Saturday, December 13, 2008

Pipes and Iron

© By Albert A Rasch

Just a small catch-up post for some of my friends that are outside of the Outdoor Bloggers Summit. As I sit here and think about it, it strikes me that many of my fellow Bloggers who aren't yet members of OBS, think that they don't actually belong in the "Outdoor" category. Well I am going to invite each and every one of you personally. If I think you belong, then by golly, you probably do! You just haven't realized it yet! Or you just don't know about OBS. So expect an email from me soon!

My Argentine friend Pablo Gonzalez, El Aprendiz Herrero is not only an accomplished bladesmith, but a pipe smoking aficionado too. He has wanted to know which were some of my favorite pipes. I thought I would share my favorites, not only with him, but with you also.

For those of you who don't know too much about pipes, the long stemmed one is a church warden. Also known as a "reading pipe," because the long stem allowed one to view a book without the bowl in the way. This one was made by Tim West. Tim West is an American pipe carver who makes many unique freehand pipes. This one is a pretty conservative though. It is the pipe I most frequently use at home.

The other two are Danish Stanwell pipes. The dark one is a #30 "Barok," and the lighter one is a #62 "Legend." I consider these my traveling pipes. Relatively lightweight, they're great when you're driving down the road.


Now, this calabash is probably my show off piece. Filled with a mild, sweet, blend, nothing says, "Country Gentleman," or "Squire," like a calabash. I find that when you really have nothing intelligent to say, or perhaps some boorish company is troubling you, the mere use of the calabash will immediately stop anyone from actually hearing what you are saying. You can say pretty much whatever you want. Make fun of their kids, insult their intelligence, anything. When you are done you put the calabash behind your back, rock back and forth on your heels, and profoundly expostulate, "And that, my dear, simple, friends is why the Theory of Relativity is being superseded by Quantum String Theory." Trust me, it works.



I also have a really nice Randy Wiley pipe. Wiley has been carving pipes for well over thirty years here in the USA. I got this one many years ago but truth be told, I haven't smoked it yet. I got it because I liked the shape! The bowl is humongous, but the pipe fits very well in the hand.

I have another dozen or so pipes that I have picked up over the years, but they are smoked when the mood for that particular pipe strikes me!

I've got one more thing to share with everyone. I've mentioned it a few times, that I'm somewhat of an amateur metal worker. I do a little on the lathe, a bit on the milling machine, and a little at the forge and on the anvil.

My favorite in terms of taking something and really working to get it to be something, is forge and anvil work. With the mill and lathe, you usually know what the results should be, down to the thousandth of an inch. Not the forge, no sir. The metal and fire tell you what they will or won't do. At least they do with me. On the other hand, my buddy Todd Hill at Primitive Point not only makes the metal dance, but it will whistle a tune simultaneously.

This is the one and only utensil I ever made that actually came out! Not pretty, but I really like the way it came out. I made a nice set of tent pegs once, the recipient thought they were the best thing ever. Made out of #3 rebar, I cut it to 14 inch lengths, squared it on the anvil, folded the last inch and a half over, beat that until it was round, and levered 3/4 of an inch from the folded over end up a bit for the rope to hook onto. I also forged a point on it and quenched it in oil. Came out pretty good.

Well another weekend is now half over, hopefully tomorrow we'll have some fishing tales to tell!

Best Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues...

Friday, December 12, 2008

What Madness is This? Making Boilies.

© By Albert A Rasch

"And yet again, I have come to another conclusion of less than earth shattering proportions."


Boilies???

What the hell is a boilie? Sounds like something you get on your butt from humping a ruck to low. Just in case you’re not sure what “humping a ruck” means, it is a military expression relating to carrying a fully loaded rucksack, over an interminable distance, for an endless period of time, and of course, for no apparent reason.

But I digress.

Some time ago Bubby caught himself a 21 lbs carp out of an apartment complex’s retention pond. As you might imagine, a thirty-one inch long fish is a trophy no matter what kind. Recently, with the move to the suburbs we have found new ways to continue our outdoor adventures. Bubby in particular has found an extensive series of lakes, ponds, and water courses, to entertain himself with.

I don’t know what it’s like in the rest of the nation, but in Florida we have a superabundance of ponds and lakes. It seems that no matter where you go there are any number of bodies of water, both minuscule and horizon busting, waiting to be fished.

As I have mentioned in several posts, we have moved to an apartment complex, within a planned community development area. Within walking distance, there are at least seven ponds or lakes. Bream, catfish, largemouth bass, carp, and assorted other fish prowl the sometimes inch deep shallows, to depths that would tax a deep diver.

There’s lily pad cover, cattails, sandy shorelines and concrete seawalls, along with strips and whole lawns of St. Augustine grass right up to (and sometimes growing in) the water. Most of the time those also have a house attached to the other end of the grass. Makes it tough on the backcast when flyfishing. I once snagged a blue hair and dumped her halfway in the lake before I realized what I had done.

Bubby’s been instrumental in searching for and fishing the myriad lakes in the area. We would have no idea where they were if it wasn't for him. The lakes have names now: The Bass Lake, where he caught I don’t know how many bass. Gar pond which has a gar in it. Go figure. The latest is The Catfish Lake where Bubby caught up with an eighteen incher. I wasn’t there so I couldn’t get any pics. Christmas may have a surprise in store for The Boo though!

Then there’s the Carp Lake with the monsters we’ve been trying catch for the last week or so. As it so happens, it is right off of Main Street, and it’s an exceptionally large lake. I’m guessing that it might have been a phosphate mine or a limestone quarry.


Almost crystal clear, it holds an abundant variety of plants, mollusks, bird life, and fish. Not to mention a good number of alligators too. Bubby’s pulled a number of smaller largemouth bass from it by fishing the edges with his secret-weapon, bream-patterned lures. Though lately I’ve seen him using a fire tiger pattern with similar success.



What he hasn’t managed yet, is to catch the lunker carp that frequently tail in the shallows. You would think that a shoal of redfish were in the lake the way the fins stick left and right out of the water. He caught the original on a piece of bread, molded around the hook. He has tried mightily to repeat the experience, but it just hasn’t worked out for him the way he has wanted.


In the hopes of helping him out, I have been doing a substantial amount of research on carp fishing in general, and carp bait making in specific. And yet again, I have come to another conclusion of less than earth shattering proportions. In the USA, we will make a club for anything, and brag about it too! Therefore, Bubby and I are joining the Carp Anglers Group. I don’t know why, it seemed like the right thing to do at the moment.

As with anything we do, or in this case import, a whole market has developed around it. You would think that carp fishing is going to be the next “Bass Masters” thing. The truth is they already have tournaments for them. Anyway, there are any number of tricks and techniques to catching carp. Obviously many of them come from Europe where carp fishing is an “olde and honoured” tradition. My favorite is the “hair rig,” which I think might be the bomb for those finicky sheephead that gather around pilings. Hell, I’ve already modified that rig to suit my purposes, but that’s another story altogether. There are special unhooking mats to protect the carp as they are landed and de-hooked. There are hooks designed for carp, especially in France. Carp specific rods and rod holders.

Well, we got plenty of fishing rods and reels so they’ll have to do. I'm not about to get into some kind of Euro-Angler thing. Get involved in something like that and the next thing you know you're wearing a beret, growing a goatee, spouting beatnik poetry, and trying to live a Bohemian life.

Having said that, I did find something worth appropriating. Boilies.

A boilie is basically a boiled ball of dough, hence the name boilie. Get it? They are comercially made in Europe in a bewildering arry of flavors, colors, and sizes. Plenty of people make there own, and there are as many different recipes as there are people.

Having given the “boilie” recipes their due consideration, I decided to do what I do best: Improvise!

A fifty pound sack of Sweet Feed is about eight bucks, a five pound bag of flour is two bucks, and the eggs were already in the fridge. I figured that budgetarily speaking it was a wise decision as opposed to going with an established recipe.

My mix is the following:
Four pounds of Sweet Feed
Four eggs
And about half a cup of flour
Water as needed

Find a place to work where you won’t get your head cracked open by an irate wife. There is nothing that ticks a wife off more than a man doing stuff that she:
  1. Doesn’t understand
  2. Understands but doesn’t care because you’re in the kitchen.
  3. Figures it is yet another phase you’re going through

To begin with, wet down the sweetfeed the night before. This will allow the pellets to break down into particles.

Mix in the beaten eggs.

Start mixing in the flour.

What you are looking for is a doughy mix that doesn’t crumble, but not so damp that it’s too pasty or sticky.

Now the hard part… Pinch off pieces of dough and roll them into balls approximately half an inch in diameter. After an hour or so your hands will be aching. They'll get sore between the thumb and forefinger. Which reminds me. Go to the bathroom before you start, hard to operate a zipper without the use of your thumbs.

Now in Europe, they have ball makers. You can make as many balls as you want with it. As a matter of fact you can get them to make really big balls if you need them. I don't know though... looks to me they don't sell 'em in France.

Anyway, after you have filled up a couple of bowls, or your hands hurt so much that you swear you'll try to kick my rear the day you set eyes on me, put a good sized pot of water on the stove and get it boiling. Gather up a good sized slotted spoon or one of those flat spoon things with a million holes in it. Even better would be a colander that fits in the pot.

Drop as many of the boilies in as you dare. Remember the water is boiling. It'll burn you, and bad too. give the boilies a couple of minutes, scoop them out and set them on a towel to drain. After a couple or three batches, the water will foam up and spill over the pot, thereby making a huge mess you'll have to clean up.

Once you have them all boiled, put them out to dry.

Someplace breezy would be fine, but if all you have is the widow sill that'll do too. This toughens up the outside of the boilie. I leave mine out for a day or so, put them in a plastic container, and store them in the fridge.

The only thing I don't know is if these will work. They should, but I haven't seen a recipe quite like this one. All the good stuff is there so I'm hoping that the carp appreciate all the hard work I have put into this.

Next time we'll discuss rigs, and how to use boilies. With some luck, Bubby and I will have caught something to show you too!

Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues...

Friday, November 28, 2008

Blogs of Note : Flyfishing Fool

© By Albert A Rasch

I must be on a roll. How many posts in the last week? Thought I would point out a Blog or two for the next couple of days for all to consider.

I'm not sure how I bumped into Zach's Flyfishing Fool, probably through OBS, if I was to guess.

The first thing that struck me was the photos:



These are all taken by Zach on his home turf, the Blue River that runs through Silverthorne, somewhere in Colorado.



Zach, according to his profile , "(Is) a typical college student trying to afford a tank of gas and a six pack of beer. I have more time than money." Sounds like a common refrain to me!

I would like to have as many of you who can, stop by Zach's Blog, The Flyfishing Fool, and encourage him to:
  1. Post more frequently.
  2. Take more pictures.
  3. Show us how to do flyfishing stuff. (I have to teach Bubby!)
  4. And most importantly, continue his studies.
Leave him a short note, I think he has great potential in the journalistic field.



Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues...

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Turkey Intoxication

© By Albert A Rasch



Done in by the bird!


Charlie and I just had too much to eat!

Regards,
Albert A Rasch
The Hunt Continues...

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Ranger Rasch the Rock Kommando

© By Albert A Rasch

"GoGo and I were exceptionally polite, having been brought up properly. This of course, worked heavily in our favor. Your quintessential werewolves in sheep's clothing."

The Range and GoGo Circa 1981

Whup, whup, whup,whup… the sounds of Huey rotor blades filled the room.

Turning to Dude sitting next to him, Cook asks, “Hey, how come all you guys sit on your helmets?” The chopper slipped as it dropped to assault altitude.

Dude looks at him like he’s cherry. “So we don’t get our BALLS blown off!”

As the initial strains of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyrie roared from the Psyops helicopter and Cook sat on his helmet, yours truly would belt out:

“This is Ranger Rasch your Rock Kommando, rocking you on WNUB, 88.1 on your F.M. Dial! The Nub!”

Oh yeah baby! That was my nickname, Ranger Rasch. Artisan of the Australian rappel, three shot burst maestro of the M60 gpmg, and not a bad DJ as college ones go. In those days, we had ten watts, and barely covered the campus. But that didn't keep me from trying to be as Big-Time as possible.

Yup, I was right there at the cutting edge of Punk and New Wave, as disco mercifully died a not so silent death. God, I hated disco. You had to look good to do it, and you had to do it right. Damn that John Travolta and the Bee Gees.



My playlist always started with the Apocalypse Now rendition of “Ride of the Valkyrie” and ended with Barry Sadler’s Ballad of the Green Berets.” I always managed to fit Warren Zevon’s, “Bring Lawyers Guns and Money,” and my favorite, “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner,” into the show. I swear my psychological addiction to the Mac 10 and Sionics had something to do with the back cover on that album if memory serves correctly. Whenever I felt my fan's enthusiasm flagging, I would spin Blue Oyster Cult and "Go Go Godzilla," and back it up with "Once in a Lifetime" by Talking Heads.


But I also played a lot of dance tunes too. Stray Cats, Van Halen, the B-52s, I even played some Michael Jackson of that era. Blondie was a favorite, and I remember getting a lot of requests for Kool and the Gang. And we can’t forget the Stones with “Start Me Up.”

Now remember WNUB was Norwich University’s radio station, and Norwich is the finest military institution on the face of this earth, and I’ll slug it out with anyone who would care to challenge me on that. My point is that in those days, there just weren’t that many girls in the Corp of Cadets to impress with my military prowess, vinyl spinning, or dance floor moves.

But our sister school was, and still is, Vermont College. Now that place was filled with nothing but girls. The Range, and partner in crime GoGo, were regular early morning fixtures at the VC cafeteria. Manned by matronly, and fortuitously, very liberal Vermont ladies, we were welcomed guests there. (If they only knew …) GoGo and I were exceptionally polite, having been brought up properly. This of course, worked heavily in our favor. Your quintessential werewolves in sheeps clothing.

The miserable alarm would go off every morning. The girls, with their mussed up hair, rumpled pajamas, and team jerseys, would lean heavily on us as we made our collective way down to the cafeteria. I can remember many bleary eyed morning, peering over a glass of chocolate milk at my erstwhile companion’s blood-shot eyes. Just like the day before, he would mumble, “Damn it, we missed Formation… Again!” I would give him a non-committal grunt in return. Eight out of ten times I hadn’t taken a shower yet, and I was still in yesterday’s uniform, so conversation was not high on my agenda. My man was the Unit's health guru and vitamin king so he would put the morning’s quota of A, B 1-12, C, D, and assorted minerals in my hand. I’d wash them down with a gulp of milk. That we survived at all, was on account of those vitamins and the chocolate milk we drank.

We had modified the Uniform Regulations to suit our exalted and testosterone clouded status. We wore jump boots, bloused. Our piss cutters were worn at a rakeish tilt, low over the right eyebrow. Invariably we wore scarves, white or black, under our field jackets. We were supposed to wear the regulation winter coat, a fiber filled abomination that made you look like an off-green marshmallow. But we were important men of means, with reputations to uphold; we couldn't be seen in such odious, ill fitting clothing. Besides looking cool was eminently important to maintaining our status and savoir fare. We kept the field jacket's collars up and sufficiently unzipped to show our scarves to best effect. Now I had a penchant for wearing light weight colored sweaters under my shirt; rust, green, black, I had a good assortment of them, and I thought they looked smashing set off the dark green of our shirts, giving the uniform a sort of Panzer Commander flair. GoGo on the other hand preferred the WWII European Theater Flight Commander look that his Ray-Ban Aviators gave him. Dashing, yet approachable. The Aviators and his crisply pressed trousers were his constant companions regardless of time of day. I on the other hand had the rumpled, I-slept-in-this-last-night look. How he kept himself so squared away is one of those mysteries answerable only by the Devil.

Anyway, we would stagger our way to the bus and take the 30 minute ride back to campus, sprawled out somewhere in the back of the bus. By the time we got to the ‘Wich, we would be pretty awake, and capable of evading the marauding pinheads that would try to gig you for not being in formation. We even had a couple of freshmen lackeys trained to run interference for us should the need arise. They were obviously impressed, as well as they should have been, by our masterful physiques, irascible nature, and incredible style.

We would hit the gym for about forty-five minutes and then go our separate ways.

I was always glad to get to my dorm. I think it was Alumni Hall. The rooms were huge in comparison to the rest of the dorms, and I pretty much had mine to myself. Beats me who my roommate was; I don’t remember if we ever crossed paths. Down the hall, in the bathroom, the showers heads were close enough in the corners that you could turn three of them on simultaneously, and wash the tiredness right off you, along with any accumulated grime. The majority of the Cadets were off to class, with just a few of us opting out of those early morning classes. We certainly had our priorities in order. With a clean and pressed change of clothes, I was ready to face the world.

We would meet up again for Noon Formation. Our lackeys had standing orders to be in the mess hall and set it up for the Unit. The requisition officer for the Unit got them aprons so they would look like the serving crew. We had our own table, and their job was to see to it that we got four glasses of chocolate milk each. If fruit cocktail was being served they were to get us a couple of extra servings. Ice cream: two for everyone. Basically, wait on us as the need arose, and act as human shields during the occasional food fight. In return they got to sit with us and bask in our glory and imminence. Everyone should have a lackey or two.

Afternoon classes were a trial. Who wants to do anything after lunch? But like good citizen-soldiers, we did our duty and attended.

As soon as classes were out it was back on to the VC bus, where we would hold court in our usual seats on the back of the bus. I still remember the awed looks of the freshmen as we strode on the bus with our unauthorized uniforms. You would overhear the whispered, “It’s them.” Or, “Is that GoGo? He’s the Range?” “What are they, special ops?” or any number of variations on the theme.


To be continued...