The Ultimate Answer to Kings

Neighbor L likes to bring all her kitchen scraps, scraps by the bucketful, to feed the chickens. I, and certainly the chickens, think this is a very fine thing to do. And there’s nothing wrong with bones, chickens are definitely omnivorous.

I did get a moment’s pause when taking a turn through their yard this morning, though…

An intact chicken carcass, picked clean. I knew where it came from, in fact I probably dumped it there Monday without paying attention. But I did take a minute to count the chickens before I left…

Via Claire, I have learned that this has been declared a “national day of mourning“ – which translates, I gather, to an unscheduled day off with pay for government ‘workers.’ Actual useful government workers such as firefighters and workers that government poobahs find important, such as valets and VIP security, should report as normal.

As for you taxpayers, dry your eyes and get to work. That lavish state funeral for the ultimate forgettable State apparatchik isn’t gonna pay for itself, you know.

Yeah, this has been the first cold snap of winter, and it’s welcome to leave. As little effort as the weather put into warming up yesterday and as quickly as it went below freezing last night, I knew this morning would be one for the special gear.

This is stuff I might not pull out five times in a winter…

The Mad Bomber hat…

The snowmobile gloves…

And the feels-like-you-taped-a-brick-to-your-foot Sorel boot.

The only one of these I actually bought was the hat, and even that was modeled on a hat Claire sent me years ago that I loved except it was too small. They came from neighbors at different times, and I bring them out annually with a certain amount of affection. Along with the lined pants which I don’t recall where I got those, and the reader-gifted Carhartt coat that gets used a lot more than five times per winter.

With all the snow that evaporated when the sun hit it yesterday I knew the frost would be really thick this morning so I parked the Jeep down the driveway where the early sun would hit the windshield and keep me from having to walk to Landlady’s to tend chickens, which had to happen pretty early because their water would be frozen. Brought a gallon of known-to-be-liquid water from the Lair: The water stored in the powershed was probably not frozen, but it’s a long cold trip and why be disappointed?

Then after tending chickens, stop by the watering station to tend the game camera, and break ice.

And that very incomplete little drama was all that was on the memory card. I’ve often wondered how much the camera misses – There’s no way to know, but I know it misses stuff. That should have shown the bundled-up geezer trying to break ice with a small stone, failing, going back for a big stone, and then hitting the ice five or six times. It missed most of that.

…and bless her heart she texted me to get my laundry over there early so she could wash it before she left. Just as well if that delayed her departure because the road was really slippery first thing this morning. So I did morning chores early, which I had intended to do anyway because the chicken water was sure to be frozen, and then I met her on the road later in the morning to get the laundry, and then at noon I went out again to feed and clean up after D&L’s horses because they were at the big town about 50 miles away for a doctor appointment. So a busy morning followed by a whole afternoon of sitting inside staying warm.

By far the coldest day of the season so far. Anywhere the sun didn’t directly shine, the snow didn’t even start to melt. On the other hand it was a bright still day, so I guess maybe the storm is behind us? Not sure.

I can’t honestly say it always picks the coldest morning to empty the bottle. On mornings where it does, though, that’s the way it seems. There will be lots colder mornings than this one in the next few months but this one will serve as cold enough to be unpleasant. Yet there I was…

Had to change bottles before I could make coffee. And breakfast. I think next year I may invest in a second bypass regulator, though this is a very minor hassle compared to having only one bottle on the bedroom’s regulator. A cookstove bottle lasts six weeks or more unless I’m doing something sinful, like heating the cabin with the stove. Which I confess has happened but not in the past couple of years. Glad I built that shelf over the regulator, which is right under the cabin’s main drip edge. Cold doesn’t affect it but ice can, and there was quite a lot of dripping yesterday before the final show which was late enough for the air and ground to have cooled enough not to melt the snow. First light I have to clean off the solar panels, but it won’t matter: Today is supposed to be cold and clear.

After seven years! Seven years! I seem to have finally sorted this “heat with a woodstove” thing out…

…though it still takes a while for the main cabin to get up to “take your coat off and stay a while.”

Not that Torso Boy cares…

While I was sweeping snow off steps and swapping frigid propane bottles he was quite content to keep the already-warm bed warm – you know, just in case. He’s very unselfish that way.

Later, while I was eating breakfast and knew without looking that he was behind me waiting his chance to guilt me out of the last bites, I looked around and found him lying on the main cabin tiles with his belly pointed at the woodstove. Reminded me of his reluctance during yesterday’s final walky. It was snowing and the wind was in our faces, blowing what must have been most of a gale on the ridgetops though of course our hollow is usually somewhat protected. He didn’t want to go out and he didn’t want to proceed, and it was clear he was objecting to the weather. Finally he ran to a nearby bush, gave it a token squirt and ran straight back toward the porch, leash be damned. And I imagined the conversation, had he been able to talk…

“Are you insane? What kind of weather is this? Your management is as bad as anything I’ve seen. Why do you want…There. I have peed on a bush. Now I’m going inside where it’s warm, and you can do as you like. Um…after you come open the door and give me a cookie.”

“But Laddie, you’re from Wyoming!”

“I know, right? And then they wanted me to move from there to fricking Montana! Which is closer to the Arctic circle! Oh, what I had to do to get them to roll the dice again! I had to be a dick to a border collie every single day. A border collie! I could have been killed! Finally I got the hot desert I had craved. Now you tell me there’s snow here, too? I’d pee on your bed – except now it’s my bed, so…”

Seriously, I’m not making this up. A Wyoming dog that gives every indication of hating snow and cold.

The military draft, that is. I know numerous Regular Readers are old enough to remember Viet Nam even if you missed your chance to visit. This morning I was reading an article that incidentally mentioned Mohammed Ali being stripped of his title for refusing induction, and it reminded me of a question I often asked during that period but never heard a good answer: Why did eligible people who objected to the draft ever register for it in the first place?

I mean, one of the more iconic protests of the time involved people publicly burning their draft cards, right? Brave enough in its way but it does imply that at some point in the recent past they visited a draft board office and registered for induction. Doesn’t that act comprise a statement that you are indeed willing to submit to induction and fighting in the war? It’s not like there was some other place besides VN where lots of draftees got sent.

There might be some perfectly logical reason for it but I don’t recall ever hearing it. Why did people willing to refuse induction ever submit to registration in the first place?

And that is seriously the worst thing about engaging in farm-like stuff.

Early this year I got tired of the wind destroying the latch on the cheap crap chicken house door. So in April while Big Brother and I were in the big town about fifty miles away buying bedroom trim we stopped in a Tractor Supply and bought a big chunky latch and a couple of carriage bolts – and it’s a good thing he was there because the wind was trying so hard to blow the door open that I would never have gotten the holes drilled for the bolts if he hadn’t been inside holding it closed. Haven’t had any trouble with the door since then.

But this afternoon I was sitting around reading and the wind was blowing so ferociously that I really started worrying about that door. And the very last thing on earth I wanted to do was suit up and go out in the winter storm – which has unambiguously arrived, make no mistake – and drive all the way over to Landlady’s place to reassure myself that the chickens hadn’t blown away. I wanted to put on a movie or something and just sort of wish it away, right? Because that’s what a one-legged old fart from Detroit should do with a stormy Sunday afternoon.

But that’s not what a chicken farmer would do. He, stalwart salt of the earth that he is, would shrug into his Carhartt coat and go check the #%€£¥ chicken house door. That’s why chicken farmers get the big bucks, or something.

Let it be said that I shrugged into my Carhartt coat and drove all the frickin’ way to Landlady’s place to check the frickin’ chicken house door.

Which was fine.

And now Torso Boy, Henry McKenna and I are gonna spend a little quality time watching a movie together.

Not white white like an albino, whiteish with gray or brown shading like unto a regular deer but with very light color where the good camouflage is supposed to be. Did a very little research and learned that that’s a thing with mulies: Not common but not all that rare, and must truly suck in an area where they’re heavily hunted.

Well, it’s almost two years later but the Gulch isn’t heavily hunted and she’s alive and well. I thought I caught a glimpse of her on the game camera once before but couldn’t be sure in the IR. This time she sauntered right up to the camera in daylight.

And BTW, just to punish me for hubris the weather socked in hard and is now snowing and blowing and bids fair to keep right on doing it till the end of the ice age. So goodbye cruel world but also nyah nyah because I saw that coming and got my outside morning chores done early, the woodbox overfloweth, the cabin is toasty and I may actually dig out my hot chocolate or something equally suburban just to further tempt Nemesis.

…and I’ve grown tired of sorting through scores of vaguely sports equipment-related spam comments for fear of accidentally discarding a good comment that didn’t belong in the spam locker. But my sense of duty has limits and they were exceeded this morning. So if you left a comment that should have appeared but didn’t, I probably got lazy and bulk-deleted it. Please accept my heartfelt apology and try again.

You know that devastating winter storm that was going to kill us all like unto doomed extras in a preachy global warming movie? Yeah, apparently it wasn’t important after all. I guess the weather just decided, “Oh. Well, if I can’t ruin Landlady’s weekend what’s the use of wasting a great storm ruining Joel’s?” Like I don’t count for anything.

So we did have freezing rain and snow for a while Friday morning but then it just lost interest or something. Yesterday morning the clouds broke up; there was a fairly unpleasant wind for a while but I didn’t even wear my winter coat to town and mostly didn’t suffer for it.

Not saying Landlady shouldn’t have cancelled, because the scheduled work for Friday wouldn’t have happened and the road through the prairie between us and the big town about fifty miles away can get extremely unpleasant during this sort of spell; actively dangerous in fact, with whiteouts and black ice and wind that will knock your ass right through a guardrail and over a cliff. And before she even gets to that she has to cross a high mountain range where the snow can hit “turn around if you value your life“ levels. Why suffer through all that for hours just for a chance to rusticate in the cold and accomplish nothing? No, she made the right choice. I’m just saying that of course as soon as she made it the weather decided to go all ironic just to be a dick.

…but I love topping off my bottles. So today, having settled the pressing matter of how much it would cost to get the Jeep out of hock, I topped off propane and Jeep fuel and bourbon as well as drinking water. 🙂

Also dropped $65 bux on that sixth propane bottle I’ve been holding off on, which – when it arrives next week – will give me two bottles for every station. Four for the bedroom, two for the kitchen. And then I’ll feel more secure about cooking and heating gas. Technically the bedroom heater is still classed as a dispensable luxury, but it’s a “luxury” it took me no time at all to grow sinfully used to. Sure is nice not to dread throwing back the blankets in the morning.

The front of the Secret Lair peaks at 14′, which in addition to making for a mighty peculiar-looking structure in a 12×16 cabin can also make heating the thing in the morning a gradual matter. There were reasons for doing it, of course: It permitted a 6×12 sleeping loft, and also encourages venting through the loft windows during the hot months. But it’s a disadvantage in winter and shouldn’t be done for laughs. When I first wired the place I did rig a ceiling box and wall switch for a ceiling fan, as well as space over the Lair’s vestpocket bathroom for the blades. But I went quite a long time without one not so much because of cost but because the electrical system wasn’t initially up to running one even on sunny days. Providentially I inherited a big fan with a cracked housing from a neighbor who was scrapping it at roughly the same time I got my current scrounged but much expanded battery bank. So running the fan before sunrise is no longer a ridiculous thing to do, and the years-long problem of the Lair’s absurdly high ceiling is now largely compensated for.

It was overcast all night so never got cold at all – but I was still able to bump up the indoor temperature 20^o in an hour. That used to take much longer on the rare mornings I accomplished it at all. I tend to be scrooge-like about fuel, since at some subjective point it’s easier to just put on a sweater.

Freezing rain with a light coating of snow. Everything’s covered with ice.

You made the right call.

One adjective almost never used around here in any sentence involving the words weather and timing is “excellent.” But Torso Boy and I got up at quarter to four this morning to go out and pee. It was overcast and not at all cold; we did our business, he got his biscuit and we both had no sooner gotten back under the blankets when rain started hitting the metal roof. In another minute a lot of rain was hitting the roof.

So no matter what else goes wrong today, at least that happened. Laddie’s legs are too short for the indoor plumbing to ever be of much use to him.

This time it jumped the gun a bit.

It’s been kind of a weird November anyway, colder than usual, but I’ve enjoyed a few really nice days right here at the end. Coolish, but sunny and not stormy at all. So when I texted Landlady this sunny morning to confirm her visit it was with the calm assurance that we’d be working on Boot Hill this weekend. And she’s like, “You ever look at the forecast, dumbass?”

So she’s staying where it’s warm, and I’ve completely revised my weekend (and all next week, looks like) to one where I cocoon through the first winter’s storm and serious cold snap, stoking the woodstove and praying the water keeps flowing.

Ah, well. At least the Jeep is back. My days of long morning walks may be over for a while.

I see now that that was your actual policy, and was not due to your ineptitude in trying to get them banned instead.

Ditto oil production, I suppose…

(TL:dr version – Obama on increased American oil production: “That was me.” He seriously demands that we thank him for it.)

Sorry about the quality of the clip, it was the best one I could find edited to the relevant bit. There’s a better one embedded here if you do Twitter. Which I do not. Linked article concedes that oil production did rise during his administration. But certainly not thanks to his administration.

In fact it turns the minutes to hours. Picture this: It’s 3am and you’re awake because who could sleep? You’re shivering cold in a space you can’t effectively heat, in darkness you can’t comfortingly light. Prepare for a long, memorable wait for sunup, bunky.

It won’t kill you. er…It probably won’t kill you. But it will make you review your sins, and you’ll have lots of leisure time to do it. No phone, no lights, no motor car – more importantly no effective heater. Cold. Dark. Nothing to break the tedium or keep you company but the pain in your fingers and toes. Some coffee would be nice – but you can’t make coffee since you see from the bulging jugs that your drinking water has frozen. If there’s snow outside your tent or RV or whatever you’d better get to gathering some. You’ll need a surprisingly large amount, in case you didn’t know.

Freezing in the dark really sucks, is all I’m saying. Doing it over and over from late November to sometime in April sucks in a memorable – I’m tempted to insert “traumatic” here – manner. It will truly make you ponder the sanity of mountain men who allegedly used to do things like that voluntarily. Personally I commit the heresy of suspecting that the sane ones came down and got townie jobs through the winter, but that’s just me.

You know what else it’ll make you do? Years later, on an early Winter morning when you wake up at 3am just ’cause you gotta pee, to a snug cabin with functioning propane for the cookstove and water that flows from the tap and a bulging woodshed and walls that keep out the cold and a good power system that keeps out the dark, it makes you smile and wave a jaunty middle finger to the past, that’s what.

Have a nice morning, y’all.

I really do. 😀

At this rate I’ll never get into SJW heaven.

This morning while looking for something else I came upon an old photograph…

That big square post just behind Ghost is the end of a fence, and just on the other side of that is the start of the path to Landlady’s place.

I took this picture this morning…

So much sand got washed downstream in the flash floods of this year and last that the level of the wash is substantially lower than it was two years ago. At the top of that ridge you can see the depression that is where the remnant of that path suddenly ends…

…and that post didn’t quite wash downstream but it sure didn’t stay stuck in the ground. It was held where it is by the wire and all those other fenceposts, and is now slowly being buried by silt and erosion.

Nothing stays the same in the wash.

…just how hungry I’d need to be to take that shot.

I’m from a part of Michigan and of a class where even urban people commonly sally forth annually to try and slay the vicious Whitetail. Killing deer is not foreign to me, and I don’t condemn it. But even back then I quietly objected to people doing it for fun. After all these years…

I like having them alive and somewhat unafraid. I could do it, but I’d need to be getting hungry.