. A couple of his comrades came up and asked to be introduced to me and told me that he had read my letters to them and they were inspiring to them and helped them make it through the stress of training. I was very proud. Then my daughter-in-law, her friend and Jelly drove back to the campsite. I lit the antique Coleman Lantern and made coffee and we talked about the day. They were pleased with the tent I'd found on sale for them to sleep in. I got a hug from Jelly and a "night, night, Papa". I walked up to the pay phone and called Mrs. RRR and told her all about it.

Ranger Health

2006-07-29T21:39:00.000-07:00

The RRR lets those concerned about his health know what has happened of late. Several weeks ago I was at the Veteran's Administration Hospital a Nurse Practitioner was listening to my heart beat through a stethoscope. "Are you aware that you are throwing 8 missed beats a minute?" So I called my civilian cardiologist, who did an EKG which, in 15 seconds did not catch any irregularities. So I was told I needed to wear a portable heart monitor for 48 hours. "Great, go get it and let's put it on." I said. Oh no, there's a waiting list, I had to wait 10 days. So I wore it 2 days and returned to the cardiologist's office. "So what does it say?" I asked. "Oh we don't read them here. We send them off. You should hear from us in a week or so."

It has been a week or so and I have not heard. But I HAVE been back to the VA for my regular check up and lab draw. Good news Ranger Readers! The A1-C, the long term measure of blood sugar levels was 5.6, which is the equivalent of an average sugar of 121, which for a diet controlled diabetic is VERY good. The cholesterol level was normal. The very best news is the liver enzyme tests. They are roughly the measure of damaged liver cells in the blood stream. The normal range for both tests is 7 - 40. One was 23. One was 41. This means that though the hepatitis C is alive, it is almost dormant. Excellent news for someone who has Grade 3, Stage 3 liver disease. Cirrhosis and liver cancer are delayed, pushed further off into the future. Part of the reason for this has to be the excellent nutrition Mrs. RRR provides.

I give example: Breakfast this morning when I got home from working all night was Mrs. RRR's low carb, high protein pancakes. The wheat ground fresh before the cooking. Real butter. Real maple syrup. Pork Sausage. Cold milk. Then the noon meal after I'd slept a while. Corn on the cob from the garden. Reuben sandwiches without the bread, which is to say: hot corned beef smothered in Swiss cheese and homemade sauerkraut. Another glass of milk and fresh fruit for dessert. At work tonight supper will be homemade yogurt with strawberries, a lean hamburger patty, and an apple. All in all, food much too good for a king. No one eats better than the RRR, nor has more love put into the preparation.

Ranger Kamp Site

2006-07-29T04:12:00.000-07:00

The RRR shares this picture of the camp he sat up for himself, Youngest Son's Wife and Daughter and their friend while in San Antonio. My tent is the green military one on the left. It is French Army surplus.

The River Rat Ranger Rises From The Ashes

2006-07-29T03:20:00.000-07:00

Good morning... Ranger Readers... It is in the wee hours of the morning in the center of North America and the RRR sits down to bring his blog back to life. What has happened in the days since May 8th when I last wrote? At that time youngest son was in Air Force Basic Training in Lackland AFB, Texas. Each day the energy and creativity I'd expended on this blog went into writing him a snail mail letter. I sent photocopies of his favorite cartoon (Get Fuzzy) and also some of mine. I enclosed essays on the military, poems, and news items. And he continued with the carefully induced stress that the military puts on a new man to see if he's the quality needed to serve his country.

I had one major victory during that time. The most feared week of Air Force Basic is Warrior Week where the young airmen go out in the woods and serve as infantry. He reported to his wife that Warrior Week was a cakewalk after trips down the river with me. Dad's training was not in vain.

At the end of his training I packed my camping gear into the Green Hornet and sat off for Central Texas. My first stop was at Youngest Daughter's in Dallas. She was "great with child" expecting Grandchild #6, her #2 at any time. Her husband greeted me and showed me to a bed I collapsed in after the long haul down from Iowa through Kansas and Oklahoma to Texas. The next morning I awoke to the sound of my granddaughter chattering away to Mommy. After a delicious breakfast we walked down to a shopping area where I bought a few more supplies for the rest of the trip. Then it was off to San Antonio, the home of Lackland Air Force Base.

First I stopped at the campground and sat up my tent and one for my guests... Youngest Son's wife, her best friend, and another beloved Granddaughter. I called the AFB and found what documentation I would need to register the Green Hornet on the base and after numerous phone calls and noble assistance from the friendly hosts at the San Antonio Kampground of America and their fax machine I was able to make my presence at Lackland legal. After registering as a visitor I returned to the KOA, and after calling Mrs. RRR and telling her of my progress made supper on my little Coleman stove and slept till the birds sang in the trees.

That morning was Thursday. I drove to the Air Base and attended the orientation class for family members there to observe the graduation. I looked at the other fathers. So many were veterans. Men who knew the face of war and knew that their sons and daughters could possibly be graduating to go fight in the current one. We carried a mixture of pride and grimness. The first order of the day was a chance to watch the airmen do their final exercise run of their training. As the picture shows, we lined the sides of the street. We cheered the young men and women on as they pushed themselves through the heat of this final day. I yelled myself hoarse. And remembered being another young man on similar runs 36 years before. The years had slipped through my fingers like sand.

After the runners returned to their barracks I met Youngest Son's Wife and daughter and their friend. They had arrived in time to watch the run also. They followed me back to the KOA to inspect their new quarters and I cooked us all lunch. Then we went back to the AFB to at last get to meet my son. This was at the Retreat formation. Each day on every American military base, the flag is taken down and ceremonially folded and guarded till it is raised the next morning. We watched as the several hundred airmen marched in formation and faced the flag. They played "Taps" as the flag was taken down. There are words to "Taps".

Day is done,
Gone the sun,
From the sky,
All is still,
God is nigh.

Tears in my eyes I watched them fold the flag. It's adorned so many coffins. It will adorn so many more. Someday Taps will be played for me and the flag will be taken off my coffin and ceremonially folded and a soldier or veteran will take it to Mrs. RRR and salute her and give it to her. Tradition. History.

But today wasn't sorrow, it was celebration. The ceremony over, we were free to find our soldier among the hundreds there and greet him. I found him first and ran up to him and stopped. He was newly fit, newly mature, very confident, very proud. We looked into each others eyes as he stood at attention. Then he saluted me. I returned his salute and we embraced.

Youngest Son Goes To Military

2006-05-08T12:08:00.000-07:00

The RRR has spent the last month pouring his written creativity into writing each day to Youngest Son. Why have I been doing that? He is in Air Force Basic Training in Texas. Each day I print up his favorite cartoons, Get Fuzzy and Loose Parts and use them for stationery and write him a letter keeping in contact with what is happening in the family.

I was in basic training once and I know the stress. It has to be there of course. To take the most enthusiastically individualistic young people in the world (Americans) and turn them within a few weeks to a cooperative team requires great molding of responses and personality adjustments. This is not possible to do gently nor quietly. But the U.S. military excels at it. Ask Saddam Hussein.

Bear with me Ranger Readers. The RRR will return.

Herons And Headwounds

2006-04-10T23:40:00.000-07:00

This afternoon The RRR shared some delicious lamb stew with Mrs. RRR and then, as she went back to teach swimming lessons went out to spend his hour of "the poor man's insulin"... Walking in the woods. The the temperature was 77 F or 25 C, whichever you prefer. The sun was shining. Both the Inside and Outside dogs joined me. We wandered across the newly tilled field to the copse of woods East of the cabin. Then we followed the deer trail that runs along a ledge through it. Small forest plants have popped up giving a green carpet to walk upon. The wild rose bushes have all sprouted tiny leaves to mask their thorns. We climbed over fallen trees and pushed though vines, trying to avoid the poison ivy. The nasty ivy is distinguishable from grapevines by the tiny hairy rootlets it puts out to bind itself to the host trees.

The trail led us along toward the River. Birds busy picking mates and nest sites fluttered about, some resenting our intrusion. The rabbits and squirrels sat very still hoping to be overlooked, then exploded into movement and fled as we got closer. We paused at the edge of the woods just enjoying the spring time and newly bursting out life of nature. Then went along the low side of the copse to an old abandoned roadway. I saw something plastic sticking up out of the weeds of the former ditch. After I worried it loose I found I'd discovered evidence of an old crime. Someone years ago had stolen a vending machine that dispensed handfuls of candy and nuts for 25 cents. After breaking it open and taking the quarters and the food, they'd thrown it in this ditch. I left it standing tall, proud, and battered where Jake, who farms the land can wonder at it's presence the next time he works the field.

Across the field we came at last to the River. It is running very full as the controllers at the dam upstream let out as much water as they can without causing flooding. It calls to me, as rivers always call. God's conveyer belt to the sea, ready for me to get on and ride. It's a sensation I've never lost. We tramped along, spotting good places to fish, pitch a tent, go fishing. Then as we rounded a small cove, there was a great squawking and a bluish, ungangly form took to the air.

A Great Blue Heron. Awkward and clumsy on land they turn into gracious aerodynamics in the air. It is the transition from one state of being to another in a few seconds that is so intriguing. To me they look as perodoctyls must have looked rising from the antedeluvian swamps. Then we trapesed along the river and across the field to another small woodlot. True to form, a wildlife trail ran the length of it. We started through. About half way I had a transition of my own.

I ducked under a fallen tree limb and straightened too soon, banging my head on the bottom of the log. I saw stars and my ears rang. I expected only a bruise or a lump, but as I stumbled down the trail drops of bright red blood dripped off my eyebrows onto my glasses. There must have been a jagged stub of a branch hanging down and it had scraped deep into my scalp. Such wounds bleed generously, but on the head of someone on a large dose of Warfarin for his heart the bleeding becomes enthusiastic. I must have been a ludicrous sight walking out of the woods naked from the waist up with a bloody tee shirt tied over my head like a bonnet. I was somewhat faint from the blow to the head and found my walking stick very necessary.

I returned home and dumped the stained shirt into the bathtub and put a towel over my pillow to protect it and went to sleep. Mrs. RRR found me thus when she returned and gently cleaned the wound and disinfected it. I fell asleep again feeling loved and safe.

Late Night Song

2006-04-09T22:20:00.000-07:00

Tonight the RRR went out to walk the dog before leaving on the long drive to the Big City to work the night shift. From the woods to the southwest came the loud liquid hooting of an owl. In spring even a young owl's fancy turns to thoughts of love... to misquote Shakespear. I cupped my hands around my mouth and answered him... "Hoo, Hoo HaHoo!" He answered loudly and flew one tree closer. I could not see him in the moonlight but could hear that he was closer. I called out again. But in the meantime the amorous owl and I had disturbed the pack of coyotes who were sneaking past the swamp. They began their crazed yapping and howling. The owl and I called out louder to cover them up. They became more strident. Bay Toe Ven, the Inside Dog whom I was walking started his hound dog "ow..ow.. OOO" to join in. Then Sam, the Outside dog was giving his deep "woof..woof" to help the chorus. Mrs. RRR came out on the deck of the cabin to see what all the racket was.

I got in the Green Hornet and took off down the River Road, grinning. Spring has returned and we were all singing about it.

Frost On The Corn Stalks

2006-03-11T02:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight as the RRR left for the hour commute to the Big City, Orion was lower on the horizon and has moved to South South West. Pleiades is now North of West at about West North West, and lower also. Spring is coming. But Friday morning... Oh friends what a morning. Mrs. RRR had left early to open the indoor swimming pool and I had leaned back in the recliner with the heating pad over my liver to do my healing meditation. I awakened with the rising sun streaming in the East windows of the cabin. It has been wet and cloudy and dreary. Suddenly the day sparkled. Literally sparkled because a thick coat of frost covered everything.

I quickly dressed and taking my walking stick and dogs slid down the wheelchair ramp from the deck and head across country to the river. The surface of the muddy ground was just frozen enough to bear my weight. The sun glistened and sparkled off the frosty ground and trees dazzling me. We hiked along the creek, then across to the river. I live for tracks and they were everywhere. The deer had been up early and out foraging the last of the corn from the stalks in the fields. Raccoons and muskrats had done foraging of their own and slipped and slid down their runways back to the river. At the edge of the Eagle Sanctuary we turned and climbed up through the woods to my favorite spot on a hill facing East.

The sun, now a hand's breadth above the horizon, was churning the moisture laden air into a glowing fog. The river stretched like a snakey cloud itself toward the horizon. The fog was beginning to rise from the fields as the frost cooked out of them. We went down from the hill along the pastures to another creek, the one where I'd seen the Big Cat sign last week. Then back along it and over to another ridge of timber, then home. One hour and 10 minutes. At the very last the ground was getting gooey and slippery as the frost gave way. I stripped off my jacket and stocking cap and almost skipped up the newly thawed ramp to the cabin.

All days should start so well.

Bollywood Ranger

2006-03-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

In the middle of the United States lies Kansas City. On the eastern side of Kansas City is an Indian restaurant called “Bollywood Indian Bistro”. Some of my American readers may need Bollywood explained. India has a thriving, enthusiastic film industry. It is centered in Bombay. Thus Bombay, India has come to be known as Bollywood.

The RRR's daughter-in-law, married to Youngest Son, works at the Bollywood Bistro. On Saturday she convinced us to go there for the luncheon buffet. Up on the wall of the restaurant is the biggest wide screen television I have ever seen. It shows unendingly five minute clips from various Indian movies. In a couple of hours I learned just enough about Indian movies to want to learn much more.

Apparently Bollywood turns out nothing but musicals. It might better be called a film version of Broadway. (BollyBroad?) And as is usual with me, I preferred the old ones. The film clips from 20 years ago or so were truly delightful. The singers and dancers wore more traditional clothing and looked like real people. By the way, the actresses were drop dead gorgeous, absolute beauties. The men... well... sort of 70's sensual and all looking as though they had just rubbed their faces with olive oil. Way too much manly simpering going on.

How can I describe the dancing in those older clips? Only that they seem to dance with every part of their bodies, not just their legs. Even the fingers seem to dance. Apparently there were censorship rules then that even forbid kissing, so the actors had to express their sensuality with ACTING... an amazing concept Hollywood seems to have forgotten. I can only wish that emphasis on acting and traditional dress and dance adapted to the modern genre had continued. The more recent films are apparently attempting to mimic MTV and doing so disastrously. The modern dress and rock music and raw sexuality as opposed to sensuality are jarring and very disappointing. While the female dancers in the old films looked like real women, the newer ones are buffed from the exercise spas and there is a lot of easily detectable plastic surgery enhancement. Sigh.

But the food... oh readers, the food. I recognized many of the ingredients, but the dishes go beyond description. I know what curry is and there were several kinds. I could recognize chicken and beef and other individual ingredients but am at a loss to explain or describe much of what I ate. It was almost all spicy and every bite of everything delicious. But I must tell you about Nan-bread. I have never eaten anything like it.

The ovens are hollow tubes perhaps 2 ½ feet tall with flame around the outside of the tube. The cook rolls out the dough and adds various spices and such and spreads the dough over an oven pad shaped like a large mushroom. Then he used the pad to slap the dough onto the inside wall of the over where it sticks and cooks. He peels it off and it's brought to the table still steaming. I ate till I was as full as a tick. I have eaten exotic food all over the world and have seen nor tasted anything to surpass it.

My daughter-in-law loves working there. With her long, thick dark hair and nose piercing, she looks very Indian herself and is often asked what province she is from. The owners are gracious and very friendly. The lady is Nepalese and the owner Indian. They presented us with a special treat, a drink made of mango juice and yogurt. I was very, very pleased with the whole experience.

The Sermons are at: www.SR13.blogspot.com

2006-03-05T14:34:00.000-08:00

As the number of sermons has grown to eat up open space on his blog, the River Rat Ranger redirected all of them from this website to www.sr13.blogspot.com Please keep checking there and keep giving me feedback on them. Also I've added some that did not get onto this site. Feel free to browse.

Pack O' Wolves

2006-02-28T21:41:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger's adventure of the day began late tonight. It was 2200. I was up and slightly late for work so I had to hurridly walk Bay Toe Ven before I left. It was cloudy, overcast and very dark as we went done by the creek. Far off down the valley came the mournful sound of the horn on the freight train as it passed the quarry. From over by Sam, the Outside Dog's house, wild voices answered the horn. It was a pack of coyotes, or "prairie wolves" making their rounds. Bay raised his head in interest. The insane yammering got closer. I realized that they could get between us and the cabin and it could be a problem, especially if one or more had rabies or distemper.

I stated talking loudly so they would know I was there. They hung back yammering with the yips and howls that sound like insane women screaming. I yelled to Mrs. RRR to open the door. Bay slunk into the kitchen. I worried the coyotes might get between me and the car. But they ran off down toward the creek.

For a little while I had forgotten my other troubles. The fact I had awakened with an irregular heartbeat and had to sit on side of bed breathing slow and deeply till it straighted out. Or that despite my diet my wieght is not going down.

I forgot all about the long walk with Mrs. RRR down by the Big Lake.

And got safetly to the Green Hornet and drove in to work....

The Return Begins

2006-02-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger returned to the woods today after working all night at the hospital in the Big City. The sun was shining and the temperature predicted to be in the high 50's F. But first things first. The oil and filter needed a long overdue change in the Green Hornet. Then Sam, the outside dog needed fed. My pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace kept calling me and at last I was there. Readers, this is what it is like to work the night shift... you are asleep when the rest of the world wants you to be awake. I had just fallen asleep when the phone rang. I hid my head under a pillow and let the answering machine take it. But it was about an important religious study class coming up so I struggled to my feet and picked it up. Then I began taking notes on the conversation and was wide awake when it was over. Then back to the floor and stared at the ceiling fan whirling over my head and slowly fell back asleep. And the phone rang. A friend in need. We talked for 25 minutes, enough to fully wake me up. I called Mrs. RRR at work. She promised to be home soon.

I watched the fan whirl... and fell asleep to awaken 45 minutes later when she came in the door. Then lunch. Reuben sandwiches with Mrs. RRR's best-in-the-world home made bread, swiss cheese and Argentine corned beef. My consistent cup of frozen mixed fruit. We had devotions. Those of my readers with the Oswald Chamber's My Utmost for His Highest should look at the Feb. 27th reading. Awesome, tough-minded Christianity. Then I laid back in my recliner with the heating pad draped over my liver to do my hour of healing meditation. And fell asleep. To awaken when the heating pad shut off automatically. Mrs. RRR headed back to work and the bed was calling, but there was another call too. Nature awaited. The unseasonably warm day awaited. But the bed was winning, till I checked my two hour post meal blood sugar. Way too high at 154. The obvious answer was to utilize the poor man's insulin... a long walk. Bay Toe Ven, the Inside Dog, became excited as I put on my socks and shoes, and ecstatic as I took my walking stick from the corner.

We went out into the sunshine and walked across the field to the woods. I followed a game trail as the dogs scampered side to side and up and down. We paused in a clearing when the shadow of a Bald Eagle swooped over us. I watched him ride the thermals, circling higher and higher. A squirrel cursed us from a tree branch. We left the woods and a Red Tailed Hawk screeched defiance and circled us too, but after carefully waiting till the Eagle was gone. We trudged through the silty dirt toward the river. The first tiny bunches of green have popped up here and there in the field. At the river, the Hawk, who had followed us, once again drifted over head telling us how tough and bad he was. We hiked along the river, then back through another stand of timber, along a stream and I picked up the accumulated mail from the mailbox by the road. Then down the lane, across my homemade bridge and The Returning was waiting in the top of the walnut tree. Five birds huddled on branches, watching me. They were dark, almost black and at first I thought they were starlings, but as I walked under them, they broke into to song. Red Winged Blackbirds. They warbled, "We're back! Spring is coming! We're back! Did you miss us? We're back!" Yes friends... I missed you. Welcome home. I took my pulse. It was slow and steady. Yes friends, I missed you, but most of all I'm glad to still be here to be greeted. The RRR has cheated the Grim Reaper one more time. God is in His Heaven. All is good. Even the blood sugar... 96 after the one hour walk.

The River Rat Ranger Returns

2006-02-24T23:29:00.000-08:00

Greetings Ranger Readers. The RRR has been offline for almost two months. Now the truth can be told. The cardiac problems I have been experiencing intermitently, became more serious, ending in going to the cardiac floor at my hospital over and over. I now know more about atrial fibrillation that I ever wanted to. The cardiologists are tired of dealing with me and have told me to carry some extra pills and if this happens again to take a pill and go to bed for 24 hours. If my heart does not return to normal rhythm by then, come in to the office and be "cardioverted", which is to say defibrillated with electricity.

Every incident of a-fib started with being asleep and dreaming the same nasty dream about the war in Vietnam 36 years ago. So today I visited the Veterans Hospital to see if this is all the result of Post Trumatic Stress Disorder. The psychologist says "no". But with all my health problems I need to work on the other stress in my life. However, the a-fib is not happening because of the dreams, the dreams are because of the a-fib. Though I was encouraged to follow procedures to investigate the effects of Agent Orange on my health. Seeing that diabetes, high blood pressure, atrial fibrillation, and occult spina bifida do not run in my family, yet I have the first three and a son born with the latter.

So now I am back. And working on my diet. Down 40 lbs. now from when I was diagnosed with diabetes. Down 14 from when Dr. Ganish said I needed to lose weight. I am also trying to walk an hour a day. My last walk involving taking Bay Toe Ven, the inside dog, out through the woods by the Eagle sanctuary. We saw several Bald Eagles and other wildlife. The best surprise came as we worked our way down a dry stream bed and found a pile of scat from a BIG cat. So either a small cougar or large bobcat. I like not being the only large predator around.

Thinking Backwards

2006-01-04T03:09:00.000-08:00

By the recycling container is a large sign "Only You Can Save A Tree". The container is marked "Paper". I watch as the people at work carefully put every scrap of paper into the recycle bins, all of them feeling smug and more ecologically aware and more like they are kind to the planet. They are thinking backwards.

Let us think forwards. We will use simple facts.

1. In the U.S. all paper is made from planted, tree-farm trees. None comes from old growth timber.

2. By law, every tree cut on a tree farm has to be replaced with from 4 to 6 seedling trees.

3. Therefore, every tree "saved" ie: not cut down to be used for paper because recycled paper was used instead is not replaced by more trees.

4. Therefore, every tree "saved" results in a net loss of 5 trees to the biosphere.

5. It takes more energy resources to recycle paper than to harvest and process trees for the same purpose.

6. Therefore, every tree "saved" is a net energy loss to the biosphere.

7. Conclusion: waste every bit of paper you possibly can. It is an act of environmental awareness and love for the planet.

Woods Mystery Ranger Philosophy

2005-12-27T10:16:00.000-08:00

Once more the RRR shares a short essay he's found on why he seeks the river and the desert.

“When he paused to listen for Charley's voice, the woods around him, so silent and still, suddenly seemed to be full of a brooding mystery; a feeling came over him that the woods withheld from him, just beyond the compass of his eyes and ears, a secret that he couldn't penetrate. It was like standing before a closed door and not knowing how to open it. This was a feeling that he was going to have again when he was alone: a waiting and reaching-out to know and be merged with the mystery, an exaltation and a yearning. Many woodsmen have had it and are only completely happy when they are lost from the outside world and on the edge of it. It drove the mountain men of the early American West into the silence and loneliness of the Rockies and still sends its acolytes far into wild places where they can be alone.”

The Pond by Robert Murphy

The Gateway

2005-12-20T14:15:00.000-08:00

The RRR knows of a doorway to another world. Like most such it is only open occasionally, but it is there. I found it quite by accident. I went for a walk in the woods on a hot Sunday afternoon. I walked past the old cemetery, through a long abandoned farm and down a lane across a field. The lane extended into the woods ahead that arched over the roadway as though it were a gateway to an estate. As I pushed through the shrubs and trees I realized that I was on an abandoned railroad right of way. The odd arching of the trees overhead made it seem that I was passing through gate after gate.

As I approached the area where there had once been a bridge across a small stream, things seemed to go fuzzy and out of focus. I had to step over a fallen log, under yet another archway. I became dizzy. I had a feeling of being drawn in... pulled as though sinking into something. I stumbled away in terror and somehow made it down the side of the old roadway to a small clearing in the tall corn by the stream. It was deadly still. Time seemed frozen in the oppressive heat. I collapsed onto the earth and lay there. I heard huge, leathery wings beating over me. I looked up and there was nothing there, yet I heard the wings flapping. I looked down and around and saw no living creature. It was as though I was suspended in time. Then a wind howled around me shaking the tops of the corn plants and whipping them about.

I looked at the nearby trees and not a leaf stirred. The corn waved and it's leaves rustled and hissed against each other all around me. From perhaps twenty feet away came the unmistakable sound of a large object being pulled from mud with a loud sucking noise. The corn's movement slowed to normal waving. The leaves on the trees by the creek began to move gently. I looked at the ground and saw a lady bug climbing a leaf, ants making their busy trails. I still lay there panting, my heart pounding, but beating slower. Like any good Boy Scout, I emptied my pockets onto my handkerchief and took inventory of my survival tools. By the time I had counted and arranged them, the panic was gone. I climbed to my feet and went quietly home another way.

A wise man would have simply stayed away from the spot. But my ego kicked in. I determined there was some reasonable explanation, that my feelings were all superstition. So a month later I went back. This time I marched determinedly straight to the fallen log and stood there proudly, and telling myself I had overcome all foolishness, pounded my walking stick down in determination and leaned upon it. It slowly, surely, sank into the ground, two inches, four, six, eight. I pulled it up with a loud sucking sound from road bed that should not have been mud and walked away the direction I had come.

On occasion, the gateway calls to me. The last time was when Oldest Daughter visited. We walked to within 100 yards of the first archway and turned back. Someday I may answer the call again

Peace Like A River...

2005-12-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

The RRR is often asked by others, and has often mused to himself, what is the reason he so loves the weeks he spends floating down rivers in rural Iowa? With today's devotions he found part of the answer:

"I will extend peace...like a river." Isaiah 66:12

Isaiah is speaking here concerning Jerusalem. While Gentile nations will be blessed "as a flowing stream", she shall have "peace like a river". In Christ the same blessing is ours. A river speaks of abundance, constancy, breadth, depth and progression. Our peace is described by the Lord as "my peace" and "peace that passeth understanding". As we would enjoy, physically, a riverside location, so too should we appreciate the peace that is ours in Christ. With our minds taken up with Him we will be kept in "perfect peace". -- Roy Hill

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows, like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul. -- H.G. Spafford

Cardiac Ward Ranger II

2005-12-17T04:26:00.000-08:00

The RRR's readers may have noticed he has not been heard from since he posted a sermon two weeks ago. This is why.

The sermon was well received and Elder Raymond and his wife Arlene had Mrs. RRR and I over for a delicious meal of steak cooked on the outdoor grill. Jay and Jason joined us. After a fine dinner we went home. Of course I was very tired and fell into a deep sleep. Just as has happened on the four previous occasions of heart problems I had a nightmare. They are all similar. This time I was the last man alive in a bunker in Vietnam. My friends lay dead. All my ammo was gone. I could hear voices speaking Vietnamese outside the bunker. Flickering red light from flames danced through the firing slits. Suddenly an NVA soldier leaped through the entrance to the little sandbag fortress. He crouched under the low ceiling holding a rifle with a fixed bayonet. He began moving toward me in his crouched down position. I pulled my bayonet from its scabbard and backed away into the corner. He came closer. In my dream my heart was pounding. I awakened hearing my heart beating fast and irregularly in my ears. I was once again in atrial fibrillation.

I went out to the kitchen and gulped down four aspirin and my blood pressure medicines and dialed the Dr. Of course I was told to go to the Emergency Room at once. From there on was a duplicate of the last episode. I once again was admitted to the hospital for a number of days. Once again an increase in my medication converted my heart back to normal rhythm. I don't understand why this keeps happening.

I keep asking the Dr.s. Am I going into Atrial Fib because of the nightmares, or are the nightmares the result of the Atrial Fib? No one can answer me. But I pray now before I go to sleep not to have the dreams. Not a new prayer. But one that has suddenly taken on more importance.

The Iowa 7th Cav Rides Again

2005-11-23T01:05:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger gets on occasion the opportunity to tap the intelligence of the some of the world’s most interesting people. Today there was a message on a scrap of paper by the phone to call an old friend, Dean, the curator of the museum at the Gettysburg Battlefield. Dean is back in the state doing some research for a book on an Iowa Civil War cavalry regiment. His voice on the phone took me back over 15 years.

I was working at the county hospital on the 3-11 shift taking care of adult psychiatric patients on a six bed maximum security unit. Dean was the evening unit clerk while he pursued his graduate degree, I think in museum science. He was responsible for all the clerical duties for my unit and the attached 40 bed acute care psych unit. He carried an unflappable dignity to a job that not only required dealing with the madness of 46 acutely ill patients but also a nursing staff which was often difficult to distinguish from the clients. Psychiatric care personnel tend to be VERY type B personalities with almost no organizational skills or interest. Dean had the organization and focus of a corporate accountant. I can picture myself now rushing into the nurses’ station demanding, “Dean, quick, where’s a pencil?” He would give a tired, long suffering sigh and say, “In the drawer…. labeled… ‘Pencils’”.

Nothings unsettled him. He was an island of calm in a sea of chaos.

I remember one night in particular. He had his work caught up and came back to the security unit to play solitaire at the table in the corner. It was visiting hour and I had my hands full with one patient whose husband had come to see her. They had met right there on the security unit a year or two before. Boy meets girl on the psych ward campus.

She was bipolar in the manic phase that night and was getting louder and louder and increasingly threatening and obnoxious. I made the mistake you NEVER make in that environment; I turned my back on someone, her husband, and ordered her to take a time out in her room. She cursed me in defiance. I put my hand on her elbow to guide her to her room. I felt a hand on my shoulder and was spun around by her husband, straight into a whistling round house punch to my face that set my on my rear and I slid into the wall.

My shouts for help carried out to the open unit over the ceiling microphones and a half dozen staff charged to my assistance, followed quickly by several security guards. The other patients jumped to the defense of the attacking husband and a general melee resulted. Though it all, Dean sat calmly playing solitaire as though he were at a table in the city park on a summer day. At last the visitor was arrested, handcuffed and removed to jail, the patients were locked in their rooms and I stumbled panting to the table and sat down across from Dean. I rested my forehead in my hands and watched my blood slowly drip from my split lip onto the table. He continued to place one card on another.

“My grandmother prays every day that I’ll get a job somewhere else.” I said when I got my breath back.

Dean looked calmly at a red 10 and placed it on a black jack.

“As do we all.” He replied.

It really, really happened. I’ve been delighted with him ever since. His visits are special occasions. We guzzle coffee and pour over maps of Iowa cemeteries where more of the vets of his “lost regiment” might be buried. We read over old obituaries and reminisce and I try to match wits with him. Good companionship and good times. It was a day to remember.

Strange Brew

2005-11-21T02:42:00.000-08:00

The RRR has discovered the website, rock.com It has email service, but I'm ignoring that. What interests me most is the streaming music. Practically everything from classical to heavy metal is available. But what I find the most fun is the International Streaming Rock. I list them below.

Arabic Pop/Rock

Cantonese Pop/Rock

French Pop/Rock

German Pop/Rock

Greek Pop/Rock

Indian Pop/Rock

Israeli Pop/Rock

Japanese Pop/Rock

Latin Pop/Rock

Mandarin Pop/Rock

Philippine Pop/Rock

Thai Pop/Rock

I'm listening to Indian Rock as I write this.

Cardiac Ward Ranger

2005-11-19T02:30:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger left his readers over a week ago with a story of health problems and a certain amount of discouragement. Suddenly everything changed… I started out with intentions of following Dr. Ganesh’s rules to the letter. I walked 5 miles each day for three days. I cut back severely on my food intake and lost several pounds. Things were looking up. I could DO this.

Saturday morning I woke up at 0415 with the feeling a rat was scurrying around in my chest. I felt my pulse. It was racing and irregular. Atrial fibrillation. I was certain of it. I went into the kitchen and listened to my heart with my stethoscope. My pulse rate was 158 with numerous irregularities. The long pauses are the danger in Atrial Fib. Blood pools in the heart and can clot. The clots travel to the brain and it’s a stroke. If they go to the lungs it’s a pulmonary embolism. Either can be fatal or even worse. So I swallowed four aspirins to thin my blood and took my morning blood pressure medicines. Then I called my family doctor. He told me to get to the Emergency Room. So Mrs. RRR and I drove the 50 miles to the Big City and the hospital where I work part time. It’s an odd feeling being in your own hospital, like standing in a mirror looking back at yourself.

The ER staff kicked into high gear and did all the necessary actions; EKG’s, drew blood for laboratory tests, started an IV, and put me on a monitor. The job in Atrial Fib is to “convert”—that is, to get the heart to convert back to a normal heart beat called “normal sinus rhythm”. But my heart didn’t seem to WANT to convert. They ran in Cardizem, the powerful anti-arythmatic and blood pressure medicine I usually take orally as an IV solution. Nothing. The rapid, irregular rate continued. They kept increasing the amount of Cardizem. Still the Atrial Fib would not convert. But my blood pressure went lower and lower till at last it seemed there was no choice. I was going to have to be cardio-verted. This is done just like in CPR, by giving a jolt of electricity through the heart that makes it beat normally again. The cardioversion was scheduled for early Sunday morning and I was admitted to the cardiac floor.

I was now wearing a transmitter that continuously sent my heart information to a screen in the nurse’s station. All of this is mechanical and terminological. But it doesn’t address the feelings involved. We count on our hearts. They beat away quietly and efficiently from a few weeks after conception for up to a century. I seldom give it any thought. But when it doesn’t work and you can FEEL it not working, suddenly your mortality becomes very real. I thought about this as we drove in to the ER. I held Mrs. RRR’s hand and thought about the third of a century we have together, of the good times and bad and knew every one of those irregular scurryings in my chest could be the last. In the ER the quick efficiency of the staff and all the technology was reassuring. “Everything’s going to be OK. They are going to fix me.” But I wasn’t fixing. By noon I was lying in bed realizing that the technology wasn’t my salvation. The nurse came in with a new medication: Betapace.

“The Dr. wants you to try this…” I took the tablet.

In a short time I became drowsy. Then drowsier. I remember thinking, “If I have to die, this is sure an easy way to go.” There are certain things a man wants right in his soul before he meets the Maker. My mind went to them… then drifted and I seemed to sink down into the bed as I slept without dreams. An hour later I awakened alone in the room. For a second it seemed… no, I wasn’t through the veil, I was firmly on the mattress in the hospital bed. I found myself disappointed a little. To wake up in heaven would have seemed natural and proper. But there was a change in my body. The bubbling, scurrying feeling was gone from my chest. Mrs. RRR came into the room smiling from ear to ear.

“You’ve just converted to a regular heartbeat; the nurse could see it out at the desk!”

The Betapace had done the trick.

Four more days in the hospital making sure the Betapace wouldn’t turn on me and have a paradoxical effect and I came home. I’m still here readers. You won’t escape me that easily.

God is Good

2005-11-10T18:30:00.000-08:00

In my last post, Youngest Daughter had fears about her pregnancy. But lab tests and a sonogram show mom and pre-born infant are both just fine. Good, very good news.

Rendezvous With Ganesh

2005-11-09T01:42:00.000-08:00

The River Rat Ranger has many strange experiences. Here is another. Monday I visited the Veteran's Hospital in the Big City for the latest word on treatment of my Hepatitis C. It had at long last become time to meet the new liver specialist. I've been waiting since April. I got off work at 0730 and drove along the river taking all my favorite short cuts and arrived at the VA at 0745 to have my blood drawn. Then with typical Federal efficiency I had to wait until 1300 to see the Dr.

As I'd been fasting for 12 hours for the blood test, I had breakfast at the nearby cafeteria and went out to nap in the Green Hornet till appointment time. It was unseasonably warm so I didn't need to cover up. I just lay the seat back and went into one of those occasional naps I have where my body seems to solidify into an immovable object, become heavy like metal, and my mind drifts into sleep with complete awareness of noises, people walking past, etc. My dreams rolled back to the week before.

I had made myself face the duty awaiting me up at Grandpa Ranger's house on The Farm where I'd grown up. Dad wanted me to come up and go pheasant hunting with him. I have nothing in particular against pheasants except that I am almost totally unable to hit moving objects with a shotgun. So they are safe from me. If I MUST hunt, I would prefer it be things that can hunt me back... bear, wolf, big cat, feral dogs or coyotes should they pack up. But this wasn't about hunting really. Dad, now almost 80 and I took our shotguns and walked down through the fields I'd grown up in. Many things have changed, including farming methods, so it wasn't exactly the same, but close. We walked along the railroad tracks that had fed my wanderlust by tempting me with one slow moving empty box car after another, begging me to hop in and ride West forever. We tramped through the deep grass along the old pasture creek where younger brothers and I had camped and reminisced about that.

Younger brother and I spent more nights outside than in the house during summers in those days. Sometimes youngest brother with us. Good times.

We never saw a single pheasant, not even tracks or droppings. The birds had moved into the neighbor's standing corn. But that wasn't important. A warm fall day and Dad and I together again. We went back to the house, had a great meal made by Step Mom and I went up to the attic to sort through the past.

In the Northwest corner was a pile of my stuff, covered with a sheet of plastic. I didn't want to go there, but it had to be done. First the books. Hundreds of books. Novels, history, reference. Old dusty books. Some old friends, some I'd forgotten. The terrible sorting process. I hate getting rid of books. Most I repacked for the brothers to look through. I made myself be ruthless and determined to only take what would fit in the Green Hornet for one trip. And each layer moved me back further into childhood.

There were the old .45 rpm records I'd collected, mostly children's and novelty songs. Letters from old friends. The correspondence course I never finished. Odd trinkets. A box of clothes. Old army uniforms. Bell bottom jeans from the 60's. And my army records. 3 years of my life compressed into a stack 6 inches tall. Pay slips, travel orders and a few pictures. An 8x10 glossy of an impossibly young RRR standing in front of the battalion commander as he pinned on a medal. And the memories of how that happened. The crying sob of metal as the helicopter hit the ground 50 feet from me, crumpling, breaking apart, sliding. The whistling whipping noise of the tail rotor zipping past me. The hot flash as the little chopper burst into flame. My friend's screams. His melting face looking right into mine as his seatbelt burned through and I tugged him out the door on top of me. My hands on fire as the flaming jet fuel spread to me. Me screaming on the radio for a dust off. (helicopter ambulance) The smell of burnt meat that wouldn't leave my nostrils for days. Kneeling by the ice chest with my burnt hands in the frosty water as the other soldiers dropped pieces of the other passenger in a pile close to me.

Under the records folders, the medal in a box. Small compensation for a tall, laughing red haired Iowa boy who had befriended me. And a certificate printed in Vietnamese. Only my name typed in English, all else incomprehensible. A medal granted by a nation swallowed up. And more memories. The NVA running at us along rice paddy dikes. Our allies dropping a wounded soldier at the bottom of the hill that dark night. The black medic, Candy screaming obscenities and running down the hill to him. Me suddenly finding myself passing him. Tracers sizzling past on the way up and down, ours red, theirs green. Cradling the young South Vietnamese irregular in my arms as he coughed and retched pieces of his lungs onto me. His comrades taking his boots, knowing he wouldn't need them anymore.

A big machine went by in front of the Hornet, sucking up autumn leaves. The paralysis slowly left me. I'd slept two hours. I walked back into the VA. We vets look at each other. Look away. Was he there? Did I know him? Brothers in arms.

Back upstairs I wait to meet the new Doctor. They call my name. And I walk in to the most American office you'll find and stepped instead into India. The man who stood to greet me was so handsome as to make my teeth hurt. I could have been shaking hands with the young Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia. Dazzling smile. Much touchier than most Americans. Shaking my hand with both of his, little pats on the shoulder and on the knee as we talked. About 8" less personal space than Americans tend to like. On his identification badge his first name... Ganesh. The Hindu anthropomorphic elephant deity. Son of Lord Shiva and goddess Parvathi, if I remember correctly.

I absorbed his new information. The lowered virus count was meaningless. My biopsy showed I have progressed almost to cirrhosis. The Great Pumpkin disease looms. Liver cancer risk is increasing steadily. I need to go on another year of chemo-therapy. At an even higher dose. Another year. Imagine having the flu 24/7, with neuropathy, depression, irritability, loss of hair and libido... for a year. No listen carefully, a MINIMUM of a year. I feel as paralyzed as I had been in the car refighting that long lost war.

But good news! (smile, pat on leg) I have type 2 genotype, the easiest to cure. "Dr., my type 2 genotype and I have been on a year of interferon and ribobviran FIVE times in the last decade! It didn't work." Dazzling smile repeated. "But Mr. Ranger, hasn't anyone told you? You are obese. It only works on people who are thin and fit." I know I stared with my mouth open. New information, right? No, right there on the internet when I looked later. Rage at the "professionals" who forgot to mention it. Sick despair at the thought of wasted time and money and physical deteriation.

I need to lose 80lbs. Fast. Walk a minimum of five miles a day the elephant god tells me with a smile. Starve yourself. Here's a referral to the V.A. weight loss program. Call the nurse when you're ready to start.

I drove home on autopilot. Phone call from Youngest Daughter. She fears she may lose her 2 month pregnancy. Sometimes the well seems too deep to climb out of. But... one foot ahead of the other the old soldier marches on. Today was better. Youngest Daughter may be doing OK after all. The blood tests look good. The first 5 miles didn't go TOO badly. Mrs. RRR walked part of them with me. Ganesh smiles.

A Soldier Marries

2005-10-23T21:57:00.000-07:00

The RRR tells a story from the past. Because it's about a wedding it may seem strange that so much of it is about men. But there was only one woman that day... at least that I could see.

We turn back the calendar to this day in 1971. It was nine years since an unknown rock group from Liverpool called the Beatles had been the opening act for the angrily androgynous Little Richard on his British tour. Richard Nixon was president of the United States. Men had already walked on the moon. The rock concert at Woodstock was a fading memory. And the RRR, dressed in a borrowed suit stood shaking like a leaf in the wind at the front of a Baptist Church in northwest Iowa.

It was 20 minutes past 2 in the afternoon. The wedding had been supposed to start at 2 sharp. Pastor Ben, the gentle silver haired preacher, waited patiently with us in his office at the front of the sanctuary as it got later and later. My best man, younger brother "Pablo" practiced standing with his hands casually behind his back so the huge bandage on his injured thumb wouldn't show. He checked and re-checked that he had the ring. I paced the office.

What was going wrong? Had She changed her mind and disappeared? Was She ill? At about 2:15 I couldn't stand it anymore. I KNEW there had to be some sort of tragedy. I opened the exit door to the outside from the pastor's study intending to walk around to the front of the church to see what the hold up was. In front of me blocking the door stood my father's friend Roger. A WWII Navy vet and a blacksmith, he was as solid and immovable as an oak tree stump. "Get back in there." He stated flatly.

"But something's wrong, they're 15" late!"

Roger folded his massive arms across his barrel chest. "Everything will be fine. GET... BACK... IN... THERE...!" He had been a combat veteran fresh from the war, waiting at the front of a church 25 years before. No young groom with cold feet was going to escape past him.

I got back in there.

At twenty minutes past 2 the organist paused and the music at last changed to our cue. We went out and stood at the front of the church. The bride's maid was escorted to the front, but I didn't see her. Her daughter the flower girl, insufferably cute must have scattered rose petals, I didn't even notice. I was looking at my mentors and role models. My father who raised me to work hard, shoot straight and tell the truth. His father, my grandpa, hill billy, hobo, cowboy, horse whisperer, farmer, fisherman. Uncle Elmer, the ex-marine who was in some of the bloodiest fighting in the Pacific. Uncle Dale, toting his 8mm camera that recorded the only pictures we still have of that day. He flew C-47 Sky Trains in WWII. His son, cousin Jim, recently returned from the war I had been in three weeks before, a hot-shot helicopter gunship pilot. My grandmother's brother who fought in the trenches in France in WWI. My soon to be brother-in-law Richard, husband of the bridesmaid, father of the flower girl, and veteran of the Korean War. The men of the church and the relatives who had watched me grow, advised me, taught me. Strong, brave men. God fearing, proud and hard working. Brothers in arms.

Then the music changed, the congregation stood and in walked my future father-in-law escorting the most beautiful woman in the world, his daughter, to give away to this stranger. Walt had his problems. A marriage that wouldn't work, a career as a preacher that dissolved when the marriage did. He lived in a shack without plumbing on a bluff over the Missouri River. He roofed one house at a time with Teutonic deliberation and precision for small pay. He wandered the west in a Jeep station wagon toting his roofing tools and ladders from one job to another. He wore an ancient suit and a look of pride and carried himself with dignity.

But when he turned the corner to the center aisle and started down, matching his speed to that off the Wedding March, I wasn't looking at him. My bride, wearing the dress she and her sister had stayed up three days and nights sewing, clung to his arm and walked towards me, her face glowing with love and happiness. She had already put up with more than most women would have stood for. In the rage and shame of a boy turned into a man overnight in battle, I had tried to break off our engagement seeing myself as too tainted and unlovable to be a husband and father. She would have none of it. She told me I'd have to come home and take the engagement ring off her finger myself. I'd come home. And now I was ready to put another one on the finger with it.

"Who gives this woman to be wed?" Pastor Ben asked.

"I do!" Walt exclaimed and strode to the back of the church and sat down under the balcony. His hurt pride wouldn't allow him to say "Her mother and I", nor to sit by his ex-wife at the front. I looked into my bride's eyes and saw that same stubbornness and pride that would carry us through 34 years to this day and I saw all the love a woman has in her heart to give. I took her hand in mine and we turned toward Pastor Ben to recite the ancient ritual.

34 years today. Tonight she woke me up to go to work and gave me a slice of fresh baked bread and told me she loved me. You can guess, Ranger Readers, that I consider myself the luckiest man in the world. You guess right.

Tarantula

2005-10-21T23:59:00.000-07:00

This is one of the appearance and size that Mrs. RRR accidentally stepped on in The Basin. Note: She was wearing sandal's!

A Good Mystic Is Hard To Find

2005-10-21T07:11:00.000-07:00

Today's thought from Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and mystic.

"When I am liberated by silence, when I am no longer involved in the measurement of life, but in the living of it, I can discover a form of prayer in which there is effectively, no distraction. My whole life becomes a prayer. My whole silence is full of prayer. The world of silence in which I am immersed contributes to my prayer."

page 93, Thoughts In Solitude

That's why the RRR takes long float trips down quiet rivers and hikes in the desert.

Carmel Mountains Deer

2005-10-20T03:16:00.000-07:00

This is a doe and fawn of the rare type seen by Mrs. RRR and I on our trek to the Window.

Javelina

2005-10-20T03:10:00.000-07:00

Here it is, and note from dictionary.com that it is referred to as a "hog".

collared peccary
n.
A small wild hog (Tayassu tajacu) with a range from the southwest United States to northern Argentina, having a gray and black coat with a white band from the back to the chest. Also called javelina.

The Window

2005-10-20T00:37:00.000-07:00

Wednesday I returned home from working an unexpected night shift in the Big City. Fall is in central Iowa. The leaves are changing colors and falling. It was about 70 (f). The house was filled with the wonderful smell of the steak and onions Mrs. RRR had simmering in the crock pot. I fell asleep to the smell and awakened to her arriving home. We had steak and sweet corn from last summer's garden and Mrs. RRR's homemade whole wheat bread with jam made from Elder Raymond's peaches.

After our devotions we packed up Bay Toe Ven and drove over to the woods below the dam for a walk through the fall colors. Bay ran back and forth, sticking his nose into clumps of grass, flushing pheasants from their hiding places, chasing fat squirrels up trees and, like us, staring dumbfounded at the graceful beauty of white tailed deer. And that took Mrs. RRR and I back to August and the Deep Desert...

We had awakened to the slow creep of sunlight into the Basin. With mountains between us and the sun it was light hours before it actually rose above the peaks. The scenery was every bit as spectacular as the moonlight the night before had predicted. We crawled out of the tent to find ourselves in what appeared to be a giant volcanic crater. It is not, of course. The basin is just the lowest area in the center of the Chisos mountains. Straight to the south from our campsite was a low pass through the rock Basin perimeter called the Window. We wanted to go see it, but first had the daily issues of housekeeping. Around the tent and the campsite I saw dozens of small, cloven hoofprints. I knew we had night time visitors and from the smell what they were, but I figured the revelation could wait. We breakfasted and broke camp and drove up to the Lodge area of the basin to register. We discovered that while a week's access to Big Bend is only $14, each night in the basin campground would cost us $10 more.

More importantly we got a couple of maps and very best of all, six wicked looking long steel tent stakes like giant nails. One for each corner of the tent and one for the guy rope on each end. Those six stakes would earn the 75 cents each cost over and over for the rest of the trip. The literature had the usual terrible warnings about the danger of the desert and suggested never walking between noon and 4 p.m. We returned to the campground and decided to pick a much better spot and stay one more night and walk the Window Trail that day. We picked one with soft grass to put the tent on and Mrs. RRR went to use the restroom while I set things up. From 100 feet away I again heard her imperative calling of my name and then, "what IS that?". "That" was a javelina or peccary. The maker of the hoof prints had returned.

The guide books will tell you the javelina is not a pig. Stuff and nonsense. It is a pig. A hairy pig to be sure. And one with the scent glands of a skunk and a long sharp tooth sticking out of the side of each jaw like a javelin, hence the Spanish name... but a pig. It has the nose of a pig, it roots like a pig, squeals like a pig and even tastes like a pig. It is a pig. They are only dangerous in groups and this one was alone, so I walked over and squatted down and looked him in the eye and we silently communicated, one omnivorous predator to another. He wandered away.

At 1 p.m., the worst possible time for desert heat, we started down the trail. We each carried a walking stick. Hers is four feet tall and made of a sapling, with a tiny compass in the top. Mine is six feet and made of white wax wood from China, the source of spear shafts and kendo sticks for maybe 30 centuries. We each carried that day and every day a soft sided 2 quart U.S. Army canteen on a strap over one shoulder. Mrs. RRR wore her new hiking boots, I decided to stick with my New Balance 608's to see how they handled the desert. I returned sold on them. My leather boots never got out of the car and I'm wearing the same 608's as I write this. We both wore hats to keep off the sun, hers a desert hat of the French Foriegn Legion type and mine a surplus U.S. Army bush hat such as is worn by the troops in Iraq. We both wore heavy jeans to ward off thorns. She wisely wore a loose, cool, long sleeved cotton shirt, I a tee-shirt.

It didn't take us long to discover that speed across the desert slows down much as time on a slow river does. One to one and one half miles an hour is it. And the fuel is water, a quart an hour. This was a 3 mile hike and we could easily have used another quart each. The trail took us down a canyon towards the Window. We were roughly following the arroyo, Spanish for dry stream bed. Some few mesquite trees arched over the trail providing shade. And cactus. Cactus everywhere. The Prickly Pear were blooming with lovely red fruit. Mrs. RRR stopped to pick one and quickly dropped it. They are covered with tiny, hair like thorns that embed instantly into the skin. That brief touch buried hundreds into her thumb and forefinger. Out came my Swiss Army knife and its tweezers and I plucked them out, stopping often to wipe sweat from my eyes. Oh yes, more vital equipment for the desert, a large handkerchief or bandana. Mine was the triangular one issued by the Army. I wear one in hot weather knotted loosely about my neck, in cold weather tucked in a pocket. I've used them for almost everything from dishcloth to hotpad to makeshift shirt sleeves.

I didn't get all the thorns naturally and even now months later a small piece of prickly pear thorn will occasionally work itself out of my lower leg where it broke off after penetrating my jeans those months back. We began to see Octillo, or octopus cactus because it has long green arms like an octopus reaching up to the sky and many other types. And the insects and other bugs. Scorpions and their relatives with their hooked stinger tails and evil dispositions. The heat grew as the sun pounded down into the canyon. We stopped to rest in the shade of a wild olive tree by a damp place in the arroyo and I looked down the stream bed and touched Mrs. RRR's arm and pointed. It was a rare deer. A sub-species of white tale that lives only in Big Bend and on a mountain in Mexico. Few people ever see them. His antlers were still covered with velvet. He was pawing at a damp spot in the arroyo to find water. The sunlight beamed down through a break in the trees and spotlighted him. I was delighted.

We left him alone and quietly continued downward. We owed the ease of our travel to the CCC. During the Great Depression the Civilian Conservation Corps built trails all through the Basin and the rest of Big Bend. Our speed of 1 1/2 mph would have been cut to half that if not for the steps they chiseled into the rock and the switch backs they made. Always ahead we got glimpses of the notch in the rock wall below which rested the Window. At last we heard something. Water running! We backtracked a little and found where the tiny thread of water was running over the rocks. As we continued on it would sink into the sand for a while then emerge again. The canyon got narrower and deeper. The trail became toe holds blasted out of the face of the canyon wall. Then ahead of us, an opening maybe 10 feet wide and 20 feet high. The true widow. In dry weather like this, a perch overlooking the splendid view of the desert floor hundreds of feet below. During and right after a rain it is the head of a waterfall and the area where we stood would be a roaring torrent. A cool breeze blew in the Window. We sat and sipped from our canteens and wondered at the beauty. After a long rest we headed back. The trip up the canyon took even longer as we were climbing. When we returned to the campsite the sun had already dipped behind the mountain peaks to the west. I made us supper and we sat at the picnic table sipping our coffee, still under the spell of what we'd seen and experienced.

The Moon

2005-10-19T03:09:00.000-07:00

Mrs. RRR and I drove south west from Dallas, leaving the Famous Country Western Singer's ranch early in the morning and driving on and on. The heavily loaded Green Hornet hummed along, its new engine and transmission (courtesy www.cncmotors.com) performing flawlessly. At 60 mph, 50 miles per gallon. At 70 with the airconditioning on, 41 miles per gallon. And south west. And south west. On and on. First through the oil fields that fed the Bush fortunes. Then on. And the earth grew browner, the vegetation more dispersed. We saw more and more cactus. Some I recognized, some I didn't.

On toward evening we got to the north entrance. Closed. "Continue on or pick a camping spot and register in the morning" the sign said. We continued. We got to the park headquarters at Panther Junction about an hour before dark. Closed. We drove up into the Basin. An alpine region in the only mountain range in America completely enclosed in a National Park. We found the campground. Maybe one in ten campsites were taken. Fierce warnings to conserve water. No electricity. We sat up the tent by flash light. The ground was gravel and rock. The French Foreign Legion tent uses 16 wire stakes. Three went in without bending. The clang of the Swiss Army entrenching tool driving them echoed off the cliffs. I had the feeling I was desecrating the silence like shouting obscenities in a temple. Finally I found rocks and tied off the guy ropes (8) and built cairns around the end ones.

Suddenly Mrs. RRR called to me in the voice she uses for genuine emergencies. "Get over here NOW and bring your flashlight!" She had accidentally stepped on a tarantula the size of my hand. It spun in a circle around the two broken legs she'd stepped on, looking for an enemy to bite. Mrs. RRR whom I'd promised I would keep safe, was less than impressed. I stomped it out its misery, shuddering at the bulk of it under my foot. Tarantulas and one of the more impressive of the bugs God made. I didn't like having to kill it, but could hardly have left it alive under those conditions. It was no surprise to me to find it was the first one seen all summer in the Basin. Somehow it only made sense that Mrs. RRR who has seldom camped and was a total stranger to the desert had stepped on it in the dark. She quickly retreated to the tent and unrolled the self-inflating mattresses and the sleeping bags while I puttered about stashing gear and neatening the camp.

My attention was drawn to Casa Grande, the towering mountain that looms over the east side of the basin. There seemed to be a city behind it. The night sky had that much glow. Soon the whole mountain was outlined in white light. I stood awestruck as the white turned to silver. Then a brilliant silver sliver of light rose above the exact center of Casa Grande. And grew bigger and rose higher. My mouth hung open. The full moon in a glory I've never seen rose majestically above the mountain's flat top. The whole basin was illuminated. The silver light showed the ring of cliffs and spires. The feeling I was in a temple returned. But now I was not the interloper, I was part of the worship. The flattened tarantula was no sign of what was to come... this was. I knew what I'd come to seek was there to be found.

I crawled into the tent and zipped up the netting, but left the flaps open. All through the night I would awaken from a dreamless sleep and watch the full moon slowly treading its path out the south facing tent door, then snuggle back up to Mrs. RRR and sink back into nothingness.

I Just Keep Trying

2005-10-19T00:05:00.000-07:00

The RRR sputters to a stop describing his time in the desert. I've been trying since August to put into words the experience that Mrs. RRR and I shared in the Deep Desert of Big Bend Texas. I have a draft of a blog going into camping gear, plans, maps, etc. and it just keeps getting longer, then I revise it in disgust and start over. It's too much to tell, I guess.

So Ranger Readers will start getting one experience at a time..

Paradise at 57 mm

2005-09-28T00:07:00.000-07:00

This story by the RRR starts last weekend on the 11-7 shift at the hospital in the Big City. Mark, the house supervisor was having a care conference for the psychiatric staff. I was a little late and as I stood in the doorway I heard him talking about the possibility he might go back into the Army as a nurse because they are grabbing prior service medical staff. He is certain a big push may be under way in the war in Iraq that may even involve Syria and Iran.

"I wonder if they need a 55 year old 'Nam vet psych nurse." I said.

He grinned at me. "Who are you fooling? You wouldn't want to do nursing, you'd want to shoot the big guns."

Everyone in the room started laughing at me, not because it's true -- they already knew that, but because my face lit up in delight at the thought. So I tried to explain to them as I will to my readers:

As soon as tanks lumbered across the battlefields in WWI, the infantry has tried to come up with weapons the lowly infantryman can use to knock them out. The Brits came up with a giant rifle that shot thumb sized bullets at high velocity into the firing slits on the old tanks. Then came a spring loaded catapult that threw high explosive grenades at them. By WWII the Germans had the Panzer-Faust, a rocket launcher that fired a shaped charge. The Americans countered with the 3.5 inch Bazooka, a stovepipe looking tube, also a rocket launcher. By the time I was in Vietnam we had the LAW, or Light Anti-tank Weapon, a telescoping fiberglass rocket launcher that was disposable after being fired. The Viet Cong picked the used tubes up and made weapons of them. They also had the Communist Block RPG, or Rocket Propelled Grenade which was very close to the Panzer-Faust.

But from the Korean War till Vietnam there was something very special which is what I was smiling about that night. We developed a technology called recoilless rifles. The recoilless rifle is a cannon that doesn't kick back when it's fired. It has slots in the breech and uses shells with combustible cases. When it is fired flame and concussion roar out the back destroying anything for 150 feet, a decided disadvantage should you wander behind it. But it made possible a cannon as large as our 105mm Howitzer that could be fired from the back of a jeep or pickup truck. And a 75mm that infantrymen could shoot from a tripod and was almost as effective as the dreaded German 88mm cannon. And then some bright person had the idea of making one 57mm and replacing the Bazooka with it.

It was a dumb idea of course. The silly thing weighed 45 pounds. It took two men to carry it and the ammo bearers could pack 4 shots at the most in a back pack. But oh my... Dear readers, what that baby was to shoot. For 20 years there existed in the U.S. inventory a cannon you could fire off your shoulder. And I got to do it. I was the medic on a range at a fort in Wisconsin and was assigned to the 57mm recoilless range. As it got towards dark and all the troops had fired and left, we called to have the truck come and pick up the range personnel and the left over shells. We were informed that as the 57mm was being dropped they didn't want the 30 some rounds back and we were to fire them up.

So here was what it was like. I crouched behind a barricade and hoisted the gun up onto my shoulder. The loader worked the breech. I could feel the heavy shell slide into the chamber. He locked the breech down and slapped me on the shoulder and dived to the bottom of the trench and covered his ears. I looked through the sight, leveled the massive barrel on my right shoulder, took in a deep breath, let half of it out, held it, centered the crossers on the turret of the old WWII tank a couple hundred yards away and squeezed the trigger.

I felt like I'd knocked hard on the door of Hell. The earth moved under my feet. There was a flash brighter than the sun. The roar was deafening even through my ear plugs. The concussion squeezed the breath out of me like a giant invisible fist. After the flash I had the quick vision of a small black dot rushing at the tank. A "chunk" noise echoed back and I could see the light of the setting sun THROUGH the turret. I stood shaking like leaf in a strong wind, then began laughing wildly and shouted, "WOW! Let's do that AGAIN!" And we did. Over and over. No experience I've ever had comes close.

And that's why I grinned so wide at the care conference. I've shot the big gun.

Things Can ALWAYS Get Worse

2005-09-26T13:20:00.000-07:00

One more adventure by the RRR and Youngest Son on the long trip down the Des Moines River follows:
We were floating down towards Rutland, Iowa and the river began widening and slowing. As we came around a bend we began to hear a dull roaring up ahead. As happened almost every day on that trip, rain was threatening. The river ahead of us got much wider we saw a dark line all the way across it with a brick building on the port side and mist rolling up from the line. “Dam!” I shouted. (NOT “damn”). The dam at Rutland was high headed with a forty foot drop behind it and the slowing of the current changed and we were being pulled right for it. Youngest Son had the oars. We had been floating forward just using them to steer. Now he jumped around facing the stern and began pulling for the building at the port side with all his might as I guided.
Wouldn't it be awful, I thought, if there were also a spillway on the far left side of that building? And there was! The building was the old powerhouse and had its own intake from the river. I shouted the news to him and he angled the boat further and pulled even harder. We just made it. I jumped out and tied to a tree and we stood looking at the disaster that had almost befallen us. Had we gone right instead of left or not gotten past the powerhouse inlet we would have been swept over into the boiling cauldron below.
As we picked a path around the dam to portage the boat and gear it began to rain. Thunder and lightening followed. We took the gear first and the boat last. We were both soaked and shivering almost immediately. As we made the last trip carrying the boat, it suddenly began to hail marble sized hail stones. We were getting bruised and pounded. Youngest Son shouted back to me over his shoulder, “Relax Dad, nothing worse than this can happen!”
Lightening instantly struck a tree 20 feet from where we were carrying the aluminum boat. The whole world turn brilliant pink for an instant and the roar of the thunder was a physical, mind numbing presence. We stood dumbfounded, our ears ringing.
“Kid,” I yelled, “don't you EVER say that again!”
It really, really, happened.

Mackerel Alfredo

2005-09-26T04:10:00.000-07:00

The RRR relates an adventure of he and Youngest Son on a river float trip:

Our flat bottomed row boat, Sherman had faithfully floated us down the Des Moines River for over two weeks. On this day we had entered Saylorville resevoir behind Saylorville Dam. We had no motor, no sail, and no current. So Youngest Son rowed much of the day. On and on we creaked as the sky grew darker and more ominous. We started looking for a good place to camp long before dark, but nothing presented itself. Steep hills, far too steep to pitch camp on sloped straight into the water. Finally we spotted a fairly level spot 100 feet up from the shore on the port side.

The first rain drops began to fall as Youngest Son ran Sherman aground. I jumped out and jammed our Swiss Army entrenching tool into the mud and tied the boat off to it. The rain came down harder as we climbed, slipped, and slithered taking the gear up to the "level" spot. He rigged up our tarp to the walking stick and push poles as I got out the Coleman stove and pumped it into life. When I opened the chuck box, it was not a promising sight. Only two items still sloshed about in the grimy water at the bottom of the box. One was a rusty can of discount store Jack Makerel, the other a flaking, water logged pouch of noodles with Alfredo sauce. The only choice was obvious. I opened the can with my Swiss Army knife and poured the unappetizing mess into the skillet and put it on the stove. When the juice from the can started simmering I dropped in the sticky mess of noodles and started breaking up the caked sauce powder into it.

The rain was pounding now, running down the back of my neck under my poncho and soaking my shirt and pants as I sat on the upended bucket. Youngest Son had unrolled our bedrolls under the tarp and lit the candle lantern. After rowing most of the day he was famished, not to mention chilled from the soaking rain and needing something hot to eat. I divided the gray goo into two parts and after shutting down the stove crawled under the tarp. He looked at the disgusting food on his plate and asked, "what IS that?"

"Mackerel Alfredo!" I reported proudly.

He looked for a long time at his plate grimacing, then blew out the candle and ate every bite in the dark.

It really, really happened.

Understanding Tanglish

2005-09-26T02:20:00.000-07:00

The RRR records his difficulty with global understanding. Beginning some time ago I have been reading the blogs (and occasionally commenting) from a group of interesting people in Malaysia and have been gratified at their interest in mine. They are Indians living in Malaysia and often write in an idiom called Tanglish. I assumed that Tanglish was the Tamil language converted to English form by using the English alphabet, much as modern Vietnamese is. I was wrong. I discovered this when I tried to find an English/Tanglish dictionary.

Apparently Tanglish is a patois made up of Tamil and other languages mixed with English. English has become the Lingua Franca of global business and politics. One website carried the interesting comment that Tanglish is not taught by parents to their children, but rather by children to their peers and used to communicate in code to keep parents and other adults from understanding what the rebellious youth are saying to each other. At least that was the case 10 years ago. Now it is becoming a "hip" language that upwardly mobile Asian college students and young professionals use to communicate with each other.

As a child of the 60's I understand the concept, if not the idom. All generations do the same thing. It's a sort of generational shop talk.

I remember the famous drug culture Three Universal Answers which could be used to answer any question. They were:

1. Drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll.

2. It must be the drugs.

3. Wow! (said in a slurred, drawn out fashion)

example:

What is the meaning of life? "Drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll."

How can you be so shallow and ignorant as to believe that? "It must be the drugs".

And if the person is too wasted to be even able to answer with 1. or 2., simply "Wowwwww!"

To quote oldest son, "You 60's weirdos ruined America"

Wowwwww!

A philosopher would have a great time explaining the "I - Not I" progressing to "Us - Not Us" principle involved.

Happy Birthday To Me (2)

2005-09-21T00:52:00.001-07:00

It was as much fun as I thought it would be, and now I'm back at the county jail remenising. I turned the jail over to Scott and Tom at 0700 after the hectic business of passing out breakfast and passing out medications (suprising this job is so much like psychiatric nursing, even has the same clients). I went home and collapsed in bed. At 0930 Youngest Daughter called to wish me happy returns. Youngest granddaughter, one day past her first birthday babbled happily to me.

I went back to sleep smiling and my youngest brother called. He's an investment banker. One of the brothers had to amount to something. We laughed and joked and talked about old times. Then back to sleep. By noon Bay Toe Ven was ready for a walk. We wandered down by the river and across the bridge and met Mrs. RRR as she drove home from work. She'd bought me an ice cream birthday cake that she had designed the decoration for. After lunch I got to see it. A green tent with a man and his son peering out into the rain depicted me and one of the boys camping. It was a shame to cut into the frosting, but worth it. Vanilla ice cream on top and chocolate on the bottom with crushed oreos in between. Before we ate Mrs. RRR and Bay Toe Ven sang Happy Birthday to me. I already had my present, the equipment I used at the Reserve shoot Sunday. She gave me a beautiful, romantic card.

I spent the next couple hours peeling, coring, and slicing apples from our tree and placing them in the dehydrator. This year we started using the oven also. We have a couple extra oven racks from an old kitchen stove. I bought a 5' roll of 2' wide 1/4" hardware cloth and made a tray for each rack, so with the oven at 150 F dozens of apples can dry at once. I went back to sleep with the wonderful smell of drying apples wafting through the house. At 2030, Youngest Son called and I got to talk to him and 19 month old second youngest granddaughter. Once more I fell asleep smiling to get up at 2200 and come back here to the jail for another night's work.

Life is good. Even at 55.

Happy Birthday To Me...

2005-09-20T02:41:00.000-07:00

September 20th finds the RRR celebrating his 55th birthday. Ironically, I am spending it in jail. At least I'm working here and not on the wrong side of the door. In a few minutes I will give Mrs. RRR her wake up call so she can wish me a sleepy happy birthday. Today will be spent napping and slicing and dehydrating apples. I should mow the lawn also. But most of all I'll be glad to be alive and still able to drive home and hug Mrs. RRR. And be an embarrassment to my children and grandchildren.

Ranger Competition

2005-09-18T16:57:00.000-07:00

As his readers by now must have guessed, the RRR loves the sport of competitive pistol shooting. Shooting and archery are about the only sports where middle aged and older men can compete with, and even excel over younger athletes. Unfortunately, almost all shooting events are held on Sunday and if I went as often as I wished I would never get to go to church. But I allow myself one Sunday each year to skip going to church or preaching and participate in the Iowa Reserve Law Enforcement Officer's Association shooting tournament.
For the last couple weeks I've been practicing. Competitive shooting is different from the regular police weapons qualification in that the target has a bullseye with graduated rings of varying scores, each getting larger and each time larger, a lower score. The tiny oval in the middle is 10 points, the next 9, then 8, then 7. Any hits outside the 7 ring gives no points at all.
I set the alarm for 0430 this morning and cleaned and oiled the guns I was to use for competition and organized my gear. At 0530 I awakened Mrs. RRR so she could get ready and go with me. It was almost 0700 when we left for the Big City and the tournament. We arrived and met with my fellow officers and their wives. John, Roger, and I were Team 1; Jeff, Doug, and Randy were Team 2. We were in competition with the eight best teams in the state and in all, 45 individual shooters, representing the best Reserve Officer shooters in the State.
The first match was the individual shoot for semi-automatic pistols. I used my beloved old .45 Colt and went up to the line. All the “strings”, as each group of shots is called are timed to make the shooting more realistic of real life situations. The first string was from 75 feet. We had 65 seconds to draw our gun from the holster, drop to the ground and shoot 6 shots from behind a barricade with our strong hand, reload the gun, rise to one knee and shoot from behind the other side of the barricade with the weak hand, reload again, and fire standing with the strong hand back on the right of the barricade.
For the next stage we had 6 seconds to run from 75 feet out to 45 feet, draw and shoot twice holding the gun two handed, then wait and have 3 seconds to shoot twice more, then wait again and two more and yet again 2 more. Then we had 20 seconds to run up to 21 feet, draw and shoot 6 times, reload, and shoot 6 more.
Lastly we had 20 seconds to run up to 15 feet, draw and shoot 6 times with just one hand, reload, and shoot 6 more with just the other hand.
There were 50 shots fired, each with the possibility of 10 points, so the highest possible score was 500. I shot 453, the best I've ever done. It was the second best in my division, fifth best over all. I walked back to the bleachers and hugged Mrs. RRR. Life was good. After the rest of the semi-auto shooting was done, it was time for the revolver shoot. This time I used my wonderful old Smith and Wesson, also a .45 caliber. It was a gift from Grandpa Ranger years ago. As it is a revolver, it can't be easily reloaded like the Colt auto can. It uses “full moon clips” which are star shaped metal pieces that each hold 6 cartridges in the same configuration as the cylinder in the gun. After shooting 6 shots, I swing the cylinder out, punch the ejection lever that dumps the 6 empties onto the ground, place another loaded clip of 6 rounds in, slap the cylinder shut and fire again.
The revolver shoot followed the same pattern as the semi-auto. I knew I hadn't done as well when it was finished, but was surprised to see that neither had those in my division and I had come in first! Then we fired the team match where Roger, John, and my scores would be added up for an aggregate. It was 60 shots instead of 50 and even more complicated with different firing positions and situations. While I didn't shoot as well as I had in the individual match, I did quite well and our team won 3rd place in the state. Our total score was almost 1600 out of a possible 1800. We all came home very pleased.
Lastly was the off duty shoot. This is a shortened version of the first two done with little short barreled “back-up” guns that officers carry hidden to use as the last resort when all else fails. I had borrowed a tiny .38 caliber Colt with a barrel less than 2 inches long from Grandpa Ranger. It has to be loaded one shell at a time to start with then reloaded with gadgets called speed loaders which hold the cartridges in the right position and drop the new ones into the cylinder when everything is done exactly right. I did not excel with the borrowed revolver, but did make a passable showing for using an unfamiliar weapon in a match I've never tried before. The most important thing is that it was fun. I got to compete with some of the best in the field, out shoot many of them and enjoy the comraderie.
Best of all, I had my most enthusiastic fan, Mrs. RRR there to watch me do it. We drove home and she made a delicious tuna salad to celebrate.
You won't see the results on ESPN or in the sport pages of the newspaper, but there are some very happy deputies in our county tonight

The Saga Of The Lost Pig

2005-09-15T02:36:00.000-07:00

Behind the RRR in the police lab, there is a 4 foot by 4 foot 1/2" steel plate set into the floor. It covers a story that proves that truth is stranger than fiction. The plate covers an old collection pit where the sewage and waste water from the the court house once collected to be pumped into the city sewer system. Some years ago, the lift pump started shutting off without completing the emptying of the collection resevoir as though the connection was blocked to the city system.

But the city sewer didn't seem to be blocked. Worse, when the maps of the sewer system where checked, there was no connection to the court house. A professional sewer cleaning service was called who attempted to open the outlet and found that it wasn't plugged within reach, but mearly full. Meantime, the sewer lines that ran close to the building were checked and all were open and running freely. Worse, no line to the court house could be discovered. Finally the cleaning service used their "pig" to explore the outlet pipe.

A pig is a small robot that "swims" or crawls through pipes to find blockages or leaks. They are used regularly in oil and gas pipelines as well as water supply lines to cities from resevoirs and sewer systems. The pig crawled down the outlet pipe and instead of going to the blockage, started wandering side to side and disappeared! It was worth 1000's of dollars and the cleaning company tried everything to get it back. They soon found that the outlet pipe did NOT go to the city sewer. It led into chambers and down and down and down. Realizing the implications of what had been found, the courthouse was quickly attached to the city sewer, the plate placed over the pit and the whole thing forgotten.

The only possibility to me seems obvious. The county court house sits on top of a limestone cavern. When it was built in the late 1800's the builders discovered an opening as they dug the basement and to save money simply ran the courthouse drains into it! The whole thing was forgotten over a century and the cavern just kept filling with waste water and sewage. Finally the cave was full to the brim and the lift pump couldn't squeeze any more into it. The little robot pig, designed to swim through a 4 or 6" pipe found itself wandering through chambers in the cave. Is it wandering down there still in the darkness?

Before its batteries died did it cry for its mother?

It's something to speculate about late at night between rounds and sweeping the cell block.

Jail Night

2005-09-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

The RRR finds himself working this night as a correction officer. This is what it's like.

The call came from the Head Jailer on tuesday. There's been a shake up in personnel and help is needed urgently. Can I work a night shift? Ask an old soldier to get in uniform. Better than holding up a meat scrap for a puppy.

Wednesday night arrives. I've slept since 1830. Up as always a few minutes before the alarm rings. Get the uniform ready. Polish the golden badge on a soft cloth. It always goes on the left side over the heart. Name tag over the right pocket. Short sleeve kakhi shirt. Pager clipped to the right epulette. Forest green trousers with kakhi stripes down the leg. In the left front pocket the police radio. Cord stretches up to the microphone clipped to the left epulette. On the belt a handcuff holder and the snap clip for the jail keys. In the small of the back, the hide-out holster.

Mrs. RRR prepares my lunch. I heat up a cup of coffee. Before I walk the dog, the final ceremony. Get the .45 out of the safe. Drop out the magazine. Work the action to clear out the cartridge from the chamber, leaving the action locked open. The deadly looking fat little cartridge rolls across the table, twinkling in the light. Slap in a different magazine, release the slide, it snaps forward peeling off the top cartridge and chambering it. Set the safety. Now the magazine is one cartridge short. Drop the mag out and press the cartridge from the table in on top. Chunk the mag back into the gun. A ritual performed every time I leave the house to go on duty. Make sure the gun is ready. Keep rotating magazines. I will carry the .45 all of 20 minutes to the jail. Once inside it will go immediately into a gun locker and stay there till I leave. Why bother? Easy... most jailers are attacked between their car in the parking lot and the door or on their way to the car at the end of the shift. It's the one time they are vulnerable and in a position to be used as a hostage in an escape or have revenge wreaked upon them.

To work... the jail is still in the basement of the old county courthouse. It is over 100 years old. Soon there will be a new jail outside of town, but I like this one. It has character. And ghosts. At least one. It doesn't bother me and I don't bother it. Designed for maybe 20 prisoners, it is now licensed for 11 which is my census for the night. The cells are mostly cages in the middle of a large basement room. I can walk all the way around and check each prisoner as I do rounds. There are the usual requests and complaints. I deal with each as I make first rounds at 2300. Check all the doors to make they're securely locked. At each cell I push a time clock that records I was actually there. Shut off the phones in the cells. Shut off the power to the TV's. Bedtime for the guests.

Move laundry from the washer to the dryer. Begin the little busy jobs of cleanup that keep the jail neat and presentable. Pray there will be no arrests to book in. Call Mrs. RRR and wish her goodnight. She will worry.

One more night. One more paycheck.

Ranger Visualization

2005-09-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

The RRR shares the healing visualization he is currently using to deal with his Hepatitis C. Let me hasten to reassure my readers that I believe all healing ultimately comes from God. But I also believe God expects me to take what action I am able, whether medication, life style change or visualization.

I turn on the heating pad and tuck it up under my tee shirt over my abdomen on the right side and lean back in the recliner with my feet up. I do some deep cleansing breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. My consciousness becomes smaller and smaller, almost microscopic. I enter the ice choked cavern that is my diseased liver. The tunnels and caves (arteries, veins, and tubules) were lined with white ice, but with the volcanic heat (the heating pad) the ice (scar tissue) is melting and running down the red clay and rock walls and trickling away down the small fissures in the rock (the lymphatic system). I'm hunting hep c viruses. They are bright yellow, evil little flying reptiles with stinger tails and sharp teeth.

It's hot in the tunnels. I'm stripped down to jeans, a camo tee shirt and my jungle boots. An olive drab bandanna keeps the sweat out of my eyes. I'm carrying an A.L.I.C.E pack of ammo (herbal medicine) for my M 16. The Hep C's see me coming and try to flit away, I nail each one with a short burst. The braver leap at me and I blast them and they fall to the floor fluttering and kicking, flicking their stingers hopelessly. As they die, they desolve in the melting ice and are washed away. When attacked by too many, I drop the M 16 to dangle from its sling and snatch the pistol from my belt. Each shot kills another. When the pistol goes empty, I grab the K bar fighting knife and each swing takes off heads.

Sometimes the tunnels are large and echoing, sometimes so small I have to crawl through them. But the heat and melting never stop and I never stop going forward and doing battle.

The tunnel begins to cool, the timer on the electric heating pad has shut off. I quietly leave the tunnel. But more ice is gone. There are less Hep C's. I roll up the pad and go hug Mrs. RRR.

We will win.

We will.

River Rat Explained

2005-09-14T02:43:00.000-07:00

After realizing from a comment on another blog, the name River Rat Ranger could be confusing, the RRR explains.

In the U.S. of A., especially the midwest and south, a river rat is a person who lives on the banks of or close to a river or stream and spends much of his time on it. River rats are often unemployed or seasonally employed and derive a portion of their living from small scale commercial fishing and fur trapping. They are usually poor and the fish they catch and animals they hunt help feed their families. Frequently they are the most skilled outdoorsmen in the area. Their knowledge of animals and animal behavior usually far exceeds that of wildlife biologists. For example, river rats knew long before the "experts" that mountain lions had re-established populations in Iowa. They were the ones who figured years ago that bobcats remained in the state but have learned to hop over trails and not leave tracks. They were the first to observe the migration of otters, etc.

Rangers got their name in Europe, mostly the British Isles from the volunteers who "ranged" about isolated rural properties protecting their families, crops, and wildlife from wandering brigands. In the U.S. when the west was opened, because the mountain men, cowboys, and native Americans wandered about the wilderness, it became known as "the range". Thus cowboy songs like "Home On The Range". In the early days in Texas when Apaches from Mexico and Commanches from the north and Mexican hoodlums called "Comoncharos" raided the settlers, they hired professionals to range about the country and protect honest folk. That was the beginning of the Texas Rangers. During the French and Indian War before our Revolution, woodsmen formed a band of warriors known as Roger's Rangers. In his movie The Patriot, Mel Gibson plays the part of one of those who went on to fight in the American Revolution.

I chose the web name The River Rat Ranger out of admiration and identification with those groups. I too, live close to the river and love to tramp up and down its banks. I have a battered old aluminum boat. Each year Youngest Son and I put our camping gear in it and choose a river in Iowa and using only oars float down it for several weeks. It is always a time of physical and spiritual renewal. I suppose this will spawn more blogs. (Sigh)

Politically Correct Tomatoes

2005-09-14T00:18:00.000-07:00

Today was a red letter day at the RRR's house. 1st was health news. Regular Ranger Readers know that I struggle with Hepatitis C brought home from Vietnam 35 years ago. Last April my virus count was over 1,800,000 IU/ml. After the program of heat applications, prayer for healing, visualization, and striding about the deep desert in Texas, the count was down to 583,000 IU/ml, more than a 2/3rds decrease. Very Good News!

Also this was tomato canning day. There used to be three ways to can tomatoes. Open kettle, water bath, and pressure cooker. About 30 years ago, the powers that be in the Nanny State decided that open kettle was too dangerous and dropped the name water bath and began calling it open kettle. Does this all sound strange? Too true. But the old, original way of canning is disappearing simply by renaming. Let me explain. Pressure canning is done by cooking up the tomatoes, packing them in jars and cooking under high pressure which raises the temperature of boiling. It's very necessary for meat and low acid vegetables, but silly for tomatoes and fruit. Water bath is cooking them up, placing in jars which are placed in a pot of water that covers them and boiling for a long time. The U.S. Department of Agriculture reluctantly approves it, but has changed the name to Open Kettle to stop the practice of doing it as Mrs. RRR and I do. Here I will give you the way it's been done since canning was developed on the orders of Napoleon for the French Army in the 1800's

POLITICALLY INCORRECT TOMATOES

Go to the garden and pick all the ripe tomatoes: Two 5 gallon buckets full today, plus another 2 1/2 gallons donated by Elder Raymond.

Put a large kettle on the stove with one quart (just under a liter for those of you in Malaysia) of water and turn up the flame to start the water boiling.

Cut the stems and bad spots off the tomatoes, cut them in halves or quarters based on size and dump into the boiling water. (The water keeps them from burning and sticking to the kettle)

Stir now and then and keep adding tomato quarters till the pot is almost full. When it is, start another pot. By the time all the tomatoes are cut up and simmering the skins will be loose and everything will be getting mushy.

Take the kettles of cooked tomatoes off the stove and run them through a Victorio or Squeezo Strainer. These are wonderful magical machines made in Italy (often available used on Ebay) which let you pour the cooked food into a hopper and turn a crank and the juice and pulp run into a pot and the seeds and skins out into another one. When you have a full pot of juice, put it back on the stove and bring to a boil and then let the juice simmer.

Meanwhile, in our household, Mrs. RRR has placed a roasting pan across two burners and is boiling a couple inches of water in it and has canning jars, lids, and rings "sterilizing". She takes a jar out with tongs and sets it on an old towel by the kettle of boiling juice. I put the initially boiled canning funnel into the mouth of the jar, add a heaping 1/2 teaspoon (my international readers will have to figure that measurement out for themselves) of sea salt and ladle the jar full of boiling juice. The ladle has been in the boiling juice to sterilize it.

Mrs. RRR fishes a canning lid and ring out of the boiling water with the tongs and lays it on the jar after I set the funnel aside. I hold the jar with a hot pad and screw on the ring and lid. "Presto!", a quart of canned tomatoes. Today, 26 quarts, and a few liters as we slowly accumulate Mexican jars. The most fun is hearing them seal. "Ping, ping, ping" as the jars cool and the lids pop down. There is an eclectic collection of jars. A couple of old blue glass ones over a hundred years old that my great grandmother used. Newer round clear glass from the WWI era, then the newer square dating clear up to the U.S. Bicentennial ones Mrs. RRR and I bought in 1976. And also old mayonnaise jars from when they were made of glass. Now also, Mexican 1 liter jars from Mexican goat's milk caramel.

The U.S.D.A. germ police are throwing up their hands in horror. But tomatoes are high acid and very forgiving, as is fruit. I've never known a jar that sealed properly to go bad. You do this at your own risk, of course. Today one of the jars didn't seal because I'd cross-threaded the ring, but that one just went into the refrigerator to be the first one used.

Mrs. RRR and I each have a half cup of home made tomato juice each morning. I also have one each night. It also makes wonderful tomato soup and I use it for making The World's Best Chili.

Katrina Touched

2005-09-10T00:06:00.000-07:00

The RRR returns to work tonight at the hospital for the first time since his trip to the desert. The tragedy in New Orleans happened while we were on our journey and cut off from communication. It has had an unreal feel to it as though it happened on another planet. But then everything has felt unreal. As though the time in the wilderness was crystal and the world here is fuzzy and out of focus. I felt no connection with victims.

I had just arrived at work when an emergency call came over the radio, "Code Green!" and the hospital unit name. "Code Green" is hospital talk for Psychiatric Emergency. It means someone is out of control and help is needed. My friend James from the previous shift and I rushed up to the floor. In the bed was an emaciated African-American gentleman. The nurse addressed him by my name. There is power in naming and we shared that power. He was a refugee from New Orleans. He had been highly agitated and needed a shot of tranquilizer and had threatened to tear out the I.V. if she injected it.

I introduced myself as also being Mr. ******. He sat with his hands folded in front of him. I took them in mine and held them and told him the medication is safe and would help him. I told him that I have given it dozens of times without ill effect. I told him I would take it willingly myself should it be necessary. As I talked the other nurse injected it into his I.V. line, then turned up the speed on the pump to get it into his system. The communication flowed through our hands as the medicine was flowing into him. Suddenly this man and I, brothers of name were in the crystal focus and the surrounding security guards and others who had answered the call retreated into the unreality of the current world.

When I knew the medication was in, I wondered when it would be safe to let go of his hands. The nurse said to him, "You should be all right now, you can lay down." With great personal dignity he stated in a lovely liquid southern black accent, "I prefer to sit up, thank you". I knew he was safe and let go. Katrina had touched him and he had touched me. I came back to my own floor amazed.

Desert Rat Ranger

2005-09-07T17:58:00.000-07:00

The River Rat Ranger has been off line for almost a month. There have been inquiries by phone, email, and on the blog, even one from a Ranger Reader and fellow blogger in Malaysia! But now the truth can be told:
Mrs. RRR and I have since May sought to make a retreat to the wilderness to seek physical healing and spiritual renewal. May was when we found my Hepatitis C had returned despite the year on chemotherapy. We had two ideas of destinations, one was to head North to the Alaskan wilderness, the other to go south to Big Bend Texas to the deep desert.

On Tuesday, June 7th this quote was part of our daily devotions: “While the world rushes headlong to its doom with its fingers in its ears, the Lord says to His own, 'Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place and rest a while' (Gospel of St. Mark, 6:31)”. The die was cast and we sat our eyes on one of the last wild, empty spots in the continental United States. The experience changed both of us. Over the next weeks I will write in detail of the adventure. In a way the story starts in the 1830's.

A famous mountain man upon whose life the movie Jeremiah Johnson is based, is said to have spent much of his time scaling mountains in the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone Park regions and there would stand with the beauty of creation spread before him and shout to the Creator, “Almighty God, look at what you made!”. Likewise, several weeks ago, after a trek on foot through burning desert, I stood in the pool below a waterfall and with the water from the rock pounding down on me like hail, raised my arms to heaven and shouted with tears running down my face, “Almighty God, look at what you made!” Should I not be healed and Hepatitis claim me tomorrow, I will recognize him in an instant as the one into whose face I looked that day. That moment validated the whole journey for the both of us. You will read more about our trip as time goes on.

Dirt Track Diary

2005-08-05T06:26:00.000-07:00

The RRR tells it as it was as a deputy providing security at the race track. The races went on and on. Over a hundred cars, each of which got the chance to be in a heat race. So many cars they had to be numbered off, odd and even, and each race repeated for each group. The dirt track dried out under the pounding and became rougher and slipperier. By the the last features, all six of them; the dust was beginning to grow thick and choking. Tempers flared. Careless rage caused accidents. Cars entangled flipping end over end at better than 100 miles an hour, shedding scrap aluminum and driver's dreams. Only three deputies in the pits. They positioned themselves by the furious, ready to fight drivers. In the next to last feature, a dozen accidents, 55 minutes to run 20 laps that should each take 16 seconds. Now the crowd is becoming ugly. Many have been guzzling beer since 6 p.m. By the end of the last feature (only two major accidents) it's 10 minutes past midnight. They have watched their favorites eliminated, sometimes by accidents that seemed deliberately caused.

The deputy in charge of the pits asks for back up as soon as the race is over. The three of us gather at the little gate under the flag stand. We're surrounded by beauty queens. The young women who will get to kiss each driver and hand him is trophy. All blond. All dressed in tight black. The gate is open, we hustle through with the ladies. The track security official slams the gate shut behind us in the faces of the growling mob that's gathering before they can push through behind us.

On the track the winning car is being pushed back to the middle of the track to hand out trophies. V.I.P.s are gathering. Our deputy is charge hurries to the scale area to help defuse the problem growing there. My friend Bill changes places with him and joins the two of us still on the track. The beauty queens slip on their high heels and totter towards the award ceremony. A group of drivers comes around the end of the scale trailer and moves toward the ceremony. I take position between the winning car and them, watching the non- V.I.P.s who are infiltrating that group. The third deputy backs toward the outside track fence to cover both groups. Bill slides into the knot of drivers and stands with them. The drivers are looking silently at each other. I don't like it. “No talk – a fight, some talk – maybe a fight, lots of talk – no fight.” Bill starts chatting easily with the drivers, they visibly relax and a few words are spoken. The angry people in my group are infected by the joy of the winning driver and their crew. The little crowd loosens up.

A new group forms by the the third deputy. The lesser winners from Bill's gang, the champion and his crew and the media. Now we have to help them run the gauntlet of the mob outside to get to the press conference. The V.I.P.s and the models and hangers-on move into the pits to join the lesser beings in the party that's shaping up. Into the crowd, duck under the gate edge to the side of the gaggle. Try to look each person pressing towards us in the eye. Stare hard, but keep eyes moving. Don't jump when someone screams at the driver beside me. Glare holes through him. Keep moving. Track officials waiting at the press room, holding the door open. Urge every one forward. Slam the door shut. Stand shoulder to shoulder backs to the door faces to the crowd. It thins and melts away. Argue with friends and relatives of the drivers, let a few in. Calming, pulse rate slowing, joking with the track officials.

Now the boss calls on the radio, everyone gets to leave but me. He and I set up the escort of the gate and concession receipts to the bank. Another drive through the dark streets, got to keep changing the route. I can't give the details, but in it's own may more nerve wracking than the previous hour.

Then walking to the Green Hornet, all alone in the back of the parking lot. Toss my big flashlight into the car and stand listening for a minute to the thumping beat of the music at the bar across the street. Take off my duty belt and lay it in. I wonder how many people at the bar are bragging about what they would have done if those #*^&%$ cops hadn't gotten in the way. Maybe they've forgotten already. Drive back to the cabin. It's past 0130. Tip toe into the bedroom listening to Mrs. RRR's soft breathing. Wake her up for a sleepy greeting and a warm hug. Home. Safe. Loved. Thank you God.

Ranger Poetry

2005-08-03T13:22:00.000-07:00

This could be by Kipling. It sounds like him but I haven't seen it in any of his books. It is chiseled into the stone wall of a guard house on Gibraltar.

God and the Soldier,

All men adore,

In time of trouble,

Then no more.

For when war is over,

And all wrongs righted,

God is neglected;

The Old Soldier slighted.

Ranger Sweet Corn

2005-07-29T21:44:00.000-07:00

The RRR is back at work on the adolescent psych unit in the Big City. There is apparently this hot summer night a Blue Light Special on assaultive female teens. As we wait for the next happy volunteer to arrive let's look back at today.

Mrs. RRR cleverly involved herself in 5 Day Clubs, sort of a Vacation Bible School, the week our corn ripened in the garden. So I have had the pleasure of freezing sweet corn. Here is how it's done:

Rise early and trundle the wheelbarrow out to the garden while the dew is still on the grass. You need good quality corn. This year was Kandy Kwick, the early variety of Kandy Korn. ALMOST as good, but not quite, as the parent variety. And it certainly de-silks easier. But I miss the the tall sturdy coon-foiling stalks with the pretty red stripes. So down the rows, picking, shucking, de-silking, and snapping the immature ends off. Also pulling weeds before they go to seed. WHY didn't I weed the corn earlier in the month?

Three 100 foot rows of that and I've had enough and the wheelbarrow is filling up. I'm also finished with the six rows we planted this year. Check the zucchini -- oops, a big one I missed last weekend.

Back to the house, up the ramp to the deck and park by the kitchen door. Inside, fill the big pot a third full of filtered water and turn on the flame under it. Set out the tools. A large stainless steel roasting pan to cut in. The new gadget copied from Elder Raymond. I cut a 6" section of 2 X 6 and drilled a hole through the center and drove a 16 d nail through it. Just jam the cob down on it and start cutting off corn. The knife plunks down onto wood instead of metal and stays sharp longer and doesn't scratch the pan. The corn pivots on the nail. Since it's held up higher there's more room in the pan for corn before you have to fill the bags.

Hey, the water is boiling. Out to the deck, fill the colander with corn and dump it in and cover. But don't forget the entertainment. When Oldest Son was a Congressional Aide in D.C., he helped pass a bill that requires that all e-books have a read out loud option. So the cheap CD of Horatio Alger stories I bought on Ebay will talk to me. I aimed the speaker at the kitchen and the computer's deep metallic voice began reading Paul The Peddler. I hone my corn cutting knife. Cold Steel's Carbon V version of the Green River knife such luminaries as Kit Carson, William Drummond, and Jeremiah Johnson used in mountain man days. One of the very best I've ever used, made with liquid nitrogen quenched steel.

The water is boiling again. Corn out into colander, dumped in cold water in the sink and the pot refilled with fresh corn from the wheelbarrow. The corn goes into a baking dish by the cutting pan. The Cold Steel knife peels the corn from the cob like it's slicing through warm butter. I swipe a taste, superb! If I cut fast enough, I'll be down by the time the next batch is boiling, hone the knife on the steel while it cools and etc. By the time Mrs. RRR returns for lunch, the roasting pan is full of cut corn. She fishes the 5 best ears from the boiling water for our meal and cooks hamburger patties whilst I scoop 4 heaping chef spoons of corn into each Glad sandwich bag, twirl, double bag and twirl again and fasten with a twist tie. Then we eat lunch. The corn on the cob still steaming hot, real butter slathered on and melting in, sea salt ground onto it. Life is good. For dessert, fresh frozen tropical fruit. Then Mrs. RRR is back off to 5 Day Club. I turn Paul The Peddler back on. He's been cloroformed in a cheap hotel room and the diamond ring his mother found in Central Park that was going to buy him a start in business as a necktie vendor has been stolen by a confidence man.

Back to the routine. By 1600 (4 p.m. to non-rangers) when Mrs. RRR returns a total of 62 bags of sweet corn are hardening in the freezer, the dishes are done and the table and stove cleaned. My reward is a huge smooch and the knowledge that with the corn already in the freezer there will be two meals a week for the next year.

Now about those tomatoes...

Why I do it.

2005-07-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

The RRR makes an attempt to explain why he works the races.

Weekends in the summer I often put on a uniform and go to the local race track to serve as a sheriff's deputy. Imagine an obnoxious group of people to ride herd on. Now imagine they are drunk. Now imagine ten thousand or more in one small spot, with dirt, and loud noise. Imagine only getting a stipend for the aggravation. But there's a bright spot. At about 8 p.m., the hot laps and time trials over and the racing about to start, the announcer asks everyone to stand. The music begins. It's the Star Spangled Banner. Other people have to put their hands over their heart, but my case is special. Under cover (wearing a hat), in uniform, under arms (carrying a gun), I get to give a military salute. Right arm exactly straight, finger tip touching my right eyebrow, boots at precisely a 45 degree angle, left fingers curled with arm at my side, thumb touching the seam of my uniform trousers.

For a minute and a half I'm not a fat old man wearing a cobbled together set of duty gear and carrying an antique gun, I'm standing proud. A thousand men stand with me in my memory. Uncle Elmer who was a Marine on Saipan. Uncle Dale who flew paratroopers into battle in his C47 and brought the wounded back. Brother In Law Richard who carried a rifle in Korea. Cousin Jim who was a gunship pilot in the Nam when I was there. And the memories are more personal. Me backed up to a bamboo flag pole on a hilltop overlooking Laos. Knowing they were going to take the flag down, but swearing they would do it over my dead body and that their would be a pile of them first. And with me too, terrified young men and old veterans, waiting to die, shaking, fumbling to load their hunting rifles on a bridge at Lexington and Concord as the Brits marched closer and closer. My great uncles in the trenches in France. The brash young G.I. Looking down at Saddam Husein in his spider hole and saying... “President Bush sends his regards.” We're all there saluting the flag that has a meaning to us the civilians in the bleachers will never understand.

The song comes to an end. I snap a finish to my salute. The crowd roars and beat their shoes on the metal floor of the bleachers as the announcer shouts, “Lets go RACING!”

And engines rev up into a crescendo. The dust from the dirt track must be irritating my eyes, there seems to be something in them.

Goodbye Westy

2005-07-19T07:41:00.000-07:00

The nation mourns and the liberal media ridicules the late General William Westmoreland. Westy had his problems. He also had his bright moments. The brightest came time and again as he insisted quite correctly that we did not lose the Vietnam War, we were only guilty of having abandoned our allies, the South Vietnamese. But he missed the lessons of the culture of the East. As his hands were tied by the government and he was not allowed to do the one thing that would have won the war... invade, seize territory and hold it; the only option was a war of attrition The idea being that if we kill enough of the enemy, they would be demoralized and quit. Ho Chi Minh had already written that the Communists were willing absorb 10 casualties for every one of ours. In actuality they proved themselves willing to accept a hundred or more to one. By 1970 we had almost wiped out every North Vietnamese male over the age of 18 and were fighting children and Chinese volunteers. With the unlimited well of Chinese young warriors to draw from, they could STILL be fighting there. The Chinese could breed soldiers faster than we could shoot them.

But my favorite story about the General has nothing to do with his understanding of Communist commitment, it's about pine trees.
The Americal Division chopper pad at the massive base at Chu Lai was landscaped with short Asian pine trees growing out of the sand. Those shrub-like pines put out thousands of tiny pine cones which fall to the ground and soon form a carpet a foot deep. General Westmoreland was scheduled to inspect the division headquarters. The commander of the 23rd (Americal) Infantry division of which I was a member, by the way, walked out to the chopper pad and had the brilliant idea that all those pine cones under the trees looked messy. All his rear echelon soldiers were cleaned up polished and ready to be inspected in ranks. He went back to his office and called the first company commander who came to mind and said to pull his unit out of field duty and bring them to the rear at once. The soldiers, left off fighting and were choppered back and put to work scooping up pine cones around the landing pad and loading them in trucks. They only had a few hours, but got the job done. The cones were taken to the dump, the troopers raked the sand into parallel lines and were given well-deserved permission to celebrate at the enlisted and NCO clubs. They were soon partying.

Meanwhile, the General's chopper lands at the pad and he is greeted by the Division Band. After the pomp and ceremony the Division Commander and his General walked down the path through the trees. The Commander swelled with pride as he saw Westy glance at the newly manicured grove. But the General frowned. “H'm. pine trees. No pine cones. That's not natural.” Panic stricken, the division commander whispered hurriedly to his executive officer. The division clerical staff rushed to the clubs and dragged the soldiers from their drinks. The were taken to the dump where they dug out the pine cones and reloaded them into the trucks and quickly re-spread the cones evenly under the trees.

A few hours later, his inspection completed, General Westmoreland was escorted back to his helicopter. As he walked down the path he looked around and smiled. “Pine trees... and pine cones. Good.”

And that's how the RRR remembers Westy.

Excuses

2005-07-17T00:54:00.000-07:00

The RRR gives the top excuses for having shot 15th or 16th in pistol competition at the Iowa games.

1. I hadn't shot one handed competition since 1979.

2. I'd never shot International Free Style before.

3. I worked all night and was so fatigued I passed out on the ground between matches.

4. The spare magazine I bought on Friday wouldn't work Saturday so I had to use one mag and quickly reload between five shot strings.

5. I was expecting to shoot at noon and got stuck in as last shooter at 10 a.m. without chance to adequately mentally prepare.

6. The indoor range was as hot as an oven and the sweat kept running in my eyes and fogging and streaking my glasses.

7. I forgot my handkerchiefs to make a sweat band and wipe my face and glasses between strings. (see 6 above)

8. The range master was deaf and going senile and kept making the wrong instructions.

9. The cheap target ammo I bought at Sprawl Mart gave me a dud, that caused an alibi shoot and took away my five best shots on one target.

10. People kept violating the red light and going in and out of the door behind me during the shoot and breaking my concentration.

11. I've been doing combat shooting the last 3 years using a big bore cop gun with a 5 lb. trigger pull and my target .22 only has 1 1/2 lb. and is balanced totally different.

12. I'd drank so much coffee to stay awake, my hands were shaking.

That all being said, Mrs. RRR and I had a great time and I enjoyed the camaraderie with the other shooters. The Isaac Walton League facility in Ames is fantastic and the Boy Scout troop they sponsor who had the food concession did a great job.

Most importantly: Just Wait Till NEXT Year!

Juan and Pablo and The Great Feud

2005-07-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

The year is 1967. Juan and Pablo, the Gringo brothers come home late one night. The '59 Dodge has a headlight broken out and a cracked windshield, the door panel on the driver's side has been kicked in. Both are limping. Pablo is missing a tooth, Juan's glasses are broken and his right eye is developing a shiner. The brothers both have torn clothes and bloody knuckles.

Papa Gringo is shocked. "What happened to you?"

"Well, I overheard you talking to Mama about what terrible neighbors and enemies the Barringers who farm off to the south are," Juan slurred through swollen lips, "so we went over and called them out and had a big fight right in their yard."

Papa Gringo yelled angrily, "Your Mama and I were talking about the Rubels who live north of them, the RUBELS! The Barringers aren't our enemies!"

"Uh... Dad.... I think they may be now."

If it didn't happen, it should have.

"There's something strange afoot at the Circle K"

2005-07-11T19:23:00.000-07:00

If any of the RRR's Readers recognize that quote, they should be ashamed of themselves. Nonetheless, it fits. With Mrs. RRR off to teach swim lessons to recalcitrant children I set about to give the acreage an overdue haircut. When I approached my venerable Cub Cadet to check for fuel, the gas tank was gone! Unable to believe some thief would go to the trouble of stealing just the plastic fuel tank, I lifted the hood. The flexible tank was crumpled into a crumpled plastic wad down by the rear of the motor. The new gas cap I bought cheap at Sprawl Mart has a vent screw on it I'd forgotten to loosen the last time I mowed. As the engine sucked down the fuel, the flexible tank simply folded in on itself. I took off the cap and the tank slowly unfolded itself back into shape. I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it.

That problem solved, I filled the newly restored tank and tried to start the mower. “Chunk!” and nothing else, yet a very healthy “chunk”, not a weak starter “chunk”.

I might add here that the blessed old Cadet years ago burned up the clutch on the blade shut off, so the previous owner, Grandpa Ranger, simply welded the drive pulley for the blades to the front of the crankshaft. Simple and deadly should someone forget and put their foot under the mower deck. I got down and moved one of the three blades. It seemed OK. I traced the belt. No jams or kinks. There seemed to be absolutely no reason it wouldn't start, yet that was the case. Finally I raised the deck up as high as it would go and tried it in that position. The motor caught with a roar and a battered spray can of penetrating oil flew out from under the deck with blinding speed, bounced off the air compressor and spun on the shop floor like a quarter on a deli counter. It appears I had knocked the can over some time in the last couple weeks and it rolled under the mower and stuck under a different blade than the one I had checked.

It could only happen to me. But I still had enough time to get the whole yard done and was started on the trimming when Mrs. RRR came home. My reward was a delighted smooch and oatmeal with raisins followed by her homemade yogurt with strawberries and bananas sliced in. No one has it better than the RRR.

Optimism

2005-07-11T12:53:00.000-07:00

The RRR presents a short essay from his daily quiet time.

“If you keep on saying things are going to be bad, you have a good chance of being a prophet” -- Isaac Bashevis Singer

Many of us have the habit of taking a negative outlook on whatever comes along. We don't believe things will work out for us; we don't think we will have a good day; we can't accept our friend's warm feelings. To follow this gloomy path is a strange distortion of faith – it is faith in the negative. Any forecast, whether hopeful or pessimistic is a step into the unknown. So why do we choose the dark one?

We get a payoff for our pessimism which keeps us hooked. It creates misery, but serves our demand for control. There is more risk in being open to something positive because we cannot force positive thing to occur. We can only be open to them and believe in the possibility. But when we predict the negative and expect only bad things, we squelch many good things or overlook them. Then we say, “I knew it would be this way,” and in our misery we satisfy our self-centered craving to be in charge. When we surrender our need to be in control, we are more open and welcoming of the good things that come our way.

Today, I will be open to the good that is around me.

Touchstones: A Book of Daily Meditations for Men.

Deep Cover Manhood

2005-07-07T04:13:00.000-07:00

The RRR shares with his readers the darkest secret of manhood. This may be the first time a man has ever openly declared these facts publicly. Usually it is information passed from father to son in ceremonies under the full moon, uttered after the taking of blood oaths. The RRR may be swept up by the gender police and “re-educated”.

Are you ready?

It all starts at age 47. The vision begins to go and bifocals become necessary. The abdominal muscles give out and the “beer” belly becomes prominent. High blood pressure overtakes him. Diabetes begins. Prostate problems sneak in. Hemorrhoids, and indigestion overtake him. Libido suffers. Chronic back pain starts and muscle aches become a fact of life. The teeth start to go. First there are root canal's, then extractions and finally... dentures. Heel spurs cripple him. Baldness spreads across his head. The memory fades and the pocket calender becomes his “brain”.

But the worst thing of all...

The darkest of all male secrets...

One morning he awakens and finds.

On his bedside table...

Looking as though it had always been there...

Shhh, don't tell any one...

A Coin Purse!!!

That's right, and from that moment on he is cursed to have to carry it with him always and make people in a hurry in stores wait for him while he makes exact change.

Ranger Oatmeal

2005-07-06T00:03:00.000-07:00

The RRR presents here the authentic recipe for campfire oatmeal.

Hold an army canteen cup with your thumb hooked over the top edge to the first joint and fill it with water till it touches the tip of your thumb.

Drop in a small handful of raisins and a 3-finger pinch of salt.

Place on fire and bring to a boil.

Dump in one cup + a small palmful of old fashioned rolled oats. (only a non-Ranger or a Frenchman would use instant)

Bring to a boil and move to a cooler part of the fire to simmer for 5 minutes. If you don't have a watch and you shouldn't if you're REALLY camping, The Star Spangled Banner takes just over a minute per verse to sing. If you don't know all the verses, you should. Happy Birthday takes 15 seconds, Jesus Loves Me about 25.

Remove from fire, cover for five minutes more. The cardboard lid of a c-ration box worked great for a cover, these days use something similar.

If the oatmeal is too runny after 5 minutes, toss in a palmful of dried milk and stir. If it's not too runny, a dollop of water and then the dried milk. Add a 5 finger pinch of dark brown sugar or maple syrup crystals (hideously expensive from Frontier Natural Foods in Norway Iowa, but worth every penny).

Give thanks and eat with an enamelware spoon.

Juan and Pablo and The Mexican Standoff

2005-07-05T00:23:00.000-07:00

The RRR responds to some criticisms of the Juan and Pablo series by telling one story that is absolutely true and has no humorous "hook" at the end

It was early in 1973. Juan, Pablo, and Papa Gringo were out for a walk in the desert Northwest of Roma, Texas about a mile North of the Rio Grande. Papa Gringo had remembered that on a hillside in that area were a number of ancient stone ovens. He had also seen peyote growing there. So the three determined to visit the sites and look for arrowheads. Juan, at least, was also interested in the peyote.

When they got to the hill, things had changed dramatically since Papa Gringo's last visit. The top of the hill was bulldozed flat and a mobile home perched there. A rough road had been bulldozed up to it. The whole hill was surrounded by a new fence made of cable connecting rail road tie posts. Every rod or so were fierce "No Trespassing" signs in English and Spanish. The trio's attitude toward any regulation in those days was "stupid law" and disobedience. They climbed over the fence and kept going. They were spotted almost immediately and a man came out of the trailer and got into a pickup and headed down the new road toward them. Juan, Pablo, and Papa Gringo hid in the arroyo beside the roadway with their pistols drawn. The truck rolled slowly by them down to the gate and returned even more slowly as Mexican in the cab looked for them.

As it rolled past and headed back up the hill, the three heaved a sigh of relief and shoved their guns back into the holsters. There was a deafening explosion and gravel flew. At first Juan and Papa thought Pablo had shot himself in the leg. He was lying on the ground holding it. They ran to him. The nose was blown from his holster and part of his pant leg was torn, but remarkably the bullet had gone into the ground. He had forgotten to de-cock his Ruger .357 and the trigger caught and fired the gun. The guard in the pickup meantime assumed he was under fire and roared back up to the mobile home where men with M-1 carbines had rushed out and were waiting to jump in the back. The Gringos clambered over the fence and walked quickly toward town, Pablo limping slightly and visibly shaken. Juan was in front followed by Pablo, then Papa Gringo. The pickup came out through the gate and up the road behind them and stopped as it came even.

The boys spread out. Juan was slightly ahead of the cab, even with the front wheel. Pablo faced the middle of the box. Papa was even with the tailgate. Their hands hovered over their pistol butts. The three Mexicans were sitting in the bed of the pickup with the carbines down out of sight. The driver had his hands out of sight, meaning to Juan he had a handgun, likely a 9mm.
The motor of the pickup ticked over quietly. Down in Roma, dogs barked and doors slammed. Here there was only heat and the sound of the pickup's V-8. Juan was a year and a half out of Vietnam, every nerve strained like the strings on an overtuned guitar. He realized the position they were in. Each of the men in the bed of the truck was concentrating on the Gringo nearest him. So two men were staring at Juan, the one in the front of the bed and the driver.

Juan was the only one of the three who had ever been under fire or fired a shot in anger. His hand trembled over a pitifully tiny Iver Johnson .22 caliber nine shot revolver. It would take carefully aimed slow fire for those diminutive bullets to have any effect and there would be no time for aiming. Pablo was armed with an Old Model single action .357, obviously with a hair trigger. There were five shots left in it. An extremely effective round, but in his shaken condition and having to cock before each shot, Juan knew Pablo's first shot would go low into the fender of the truck or even the ground. The chances he would get his second shot off without being riddled with bullets were small. About Papa Gringo, Juan had no doubts. Papa was armed with a Colt .45 automatic he had assembled and tuned himself. Papa, who would later outshoot the 2002 National Champion, would put at least the man in front of him down and quite likely the one in the middle if hit a dozen times by the .30 caliber carbines before he was out of the fight.

But they were going to die. Juan could see no other outcome than three dead Norte Americanos lying leaking blood into the dust. He determined they would take them all with them. He watched the driver and the first man in the back of the pickup. As soon as one gun barrel showed itself he was going to draw and fire into his opponent's faces double action, two shots per man, hoping his shooting would draw off the bad guy's attention enough that Papa could take his man out and get a bullet into Pablo's and they both would be able to finish off the one now focused on Juan while Juan concentrated his last shot on the driver. He was certain the driver had at least nine shots in his pistol. The carbines had curved magazines and thus 30 shots each. Juan thought of seven dead men lying there, the pickup's engine still idling quietly.

One of the men in the back of the truck said, "Que...?". Literally, "what?" but in most such situations, "Well....?". That word has probably preceded more shootings, stabbings, and beatings in Mexico than any other. But Pablo had fluent Spanish. He started talking, quickly found his voice and accent and explained in a few words the accidental discharge of his gun and apologized profusely for the trespass. As Grandpa Gringo would have said -- no talk, a fight. Some talk, maybe a fight. Lots of talk, no fight. A terse command from the bed of the truck. The driver's hands came into view empty. He put the pickup in gear and backed away and turned the truck around. Papa, Juan, and Pablo walked back to town.

Earth has circled the sun over thirty times since that day. Papa Gringo is now a great grandfather many times over. Juan and Pablo are both grandfathers themselves. And the Mexicans guarding Peyote Mountain?... Quien Sabe?

Juan and Pablo Face Pain

2005-07-03T00:34:00.000-07:00

Yet another adventure of Juan and Pablo, the Gringo Brothers.

The year is 1980. Juan and Pablo are handgun hunting for bear in the high desert of the Umcompagrhe in North West Colorado. They are joined at their campfire one night by Pancho, an itinerate cowboy. As they sip boiled coffee, Juan, as is often the case, begins waxing eloquent.

"Amigos," he said, "I have faced great pain in my short life."

"And what pain was the worst you had ever faced?" Pablo asked.

"I once got burning jet fuel on my hands at a helicopter crash and had second degree burns up past my wrists." Juan replied.

"I suffered worse pain than that," declared Pablo. "Once when I was a horse wrangler at a dude ranch a horse bucked me off far from the ranch house and when I attempted to capture him, he kicked me in the right side breaking 5 ribs and puncturing my lung. I had to capture him again, outride his bucking and ride him back to headquarters in that condition."

Pancho, who had been silent the whole time, stirred the fire with a stick and said, "Amigos I have faced pain much worse than you describe. When I was a vaquero in the Sierra Madres I once went behind a lodgepole pine to answer the call of nature and squatted over a large bear trap hidden in the pine needles. At the moment the waste hit the trigger it snapped shut on my body."

Juan laughed out loud. "And Pancho, what part of your anatomy was caught in the trap?"

The air suddenly became still as Pancho's bowie knife appeared from nowhere and gleamed in the firelight.

"Senor," he said in a deadly quiet voice, "there are matters of delicacy about which no gentleman inquires."

There was an audible "pop" as Juan unsnapped the strap on the holster of his Ruger .357.

"Amigos, amigos" Pablo entreated. "Surely there was no offence intended."

Juan cleared his suddenly dry throat and said, "Of course not, of course not. Please overlook my indelicacy, por favor."

Pancho's teeth gleamed in the firelight and the bowie disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. "De Nada. When no offence is intended, none need be taken, eh? To return to my story, when the trap snapped shut I screamed 'Ai, carumba!' and took off running."

Then Pancho took another swallow of coffee and stared out into the darkness. The Gringo brothers waited patiently. Finally Pablo spoke. "And that was the worst pain you ever faced?"

"Oh no Amigos. That came when I hit the end of the chain."