Monday, June 11, 2007

If Ya' Wanna Stop 'Em, Ya Gotta Hit 'Em!

Chose the right bullet for the job! © 2007 Albert A Rasch and
The Rasch Outdoor Chronicles


What’ll Make Them Stop Ticking!

Something I’ve never understood is how someone could spend hundreds of dollars on a rifle, spend the same and sometimes more on a scope, and then pick up a box of the least expensive ammunition they can find. Not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with such an approach, but when a hunt can cost you thousands of dollars in incidental costs, what’s ten more dollars?

With that in mind I thought I would discuss terminal performance.

What a bullet should do:

There are two ways that a bullet works, either by punching a hole through a vital zone or disintegrating inside and destroying the same. The fact is that given sufficient disruption of a primary system, death will occur, therefore a projectile works by stopping or damaging a vital life support system and causing death by suffocation, shock, or central nervous system shut down.

A bullet should reach its target unerringly, penetrate and do what is desired of it. Varmint hunting prefer to have the projectile blow up inside the target and expend its energy within. Medium and big game hunters vary in their desire for controlled expansion. Bullets shouldn’t be expected to do everything regardless of circumstances. At close range some bullets just won't hold up. At long ranges some won't do what they're designed to do. But if any one bullet qualifies for the do-all-to-end-all it would have to be the big-bore hardcast LBT style bullets. Close range to long range they make a hole and keep on going. Just ask the buffalo runners of yesterday.

Design:

Today the trend is towards deep penetration and retained weight. Originally, the Nosler Partitions, and now the Swift A-Frames, and the Failsafes are the yardstick by which all other bullets are measured. I will get to solids shortly Since I am predominantly a hog hunter, I can speak with some confidence as to what works and what doesn’t. If we limit our discussion to larger pigs of 225 lbs or more, the need for quality bullets becomes apparent. I have observed that at about 150 lbs hogs start to develop the shield and by the time they are about 225 the shield is now a hardened gristle deposit. Imagine, if you will, a hollow-pointed bullet hitting that. The expanding bullet drives into this dense, inelastic material. The bullet expands rapidly in this material and loses velocity. At some point it starts to shed pieces and loses mass. Without additional mass driving it from behind, penetration slows dramatically. In all probability it never penetrates past the gristle layer. Surface wound, not much blood, and no hog.

A non-partition softpoint doesn’t expand; as much as it is disrupted by the initial impact. In this case, mass directly determines penetration. The heavier the softpoint, the more likely it will penetrate deeper. The original Barnes made its money with its softpoint line. Heavy for caliber bullets (How about 600gr 458s and 250gr 308s!), driven at moderate speed disrupted well, retained 80% of their weight and drove deep. The only problem they ever suffered was over-expansion and the commensurate deceleration, which limited penetration, and on very large game sometimes the softpoints failed to smash through bones. The reason the 30/30 has taken so much game, is that it throws a 150gr softpoint at a moderate velocity. It hits, expands, and goes on its merry way. If you shot the same bullet out of a 30-06, at the same ranges as a 30/30, it might not hold together. Too much speed and not enough jacket strength.

Now if you will, try the same scenarios with a Failsafe. The momentum afforded by the encased base allows the bullet to continue through the gristle and bone, and drive into the vitals. Solids work by penetrating deeply and displacing tissue. Certain designs are meant primarily to drive through bones or large masses of flesh and muscle, Woodleigh, Barnes homogenous, and the AGS by Speer, which I understand is the best solid available, for instance. These bullets are designed to drive deep, drive straight, and smash their way through anything intervening. In the hands of an excellent shot, a solid will reach the target it is intended to. “Karamojo “ Bell used solids almost exclusively in his .265 and .275 for all the game he took, dangerous or otherwise. The latest take on solids, is the LBT style hardcast lead bullets. The design is phenomenal! They penetrate deeply, creating massive wound channels. They are accurate within their own parameters, and are available in number of calibers from 30 to .510. I use them in my 45LC and 458WM.

It has always been my preference to lean in the direction of greater penetration. Since I’ve always been suspect of my abilities, and hope to never lose an animal, I plan for the worse, and only take shots that I am certain of.

Shock:

In the late fifties and early sixties Roy Weatherby thought that if he could push bullets fast enough, the “hydrostatic shock” of the projectile moving through the muscles and tissues of an animal would be sufficient to cause instantaneous death. Two things worked against Roy’s theory. One, bullets at that time could not withstand the then phenomenal speeds at which the Weatherby rifles/cartridges shot them. Secondly, hydrostatic shock doesn’t work on large elastic masses. On the minimal mass of a prairie dog, it will, on hippos, no. It has been conclusively proven that bullet placement, not energy, is what kills. In the end it is the hunter’s ability to accurately place a bullet in the right spot that determines whether he is successful or not.

Stopping Power:

Stopping power is directly related to the caliber. Stopping power is directly related to the caliber.
There, I’ve said it twice. In other words, the bigger it is the more likely it will settle hash right then and there. As long as it has enough velocity to penetrate and all other things being equal, the larger the cross section, the more powerful the knock down capability. Empirical evidence suggests that weight, velocity, and the cross section of a bullet, determines its ability to knock down, that is to stun or immediately kill an animal. Pondoro Taylor and Hatcher both devised formulae and tables to estimate the knockdown power of any given projectile. They both weigh in heavily in favor of the bigger bores. If you peruse the cartridge tables, you will notice two things, one, the big bore cartridges are slow, and two the projectile weights are high. When velocity is low you need mass and frontal area. Again empirical evidence suggests that when you are confronted with a mad Brownie, a 45-70 is better than say a 338WM. Otherwise why would so many Alaskan bush pilots prefer the Guide Gun and the Alaskans? The answer is the ability of a slightly souped up 405gr, .458cal bullet being able to traverse, end for end, an 800lb bear, smashing everything in its way. Wound channels are commensurately large in proportion with frontal cross section. As caliber goes up, the area goes up exponentially. A 30caliber bullet has a frontal area of .0745sq in versus .165sq in for a .458, more than twice the area.

Penetration:

You can never be certain as to what conditions will be when you have to put a bullet into the vital zone. The ability of the projectile to penetrate through any intervening meat, bone or viscera, into the vital zone is directly related to construction and design. Range and impact velocity also are variables to contend with. The lines are blurring slightly when one has to choose between a light quick bullet and a heavier slower one. Due to the better qualities of the newer bullets, it has become easier to drop in weight, add velocity and be confident of retained terminal weight. The 30-06 loaded with 150gr Failsafes shoots as flat as a Remington 7mm Magnum and will retain almost all of its weight. But retained momentum and energy are diminished substantially as the weight goes down.

How should you decide? I am convinced that 90% of all game is taken inside of 100 meters. In the end all that matters is whether a bullet penetrated and did sufficient damage to kill quickly. If I was hunting Florida whitetails exclusively, and limited my shot to reasonable ones, I wouldn’t hesitate to use any of the commercial soft points. I would only choose the brand that gave me the best accuracy, I would confirm concentricity and use only the best for hunting. Florida deer are small, and considering I do most of my non-hog shooting with a 30-06, there is no real need for a deep penetration. That’s a personal preference; at the ranges I am capable of shooting to, you could cut the end of the bullet off with bolt-cutters, and it would still hit the target close enough to point of aim. But if I were going to Africa (plains game), or to Arizona for elk, even white tails in Texas, I would use nothing less than Winchester Failsafe and/or Remington Swift A-Frames. After checking for concentricity of course. I would limit myself to shots inside of 150 yards, where I could be absolutely sure of where my bullets hit. I would familiarize myself with the game animal until I could visually dissect it and know where every vital organ lies. I’ve killed enough pigs to be almost certain of every shot’s terminal trajectory on them. “Karamojo “ Bell did this to great success with North American game when meat shooting in Alaska, and in Africa where he made his fame shooting elephants for ivory. But even though I can visualize where the pig’s heart, spine, and liver lay, occasionally I am still surprised. Recently I took a shot at a small hog, aiming for the box made by the eyes and ears. Imagine my surprise when I recovered him and found that instead of a frontal head shot, I had made a side brain shot.

If you are picking your shots, and not picking fights or trying to stop them quickly, then it is reasonable to use any cartridge and rifle combination that is suitable for the game at hand. For instance, I think I am a reasonably capable shot with my Weatherby 30-06. Anything inside of a couple of inches is in eminent danger of being ventilated at 150 meters or less. With that in mind, I would not hesitate to use it with 180gr A-Frames against brown bears, and here is the operative phrase, if I had to. But I think I would feel better with my 458WM. At 100 meters I can keep all my shots within 3 inches. 450gr hard cast LBT type bullets at 1800fps, will double lung any grizzly, bust both shoulders, or traverse the grizzly end for end. And If things somehow got ugly and I have to end a fight, I’ll be confident that the 458 and I, can swat one down flatter than an aluminum can on the expressway.

Best Regards,
Albert A Rasch
Member: Shindand Tent Club
Member: Hunting Sportsmen of the United States HSUS (Let 'em sue me.)
The Hunt Continues...


The Rasch Outdoor Chronicles

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Stickin' Pigs on Foot, Circa 1500's

Fellows,

Gaston Phoebus offered this advice in the 1500s concerning boars:

"Hold your spear about the middle, not too far forward lest he strike you with his tusks, and as soon as the point has entered the body, take the haft of your spear under the armpit, and press and push as hard as you can and never let go of the haft; and if the beast be stronger than you then you must turn from side to side as best as you can without letting go the haft, until God comes to your aid or other assistance reaches you."

Sage advice!
I thought you all might like an old quote.
Regards,
Albert A Rasch

Monday, May 28, 2007

A Nice Walk in the Park

Something told me it was going to be a splendid afternoon.

What the Hell do I know.

That cold front we are having is pushing the balmy air out of its way as it carouses its way down the Florida peninsula. I told Cristal it was a perfect day to be out of doors, doing stuff and having fun. I worked in the garden, checked out the bees, and overall kept myself busy for the better part of the morning.

My stomach was rubbing up against my spine by the time I realized it was well past my time to indulge in, and partake of sustenance. Walking into the house, my lovely and seemingly psychic wife had already prepared sandwiches and drinks, knowing, as women do, the exact moment of my hunger pangs and arrival.

As I was licking the last bit of bacon grease, tomato, and mayo off my finger tips, I thought of how fortuitous I was to live on some land, far from the foolishness of subdivisions and McMansions. I made a comment to my wife about it. She nodded in agreement, and offhandedly remarked that, not only had I not shot any of my firearms in quite some time, but that I hadn’t even done any of my usual scouting either. Handing me the keys to the gun safe, she said I should really go and spend some quality time by myself and do a little shooting and maybe some scouting. “Who knows,” she said, “there could be a hog on the prowl somewhere.” Well I certainly didn’t need anymore encouragement.

I grabbed my Ruger #1 in 458WM, a handful of 510gr. soft points and headed to the shop. A squirt of carb cleaner down the breech and a couple of tight fitting patches down the bore later, I was off and down the abandoned rail road tracks in search of high adventure. And maybe a hog or two.

Now as many of you may know, I used to do quite a bit of hog hunting. I have probably killed 150 of them over the last decade. As the years have rolled by, I have done less and less, to the point that I don’t remember the last time I went out in search of game. None the less after today’s fiasco, I am resolved to get back in shape and get back out there. But more on that later.

I crossed the property line out back a few minutes later and headed west on the tracks. They are not altogether abandoned, a historical society runs a couple of diesel-electrics with open cars for tourists on the weekends, and the local power utility keeps it clean in case they have to rail something in that cannot come via the roads. So it makes for very easy access to many neighboring ranches. There’s one in particular , less than a mile up the right-of-way, where I have a standing invitation to shoot hog at anytime. That’s where I set out to go.

It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was still high and the skies partly cloudy. There’s been a continuous breeze due to that cold front, and the apparent heat thereby diminished. Ruger in one hand, Randal on my hip, and a 16oz bottle of water in the other hand and I was ready for anything that I could think of.

I think I got about 500 yards or so from my home, when the weight of my .458 started to be noticeable. With the scope its about ten and half pounds or so. Now Col. Whelan thought that a man should be able to hunt all day long with a 10 lbs rifle and not be inconvenienced. I think so too. But I’ll be darned that rifle was getting heavy. My guess at the time was that the Earth’s gravitational field must have increased, but I have since found out that I was mistaken.
I don’t use a sling, so I couldn’t put it over my shoulder. So I did the next best thing and did an African Professional Hunter carry. That is, the rifle was over my shoulder and I was gripping the muzzle end of the rifle.

By the time I hit the kilometer mark I was beginning to question the wisdom of slingless carry, Col. Whelans assertions, and the whole quality time idea. “I must be really outta shape.”, I thought to myself. By then I had sucked down all 16 ounces of water I had brought. I sat down for a while and considered my options. I could go home and forget the whole thing, or I could press on and suck it up. Like an idiot I decided to suck it up.

I wasn’t far from the ranch anyway, and I really wanted to get out there and scout about. It had been so long, that the act of being out there just over-road any common sense. As if I had any to begin with.

I felt a little better after sitting down, but to tell the truth my arm was more than a little sore. But none the less I kept on going and managed to get to the back end of the ranch without mishap.

I slung a leg over the fence, and as my foot hit the ground, I terrible cramp took me by surprise. I lost my balance and dropped straight on the barbed wire. It snagged my shorts, and I toppled over to land heavily on my side, slamming my head on the ground, and managing to drive the brass butt end of my Randal knife straight up into my side, right below my ribs.

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breath, and the pain in my quadriceps wouldn’t let me think of anything but that. An eternity had passed before I could straighten my leg out. It seemed a mountain lion had grabbed me from behind taken a bite and let me go. My head was throbbing and felt like someone had belted it with a wet sandbag, and my side was beginning to turn different shades of purple. I thought for sure I had broken something somewhere, but no, I was in one piece, a long gash down the inside of my thigh the only evidence of my mishap.

I was in no shape to hump back over a kilometer, but what choice did I have? No communications meant I couldn’t get the boys to come help me, and quite frankly I didn’t relish the thought of waiting a few hours for them to figure out it was time to go find their old man. My Randal is the Airman model, with the hollow butt, and I keep a magnesium starter in there, some wire, aspirin, a scalpel, and a couple of other odds and ends. So in theory I could have built a fire and just waited.

A fire.
During a drought.
In 90 degree weather.

Great idea, Einstein.

I got myself up and hobbled to the wire. Instead of going over I went through the top and middle strand, the breeze fanning my backend now that my shorts had very little fabric in the crotch area. I still couldn’t straighten out my leg completely and each step I took was as wretched and pain filled as the last.

I guess I was about 200 yards away when I realized I didn’t have my Ruger with me.
A stream of profanity spewed like sulpherous bile from a volcano. I must have gone on like that for at least a couple of minutes, if not more. Really quite colorful in hindsight. I turned around and still muttering curses at anything and anyone I could think of, made my way back to the scene of my almost neutering. There, leaning on the post I had put it on before I tried to climb over the fence, was my #1.

I picked it up with my left hand, and headed back to the god forsaken tracks. I guess I had lost track of the time, because at that moment, I noticed that dusk was quickly approaching. I really wasn’t worried, just miserable. Progress being slow because I was limping, and my side hurt so bad that I couldn’t straighten up.

The sun dropped the last few degrees and night fell. I was at the 200 yard mark again. I was thirsty and the mosquitoes were really beginning to bug me. Big, fat Asian Tiger mosquitoes, considered by many fine sport with an over/under 28 gauge and #8 shot. Misery was officially my new companion.

I happened to look up and I saw a single beam of light far away. I knew who it was. I whistled a sharp piercing note, recognizable to those that know it, followed by three short ones. I sat my hind end down and waited with my annoying Asian friends for my rescuers.

About twenty minutes later Cristal, Blake and Jordan, where surrounding me. I handed the Ruger to Blake, while Jordan and Cristal helped me up. They took turns supporting me all the way back home.

Forty-five minutes later I was showered, medicated, bandaged, and a bowl of hot Italian Wedding soup was poured in me. I felt like a new man! A tumbler of Thor’s Hammer Vodka and ice didn’t hurt either.

There are a couple of lessons to be learned from this misadventure. First I’ll cover the things done right:
  1. Everyone knew where I was headed, and we all know several signals to communicate with should the need arise.
  2. Used basic firearm safety when crossing over the fence.
  3. I did have, at least, a basic kit in case I needed to spend the night.

What I didn’t do right:

  1. Physically unprepared. I didn’t realize how bad I have gotten out of shape.
  2. Pushing on when I should have stopped, taken stock, and made the right decision.
  3. Insufficient water. No reason to neglect to carry an adequate amount.

On my to do list:

Get back in hunting shape. That means long hikes with the boys with a light daypack and a heavy walking staff.
15 minutes of squats, pushups, and crunches every morning. Assorted calisthenics throughout the day.

Fortunately it was a mild lesson, it could have been much, much worse.

Regards,

Albert A Rasch

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Charged!!! Hog Hunting Adventures

This was the very first hunting adventure I wrote down. This happened almost ten years ago, and I still remember it like it was yesterday!

About every six months or so someone brings this topic up, and it allows us veterans to wax eloquent on the narrow escapes and brushes with death that we have somehow survived...

It is as if it was only yesterday; still vivid in my mind, as it was my first hog hunt. I had convinced a friend of mine to join me in what I was hoping it would become a regular pastime for the two of us. Two men communing with nature, and bringing its bounty home.

Yeah… Right.

We drove up to the guides ramshackle house, the driveway entrance marked by a couple of mismatched fire hydrants (ill gotten to be sure). A couple of hounds of questionable pedigree lifted their mange ridden heads to see what the wind was dragging in, and wearily dropped them back into the dust wallow they were in. A little cur with half an ear came up happily to meet us, his tail just a waggin, and a look on his face, that in hindsight could have easily been taken as "Please, take me away from here!" But I was more taken by the carnal smell in the air; a mix between a slaughterhouse and a municipal waste dump. It wouldn't be long before I was to find out what caused that peculiar and most disagreeable odor.

The guide that greeted us was a stubble faced, jaundiced eyed Cracker, with a chin stained by spittle from the plug of chew that was perpetually masticated by the off yellow teeth in his mouth. Occasionally, when he spoke, bits of tobacco, some quite large, would fly out, striking at random with a wet and disgusting splat. The back of his hand would rise to his face now and then, and wipe the mess from his chin, leaving streaks on both his cheek and hand. His chapped and bloody lips looked as if they had been gnawed upon by rats, or maybe the turkey vultures that seemed to inhabit many trees and fence posts around his home. When I mentioned to him that I hadn't ever seen so many vultures in one place, he told me that being that he always had a good supply of hog guts and such he fed it to his hogs. Seemed a waste, he said, to just throw it in the trash. The vultures just tried to steal it from the hogs when they could. I nodded my head in mute astonishment; my partner, whom I was to determine was not made of sterner constitution, turned somewhat green and made noises that I thought were the beginning of projectile vomiting. I wisely moved out of the way and made motions to start the show on the road.

I was wearing my old army fatigue trousers; the kind with the big cargo pocket on the side. Mentally debating what I was about to do next, I opened the door to my truck, reached in and opened my gun case. Checking the safety, I slipped my Ruger MKII pistol into the pocket.

Dribble Chin (as he would come to be known) supplied everything, including a rifle of indeterminate heritage chambered in 308. (This same guide would later try to sell me an old, poorly sporterized Mauser as an "8mm Mag".) I commented that we should resight the 308 in as my shooting technique would undoubtedly be different from his. To this he replied, that in his vast experience he had never seen that make a difference as far as he could tell, punctuating it with a stream of tobacco juice between his gapped teeth that would make a cobra blush in shame. I would later learn that it was probably because he only had two rounds left.

Well, I thought, as I schooled my face into blankness, this was going to be one of the highlights of my hunting experiences. I turned to my partner and rolled my eyes.

I know it now, that Gods of the hunt must of heard my thoughts from up on high; because what was to follow, went down in the annals of hog hunting lore.

We climbed into an old dilapidated International Harvester pick up, complete with rebel flags and Wallace for President stickers, and tastefully decorated in early Medieval torture chamber. The seat covers were nonexistent and the coils were worn, so in order to sit somewhat upright you had to get a grip on the steel dash and hold your self up. Suffice it to say that the ride was picturesque; and I for one was relieved to reach the hunting area.

It wasn't but a few moments later that we spotted a small herd of hogs. Flipping the coin and being judged and declared winner, the guide (whom I kept in front of me) and I hastily stalked to them. There was a decent boar in the group, so I took a steady rest and hoping against all hope, put the cross hairs snug up behind the shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The bullet sped its way across all of 50 yards and planted itself about 10inches to the right of my point of aim. Fortunately it was a killing shot as it tore the liver into little bits and pieces.

I was mighty pleased with myself, albeit I learned an important lesson that day. Don't use someone else’s weapon without a sight in. Never, not ever!

Now it was my partners turn. We hopped back into the death mobile and proceed to whack the snot out of our kidneys. Again. It wasn't long before the fun really started.

I advised my partner that luck would have more to do with his shot than skill. Unfortunately I said it a bit to loud, and the guide, spewing a stream of fetid juice out the window, informed me, that in his learned opinion, my technique needed some polishing up. Hell, just a day before he had knocked off a thieving coon at 300 long paces. I got real nervous at that point because I had no idea whether he meant a raccoon or something else.

Thankfully we spotted some more hogs not too far away. This was my partners first hunt I might add, and his weapons handling experience was a day at the range with me and a Ruger 10/22. But he could hold a rifle steady and put the bullets were they belonged.

They picked out a good sized hog, and when the rifle went off I saw the hog fall right over. I was pleased that my friend had apparently made a good shot, and I was happy for him. I took off at a jog that would bring me up to them at about the same time they would get to the fallen animal.

They were just getting to the hog and I was about 10 yards behind them, when the hog came to, the bullet having broken the spine of the creature. It was the howling and shrieks from the demonic hoards of Hades. I stopped short, looking about me certain that the earth was being rent before me, that the Cataclysm was upon me. The most God-awful squealing and bellows emanated from that stricken hog. Realizing what was happening I took the final steps up to the "Grand Finale".

Imagine, if you will, this scene: My partner was ashen white, rifle held at present arms. The guide facing us, and on the other side of hog, was pulling open his folding penknife; unfortunately he had neglected to bring any extra ammo for the rifle. I was standing facing them both, my MKII forgotten in the excitement.

I was about to slap my partner on the shoulder, when I heard a "woof, woof, grunt" and the unmistakable sound of an something crashing through the palmetto, scattering undergrowth and all in its path, heading straight for us. The guide, who had started to stick the hog, was startled and tripped over the hog on the ground in front of him, stumbling headlong into me. My friend, whiter than ever, was clutching the now useless rifle by the barrel, evidently intending to use it as a club. I remembered my Ruger MKII and tried to grab it out of the cargo pocket.

Now, anyone who has a MKII knows that the front sight is undercut, creating a hooklike thing. The sight looks great in profile, very racy. But at that moment, my hand wrapped around the grip, pulling for all I was worth, my pant leg pulling up into my crotch, at that moment I cursed Bill Ruger and his designers. (I later took it back...)

That boar hog was mad, he came out grunting and chopping, and all he knew was that there was a lot of squealing and some two legged dancing machine was the cause of it. His hackles were sitting up on end, giving him the classic razorback look. Wicked tusks gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The dust spun around him as he came to a halt, which to my amateur eye made him look like an all to real and lethal version of the Tasmanian Devil.

To everyone's consequent relief, he must have decided that discretion, being the better part of valor, was best observed. The scene was way too weird for him and after a few more pops of his jaws and a couple of grunts he backed off, turned and crashed back into the palmetto.

I finally managed to extricate the MKII from my pocket, and walking over to the fallen cause of this fandango, I calmly administered 38gr, in multiple doses, of permanent anesthesia. While in this frame of mind I looked at the guide, who immediate put up both hands. Putting the pistol back on safe, I stuffed it behind my back.

Glancing around, I noticed that my partner was nowhere to be seen. Where the devil had he gone off too? As I'm looking around and fearing the worse, I hear the unmistakable rusty creak of the door of the International. It seems that my fearless, 6 foot plus, 225lbs friend had left me for the sanctuary of the truck. After everything that he had witnessed that afternoon, the sight of that hog coming out of the palmetto was more than he could handle. Completely unnerved, he took off at a record breaking pace, never looked back and locked himself in the truck.

Later on after the proctologist removed the rifle and much therapy, he apologized for abandoning me...

All True!

Regards,
Albert A Rasch

Bill Booth Outdoors

05/22/07 Tuesday
Weather: Morning: Sunny and warm. Afternoon: Clear, sunny and warm.
0653 hrs Temp: 62.2F Humidity: 97% Barometric Pressure: 30.06
1812 hrs Temp: 87.7F Humidity: 36% Barometric Pressure: 30.00
2048 hrs Temp: 75.9F Humidity: 61% Barometric Pressure: 30.06

Today was one of those days that you just lean back and say “What a day!”

I’m working my tail off at my job, keeping an eye on some folks whose appearance didn’t convince me that they were not up to something. A big, full sized, four door pick up truck pulls up and parks right in front of the concrete.

I hate it when they do that.

We were going to haul concrete out of the back to fill the distribution area, so I asked the fellow driving if he would mind pulling the truck up and out of our way. Considering the quality of the forklift operators, I thought more than prudent. The truck was pretty nice. I noticed that he had on a camouflage ball cap and shirt, and that his truck had many hunting and outdoor equipment stickers too. I figured he was probably an ok guy. I made an off hand comment that “…either you really like Realtree Camo or they sponsor you!” He replied, “Both, I have a TV show.”

My introduction to Bill Booth of “Bill Booth Outdoors ‘Walkin the Walk’”, was now official.

I about fell over myself. Here was a real life TV show host, parked right in my parking lot. And to top it off he did my kind of TV! Real TV. At this point he’s allowed to park on top of the concrete if he wants.

Now, many of you know me well. Celebrity doesn’t impress me. I chatted with John Denver for over an hour during a charity event in New York City. He was a real nice guy. I met part of the Kennedy clan at another charity function, again in New York City. Not impressed. Governor Kean of New Jersey and I traded impressions on artwork at Jersey City State College during an exhibit there. All right fellow as far as people go.

Bill Booth is as down to earth, hard working, and as real a fellow, as you would ever like to meet. I must have bent his ear for 20-30 minutes after he had checked out. And it was like two hunting buddies were shooting the breeze about stuff. I’m sure he was busy, judging from the armload of stuff he was carrying, but he never made me feel like there was anything more important than having a conversation with a fellow hunter.

Definitely go to his Web Site, “Bill Booth Outdoors ‘Walkin the Walk’”, and check out his show schedule. They are filming the 2008 season as you are reading this.

Regards,
Albert A Rasch