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Spring Hiatus

Friends,

I'm going to have to take a short hiatus, probably about two months or so. I have a few writing projects that are going to require some serious deliberation. One is on mountain top removal, another has to do with military doctrine in the information age, and yet another on occupational safety in construction.

I'll still try to put a few things in occasionally as time permits. I really hate to do this, but there are just not enough hours in the day to do it all!

I'll check in regularly at OBS.

Regards,
Albert A Rasch

Lions in the Yard

© By Albert A Rasch
.

African Lion Hunting... In Florida

“Remember,” I thought to myself, “feed him your left arm first. Maybe one of the kids can manage to scrape him off me if things get dicey.”

Passing thought as a braced myself against the 458's recoil.

It was about 9:30 PM, and I was somewhat between awake and dead to the world, when I felt Cristal’s hands on my chest shaking me back and forth.

“Wake up!” There was urgency in her voice.

I grunted a noncommittal noise and tried to fall back into the darkness beneath my pillow.

Another more vigorous shake. “Albert! Wake Up! It’s an emergency!”

I opened one eye reluctantly. "This had better be good," I thought as I tossed the sheet and blanket to one side, and slid off the side of the bed.

My feet hit the bare floor.

Jordan was standing there, eyes as big as saucers. I didn’t give it much thought at the moment.

“Come outside, and listen carefully.” I stepped through the front door. “Now don’t go too far. Listen!” I obediently stopped and listened.

After a short while the thought of my warm bed and soft pillow was turning me back into the house. I still didn’t know why I was standing barefoot on the brick paver entry, in my Michael Jordan style boxer briefs and a well worn, comfortable T-shirt.

I took one step towards the house when I heard it.

“Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg.” I was instantly awake.

Again I heard it. “Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg.” The hair stood up at the nape of my neck.

It was the unmistakable sounds of a male African lion.

I know what you’re thinking. “Albert, come on! You expect us to believe this? What do you take us for? Dummies? We all know you live in Florida!” I know it sounds implausible. Keep reading then you can say what you want.

And as far as I could tell he was in or behind the palmetto under that damned Brazilian pepper tree I’ve been meaning to cut down. I really hate those pepper trees. It was maybe forty meters from where I was standing. The moon was almost full, casting everything in that otherworldly silver light.

Frozen in place, I looked up at Cristal and Jordan, now my eyes were as big as saucers.

“Jordan,” I hissed, “get me the .458 and a handful of 510 soft points! Move!” I make a mental note that Charlie the German Sheppard-Lab mix, and Chopper the Basset hound are both peeking out the door. I was pretty sure that Charlie was saying, “Cats are my business, but lions are yours.” Faithful dogs my rear.

Jordan hands me the Ruger #1 and a half dozen rounds of .458 ammo before scampering back to the safety of the house. Without hesitation, I drop a round down the chamber, close the action, and push the safety to off.

I’ve done a considerable amount of reading concerning Africa and its game. For instance, I know that a charging lion will cover a considerable amount of space in a flash. The mane makes his head look larger than it is, so over-shooting the brain is common, and occasionally fatal to the shooter rather than the shootee. “Remember,” I thought to myself, “feed him your left arm first. Maybe one of the kids can manage to scrape him off me if things got dicey.”

So… why am I out here in my own front yard barefoot? And in my underwear? Your guess is as good as mine. I’m glad the weather was mild though. Never being one to underestimate my own abilities, I still thought it prudent to maintain the same forty meter distance from the tree and flank the lion. I figured if he was eating one of the horses or a neighborhood kid he might be too occupied to bother with me. That would give me enough time to sort him out.

It took me about twenty minutes to cover the distance between the door and the front fence line. Step by step I crept. Balls of the feet, then gently lowered heel, carefully, quietly. Right foot over left, left foot behind right.

By the time I hit the fence, the cheeky bugger had somehow moved across the street and further back into the palmetto without me seeing him. Another twenty minutes and several dozen steps later I was standing in the dirt road less than six feet from the Brazilian pepper tree. Twice more the lion had grunted and moved further into the palmetto. But by now he seemed to have moved much, much further in; maybe a hundred meters from where I was. I couldn’t find any pug marks, but I wasn’t looking that carefully; my eyes were ahead, searching the palmetto.

I was debating what to do. For all my bravado and courage, I’m not an experienced lion hunter. Oh sure, I’ve dispatched my fair share of dangerous game… hogs, wild dogs, and rabbit, but lions in a palmetto thicket isn’t my particular specialty. Hell, I didn’t even have a tracker or two to feed him first. I was facing the palmetto, deliberating all of this when it happened.

He charged from less than five meters.

It is true that things go into slow motion when your life hangs by a thread, a single pull of the trigger.

You hear the dried palmetto leaves crackling first. Each individual leaf has its own distinct and unique snap. Your eyes move of their own volition to each and every sound, straining to catch the first bit of movement. You know you only have moments to put your sights on the one point that will guarantee you’ll be having breakfast with a fork, rather than through an intravenous tube. If, you survive. Your body subconsciously braces for the recoil, leading foot points toward the target, trailing foot digs in as your body leans forward. The sights are there, lined up, but not what you are focused on. Everything is super-tuned to that one moment, the one motion, the one and only chance you will have to live one more day. All of this in two heartbeats.

I really thought he’d be noisier. A lion has got to weigh a few hundred pounds. Why was it so light footed?

The sear was a less than a hair’s breadth from being released when TigerKat came bounding out of the palmetto. It was by that same hair’s breadth that he didn’t end up with 510 grains of copper wrapped lead splattering him throughout the countryside.

“Hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnnggg, hhhuunnngg,” laughed the lion further away still. TigerKat rubbed up against my shins.

I dropped the lever on the #1 and pulled the cartridge out. I threw the Ruger over my shoulder, walked back up the road and then the drive. I didn’t care if a pride of lions burst out of the palmetto and decided to tear me into bite size morsels of Caucasian male hors d’oeuvres. TigerKat followed me, occasionally catching up and then weaving between my legs. Funny how you can walk through all sorts of stuff and not feel a thing when your heart’s beating and nothing else exists but the moment you’re in. Those pavers felt awful hard on my feet.

Cristal was waiting at the door, phone in hand. “Honey, you’re not going to believe this. Grandma says that a wild animal rescue organization has moved in this week. They’re on the property where the rescue dogs where. Over behind the Ramsey’s, remember?” She was pointing across the dirt road.

“I’m going back to bed.” is all I said. Sliding between the sheet and tossing the blanket back over me, I couldn't remember that bed ever feeling that uninviting.

Epilogue:
Cristal and the boys went to visit on Friday. They called me excited about all the animals they saw. We went back on Saturday. My visit was twofold. I wanted to see the animals, and under what kind of conditions they were being held. I am happy to report that the animals are in great condition, including the perpetrator of Thursday’s joke on me. The accommodations are more than adequate and the plans for the facility seem very exciting. I’ll be visiting again when I have an opportunity to give a full report on the animals, the people, and the plans.

From the Chronicle's Travels: A Bus in Rome

© By Albert A Rasch

"His eyes though, were sharp and calculating, always moving, always noting every passenger..."

I have a good friend who travels the world. A historian, he has traveled to all the major sites of Western culture. He has been to the Parthenon, traveled through England, has seen the Venetian palace of the Doge, known as the Palazzo Ducale di Venezia, and regaled in the free city of Prague hunting peasants with a medieval crossbow. I think he’s even frolicked on some of the Grecian islands on the Mediterranean. What the hell that has to do with history I don’t know, he’s kind of cagey and circumspect when I bring it up. But it was his recent adventure in a Roman bus that he shared with me, that I will now share with you.

My friend shall remain nameless as his employment with the government of the United States is sensitive enough for me to indulge in this bit of license and refrain from referring to him by name.

This particular trip, he had given to his mother a tour through the Italian peninsula as a birthday gift, and as the doting son that he is, he had arranged every detail of this trip. And as an added bonus he invited his sister along too. (The only place I would invite my brother to is his own ass-whipping.) As his parents, like mine, are now of advanced age, he took special consideration with respect to the access to the hotel, and the quality of its services, and its convenience to the locations he wished to visit. I’ve known him for three and a half decades now, and when I say he is meticulous, it’s an understatement. He’s the guy who not only carries a spare scope, but an extractor and firing pin when he goes out. My things go south and I sharpen a stick and call it good. He plans for and is prepared for any contingency.

Except for Roman public transport.

Imagine if you will, a beautiful afternoon in Rome. The sun streaming down on the beautiful Roman architecture, bathing it with a warm, golden glow. Centuries of history bursting from every mortar joint and every piece of stone work, even the cobble stones echo with the ancient steps of the Legions. The lovely Italian women in the latest of fashions parade down the piazza, mindful of where they step lest they twist an ankle, and mindful of every man’s eye that lands upon them. Then there are the devout nuns calmly going about their business, habits swishing with every step, the hard leather soles on their very sensible black shoes hardly making an audible sound over the din of the city.

According to my friend’s itinerary it was time to visit some historic site or another. Finishing the last of an exquisite northern Italian wine while sitting on the terraza, he notes that it is time to visit the next stop on the tour. Mom and sister, comfortably ensconced in a luxurious hotel room and who by now are intimately familiar with his methods, are patiently awaiting him, so he gathers them and escorts them from the hotel.

As everyone knows, the public transportation in Europe is a finely tuned machine. Italy’s system is no exception. My friend, itinerary in mind and schedule in hand, guides dearest Mrs. M, and sister, to the bus stop. Before long the bus arrives and they board. Busses and trains in Europe are also very busy, and again, this bus was no exception. There was standing room only. Fortuitously for them a kindly priest offers his seat to Mrs. M., who gratefully accepts his kind gesture and takes it, while he stands next to her.

The priest was a middle aged, small and easily overlooked gentleman. Had you taken the time to notice, he had the benevolent face of a school teacher, a learned man who has seen much and is comfortable with the experiences he has endured. His eyes though, were sharp and calculating, always moving, always noting every passenger. But his size, the priestly frock, and the inordinate number of members of the clergy that are in Rome, made him almost imperceptible, non-descript, unnoticeable.

I’ll let my friend tell the rest of the story.

“Albert, let me tell you, Rome is gorgeous. The architectural history alone is enough to make you salivate. When you’re at the Coliseum it just grabs you by the… Anyway, so I’m standing in the bus, kind of bent over to look out the window, just absorbing the sights. Every block is different and you never know what will come next. My sister is standing next to me, thinking about lord knows what, when out of nowhere I hear a smack and my mother yells, ‘The priest had his hand in my bag! Grab him!’”

(Now I would like to interject here and let you all know that my buddy is a paragon of courtesy and good manners. He is a man of impeccable dress and incredibly good taste; the quintessential man of means and important affairs. If you didn’t know him you might think him to be minor nobility or something like that. Really. The point is he doesn’t usually go around and rough up unsuspecting priests.)

He continued. “Startled from my reverie, I look at the priest; he’s like five foot tall by the way. I look at my Mom, look at the priest, look back at Mom, and with a muttered “Sorry God.”, my hand shoots out and I snatch him hard by the neck, driving my thumb into his carotid.”

“I wasn’t the only one startled. By now everyone on the bus is looking at me. I have this priest dangling by his neck like a black robed pork belly on display, his shoes barely touching the rubber mats, and a couple of gurgles coming from his mouth. I could see the headlines: ‘Mad American throttles Vatican Emissary.’ ‘But, Albert’, he says to me, ‘it’s Mom.’ So I’m thinking ‘Too bad’ for everyone. I’m taking care of business here and now!”

“I rip his leather satchel out of his hands, and toss it to my sister. “Go through it.” I tell her. She holds it away from her body like it’s a venomous serpent. I swear she’s held worse so I don’t know what her problem was. My guess is she figured damnation would be upon her and the earth would be rent if she opened it or maybe she thought the Italian police would have me for roughing up a priest and she didn’t want to get thrown in the slammer as an accomplice. Meanwhile, Mother is going through her bag and checking for anything missing. Women buy on looks, not practicality; the bag had ‘steal-from-me’ written all over it. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to get a flap-over purse for travel. Anyway, sister tells me there’s nothing in the priest’s bag and gives it to me. I’m not sure she even looked, but Mom says she can’t find anything misplaced or missing either.”

“Crap. I have a priest in one hand, a bus load of locals and tourists around me, and no good reason for having him dangling there like a dead tuna on a meat hook. I let him go, give him his bag, and roughly straighten him out. I’m muttering an apology while he’s rubbing his throat, when I notice something. I grab his left wrist and look at the back of his hand. Three red marks where my mother had smacked his hand. I looked him straight in the eye and you know what he did? He shrugged. Yeah, shrugged. Like ‘Ok, you caught me, so games over.’ I really contemplated grabbing him again and throttling the life out of him like a lousy flogging rooster, but after momentary consideration thought better of it. Then it dawns on me that the son-of–a-bitch is a damn pick-pocket in disguise.”

“At that moment of realization the bus jerks to a halt at our destination. I’m looming over this guy, and tell Mom and sister to get off the bus. I give the priest/pick-pocket a look that would of have curdled yesterday’s milk in a cow, and stalk off the bus. You would think he would have stayed still, but I’ll be damned if the SOB doesn’t get off with us. But no sooner had I decided to finish him, than he melts into the crowd.”

I herded Mom and sister to the museum, looking over my shoulder a couple of times, figuring he might try something or get an accomplice or two, but I think he got the message. I didn’t see him again.

My buddy finished up with: “Albert, I don’t know about you, but when Mom says, “Grab him.” I grab him!”

Both he and I are old school. We respect our parents, will gladly do whatever they ask of us, and will kill anyone that affronts our Moms. That pick-pocket was very fortunate that day that he didn’t lose the use of a hand, or maybe even an eye.

He should have known better than to mess with a member of “The Unit, One of the Chronicled.”

Wild Pigs: Not Tough Enough to Face Ol’ King Coal

© By Albert A Rasch

In my ongoing operation against Mountain Top Removal I have uncovered another example of the wanton disregard for the environment that the mining companies have.

In Baiting up Hogs, I gave instruction on methods used for attracting wild pigs. Hunter Angler of Jake’s Outdoors, said that there where very few wild hogs in his region. I went to his web site and saw that he hails from West Virginia. Hell I thought, there’s got to be a mess of razorbacks tearing up the mountains out there. Boy howdy, was I ever wrong.

I wanted to speak with some authority about his area of the country, and in researching through the data to answer his question I naturally started by searching the West Virginia Department of Natural Resources web site.

“Hunters killed 7 wild boar during the 2004 season. Archery hunters took 4 and firearms hunters killed 3. The entire harvest came from the same general area in Logan County.”

WVDNR BGB2004

Seven? Total? For the year? Are they kidding me? I’ve killed seven just walking in an afternoon. OK, maybe I didn’t kill seven, but I sure saw a lot more than seven. Either those West Virginia mountain boys are really bad hunters, or something else is going on.

“Biologists do not believe that boar hunting contributed to the population decline. Past seasons have been short and hunter participation restricted by permits.”

Ok, maybe they are so good that they just don’t get a long enough season to put a dent in the population. But there’s been a population decline?

“Wildlife Resources biologists conducted an extensive survey in February 2004 to confirm the presence or absence of wild boar…The survey indicated a much reduced boar population of probably fewer than 50 animals.”

Holy smokes! Less than fifty animals! I have raised wild hogs and let me tell you that three little pigs can turn into thirty-eight in nothing flat. I’m not kidding. In less than one year I had more than forty pigs. But that’s another story in and of itself. How could an area of four counties in beautiful, rugged, bountiful West Virginia have only FIFTY wild pigs in it?

“The main reason for the decline of wild boar in the four southern counties of Boone, Logan, Raleigh and Wyoming is habitat destruction resulting in poor reproduction and survival. Specifically mountain top mining and logging have eliminated much of the once mature oak forest that was favored by the boar.”

So there you have it; mountain top removal and logging are the shameless destroyers and despoilers of the land. How could I have missed it?

“Impacts of coal mining in the boar area account for significant losses of habitat in Casey Creek, Sycamore Creek, Jigley Fork and Skin Poplar Fork. During the last 6 years, 1999 – 2004, there are 14,424 acres under coal mining permits in Boone County and 4,946 acres in Logan County (WV Department of Environmental Protection). Clearly much of the ideal oak forest habitat favored by the wild boar has disappeared.”

“In the 1980's and early 1990's much of the boar area was mature oak forest. Since then accelerated commercial logging removed vast tracts of mast producing trees in main Spruce-Laurel Creek, Sycamore Creek, Dennison Fork, Jigley Fork and Skin Poplar Fork. In the past more than 75% of the boar harvest came from these areas.”

You see, Ol’ King Coal sold off all the marketable lumber before sending in the cranes and dozers, and blowing off the tops of the mountains. They are obviously unashamed of their wholesale destruction and they won’t leave a potential revenue stream untouched either.

“The demise of the wild boar population in West Virginia is certainly highly correlated with the destruction of the mature oak forest habitat favored by the species.”

If you go to the article where I found this information, they also mention the relatively low birth rate of the European Wild Boar. It appears that the hogs in West Virginia were originally stocked from a commercial operation. I have trapped high percentage European Wild Boar hogs here, and I have to disagree with the WV biologists on this:

“These individuals undoubtedly came from a few animals in Germany and were said to have originated in the Ural Mountains of Russia. This pure strain of wild boar seems to be less prolific and more habitat specific than the typical wild hogs of the south. They are certainly poor pioneering species. Their poor adaptability may in part be a result of a genetic bottleneck and the lack of genetic diversity in the population.”

I doubt the genetic bottle neck theory. Unless there was a specific set of negative genetic variables, it is unlikely that such a scenario occurred. I started with three pigs, two females and a male, brother and sisters, which reproduced at an alarming rate, with great viability in their offspring. I caught several high percentage European Wild Boars, and when I bred and crossbred them they demonstrated high fecundity and viability. So again, I’m not so sure that biological issues are the culprit to any great degree.

But, I will SHOUT LOUD AND CLEAR that Ol’ King Coal and mountain top removal are the main perpetrator of the demise of the wild hogs of West Virginia. The callus and reckless disregard for the environment and the people of the Appalachian regions shown by the mining companies is appalling. As I continue to work on this issue I beg you to frequent all of the hunting and fishing forums and tell everyone about the plight of the Appalachian Mountains. Remember that though it might not be in your backyard, something very much like it is probably happening somewhere nearby! When we are finished with Big Coal we’ll be coming to your backyard to help.

Here is a link to get you started: Stop MTR is Denny's blog and in my opinion probably the best center for information on the destruction of the Appalachia.

As an outdoorsman, fisherman, and hunter I am aghast at the result of this abuse of the public trust. Though I am a capitalist through and through, and have absolutely no interest in any government intervention in my daily life, I am completely against this sort of wanton destruction of what should be in the public domain, though owned by private entities. The effects of mountain top removal are so widespread, that regardless of the specific location of destruction, the need for public intervention is apparent. For the coal companies to use an interpretation of the law to justify this abuse is not only unethical but immoral.

Among my current projects, I am working with my local elementary school trying to partner them up with the Marsh Fork Elementary School near Sundial, West Virginia. As soon as I have it all set up, I am having the local news paper do a write up on it. I will be writing a piece on this endeavor as soon as I have it put together. When I finish that, I am going to try to interest the High School to do the same. I am going to present it as older brothers and sisters coming to the rescue of their little siblings. Another idea I have for kids is a letter writing campaign, where I’ll prepare sample letters for them and then allow them to express how they feel about the issue in their own words. Another is a lollipop or Tootsie Roll sale with the proceeds to go to Marsh Fork; these are the kind of things that involved kids like to do.

That’s the shout out for this week! I’ve had one of those months that everyone talks about. Hopefully April will be a bit less hectic! Then again that’s what I said about February…

Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues…