THE SPORTING LIFE

INTERVIEW: "Girl Hunter" Georgia Pellegrini

2012-01-03T11:41:00.000-08:00

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Georgia Pellegrini: I grew up on the same land that my greatgrandfather lived on in the Hudson Valley, New York. He called it Tulipwoodbecause the land was covered in Tulipwood trees.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

GP: I grew up fishing my trout for breakfast and foraging. Iloved using my hands, from picking wild berries to making wreathes from vinesto knitting sweaters.

TSL: What did you want to be when you “Grew Up”?

GP: An artist. A lawyer.

TSL: What inspired you to become a chef?

GP: The hours…just kidding! I thought about what I wasdoing when I was at my happiest and it was always cooking--so I knew I had tofind a way to cook as often as possible.

TSL: What inspired you to start hunting?

GP: Killing a turkey for the first time with my barehands, at a farm-to-table restaurant in the Hudson Valley caused me tore-evaluate my relationship to the food I was eating. I came to therealization that I would either need to become a vegetarian or engage morefully with the meat that I was eating. Hunting was the next logical step.

TSL: What was it like the first time you shot a gun?

GP: I was more focused on the turkey than the gun. But Iremember it was a very powerful experience.

TSL: Describe your first time hunting and the affect it had on you.

GP: It was exhilarating, visceral, surreal. Iwas in the Arkansas Delta hunting with the Commissioner of Fish and Game. The turkey appeared suddenly a few feet away. He was so close itwas hard to aim. Hunting reminds us that where there is the flow of life thereis also the flow of death and that we are all part of the natural andunavoidable cycle of life. When I hunt I feel like I am paying the full karmicprice of my meals.

TSL: What isyour favorite gun to take into the field?

GP: I'm not a gunconnoisseur, I view a gun as a tool, the same way I do a kitchen knife or ahammer. To me, it's a means to bring my dinner to the table. The most importantthing about a gun for me is that it fits my length of pull and not be tooheavy.

TSL: What is your favorite game to cook?

GP: Axis deer, wild boar, and squirrel, depending on mymood.

TSL: What are your three most important-most used tools in the kitchen?

GP: A cast iron skillet (you never have to wash it and it works for everything!), sturdy kitchen shears, Malden salt for finishing.

TSL: What music are you currently listening to?

GP: I have been on a Brit Pop kick: Coldplay, Starsailor,the Kinks. Also, Mat Kearney from Nashville. I have been enjoying some of the earlierKings of Leon Records and my friend's band the Silver Seas. Queen is aplaylist staple, and always The Libera Boys choir when I am writing.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors?

GP: I tend to read the classics. I adore Hemingway'selegant simplicity -- Fitzgerald, Faulkner. I have been reading a lot ofFaulkner, including a great compilation of his hunting stories that a friend inthe Delta gave me. No one writes about hunting like Faulkner.

TSL: What historical figure do you mostadmire, if any?

GP: M.F. K. Fisher, Ayn Rand, Julia Child, TheodoreRoosevelt.

TSL: Champagne and Caviar or Beer andChips?

GP: Beer and Caviar.

TSL: Do you feel that the ease of accessto media and information has improved our quality of life, or reduced it?

GP: It’s complicated, it has leveled the playing field in asense, for anyone who has a voice, who has something to say -- but at the sametime there is so much sound and fury that it's hard to sort out what isactually timeless, exceptional, worth experiencing. And it often prevents usfrom tapping into our natural human instincts and living more simply.

TSL: If you could sit down at a dinnertable with anyone-living or dead, who would it be? What would you serve?

GP: M.F.K. Fisher. Quail en Papillote.

TSL: Are you worried about global warming or “climate change”?

GP: I am worried about change in general. Theclimate may be just one of many casualties.

TSL: If you could own any car, what would it be?

GP: I would love a perfectly preserved 50's Fordpickup.

TSL: What is your greatest extravagance?

GP: Travel and Jamon Iberico.

TSL: If you could live in any era, whenwould it be?

GP: I like to live in the moment.

TSL: If you could live anywhere, wherewould it be?

GP: I would like to have homes in New York, the ArkansasDelta, and the South of France.

TSL: Whiskey, Scotch, Vodka, Beer, Wine,Sober, Tea?

GP: All of the above,but in moderation, except after a good hunt.

TSL: What are your other interests?

GP: I enjoy shooting skeet, riding horses, theoccasional food safari, playing the cello. Is whiskey-tasting a sport?

TSL: What country is your favorite tovisit/live?

GP: I love the good ol' U.S.A -- and I love the south ofFrance and London. And I love a traditional British bird hunt.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfectlunch?

GP: Charcuterie, some great cheese, crackers and a crisp rose.

Georgia's new book "Girl Hunter" is out now.

You can follow her adventures HERE.

SPORTING: "Searching For Hemingway" -by Gay Talese

2011-12-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

(photo courtesy of the JFK Library)

At this point in my life I do my best to avoid "hero worship", but I do try to learn from their success and failure. I found Hemingway after college when I first moved to LA. I was subletting a room in a house in Malibu without a reliable car, so I spent a lot of time at the house reading. I had read "The Old Man and the Sea" in high school, like everyone else, but I knew nothing about the man. On the bedside table was a copy of "For Whom the Bell Tolls". Discovering him was the catalyst for the next phase of my life. I read a lot of biographies and everything of his that I could get my hands on...even the poetry. I was fascinated by the time he'd spent in Paris, after reading "A Moveable Feast". It was like finding a missing puzzle piece, a voice I could identify with. It completely changed my perspective and I started seeing the beauty and romance in everyday life...this is what I wanted to share with everyone.

[Originally published in Esquire in 1960, and reprinted in The Overreachers (1965)]

I remember very well the impression I had of Hemingway that first afternoon. He was an extraordinarily good-looking young man, twenty-three years old. It was not long after that that everybody was twenty-six. It became the period of being twenty-six. During the next two or three years all the young men were twenty-six years old. It was the right age apparently for that time and place.

-Gertrude Stein

Early in the fifties another young generation of American expatriates in Paris became twenty-six years old, but they were not Sad Young Men, nor were they Lost; they were the witty, irreverent sons of a conquering nation and, though they came mostly from wealthy parents and had been graduated from Harvard or Yale, they seemed endlessly delighted in posing as paupers and dodging the bill collectors, possibly because it seemed challenging and distinguished them from American tourists, whom they despised, and also because it was another way of having fun with the French, who despised them. Nevertheless, they lived in happy squalor on the Left Bank for two or three years amid the whores, jazz musicians, and pederast poets, and became involved with people both tragic and mad, including a passionate Spanish painter who one day cut open a vein in his leg and finished his final portrait with his own blood.

In July they drove down to Pamplona to run from the bulls, and when they returned they played tennis with Irwin Shaw at Saint-Cloud on a magnificent court overlooking Paris-and, when they tossed up the ball to serve, there, sprawled before them, was the whole city: the Eiffel Tower, Sacre-Coeur, the Opera, the spires of Notre Dame in the distance. Irwin Shaw was amused by them. He called them "The Tall Young Men."

The tallest of them, at six feet four inches, was George Ames Plimpton, a quick, graceful tennis player with long, skinny limbs, a small head, bright blue eyes and a delicate, fine-tipped nose. He had come to Paris in 1952, at the age of twenty-six, because several other tall young Americans — and some short wild ones — were publishing a literary quarterly to be called The Paris Review, over the mild protest of one of their staff members, a poet, who wanted it to be called Druids' Home Companion and its cover to be birch bark. George Plimpton was made editor-in-chief, and soon he could be seen strolling through the streets of Paris with a long woolen scarf flung around his neck, cutting a figure reminiscent of Toulouse-Lautrec's famous lithograph of Aristide Bruant, that dashing litterateur of the nineteenth century.

Though much of the editing of The Paris Review was done at sidewalk cafés by editors awaiting their turns on the pin-ball machine, the magazine nonetheless became very successful because the editors had talent, money, and taste, and they avoided using such typical little-magazine words as "Zeitgeist" and "dichotomous," and published no crusty critiques about Melville or Kafka, but instead printed the poetry and fiction of gifted young writers not yet popular. They also started a superb series of interviews with famous authors, who took them to lunch and introduced them to actresses, playwrights, and producers; and everybody invited every-body else to parties, and the parties have not stopped even though a decade has passed, Paris is no longer the scene, and the Tall Young Men have become thirty-six years old.

They now live in New York. And most of the parties are held at George Plimpton's large bachelor apartment on Seventy-second Street overlooking the East River, an apartment that is also the headquarters for what Elaine Tynan calls "The Quality Lit Set," or what Candida Donadio, the agent, calls "The East Side Gang," or what everybody else just calls " The Paris Review Crowd."

The parties are usually long and lively, and there are lots of pretty girls and writers and critics, and on the walls there are many photographs of George Plimpton: one shows him fighting small bulls in Spain with Hemingway, another catches him drinking beer with other Tall Young Men at a Paris café, others show him as a lieutenant marching a platoon of troops through Rome, as a tennis player for King's College, as an amateur prizefighter sparring with Archie Moore in Stillman's Gymnasium, an occasion during which the rancid smell of the gymnasium was temporarily replaced by the musk of EI Morocco and the cheers of George Plimpton's friends when he scored with a solid jab. But those quickly changed to "Ohhhhhhhhs" when Archie Moore retaliated with a punch that broke part of the cartilage in Plimpton's nose, causing it to bleed and causing Miles Davis to ask afterward, "Archie, is that black blood or white blood on your gloves?," to which one of Plimpton's friends replied, "Sir, that is blue blood."

Also on the wall is a one-stringed musical instrument made of goatskin that Bedouin tribesmen gave Plimpton prior to his doing a walk-on in Lawrence of Arabia; and above his baby grand piano-he plays it well enough to have won a tie-for-third-prize on Amateur Night at the Apollo Theatre in Harlem — is a coconut sent him by a lady swimmer he knows in Palm Beach, and also a photograph of another girl, Vali, the orange-haired Existentialist known to all Left Bank concierges as la bête, and also a major-league baseball that Plimpton occasionally hurls full distance across the living room into a short, chunky stuffed chair, using the same windup as when he pitched against big-league hitters while researching his book Out of My League, which concerns how it feels to be an amateur among pros — and which, incidentally, is not only a possible key to George Ames Plimpton but to some others on The Paris Review as well.

They are obsessed, many of them, by the wish to know how the other half lives. And so they befriend the more interesting of the odd, avoid the downtown dullards on Wall Street, and dip into the world of the junkie, the pederast, the prizefighter, and the adventurer in pursuit of kicks and literature, being influenced perhaps by that glorious generation of ambulance drivers that preceded them to Paris at the age of twenty-six.

In Paris in the early fifties, Irwin Shaw was a sort of pater familias to them because, in the words of Thomas Guinzburg, a Yale man then managing editor of The Paris Review, "Shaw was a tough, tennis-playing, hard-drinking writer with a good-looking wife — the closest thing we had to Hemingway." Of course editor-in-chief George Plimpton, then as now, kept the magazine going, kept the group together, and set a style of romanticism that was — and is — infectious.

Arriving in Paris in the spring of 1952 with a wardrobe that included the tails his grandfather had worn in the twenties, and which Plimpton himself had worn in 1951 while attending a ball in London as an escort to the future Queen of England, he moved immediately into a tool shed behind a house owned by Gertrude Stein's nephew. Since the door of the shed was jammed, Plimpton, to enter it, had to hoist himself, his books, and his grandfather's tails through the window. His bed was a long, thin cot flanked by a lawn mower and garden hose, and was covered by an electric blanket that Plimpton could never remember to turn off — so that, when he returned to the shed at night and plopped into the cot, he was usually greeted by the angry howls of several stray cats reluctant to leave the warmth that his forgetfulness had provided.

One lonely night, before returning home, Plimpton took a walk through Montparnasse down the same streets and past the same cafés that Jake Barnes took after leaving Lady Brett in The Sun Also Rises. He wanted to see what Hemingway had seen, to feel what Hemingway had felt. Then, the walk over, he went into the nearest bar and ordered a drink.

In 1952 The Paris Review's headquarters was a one-room office at 8 Rue Garancière. It was furnished with a desk, four chairs, a bottle of brandy, and several lively, long-legged Smith and Radcliffe girls who were anxious to get onto the masthead so that they might convince their parents back home of their innocence abroad. But so many young women came and went that Plimpton's business manager, a small, sharp-tongued Harvard wit named John P. C. Train, decided it was ridiculous to try to remember all their names, whereupon he declared that they should henceforth all be called by one name — "Apthecker." And the Apthecker alumnae came to include, at one time or another, Jane Fonda, Joan Dillon Moseley (daughter of Treasury Secretary Dillon), Gail Jones (daughter of Lena Horne), and Louisa Noble (daughter of the Groton football coach), a very industrious but forgetful girl who was endlessly losing manuscripts, letters, dictionaries, and, one day after John P. C. Train received a letter from a librarian complaining that Miss Noble was a year overdue on a book, he wrote back:

Dear Sir:

I take the liberty of writing to you in my own hand because Miss L. Noble took with her the last time she left this office the typewriter on which I was accustomed to compose these messages. Perhaps when she comes into your library you will ask if we might not have this machine.

Subscription blank enclosed.

Yours faithfully, J. P. C. Train

Since The Paris Review's one-room office obviously was too small to fulfill the staff's need for mixing business with pleasure, and since there was also a limit to the number of hours they could spend at cafés, everybody would usually gather at 5 P.M. at the apartment of Peter and Patsy Matthiessen on 14 Rue Perceval, where by that time a party was sure to be in progress.

Peter Matthiessen, then fiction editor of The Paris Review, was a tall, thin Yale graduate who as a youngster had attended St. Bernard's School in New York with George Plimpton, and who now was working on his first novel, Race Rock. Patsy was a small lovely, vivacious blonde with pale blue eyes and a marvelous figure, and all the boys of twenty-six were in love with her. She was the daughter of the late Richard Southgate, one-time Chief of Protocol for the State Depart-ment, and Patsy had gone to the right lawn parties, had chauffeurs and governesses and, in her junior year at Smith, in 1948, had come to Paris and met Peter. Three years later, married, they returned to Paris and acquired for $21 a month this apartment in Montparnasse that had been left vacant when Peter's old girl friend had gone off to

Venezuela

The apartment had high ceilings, a terrace and lots of sun. On one wall was a Foujita painting of a gigantic head of a cat. The other wall was all glass, and there were large trees against the glass and wild growth crawling up it, and visitors to this apartment often felt that they were in a monstrous fishbowl, particularly by 6 P.M., when the room was floating with Dutch gin and absinthe and the cat's head seemed bigger, and a few junkies would wander in, nod, and settle softly, soundlessly in the corner.

This apartment, in the fifties, was as much a meeting place for the young American literati as was Gertrude Stein's apartment in the twenties, and it also caught the atmosphere that would, in the sixties, prevail at George Plimpton's apartment in New York.

William Styron, often at the Matthiessens', describes their apartment in his novel Set This House on Fire, and other novelists there were John Phillips Marquand and Terry Southern, and sometimes James Baldwin, and nearly always Harold L. Humes, a chunky, indefatigable, impulsive young man with a beard, beret and a silver-handled umbrella. After being dismissed from M.LT. for taking a Radcliffe girl sailing several hours beyond her bedtime, and after spending an unhappy tour with the Navy making mayonnaise in Bainbridge, Maryland, Harold Humes burst onto the Paris scene in full rebellion.

He became a chess hustler in cafés, earning several hun-dred francs a night. It was in the cafés that he met Peter Matthiessen, and they both talked of starting a little magazine that would be The Paris Review. Before coming to Paris, Humes had never worked on a magazine, but had grown fond of a little magazine called Zero, edited by a small Greek named Themistocles Hoetes, whom everybody called "Them."

Impressed by what Them had done with Zero, Humes purchased for $600 a magazine called The Paris News Post, which John Ciardi later called the "best fourth-rate imitation of The New Yorker I have ever seen," and to which Matthiessen felt condescendingly superior, and so Humes sold it for $600 to a very nervous English girl, under whom it collapsed one issue later. Then Humes and Matthiessen and others began a long series of talks on what policy, if any, they would follow should The Paris Review ever get beyond the talking and drinking stages.

When the magazine was finally organized, and when George Plimpton was selected as its editor instead of Humes, Humes was disappointed. He refused to leave the cafés to sell advertising or negotiate with French printers. And in the summer of 1952 he did not hestitate to leave Paris with William Styron, accepting an invitation from a French actress, Madame Nénot, to go down to Cap Myrt, near Saint-Tropez, and visit her fifty-room villa that had been designed by her father, a leading architect. The villa had been occupied by the Germans early in the war. And so when Styron and Humes arrived they found holes in its walls, through which they could look out to the sea, and the grass was so high and the trees so thick with grapes that Humes's little Volkswagen became tangled in the grass.

So they went on foot toward the villa, but suddenly stopped when they saw, rushing past them, a young, half-naked girl, very brown from the sun, wearing only handkerchiefs tied bikini-style, her mouth spilling with grapes. Screaming behind her was a lecherous-looking old French farmer whose grape arbor she obviously had raided.

"Styron," Humes cried, gleefully, "we have arrived!"

"Yes," he said, "we are here!"

More nymphets came out of the trees in bikinis later, carrying grapes and also half cantaloupes the size of cart-wheels, and they offered some to Styron and Humes. The next day they all went swimming and fishing and, in the evening, they sat in the bombed-out villa, a breathtaking site of beauty and destruction, drinking wine with the young girls, who seemed to belong only to the beach. It was an electric summer, with the nymphets batting around like moths against the screen. Styron remembers it as a scene out of Ovid, Humes as the high point of his career as an epicurean and scholar.

George Plimpton remembers that summer not romantically, but as it was — a long, hot summer of frustration with French printers and advertisers; and the other Review staff members, particularly John P. C. Train, were so annoyed at Humes's departure that they decided they would drop his name from the top of the masthead, where he belonged as one of the founders, down to near the bottom under "advertising and circulation. "

When the first issue of The Paris Review came out, in the spring of 1953, Humes was in the

United States

. But he had heard what they had done to him and, infuriated, he now planned his revenge. When the ship arrived at the Hudson River pier with the thousands of Paris Reviews that would be distributed throughout the United States, Harold Humes, wearing his beret and swearing, "Le Paris Review c'est moi!" was at the dock waiting for them; soon he had ripped the cartons open and, with a rubber stamp bearing his name; in letters larger than any on the masthead, he began to pound his name in red over the masthead of each issue, a feat that took several hours to accomplish and which left him, in the end, totally exhausted.

"But. . . but. . . how could you have done such a thing?" George Plimpton asked when he next saw Humes.

Humes was now sad, almost tearful; but, with a final flash of vengeance, he said, "I am damned well not going to get shoved around!"

Rages of this sort were to become quite common at The Paris Review, but despite them The Paris Review did very well, publishing fine stories by such younger writers as Philip Roth, Mac Hyman, Pati Hill, Evan Connell, Jr., and Hughes Rudd, and, of course, distinguishing itself most of all by its "Art of Fiction" interviews with famous authors, particularly the one with William Faulkner by Jean Stein vanden Heuvel and the one with Ernest Hemingway by Plimpton, which began in a Madrid café with Hemingway asking Plimpton, "You go to the races?"

"Yes, occasionally."

"Then you read The Racing Form," Hemingway said.

"There you have the true Art of Fiction."

But, as much as anything else, The Paris Review survived because it had money. And its staff members had fun because they knew that, should they ever land in jail, their friends or families would always bail them out. They would never have to share with James Baldwin the experience of spending eight days and nights in a dirty French cell on the erroneous charge of having stolen a bed sheet from a hotel-keeper, all of which led Baldwin to conclude that, while the wretched round of hotel rooms, bad food, humiliating concierges, and unpaid bills may have been the "Great Adventure" for the Tall Young Men, it was not for him because, he said, "there was a real question in my mind as to which would end soonest, the Great Adventure or me."

The comparative opulence of The Paris Review, of course, made it the envy of the other little magazines, particularly the staff members of a quarterly called Merlin, some of whose editors charged the Review people with dilettantism, resented their pranks, resented that the Review would continue to be published while Merlin, which had also discovered and printed new talent, would soon fold.

In those days Merlin's editor was Alexander Trocchi, born in Glasgow of a Scotch mother and Italian father, a very exciting, tall and conspicuous literary figure with a craggy, satanic face, faun's ears, a talent for writing, and a powerful presence that enabled him to walk into any room and take charge. He would soon become a friend of George Plimpton, John Phillips Marquand, and the other Review people, and years later he would come to New York to live on a barge, and still later in the back room of The Paris Review's Manhattan office, but eventually he would be arrested on narcotics charges, would jump bail, and would leave the United States carrying two Brooks Brothers suits which he had borrowed from George Plimpton. But he would also leave behind a good novel about drug addiction, Cain's Book, with its memorable line: "Heroin is habit-forming. . . habit-forming . . . rabbit-forming. . . Babbitt-forming."

Alexander Trocchi's staff at Merlin in those days was made up largely of humorless young men in true rebellion, which The Paris Review staff was not; the Merlin crowd also read the leftist monthly Les Temps Modernes, and were concerned with the importance of being engage. Their editors included Richard Seaver, who was reared in the Pennsylvania coal mine district and in whose dark, humid Paris garage Merlin held its staff meetings, and also Austryn Wainhouse, a dis-enchanted Exeter-Harvard man who wrote a strong, esoteric novel, Hedyphagetica, and who, after several years in France, is now living in Martha's Vineyard building furniture according to the methods of the eighteenth century.

While the entire Merlin staff was poor, none was so poor as a poet named Christopher, about whom it was said that once, when playing a pinball machine in a café, he noticed a ragged old peasant lady staring at a five-franc piece lying on the floor near the machine, but before she could pick it up Christopher's foot quickly reached out and stomped on it.

He kept his foot there while the old lady screamed and while he continued, rather jerkily, to hold both hands to the machine trying to keep the ball bouncing — and did, until the owner of the café grabbed him and escorted him out.

Some time later, when Christopher's girl friend left him, he came under the influence of a wild Svengali character then living in Paris, a pale, waxen-faced painter who was a disciple of Nietzsche and his dictum "Die at the right time," and who, looking for kicks, actually encouraged Christopher to commit suicide-which Christopher, in his depressed state, said he would do.

Austryn Wainhouse, who had suspected that suicide was very much on Christopher's mind, had spent the following week sitting outside of Christopher's hotel each night watching his window, but one afternoon when Christopher was late for a luncheon date with Wainhouse, the latter rushed to the poet's hotel and there, on the bed, was the painter.

"Where's Chris?" Wainhouse demanded.

"I am not going to tell you," the painter said. "You can beat me if you wish; you're bigger and stronger than I, and. . ."

"I don't want to beat you," Wainhouse shouted. It then occurred to him how ridiculous was the painter's remark since he (Wainhouse) was actually much smaller and hardly stronger than the painter. "Look," he said, finally, "don't you leave here," and then he ran quickly to a café where he knew he would find Trocchi.

Trocchi got the painter to talk and admit that Christopher had left that morning for Perpignan, near the Spanish border twelve hours south of Paris, where he planned to commit suicide in much the same way as the character in the Samuel Beckett story in Merlin entitled "The End" — he would hire a boat and row out to sea, further and further, and then pull up the plugs and slowly sink.

Trocchi, borrowing thirty thousand francs from Wainhouse, hopped on the next train for Perpignan, five hours behind Christopher. It was dark when he arrived, but early the next morning he began his search.

Christopher, meanwhile, had tried to rent a boat, but did not have enough money. He also carried with him, along with some letters from his former girl friend, a tin of poison, but he did not have an opener, nor were there rocks on the beach, and so he wandered about, frustrated and frantic, until he finally came upon a refreshment stand where he hoped to borrow an opener.

It was then that the tall figure of Trocchi spotted him and placed a hand on Christopher's shoulder. Christopher looked up.

"Alex," Christopher said, casually handing him the tin of poison, "will you open this for me?"

Trocchi put the tin in his pocket.

"Alex," Christopher then said, "what are you doing here?"

"Oh," Trocchi said lightly, "I've come down to embarrass you."

Christopher broke down in tears, and Trocchi helped him off the beach, and then they rode, almost in total silence, back to Paris on the train.

Immediately George Plimpton and several others on The Paris Review who were very fond of Christopher, and proud of Trocchi, raised enough money to put Christopher on a kind of monthly allowance. Later Christopher returned to London and published books of poetry, and his plays were performed at the Royal Court Theatre in London. Still later he began to write songs for The Establishment, London's satirical night-club act.

After the suicide episode, which, according to George Plimpton, sent at least a half-dozen young novelists to their typewriters trying to build a book around it, life in Paris at the Review was once more happy and ribald — but, a year later with the Review still doing well, Paris slowly seemed to pall. Paris was, as Gertrude Stein suggested, the right place for twenty-six, but now most of them were thirty years old. And so they returned to New York — but not in the melancholy mood of Malcolm Cowley's exiles of the twenties, who were forced home during the early currents of the crash, but rather with the attitude that the party would now shift to the other side of the Atlantic. Soon New York was aware of their presence, particularly the presence of Harold L. Humes.

After taking over a large apartment on upper Broadway with his wife, his daughters, and his unclipped wirehaired terrier, and installing seven telephones and a large paper cutter that has the cracking eighteenth-century sound of a guillotine, Humes lashed out with a series of ideas and tall deeds: he hit on a theory of cosmology that would jolt Descartes, finished a second novel, played piano in a Harlem jazz club, began to shoot a movie called Don Peyote, a kind of Greenwich Village version of Don Quixote starring an unknown from Kansas City named Ojo de Vidrio, whose girl friend eventually grabbed the film and ran off with it. Humes also invented a paper house, an actual paper house that is waterproof, fireproof, and large enough for people to live in; he set up a full-sized model on the Long Island estate of George Plimpton's family, and Humes's corporation, which included some backers from The Paris Review crowd, insured Humes's brain for $1,000,000.

During the Democratic National Convention in 1960, Humes led a phalanx of screaming Stevensonians onto the scene after employing the gate-crashing techniques of the ancient armies of Athens. When back in New York he called for an investigation of the New York police force, whereupon the police commissioner called for an investigation of Humes — and discovered fourteen unpaid traffic tickets. Humes went to jail just long enough to be discovered by the Commissioner of Corrections, Anna Kross, who upon recognizing him behind bars said, "Why, Mr. Humes, what are you doing in there?," to which he responded with Thoreau's line to Emerson, "Why, Miss Kross, what are you doing out there?"

And at the same time, on East Seventy-second Street, the Plimpton parties continue — often being planned only a few hours before they begin. George Plimpton will pick up the phone and call a few people. They, in turn, will call others. Soon there is the thunder of feet ascending the Plimpton staircase. The inspiration for the party may have been that Plimpton won a court-tennis match earlier that day at the Racquet and Tennis Club, or that one member of The Paris Review crowd has a book coming out (in which case the publisher is invited to share the expenses), or that a member has just returned to Manhattan from a trip — a trip that might have carried John P. C. Train, a financial speculator, to Africa, or Peter Matthiessen to New Guinea to live with. Stone Age tribesmen, or Harold Humes to the Bronx to fight in court over a parking ticket.

And, in giving so many parties, in giving out keys to his apartment, in keeping the names of old friends on The Paris Review masthead long after they have ceased to work for it, George Ames Plimpton has managed to keep the crowd together all these years, and has also created around himself a rather romantic world, a free, frolicsome world within which he, and they, may briefly escape the inevitability of being thirty-six.

It exudes charm, talent, beauty, adventure. It is the envy of the uninvited, particularly of some child-bearing Aptheckers in the suburbs who often ask, "When is that group going to settle down?" Some in the group, like George Plimpton, have remained bachelors. Others have married women who like parties — or have been divorced. Still others have an understanding that, if the wife is too tired for a party, the husband goes alone. It is largely a man's world, all of them bound by their memories of Paris and the Great Adventure they shared, and it has very few exiles, although it has had someone being the beautiful blonde who was very much on everyone's mind in Paris ten years ago, Patsy Matthiessen.

Patsy and Peter are divorced. She is now married to Michael Goldberg, an abstract painter, lives on West Eleventh Street, and moves in the little world of downtown intellectuals and painters. Recently she spent several days in a hospital after being bitten by the dog of the widow of Jackson Pollock. In her apartment she has a cardboard box full of snapshots of The Paris Review crowd of the fifties. But she remembers those days with some bitterness.

"The whole life seemed after a while to be utterly mean-ingless," she said. "And there was something very manqué about them — this going to West Africa, and getting thrown in jail, and getting in the ring with Archie Moore. . . . And I was a Stepin Fetchit in that crowd, getting them tea at four, and sandwiches at ten. . . ."

A few blocks away, in a small, dark apartment, another exile, James Baldwin, said, "It didn't take long before I really was no longer a part of them. They were more interested in kicks and hashish cigarettes than I was. I had already done that in the Village when I was eighteen or seventeen. It was a little boring by then."

"They also used to go to Montparnasse, where all the painters and writers went, and where I hardly went. And they used to go there and hang around at the cafés for hours and hours looking for Hemingway. They didn't seem to realize," he said, "that Hemingway was long gone."

EVENT : 2011 BAJA 1000 11/17-11/20

2011-11-18T12:00:00.001-08:00

AUTO : Land Rover DC100-Concept

2011-11-15T13:58:00.001-08:00

Land Rover has always done an excellent job of designing (reliability aside), branding and marketing their vehicles...

The new DC100 is meant to be a reinterpretation of the Defender, and to capture the adventurous, indomitable spirit of the original Series 1 that debuted in 1948. I've yet to drive one, but I'm looking forward to putting it through the paces once it hits US soil.

FOOD & DRINK: The Original Moonshine

2011-10-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

When I was born, my parents called my Great Uncle to tell him that they had named me after him. "What'd you go and give him a dumb name like that for?" he replied, and then he started crying.

He was a gruff bachelor, a clothes horse, a carpenter, an expert marksman, a beekeeper, and he made his own moonshine. One day the Feds showed up and busted up his still and hauled him off to jail...a jilted ex-girlfriend had turned him in. When he got out he built a better one.

He was a mentor to my Grandfather and his younger brother, and later to my Dad. He lived in a small house he’d built himself, living simply and working only when he needed money.

I asked my father what he remembered of his moonshine making operation…

"I remember the still, the felt hat full of charcoal, the white gas stove-which I think I still have-the wooden barrels and the fermenting mash, the 5 gal glass water bottles used to 'flavor' the whiskey with bunches of ¼” square by 6" long sticks that were pushed into the bottles. I know he used honey as a sweetener and sometime used corn sugar."

A friend gave me a bottle of "OriginalMoonshine". I like it a lot. They give a lot of cocktail recommendations but I prefer it “neat”, or on ice because I want to actually taste the ‘shine.

I was tempted to drink it from a Mason jar, but I’m Hillbilly enough as it is.

CULTURE: "Just Got Paid"- ZZ Top

2011-10-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

ZZ Top "Just Got Paid" (B. Gibbons)

I just got paid today,

got me a pocket full of change.

Said, I just got paid today,

got me a pocket full of change.

If you believe like workin' hard all day,

just step in my shoes and take my pay.

I was born my papa's son,

when I hit the ground I was on the run.

I had one glad hand and the other behind.

You can have yours, just give me mine.

When the hound dog barkin' in the black of thenight,

stick my hand in my pocket, everything's allright.

I just got paid today,

got me a pocket full of change.

Said, black sheep, black, do you got some wool?

Yes, I do, man, my bag is full.

It's the root of evil and you know the rest

but it'sway ahead of what's second best.

(Some classic concert footage after the jump!)

Automobile: Jaguar C-X75

2011-10-17T10:40:00.000-07:00

"The closest man has come to creating something approaching the beauty of woman is the automobile." -Old Sport

Jaguar - A Story of Inspiration from Just So on Vimeo.

CULTURE: The Rum Diary

2011-10-14T12:43:00.001-07:00

The premier was last night.

I lost my invitation, so I drank a lot of rum outside instead.

SPORTING: Best of all, I love the fall.

2011-10-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

My dog Shelby begins her staring right about the time I sit down for dinner. She sits still, perfectly composed, staring, and I do my best to ignore her. Sometimes I share my meal to buy myself some time, but she always wins.
Last nights dinner was beef stew which contains two of her favorite ingredients; carrots and beef. This did little to placate her, and I eventually gave up. I covered my bowl, poured myself a drink (Forty Creek Canadian Whiskey) and grabbed a plastic bag. "Want...to...go...for...a...........walk?" I ask, and during the long pauses between words, she twitches and turns, up until the moment I say "walk", and she runs to the back door with her nose pressed against the glass. I twist the knob and she pushes the door open, charging into the back yard like a bull into the ring. Out the gate and onto the street she is in full-sniff mode. I walk, stop, and sip, waiting for her. Last night the air was cool and was the first time it truly felt like fall, but it didn't feel like an LA fall, more like a Santa Cruz fall. The air was heavier. Maybe it was because rain is on the way. I walked and sipped as she sniffed every tree, corner, and fence post on the block. Its hard for me to walk slow on our walks, slow enough for her to enjoy herself. I started thinking of all of the different places I lived and how the fall of each differed.

Fall is when I come alive. There's a switch that goes off in my body and I feel a visceral change. I don't know if it's ingrained in my DNA or comes from years of living on a farm, but the fall has always been a time to celebrate. It is the time of the harvest, the time to reap what you've hopefully sewn. It is the time I break out my puffy vest, my cardigan sweater and my wool shirts. It is the time I break out the rye, bourbon, whiskey, and scotch. It is the time when my kitchen smells like pot roast and chili and coq au vin. It is the time to split wood and build fires. It is the time to sneak off and do some Chukar hunting. It is the time for the heavy jazz.

We turned the corner and started heading back to the house. My drink was almost empty. This is when Shelby starts getting excited and running around the yards, but last night she got "birdy" and stopped still with her nose in the neighbors bushes. The hair on my arms stood up and I froze, my ears and eyes straining. She inched closer and a rat darted out the side of the bush running to the closest hedgerow. I led the rat and pulled my trigger finger just as it disappeared into the bushes.

Back in the house, I gave her a carrot and poured myself another drink. She fell asleep on the couch and I finished my stew and listened to Billie Holiday.

I need to plan another hunting trip.

SPORTING- "Best of all he loved the fall."

2011-09-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

‘Best of All He Loved the Fall’

Ernest Hemingway's autumns in Idaho

By Gregory Foley

“Best of all he loved the fall
The leaves yellow on the cottonwoods
Leaves floating on the trout streams
And above the hills
The high blue windless skies
Now he will be a part of them forever.”

On a warm autumn day in 1939, Ernest Hemingway stood in the Ketchum Cemetery and methodically read aloud what some local friends believed to be one of his finest works of prose. It was a eulogy for his friend Gene Van Guilder, a publicist for Sun Valley Resort who had been killed in a tragic bird-hunting accident in the Hagerman Valley, near Twin Falls...

Hemingway praised Van Guilder’s talents, as a writer, artist and communicator, and in uncommonly lyrical verse painted an indelible image of his friend’s deep love for the landscape of central Idaho.

“He loved the warm sun of summer and the high mountain meadows, the trails through the timber and the sudden clear blue of the lakes. He loved the hills in the winter when the snow comes,” Hemingway said. “Best of all he loved the fall … the fall with the tawny and grey, the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods, leaves floating on the trout streams and above the hills the high blue windless skies. He loved to shoot, he loved to ride and he loved to fish.”

Later, some Hemingway scholars and acquaintances came to believe that Papa—as he was known to family and friends—did not write the eulogy only for Van Guilder, whom he knew only for a short time, but also for himself. Indeed, the words strike several of the chords that were the complex symphony of Hemingway’s life. And although Hemingway had many interests—from writing, women and wine to watching bullfights and fishing for giant marlin—from that fall of 1939 until his death, spending the autumn “shooting season” in the heart of Idaho repeatedly captured his focus.

“I think the fall was his favorite season,” said Pat Hemingway, 77, Hemingway’s only living son. “That shows up in his writing.”

Pat, who retired to Montana in 1975 after careers as a safari outfitter and wildlife management instructor in East Africa, said his father was very much at home in the Idaho mountains from 1939 to 1947, when Papa spent five fall seasons in Sun Valley and Ketchum. “He was very fond of that area. He had a lot of good friends in Ketchum,” he said. “My fondest memories really are of those early years, before the war.”

Ernest Hemingway first came to Sun Valley in September 1939. He had been invited to stay at the new Sun Valley Lodge as a guest after Van Guilder determined he would enjoy the hunting in the area and would generate good publicity for the resort.

Pat Hemingway—who had his own nickname, Mouse—said Papa was in all likelihood attracted to the area not only by the offer from the resort, but also his friendship with poet Ezra Pound, who was from Hailey. And, during that fall, Papa was becoming estranged from his second wife, Pauline Hemingway, Pat’s mother. “When that broke up he had to have somewhere to go,” Pat said.

In those early years, Hemingway was at a high point in his writing career, enjoying a certain degree of fame as he worked on what some critics have hailed as his best full-length novel, “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” Every day, Papa wrote or edited in the morning hours until about noon, and then made his way outdoors, often to hunt.

I think he was in search of the vanishing frontier,” said Marty Peterson, a Hemingway scholar and assistant to the president of University of Idaho. “I think he was in search of a place where he could have some anonymity, where the hunting and fishing was still good. And he found that in Central Idaho.”

Hemingway immediately met a band of friends in Sun Valley. The group included Sun Valley Resort’s chief guide, Taylor Williams, resort photographer Lloyd Arnold, Arnold’s wife, Tillie Arnold, and eventually, a young Picabo rancher named Bud Purdy.

In the fall of 1939, Hemingway stayed with his girlfriend, writer and journalist Martha Gellhorn, in Suite 206 of the Sun Valley Lodge, which he soon dubbed “Glamour House.” Hemingway worked diligently on “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” and soon became enamored with duck hunting at Silver Creek, near Picabo, and pheasant hunting at points south, near Shoshone, Dietrich and Gooding.

Purdy, who at 87 still manages thousands of acres of ranchland around Silver Creek, said Hemingway seemed to like the area because of its geography—which reminded him of Spain—and the people—who were friendly, a little rough around the edges and didn’t make a fuss about his celebrity. Purdy often took Hemingway hunting for ducks, mostly mallards, on Silver Creek, a popular waterfowl migration stop.

“We just jump shot,” Purdy said. “He didn’t like sitting in the blind. … He was a good guy to be out with.”

That November, after Van Guilder’s funeral, Gellhorn left for Scandinavia on a work assignment. Through the rest of an Indian summer, Hemingway hunted, read and completed numerous chapters of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” before leaving Sun Valley in December to return to his home in Cuba.

Hemingway returned to Sun Valley Resort the following September with Gellhorn and his three sons, Jack, Pat and Gregory. He completed editing work on “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” played tennis and hunted birds, at times with a new friend, actor Gary Cooper. He and his family returned again in the fall of 1941.

Pat Hemingway said Papa taught his sons how to shoot and hunt, generously allowing them to discharge 200 or 300 rounds of ammunition per day. Being a “social hunter,” Papa liked having his kids and friends around, but also liked his hunts to be well organized. “We mostly hunted ducks, doves and pheasants,” he said. “And we did a lot of rabbit hunting in those days.”

Rabbit hunting was common in the early 1940s, Pat Hemingway said, when the animals—some of them diseased—would descend upon agricultural lands by the thousands. Indeed, Purdy recalled one rabbit hunt in the Dietrich area during which a group of 20 or so hunters, including Hemingway and Cooper, shot about 400 or 500 of the rodents.

Purdy said Hemingway enjoyed the art of hunting but was also fond of shooting.

“He liked to hunt not just to kill stuff,” Purdy said. “It was the thrill of the hunt. A lot of times he didn’t get a lot of birds and he didn’t seem to mind that.”

In the fall of 1941, Hemingway enjoyed one of his finest moments while hunting in Idaho. In the Pahsimeroi Mountains, near Challis, he was stalking antelope with his sons and some hunting friends from Sun Valley, including Lloyd Arnold.

Hemingway and his boys were trailing Arnold, who was trying to capture a few images of the pronghorns, Arnold recalled in his book “High on the Wild with Hemingway.” After Arnold’s metal lens cast a reflection of the sun, the antelope ran. Arnold motioned for Hemingway to make his move and he did, cursing as he passed Arnold some 20 yards, before halting, raising his rifle and firing a single shot cleanly into the shoulder of a large buck.

Hemingway stood proudly and then asked Arnold how far away he was when he shot. Arnold measured the distance at 275 yards. According to Arnold, Hemingway said, “I’ve made fair shots in my time but this ranks them all.”

The only story Hemingway ever wrote about Idaho, called “The Shot,” loosely described the Pahsimeroi hunt, including a Saturday night bar fight in the mining town of Patterson, during which Papa reportedly dropped a huge, angry miner with several left hooks. It was published in “True” magazine in April 1951. “He always prided himself on being a very good rifle shot,” Pat Hemingway said.

During World War II and until the fall of 1946, Hemingway was unable to get back to Idaho. Once, after his return, Purdy said Papa went down to Silver Creek and discovered the rancher tending to some traps he had set for magpies, predatory birds that were considered pests.

“He looked over at these traps and said, ‘What do you do with those magpies?’” Purdy recalled. “I said we just wring their necks. He said, ‘Why don’t we let ’em out and shoot ’em.’

“So, we’d have a hundred in a trap. We’d let one of the kids throw them up in the air and we’d practice live trap-shooting. He was a good shot. Hemingway was the champion magpie shooter.”

Although some evidence suggests Hemingway sometimes loved to shoot for shooting’s sake, there is no doubt his time in Idaho revealed a gentler side. Purdy said he made friends easily and always spoke in a quiet voice. In addition, he said, Hemingway never boasted about his work or his stature as a writer, even after he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954.

“He never talked about his writing,” Purdy said. “And we never talked about politics. I think he was a Democrat, but I’m not sure of that … He was a real gentleman, I think.”

The only time Hemingway spoke about his writing to Purdy, the rancher recalled, was during a lunch one day at the Alpine Club in downtown Ketchum, now Whiskey Jacques.

“He decided he wanted something to drink, so he went across the street to get some wine,” Purdy said. “He was really feeling good. He said, ‘I wrote a thousand words today and it’s worth a dollar a word.’”

Hemingway “liked to party,” Purdy noted, but never drank while they were out hunting, with exceptions amounting to a few sips from a bota bag when all the shooting was done. “He wasn’t an alcoholic at all. No way,” Purdy said.

During the fall of 1946, Hemingway and his fourth wife, Mary, stayed at MacDonald Cabins, on the south side of Ketchum—now the Ketchum Korral. He worked on “The Garden of Eden,” a novel he never finished but which was ultimately complete enough to be published posthumously in 1986. Hemingway returned to Ketchum and Sun Valley in the fall of 1947 and stayed through Christmas that year. During that stay, he enjoyed the company of Hollywood stars such as Cooper and Ingrid Bergman, who played the lead roles in the film version of “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

At times, he continued work on the “The Garden of Eden,” Peterson said, “cranking out 800 words a day.”

In 1946 and 1947, Hemingway’s doctor in Sun Valley forbid him to go hunting in the mountains; he had put on weight and his blood pressure was high. Still, he ventured out to shoot ducks and pheasants.

Purdy said Hemingway would hang his game birds by the head for three or four days to let the meat age and would then incorporate them into sundry feasts. “He really liked duck. But they had to be almost raw,” Purdy said.

After leaving Idaho in January 1948, Hemingway did not return for a decade. During those times, Peterson said, Hemingway was busy with numerous projects and settled into his life in Cuba, where he pursued perhaps his greatest outdoor passion, deep-sea fishing. He wrote “Across the River and Into the Trees” and “The Old Man and the Sea,” a novella that won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953.

In the fall of 1958, Hemingway returned to the Wood River Valley and continued to hunt.

According to friend Tillie Arnold, now deceased, one day at Silver Creek Hemingway shot and injured an owl in the wing, thinking he could use it as a live decoy to attract and shoot crows for sport. The owl ultimately became a pet, named Owlny. “He would shoot blackbirds at Silver Creek to feed the owl,” Purdy said.

Ultimately, when Purdy started trapping magpies, the owl was no longer needed and was eventually set free, the story goes.

In 1959, Ernest and Mary Hemingway purchased for $50,000 a house outside Ketchum along the Big Wood River. It had excellent views of the river and the nearby Boulder Mountains.

To a friend, Gen. Buck Lanham, Hemingway wrote: “This place ... was a wonderful buy. I plan to live here in the shooting months, which correspond to the hurricane months and the early northers in Cuba. My health and Mary’s needs a change of climate from the subtropics for part of each year.”

While residing at his Ketchum estate, Peterson said, Hemingway worked on “The Garden of Eden” and did a substantial amount of editing and rewriting on “A Moveable Feast,” a lively memoir of his early days as a writer in Paris.

But all was not well. Friends and family noticed changes in Papa as he battled various health ailments. And, he was having trouble writing.

“You must remember that he was pretty well a broken person when he came to Idaho in those final years,” Pat Hemingway said.

Ernest Hemingway died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in the front foyer of his Ketchum house in July 1961. He was 61 years old.

“The ending of his life was kind of traumatic to me. He was such a great guy,” Purdy said. “I guess if he couldn’t write, it got so life wasn’t worth living for him.”

Pat Hemingway said if there is one thing people should recognize about Papa, it should not be that he was a great hunter, fisherman or father; it should be that he was a writer who crafted stories like few others could.

“He was to writing what Einstein was to physics,” he said. “He was undoubtedly one of the greatest writers in the 20th century in any language.”

Hemingway was buried in the Ketchum Cemetery, not far from the grave of Gene Van Guilder.

About five years later, a memorial to Hemingway was erected east of Ketchum, near the Sun Valley Lodge. It is a simple bust of the author, carrying an edited excerpt from the Van Guilder eulogy that starts with the words, “Best of all he loved the fall.”

INTERVIEW: Cliff Jacobson-Wilderness Guide/Author

2011-05-02T21:24:00.000-07:00

If you were lucky, someone took the time to teach you to appreciate and respect the beauty of nature. If you were very lucky, someone taught you how to navigate your way through the wilderness and experience the corners of the world that few ever will. If you were lucky and smarter than the average Bear, you figured out a way to make a living doing it. "Cliff Jacobson is one of North America's most respected outdoors writers, wilderness guides, national and foreign consultants, and is the most published canoeing/camping writer of this century..."

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Cliff Jacobson: Chicago, IL, I regret to say. I hated the city; always dreamed of hiking and camping in some wild place and living off the land.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

CJ: I’ve always loved camping and the wilderness, and guns and shooting. I still love to shoot. I was on the R.O.T.C. small-bore rifle team in high-school (We had a range in the building) and on the Purdue University small bore team in college. I was stationed in Germany when I was in the Army and I made the U.S. Army Gold National Match (Rifle) team. I still shoot a lot, though now it’s mostly with very high- end precision air rifles.

TSL: What inspired you to start venturing into the wilds?

CJ: I think it’s in the blood. I read virtually every book in print on wilderness travel when I was a kid. I just loved the idea of wilderness, of being alone and on your own. I really do think it’s a gene. I’ve had kids on canoe trips where it rained and was miserable every day—still, they loved it. I’ve had other kids on trips that were picture perfect and they hated every minute.

TSL: What did you learn in the Boy Scouts? What are your fondest memories and experiences?

CJ: The best compliment I have ever received on my writing came from a Scoutmaster who said: “Cliff, I’ve read your books and I don’t know who you think you’re kidding; all you’ve done is taken the old Boy Scout stuff and modernized it.” “Shhhh,” I responded. “Promise me you won’t tell a soul!” Yes, Scouting set the bench marks. Scouting taught me the basics; it was a wonderful way to learn and to experience nature. How I am today is a huge reflection of my long-time Scouting experiences.

TSL: Do you hunt or fish?

CJ: Fishing? No. I just don’t have the patience. This was a big disappointment to my dad, who loved to fish. I do love to eat fish though, and I’m happy to fillet and cook them. I always love to have some anglers on my canoe trips. I hunted a lot when I was younger, mostly rabbits and squirrels. I was into deer hunting for a while but I don’t go anymore, mostly because the woods are too crowded with hunters. I prefer peace and quiet. I still occasionally hunt pheasants, but that’s all. Mostly, I now hunt inanimate objects like “plastic clothes-pins, doo-dads and dandelion heads” in my yard with my air guns.

TSL: Who is your favorite artist, if you have one?

CJ: Don’t have one, sorry.

TSL: What music are you currently listening to? Who are your favorite bands or musicians?

CJ: I love music but I’m not into performers or bands. Mostly, I prefer classical—Mozart and Bach especially—and folk.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors? Who are you currently reading?

CJ: No favorite authors, just favorite books. I prefer non-fiction, though occasionally I’ll wade through a long fiction piece. I recently read the Odessa File—it’s way old but somehow I overlooked it. Perhaps my favorite book of the last decade is “Two Cups of Tea”. I really loved it. I recently read “Daughter, Father, Canoe” by Rob Kesselring. It’s a wonderful book!

TSL: What historical figure do you most admire?

CJ: Daniel Boone, for sure. The best biography is the one by John Bakeless. It’s a big book and very thorough. Boone was amazing. And oh yeah, he didn’t like coon-skin caps; he didn’t have an Indian friend named Mingo; the list goes on. He was a little guy like me, maybe 135 pounds, with blond hair. Read the Bakelesss biography. Daniel was amazing! I also greatly admire Crazy Horse. The book, “Crazy Horse and Custer” really gets into the soul of this amazing Indian hero. Maybe in the next life, I’ll get to hang out with him for a while and learn some serious survival tricks.

TSL: Champagne and Caviar or Beer and Chips?

CJ: I rather dislike bubbly. GOOD beer (that means dark brown stout from a revered micro-brewery) is my choice. I dearly love ancient single malt Scotch and an occasional 1920’s formula gin martini. I don’t mean to brag but I do make the best margaritas in the world—all from scratch and with organic limes of course.

TSL: Do you feel that the ease of access to media and information has improved our quality of life, or reduced it?

CJ: The Internet has made it easier to plan and organize canoe trips in areas where help is an airplane ride away. Used to be, we figured on a full year of planning for a canoe trip in the far north. Now, one can put things together in a matter of weeks because getting information is just a few clicks away. GPS units have literally eliminated the problem of getting lost in the bush, even when threading your way through complex deltas, like those near Hudson Bay. And satellite phones and SPOT technology provide instant communication when you need it. Still, the new technology has degraded the wilderness experience. Why? Because if things don’t go well on a trip, one has the option to quit—simply call up your charter float plane and say, “Pick me up”. Before this technology, you had to be where you had to be, when you had to be there.” This often meant paddling well into the night or at times when you should stay put. The alternative was paying the pilot twice if he came and you weren’t there on time. Those were the “real” days of wilderness travel. It really separated the men and women from the boys and girls. Today, weenies can make significant trips and survive.

TSL: What project are you currently working on?

CJ: I just finished revising my book, BOUNDARY WATERS CANOE CAMPING, for a 2012 release. I’m really proud of this one: it will be larger format, full color (about 75 spectacular photos) and about 20 percent more material. It will be a beauty! I also really enjoy writing semi-regular columns for Scouting magazine. Scouters, more than most, understand that “skills are more important than things.”

TSL: What 5 wilderness skills do you feel best translate to everyday life, or that you feel every person should know?

CJ: I’ve thought about this one quite a bit. Indeed, this topic was the major emphasis of my video, THE FORGOTTEN SKILLS. In it, I detail what I think are the most important skills one needs to perfect in order to be warm, dry and in command on a wilderness venture.

1. Confidently build a one match fire in any weather.
2. Storm-proof your tent so it won’t blow down, even in a 60 mph wind. Part of storm-proofing is planning for the unexpected (or rather, “expected”), like the ground loading with run-off and water coming into your tent.
3. Tricks for sleeping comfortably on rocky and very uneven sites.
4. Rigging single and twin rain-tarps quickly and so tightly that they’ll stand firm in gale force winds—and so you can rig a smoke-free fire beneath. Knowing the required quick-release knots and hitches so you can set up and take camp down quickly.
5. Edged tools: what you need and how to most effectively use them.

These are the REAL survival skills. That nonsense about carrying a midget survival kit filled with fishing line, hooks, razor blade and other silly tools takes a back seat to deep knowledge of important skills. Anyone who goes beyond the beaten path—or even sticks to the beaten path—should, at a minimum, have on their person at least these four items: knife, waterproof matches or butane lighter, compass, map (a paper version or “map knowledge” of the area in your head). To this, one should review the “Ten Essentials” which you’ll find in every survival book. When I was 22 years old, and a forester working for the BLM in western Oregon, I was marking timber for sale when I became lost in the woods for three days. This was in the very remote Douglas Fir/Rhododendron rain-forest in the Pacific Coast Range. Here, visibility is so limited that if you get 20 feet off the road or trail, you’re in deep, thick woods. People who get lost there rarely get found. On my person I had a pocket knife, lighter, compass, water bottle and sack lunch. I also had a “map of the area in my head”. Three days later I had walked over a mountain and into a little town called Remote, Oregon. I never told a soul about this. Why? Because foresters don’t get lost! You don’t need a special survival kit if you’re lost, but you do need the four items I’ve mentioned, plus a positive mental attitude that says, “I’ll survive”.

TSL: If you could sit down at a dinner table with anyone-living or dead, who would it be? What would you serve?

CJ: That’s a hard one because I consider myself a pretty good cook. I make really great scratch-made pizza using all organic ingredients and four different cheeses. I make the dough one day and refrigerate it over night. I use a baking stone, of course, and a cooking temperature of 500 degrees. The pizza comes out just like those in wood-fire ovens. But if Daniel Boone came to dinner, I’d just get grill some top bison steaks and serve it with Minnesota wild rice and a mixed salad.

TSL: Are you worried about global warming or “climate change”?

CJ: It’s not something I worry about, but I am concerned. I’ve canoed in the Arctic, talked to local Inuits, saw the receding glaciers, was shocked to see polar bears coming off the ice in early July well north of Churchill, Manitoba. The Inuits in Arviat said they have to go like 500 miles north now for good hunting. The ice is breaking earlier than ever, and farther north than ever. Anyone who thinks this is a joke should go see the changes for themselves. We are already seeing huge climatic changes in the world. But people who never learned proper science in school ask “how can there be so much cold and snow if we’re having global warming?” The problem is that they don’t understand the difference between weather and climate! The warming earth puts more moisture into the air, which causes weird weather everywhere.

TSL: If you could own any car, what would it be?

CJ: Yeah, yeah, I dearly do love cars. If I had the bucks I would probably drive a BMW M3 with manual transmission. I’ve always loved two-seater roadsters. Over the years I’ve owned a 60 MG-A, 68 Fiat 124 Spyder, and I now have and cherish a mint 96 BMW Z3 with 72,000 miles. Years ago, I got into buying used high end cars. You can often get them real cheap because people are afraid of them (maintenance expenses). But most of these cars are garage queens that have been impeccably maintained. I am embarrassed to say that we have four vehicles. They are: 1. 2002 Subaru WRX wagon…great little car. Good gas mileage, lots of room and pretends she’s a Jeep in the snow. 2. 2001 Chevy Suburban—hides in the garage till it’s canoe trip time then happily hauls everything. 3. 1996 BMW Z3—we’ve driven this toy to Nova Scotia, Los Angeles and literally all around the country—top down all the way. 4. 2001 BMW 330i. The devil made me buy this pristine, barely driven Beemer. It had just 54K miles on it and I got it for just 13K. The car is mint, not a scratch or flake of rust. I’ve had it for two years now. All it needed was new brakes. I think I have enough cars for now.

TSL: What is your greatest extravagance?

CJ: Susie and I love good food. We buy only organic produce and grass-fed beef. We spend a lot of money on organic food, but it’s worth it, especially at this point in our lives where our ages indicate there is gray at the end of the tunnel. We don’t drink soda (pop) and only very occasionally do we do junk food. Our grocery bill is huge. I also spend a lot of money on my hobbies, canoeing and camping, and guns. Some people think that we writers get all our camping stuff for free. Hardly. Yes, occasionally there are perks, like a free test product or a discount. But mostly, I buy my stuff over the counter. We also have some terrific solo and tandem canoes. On the other hand, our house is pretty low tech. It stands on a two acre wood-lot and was built in 1895. It’s a simple French colonial farm house, worth maybe 175K today—far from extravagant. Our furniture and TV is more than 20 years old. We buy new “house stuff” only when it breaks, never for show. Our carpeting is dreadful, largely because I haul firewood into the house while wearing dirty boots. Really now, isn’t Susie a terrific wife?

TSL: What are your favorite meals to prepare in the wild?

CJ: The easiest and fastest is a mix of Oriental Raman soup with dehydrated hamburger, dried shitake mushrooms and mixed veggies. Everyone loves my garlic-cheese-oregano "pita melts", which are usually served as an hors d’ouvre. The most exotic is steam-fried "pita pizza" (see my book, "Basic Illustrated Cooking")

TSL: What are the essential tools of wilderness cooking?

CJ: Basically, there are three: 1) Intense preparation, 2) Dehydrated hamburger, beans, tomato powder--with these, you can make almost anything, 3) The "cozy" system I developed--it saves stove fuel, shortens cooking time, prevents burning and keeps food hot enough for seconds. My book, "Basic Illustrated Cooking" has the details.

TSL: What tool/gear do you always carry with you on your trips?

CJ: There are many: my Idaho Knife Works, sheath knife ("Cliff" knife), Gransfors hatchet, wood-frame "Fast bucksaw", Leatherman original tool, Suunto compass, Garmin 400T GPS, compact Zeiss binoculars--and oh yes, absolutely always, an interior ground cloth for the tent I'm sleeping in.

TSL: What is the top 5 rules of wilderness canoeing?

CJ: Sorry, I could only think of 7. They are: 1. Underestimate your ability. Example: you have the skill to paddle the rapid ahead, but it's a tough one. Best chicken out and portage or line. It's a long walk out if you mess up and wrap your boat. 2. Be a good navigator--don't get lost, 3.Be able to make a fire quickly and efficiently in any weather, 3. Know how to storm-proof your tent so it won't blow down in a gale, and you'll stay dry no matter how long or hard it rains. 4. Be able to rig rain-tarps that keep water out and won't blow down in wind. 5.Be a good cook--if everything goes sour at least they'll remember the food. 6. Be patient--don't take chances with your life even if it means you'll miss your float plane or won't make it home in time for work. 7. Know how to "backferry" a heavily loaded canoe. You won't get down a tough northern river if you can't!

TSL: What is your favorite canoe & paddle?

CJ: My Bell Yellowstone Solo canoe (black and gold). I'm addicted to Zaveral carbon-fiber paddles. I have two 12-degree bent-shafts and two straight paddles. One is a beefed-up model for moderate rapids. The shaft has blue and silver "sparkles" for high visibility in the event it's lost in the gathering flow during a capsize.

Notice the "sparkle" paddle.

TSL: If you could live in any era, when would it be?

CJ: Pretty much now, for these reasons. They are:

1. I’ve had some health issues that would have been problematic 100 years ago.
2. I could not abide living at a time in a country where slavery was allowed. I think I would have been like John Brown and been hung before I could write a single word.
3. We stole land from the Indians and Mexicans. I would not want to have been part of that.
4. Living 100 or more years ago sounds romantic, but I’ve spent enough time in the woods, stoking a smoky fire to know that “real comfort and the easy life” is in the cities. If you want to work hard, and constantly, take to the woods.
5. And really now, how could I possibly live without my computer?

TSL: If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

CJ: If you had asked me this ten years ago, I would have said Ely, MN. We wanted to move there when I retired from teaching in 2001 but real estate was too pricey. Now, both my daughters live in LA, and I have a cute new grandson there so I’d consider moving to the west. But never LA—I dislike cities. I could be happy in northern CA, or maybe the mountains of Colorado, Wyoming or Utah. Still, I love the clear blue water of Wisconsin and Minnesota. The water out west is like chocolate malt. It’s a tough choice. I’ll probably stay here.

TSL: What else are you into? Bullfights, Polo, Horse Racing, Motorcycles, F1, Rally, Croquette, Bocci, Skeet Shooting, Reading on the beach?

CJ: Don’t hate me, but spectator sports bore me. And so do traditional vacation choices, like lying on the beach, hanging out at fancy hotels etc. I am a gregarious person, but still, my greatest pleasures are canoeing and camping in a beautiful place where help is an airplane ride away, and driving my little red roadster, top-down, on a gorgeous winding road.

TSL: What country is your favorite to visit/live?

CJ: I loved Norway and Sweden. I loved the people, the food, the culture, the environmental attitude: There are no bill boards! They recycle everything, hardly anyone lives in poverty, and yes, the women really are drop-dead gorgeous! Viking land is cold, clean, beautiful and well-organized.

TSL: What has been your most memorable trip/expedition?

CJ: The Hood River in Nunavut, Canada, of course. Susie and I got married at Wilberforce Falls on that river in 1992. The story is in my book, EXPEDITION CANOEING.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfect lunch?

CJ: I rarely eat lunch. Mostly, a big breakfast of oatmeal, mixed nuts, berries and yogurt and a couple hard-boiled eggs—keeps me till supper. On canoe trips, I do eat lunch, but it isn’t much.

You can keep up with Cliff at his website. LINK

*Bonus points if you can pick him out of the Boyscout photo.

EVENT: Global Rally Cross-"The Revolution"

2011-03-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

Irwindale, CA March 26th-27th

Rally Racing is the Lacrosse of motor sports as far as I'm concerned. It has never drawn big crowds here in the US of A but is exponentially more worthy than the lesser sports. We've made some feeble attempts at promoting it in the past, but apparently we only like to watch our events from the safety of the bleachers and in close proximity to $8 hot dogs and $15 beers. Beggars can't be choosers...

"Rallycross sees as many as six drivers line up to start at once, each piloting a high-horsepower compact car through race traffic over a challenging short course that features jumps, off-camber turns, hills and transitions between pavement and gravel. Drivers progress through a series of heat eliminations until the main event – where it’s flat-out mayhem to the finish.
Competitors race in either the two-wheel drive or all-wheel drive class in race-prepared, production-based vehicles. These are fast and nimble competition cars, with top-class competitors running 0-60 times in less than two seconds."

www.global-rallycross.com

SPORTING: Expedition Canoeing School with Cliff Jacobson

2011-03-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

April 1-3, 2011 Fred C. Andersen Scout Camp

Houlton, WI

One of the best skills I learned in the Boy Scouts was how to properly handle a canoe.

There was a small creek near our house that was never more than a few inches deep in the summer, but in the spring it would swell into a raging river from the thaw run off.

I was lucky enough to have a Tom Sawyer to my Huck Finn and on our route home from school we would pass the river and check the height of the creek. The perfect height was when the river was as high as possible but with enough room for a canoe to pass under the bridge.

We capsized a few times and always emerged looking like a couple of drowned rats but the adventure and memories were well worth it.

Maybe that’s the point…develop the skills so you can have the adventures and come away with some lessons learned, great memories, and your life intact.

If you’re up in that neck of the woods, I highly recommend attending Cliff’s course…and it’s for a great cause.

Cliff's Web Site

Event Flyer

He will also be giving an Expedition Canoeing Workshop at the Duluth Pack Store on April 9th.

SPORTING: Elk Trip-Let's Get Lost

2011-03-07T21:51:00.000-08:00

“You don’t know what you don’t know until you need to know it, and don’t.” –Old Sport

I had a few phone conversations with our outfitter, trying to pin down the exact location of our camp and the areas we’d be hunting. He eventually gave me some GPS coordinates and I spent a few hours looking online using Google Maps & Google Earth. I also asked him for a topo map marked with where elk had been taken recently. He eventually sent me a map of the Gila Wilderness. (This map later proved to be worthless in the field as the topography markings were all wrong.) In addition, I studied US Forestry service maps online. Their maps were great and I highly recommend them.
I grew up in the Boy Scouts, which is where I received the majority of my orienteering/wilderness survival training. I was also a member of a very active troop, which helped. I had also read “To Build A Fire” a few times, so I knew enough not to light a fire under a snow-laden tree.

I felt I had done all of the necessary preparation for safely navigating my way around the area we’d be hunting, that is until I was actually sitting there in the wilderness.

I had planned our itinerary so that we would have a day for riding in, setting up camp and getting settled, and a day in the field for scouting and acclimating before the first day of hunting. The ride in was beautiful and exciting. The terrain varied from wide open plains-like grasslands, steep and dense Ponderosa forests, lush meadows and clear mountain streams. All of this is great, but the deeper we went into the Wilderness, the less I knew where I was. Logically you could turn around and take the trail back to where we parked the trucks, but this could prove to be a difficult task if it were dark or there were white-out conditions caused by fog or snow. It’s plenty easy to lose your bearings and panic and get yourself into real trouble. I quickly realized I would be dependent on my guides to get me in and out of the wilderness safely and I wasn’t completely at ease with this idea. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust them it was that I know what can happen, and how quickly a party can get separated.

After we’d set up camp and settled in a bit, we gathered around the campfire and opened some maps to get our bearings. We were lucky in that we were camped at the base of Lily Mountain and could use it as a significant landmark for finding our way back to camp. Again, that’s all well and good if it’s a bright and clear day. We studied the maps and the contours and the trails. We all pulled out our compasses and checked where magnetic North actually was. We discussed the areas we’d be hunting, and their relation to the camp and Lily Mountain. At the end of the meeting, my father said to us, “Just use all of the training you guys got from Scouts.” My mind took a very quick inventory of what I’d learned, and what could be useful out here in the middle of nowhere.

The next day we scouted the two main areas we’d decided to hunt, and every so often I would stop the party, pull out our maps, and ask where we were. This helped a lot as the week progressed, and the more time I spent out there, the better I felt about where I was…although I was never completely at ease. I was always worried about my brothers or my dad, whomever I was hunting with.

During the trip my older brother got separated from us for a few hours when one of the guides had dropped him off on the wrong ridge. He fired a shot to alert us that he was “lost”, but didn’t fire three consecutive shots to signal he was lost because he’d only brought three along with him that day. I spent half a day looking for him and the elk I thought he’d shot…which leads to a few other things I learned on this trip, which I’ll get to sooner than later.

1) Know how to read a compass and a map and practice using them before you get out into the field

2) Ask your outfitter for as much information about exactly where you’ll be camping and hunting, and any helpful landmarks, well before you’re out in the wilds

3) Study your maps

4) When you’re hiking/packing in, take time to orient yourself and take note of important landmarks along the way

5) Allot time to acclimate/orient yourself once you’re into your hunting area…don’t go rushing off into the brush after your quarry

6) Trust your compass

I’m sure there are some other tips that experienced outdoorsman can give, so please feel free to chime in…

SPORTING: Hunting the Gila

2011-02-03T05:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's better to start at the end...

The trip was a huge success, although only one of us tagged out. I saw a lot of elk, but only two worth shooting, and I didn’t have a clean shot at either, so I let them go. I can honestly say that I have not felt one ounce of disappointment. I was hunting with my younger brother when he killed his elk, and I couldn’t have been happier for his success. It was his first big game kill and I knew the emotional arc he was about to experience. Upon return, most people asked if we’d killed anything, but one of my closest friends asked me what I learned. I knew he wasn’t interested in the hunting skills I’d acquired, but more interested in the philosophical or spiritual journey of it. Hunting is one of the very few times in my life when I am completely, singularly focused, with all pistons firing, and all sense redlined. This is what I love about hunting. I will share all that I learned.

Food & Drink: Caffe Luxxe-Let Them Eat Croissant!

2011-01-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

I wonder if there's not some guy in Paris who wakes up wanting a raised chocolate-glazed donut and a good cup of joe. He probably smokes Marlboro reds...

A good croissant is not all that easy to find here in LA. Most are either dry and tasteless or butter-soaked. I stopped at Caffe Luxxe on San Vicente for a cappuccino and tried one of theirs. I would have to say top five of my lifetime, and at least top three in LA; light, flaky and buttery on the outside and soft and delightful on the inside. The coffee is great, and they make a pretty little leaf on the top of the foam, like the clover on a pint of Guinness. The little courtyard there is nice too; good for reading a book, working on your "Coming of Age" memoirs or watching the attractive women coming out of the pilates studio next store. It's not cheap, but less than a flight to Paris.

Caffe Luxxe

11975 San Vicente Blvd
Brentwood, CA 90049
Neighborhood: Brentwood
(310) 440-7802

www.caffeluxxe.com

SPORTING: Group B Monsters

2011-01-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

We all have moments in our lives when we are drawn down an unfamiliar path by a force beyond our own reckoning.

For this prairie-boy from the Middle-West, it was seeing a Group B Rally clip on ABC’s Wild World of Sport. My mind was expanded beyond the Hemi-powered drones, the rusted out big-block Chevelles and Novas. This was the early 80’s and the American auto industry was, in my opinion, at one of its lowest points in style and power.

(Note: 1982 Corvette made 200 bhp and did 0-60 in 7.9 seconds, and clocked the quarter mile in 16.1. This was the pinnacle of the American performance car at the time.)

We American’s aren’t necessarily known for our finesse. Take the Shelby Cobra for instance. Carroll took a lightweight and beautiful British sports car and crammed an American V8 in it. Granted it’s one of the most famous cars in the world, and coolest, but it cornered and braked for shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not poo-pooing good ol’ American know-how. I’m just saying we lack a certain…finesse. To my point, there I am, surrounded by Hot Rod magazines, my older brother is pulling the 455 out of my parents ’70 Le Sabre, probably eating Cheerios in my underwear, when on the TV I see some alien looking cars four-wheel drifting and catching air through the narrow mountain roads, and tight cobblestone streets of Europe while throngs of people line the course trying to touch the cars as they pass, and dodge the rooster tail of rocks and dirt coming off the tires as they pass at ungodly speeds. This may be the exact moment in my life where I realized there was something else going on across the Pond. I must have watched EVERY Wide World of Sports after that trying to catch a glimpse of these cars and learn about the drivers and navigators.

I came across this video on a friend’s site ATTG, and it reminded me that I needed to start looking for a UR Quattro again.

STYLE: Barbour International 75th Anniversary

2010-12-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

...cool vintage Trials bikes, but not very impressive "obstacles".

CULTURE: Justin Townes Earle via Garden & Gun

2010-11-29T21:08:00.001-08:00

SPORTING: Abercrombie Tents-Circa 1957

2010-09-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

I came across these illustration in another of my favorite books; "Sportsman's Pictorial-Encyclopedia of Guns, Hunting, and Fishing. You can still buy similar tents, but most people couldn't be bothered with as much time as it would take to set one of these up, especially Plate #1-Wall Tent.

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010 Rifle Ballistics Comparison

2010-09-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

As you can tell, I've become a bit "focused" on the upcoming Elk hunting trip. I worked up this little comparison chart of the rifles we're taking on the trip. We were considering leaving the 300 Savage behind, because it is not known for it's long-range performance, but I was surprised to find it performs very similarly to the .270 with a 150 gr. bullet.

This is about as "techy" as I will get...

Note: The information provided above was provided by the Remington website.

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010 Sighting In

2010-09-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I spent some time with my brother on the rifle range. We have a good range here in Los Angeles with accommodations out to 600 yds. That’s a LONG poke, and I’ve yet to see anyone huff it out there to set up a target. It is one of the safest range’s I’ve been on. They are very strict and ever-watchful. This gives me great confidence when I have my back to the benches while inspecting or changing targets. I did hit the dirt once when I heard the range-master scream into the PA “DO NOT APPROACH THE BENCHES!!! The guy apologized…he had left his smokes on the bench. I have been shooting there for almost 15 years without incident (knock-wood).

I had recently changed out the scope on my .30-06 for a more modern 3 X 9 Weaver. The rifle was given to me by my Grandfather before he passed away.(I will do a full post on the rifle before the trip). I did my best to bore-sight before I started throwing lead-dollars down the barrel (Box of qty. 20 .30-06 cartridges is approx $20-that’s $1/shot).

The graphic above is an illustration of the progression of my shots. I have spent a fair bit of time behind this rifle already, so I was confident in my shots and groupings. I took three shots per group, and made adjustments accordingly. I overshot my windage adjustment after the 2nd round and had to correct back. It is now sighted at 3” high @ 100 yds. I was shooting Remington 150 gr. Core-Lokt factory loads.

Here is an excerpt from Outdoor Life’s “Sportsman Encyclopedia” on rifle-sighting. It is not credited to Jack O’Connor specifically, but all of the pictures are of Jack, and the writing is in his distinctive style.

“For most mountain shooting, where a 300-yd. shot is about average, many hunters adjust their scope sighted .270 rifles to put the 130-gr. bullet 3 in. high at 100 yd., 4 in. high at 200, right on at 300, and 4 in. low at 350 yd. “

Our guides have told us most of the shots are taken at about 200 yd.

Here's where you can pick up a copy of the very useful "Sportsman's Encyclopedia".

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010 Jack O'Connors Pack List

2010-09-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

Much of the fun of a big trip, especially a hunting trip, is the preparation and planning. I found this list in Jack O’Connor’s The Art of Hunting Big Game in North America.

Checklist of Clothes and Equipment to be taken on a 30-Day Pack Trip

2 restocked Winchester .270 Model 70 Featherweight rifles with 4x scopes on Tilden mounts with detachable slings.
2 Combination saddle scabbards and carrying cases with hoods.
1 .410 shotgun for grouse.
1 saddle scabbard for guide to use in carrying .410
40 .270 cartridges with 130-gr. bullets
20 .270 cartridges with 150-gr. bullets
50 .410 shotshells
1 leather cartridge box to hold 20 cartridges to be carried on belt.
1 Bausch & Lomb 9 X 35 binocular with case.
1 12 X 60 Leitz binocular with case.
1 20X prismatic spotting scope with case and tripod.
1 35-mm. Contax camera for black-and-white film.
1 35-mm. Contax camera for color film.
1 135-mm. telephoto lens for Contax.
1 magazine type 16-mm motion picture camera with 1-in. 1.9 lens and 3-in. 3.5 telephoto.
15 rolls medium-speed black-and-white 35-mm. film.
15 rolls 35-mm. color film.
20 50-ft. magazines color film for motion camera.
1 camera kit bag to be carried in saddle bags with extra film, filters, etc.
1 pr. Oil-tanned boots with 8-in tops and Hungarian hobnails.
1 pr. Light waterproof boots with composition soles and 8-in tops for dry days and trail.
1 pr. shoe pacs.
3 prs. Felt inner soles for shoe pacs.
6 prs. Wool socks, 20-in. height.
1 pr. “loafer” shoes for wear around camp.
3 suits medium wool underwear (2 piece).
3 medium-weight wool shirts.
1 Eddie Bauer “Skyliner” model down jacket.
2 prs. wool trousers.
1 strong belt.
Extra shoe laces.
1 saddle slicker.
1 light short rain jacket.
1 pair cotton pajamas.
1 pair flannelette or wool flannel pajamas.
18 white cotton handkerchiefs.
4 large bandana handkerchiefs (red or blue)
Toilet kit with comb, razor, blades, shaving soap, toothbrush, nail file, chapstick, etc.
1 pr. fur-lined gloves or mittens.
1 wide-brimmed “10-gallon” type hat.
1 90 X 90 down sleeping bag.
1 air mattress.
1 8 X 10 waterproof canvas tarp.
1 lash rope for bedroll.
1 pair fiberpack panniers.
1 stout pocket knife.
1 jointed cleaning rod.
1 steel tape for measuring heads.
Cut patches.
Gun oil and solvent.
Screwdrivers to fit guard screws and scope screws.
Small bottle linseed oil.
1 pr. leather saddle bags to tie on behind cantle of saddle.

I like the little details he includes. It’s a long list, but it’s for 30-Days!

I will share my personal pack list for our 8-day trip in a day or so.

INTERVIEW: Christina Oxenberg

2010-09-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Los Angeles, fresh off the boat from NorCal, I was overwhelmed by pretty much everything. Within the first month I had a brief few weeks where I thought I’d really made it…I was at a Christmas party being hosted by a Studio with some friends, showing all the tres chic dance moves I’d just learned from MTV when a lovely young woman joined me on the dance floor. The next thing I knew I was going to parties up in the Canyons with rock stars, basketball players, movers and shakers only to return to my flea infested unfurnished studio in Culver City and listen to Rage Against the Machine with headphones and sleep under a moving blanket. I had really made it!

It was a great introduction to the dichotomy of life in Los Angeles. Aside from learning a lesson, I made a lifelong friend. She was the first real writer I’d ever met, and the only person I knew who lived on bread and brie.

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Christina Oxenberg: America & England, in equal parts.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

OX: Reading, playing my mother’s LPs of Cat Stevens and Chopin, dancing.

TSL: What did you want to be when you “Grew Up”?

OX: Ballet choreographer.

TSL: What inspired you to start writing?

OX: Contracts from publishers.

TSL: What is your relationship with words?

OX: Demented love affair.

TSL: What is your favorite word?

OX: More.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors?

OX: Truman Capote, Vladimir Nabokov, Voltaire.

TSL: Favorite Books?

OX: Other Voices, Other Rooms, Lolita, Candide - exercises in perfection.

TSL: What are you currently reading?

OX: The Master Butchers Singing Club by Louise Erdrich / Notes From The Night by Taylor Plimpton, / How It

Ended by Jay McInerney / The Most of PG Wodehouse.

TSL: What inspires you when you’re writing, or what inspires you to write?

OX: …that feeling of falling into the writing groove…

TSL: What music are you currently listening to?

OX: Rap and reggae (IPod of a friend- couldn’t tell you the name of anything, but I like it)

TSL: What historical figure do you most admire, if any?

OX: Boadicea.

TSL: Champagne and Caviar or Beer and Chips?

OX: Beluga caviar & Italian beer.

TSL: Do you feel that the ease of access to media and information has improved our quality of life, or reduced it?

OX: Unquestionably improved, for most.

TSL: What are you currently working on?

OX: …the second half…

TSL: If you could sit down at a dinner table with anyone-living or dead, who would it be? What would you serve?

OX: Any Calvin Klein underwear model…, he would be the meal.

TSL: Are you worried about global warming or “climate change”?

OX: Of course…I have very fair skin…

TSL: If you could own any car, what would it be?

OX: Bugatti

TSL: What is your greatest extravagance?

OX: Full serve at the gas pump

TSL: If you could live in any era, when would it be?

OX: Too many variables- first I would have to negotiate material advantages and social standing.

TSL: If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

OX: in ‘I Dream of Jeannie’s’ bottle.

TSL: Whiskey, Scotch, Vodka, Beer, Wine, Sober, Tea?

OX: Tea

TSL: What else are you into? Bullfights, Polo, Horse Racing, Motorcycles, F1, Rally, Croquette, Bocci, Skeet Shooting, Reading on the beach?

OX: Studiously avoiding reality, plugged in to an IPod, walking on the beach, reading under the A/C.

TSL: What country is your favorite to visit/live?

OX: To visit: Colombia and Scotland, to live: good ole US of A

TSL: What other jobs have you had, other than writer?

OX: Pretty much anything that paid weekly and required no long-term commitment.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfect lunch?

OX: 4pm.

You can buy her hi-larious book; “Do These Gloves Make My Ass Look Fat?” here. LINK

CULTURE: "Diamond" David Lee Roth -Vintage Interview

2010-08-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

I found this great interview from Wet magazine with DLR from the good ol' days of Van Halen. He quotes the Koran, names Genghis Khan as one of his heroes, and gives the ladies what they want... (Note: click the images to read the interview...I know...lame...)

SPORTING: Teddy Roosevelt's A.H. Fox Scattergun

2010-08-12T08:40:00.000-07:00

This has been an amazing year for the Americana shotgun collector. In March, the legendary "Bo Whoop", owned by Nash Buckingham-arguably America's finest sportswriter, sold for $201,250 at auction. In October, the Grandaddy of all American shotguns is coming up for auction; Teddy Roosevelt's A.H. Fox 12 gauge that accompanied him on his African Safari...time to expand the paper route!!!

Here is the press release from the auction house:

"Immediately following his Presidency, Teddy Roosevelt made plans in early 1909 for a year-long safari in Africa. The trip was partially funded by the Smithsonian as a naturalist expedition. His son Kermit would accompany him. Calling on his great experience as a soldier, statesman, conservationist and hunter, T.R. put great forethought into what would be needed to prevail in his quest. A battery of arms was assembled, 2 of note were a Holland & Holland Royal double rifle in .500/450, and a beautiful Ansley H. Fox F-Grade, Special Gold inlaid, 12 gauge. Although originally ordered by Mr. Roosevelt’s wife as a gift for the expedition, Mr. Fox insisted on presenting this special gun to Mr. Roosevelt at no charge, who later thanked Fox stating “I really think it’s the most beautiful gun I have ever seen, I am exceedingly proud of it.” And later in his book entitled African Game Trails, Roosevelt writes, “I have a Fox number 12 Shotgun; no better gun was ever made.” The Fox Gun Company would capitalize on this ringing endorsement for decades.
Following the President’s death in 1919, the Fox gun remained in the possession of the Roosevelt family for three generations but in October of 2010, the James D. Julia Auction Company, will for the first time in history, offer it for sale at public auction. The Holland & Holland double rifle was sold in the early 90’s for $550,000 and now resides in the famous Frazier Arms Museum in KY. This Fox Shotgun is believed by many in the Sporting Gun fraternity to be far more important and valuable than the H&H and in fact, one of the most valuable shotguns in the world. The October auction at Julia’s will certainly determine this. Julia’s, in recent years, established records for the three most expensive single American Shotguns ever sold at auction and are currently the worlds leading Auctioneers of quality sporting guns. There can be no question that the Roosevelt-Fox Shotgun is the most historic gun in annals of American Shotgun history as well as one of the worlds most historic Shotguns."

Here's the LINK to the auction catalog pages.

James D. Julia

Note: The crumpled fabric is the case is a pair of TR's old pajamas, used to wrap the gun.

RESOURCE: Haystack-Needle Finder

2010-08-05T08:09:00.000-07:00

I am obsessed with cars...hard to find, ridiculous to own, limited parts availability, cars that most people wouldn't give a second look. And when I say OBSESSED I don't mean in a "cute" way.

I will spend hours upon hours scouring the info-bahn looking for cars, Craigslist being one of my favorite resources. The problem with using Craigslist is that if you wanted to search the whole country for your "barn find", you had to search each area individually...that is until I found Hank's Helper. This was a couple of years ago, and they've since changed the name to Auto Tempest and added Ebay, Auto Trader, Cars Direct, and Cars.com to the reach of their searches. I have found it an invaluable resource for hours of dreaming, plotting, planning, and the occasional impractical auto purchase.

Flagship: 2011 Jeep Grand Cherokee

2010-07-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

I will admit I am a sucker for "American Made"...

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010 Selecting An Outfitter

2010-06-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

What I thought would be the most daunting part of planning the elk hunting trip may prove to have been the easiest. As I mentioned before, I had specific criteria for the hunt.

Wilderness meant horses and pack mules.

I zeroed in on outfitters that live and work in the general vicinity of where I wanted to hunt. Then I looked for outfitters that guide year round, the thought being that they would have the most time in the field…and hopefully know where the elk like to spend their time.
This narrowed it down to a small few. I checked their names with the NM DFG. Two of them had some reports filed against them. One had no mention. I must make the point that there have been, and will always be, plenty of unhappy hunters in the field, especially if they’re paying serious dough. Expectations are usually very high, and most times out of reach. These are usually once in a lifetime trips for people, and they feel they had better come back with a bigger elk than their friend has hanging on the wall, or there’ll be hell to pay… So, I take these reports with a few grains of salt and maybe some tequila and lime…or lemon, I’m not picky.

I made some calls, checked some websites, made some more calls, trolled the Infobahn punching in their names, etc. The one that I eventually chose was for a combination of reasons, but in all actuality, because of the gut feeling I got. What I liked about the outfit was that he guides people of all walks of life, who come from all over the world, almost year round…and has return customers. If you’ve ever worked in the service business, you know how hard it is to keep people happy and comfortable enough to have them return, or give a good referral. I asked for some references and started making more phone calls. The hunters varied from “Drop-Camp” to “Fully-Guided” and gave a broad spectrum of critiques. In general, all was good.

A few more phone conversations filled with lots of questions…Our guide had grown up not far from where my father was from, we talked about tents, schedule, menu, range, rifle calibers shooting distances, terrain, etc...size of elk shot in the area in the past few years.

At this point I felt I’d done all I could, and my gut was telling me this was the right choice, so I emailed my brothers and father. They left it up to me…serious pressure. Checks were written and mailed. I have to admit, this was the part I was most nervous about…that’s a lot of dough to send to someone you’ve never met, but my faith in humanity and ability to shoot accurately at long range calmed my nerves. He emailed when he received the deposits and the deal was done. Now all we needed to do was wait to see if we’d draw our tags...you already know we're lucky sumbitches.

To go back a few posts…the New Mexico Department of Fish and Game posts the Boone &Crockett records for the state. This also helped me in choosing the location for the hunt.
(LINK)

CULTURE: One Day As A Lion "Wild International"

2010-06-16T22:53:00.000-07:00

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010 Lottery Winnings

2010-06-09T21:38:00.000-07:00

I was standing in line at the grocery store yesterday evening and my blackberry started vibrating…

“Congratulations! The New Mexico Department of Game and Fish is notifying you that you were successful in drawing a 2010 - 2011 hunting license for the following hunt code(s)…”

Holy crap.

I called my brothers and my Father.

I don’t know the exact odds-of-winning for this zone or this hunt but I don’t think our success in drawing our 1st-choice hunt, on our first try, is typical. (UPDATE: 12% Guided Non-Resident Success Rate 2009-10 Season)

Luck.

With that email, the plan that had stalled out waiting for the draw-results was now set in motion again. The hunt is mid October, so that only gives me four months to prepare.

These next four months of thorough preparation will make or break the trip...

(The image is from "The Big Game Animals of North America"-Outdoor Life)

CULTURE: Shanksy Banksy

2010-05-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's easy to find, but hard to see.

FOOD & DRINK: The Great American Camping Cookbook by Scott Cookman

2010-05-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

“The rock that wrecks most camping trips is the cooking.”

Ernest Hemingway, 1922

This book captured my attention when I first read the introduction. For those of us lucky enough to grow up with Fathers and Grandfathers like those described in these paragraphs, these lines bring back some incredible memories...for me, some of the best memories of my life. With all my Big-Citification, I do my best to keep these traditions alive.

"My Grandfather had a summer camp on Owasco Lake, in the heart of New York’s Finger Lakes region. To reach it you quit the last of the paved road and turned onto a dirt one, pungent with the oil county road crews laid to keep down the summer dust. It descended a long slope towards the lake, a cornfrield on the right and dark woods on the left. The corn, in August as tall as a man, smelled sweet and the woods as yeasty as sourdough starter. At the foot of the slope, the road made an abrupt left-hand turn into the oak and maple forest. Under the shadows of the trees, ferns grew in profusion and land started to smell of water. A mile later, the road dead-ended by the shimmering lake, my grandfather’s white-painted, green-awning-ed camp framed by giant willows.
By today’s standards, it was a simple place: a frame cottage with a living/dining are, two small bedrooms, tiny kitchen, and even tinier bath. But it had a fine brick fireplace, big cushioned armchairs, built-in shelves heavy with books, walls hung with family photos and fishing and camping gear, big windows overlooking the lake, and-in and about everything-the scent of woodsmoke. Out front were a ramshackle dock and a green-painted wooden boat named Sagerjack, with an outboard motor and varnished oars. In back was an old barn, with empty stalls and a tack room where my grandfather and his friends met weekly for poker games.
I remember watching in wonder as these camp games got under way. Big-finned cars pulled up, trunks yawned wide, and a Borbdingnagian feast materialized. It consisted of things strange and wonderful to my six-year-old-eyes-clinking cases labeled Knickerbocker and Rheingold beer, and unmarked boxes filled with bottles of different shapes and colors. The green bottles, I was told, were gin; the brown ones rye; the amber ones Scotch and bourbon; the clear ones vodka. Other bottles contained stuff called tonic, seltzer, and mineral water, which sounded like medicines to me. In glass jars as big as my head were sauerkraut, pickles called “gorkies”, green and black olives, red and yellow pickled peppers, and-most bizarre-pig’s feet. Mesh sacks of what of what looked to me like ordinary onions were, I was told, “Vidalias,” onions so sweet they could be eaten raw like apples.
I thought I’d seen hot dogs, cheese, and ham before. Hot dogs were skinny, pink, and plastic wrapped; 12, all identical, in a pack. Cheese (Velveeta, the only approximation of cheese I’d ever tasted) was flame orange, soft as a slug, and came in a cardboard box. Ham was colorless, odorless, and came in an oval can. The hot dogs from the car trunks, however, called “brats” were obscenely fat, ghost white, and strung together like links in a chain. The cheese from the trunks-white, not orange-was called “Cheddar” or “sharp” and came in wax coated wheels. The hams didn’t come in cans, but hung in what looked like fishing nets. They weren’t colorless; rather they were dark as the mahogany of my grandfather’s boat, smelled like burnt logs, and were called “smoked butts.”
Red boxes of Ritz crackers and sacks of roasted peanuts in their shells, of course, I recognized at once. The buns for the brats, on the other hand, were altogether unfamiliar to me. They weren’t light, sliced, and uniform in size or packaged in plastic bags like hot dog buns. They were heavy, unsliced loaves, bigger than cucumbers, piled in big brown paper bags with twine handles to carry the weight. When they were lifted and when they were dropped, they puffed flour, like smoke. The puffs smelled like a bakery.
The men had all this food-which they called “chow”-organized and under way in a remarkably short order. Charcoal and lighter fluid were put to work, pots and pans brought to the fore, and livbation poured. The brats, pierced by forks, or slashed with knives, were soon spitting on grills. The onions were sliced and laid thick in skillets to sizzle in butter. In a huge, galvanized stew pot set over coals, sauerkraut and chunks of smoked ham were brought to a boil and gobs of dough spooned on top to make dumplings. As thing scooked, the men used their jackknives to cut wedges of Cheddar, spear “gorkies”, and “noodle up” rings of peppers, and used their fingers to pluck ripe olives and pigs “knuckles” (no one called them feet) from jars. Each man sliced his own fresh-baked roll, seared its insides on a grill, filled it with smoking onions, hot mustard, or horseradish. From a ladle stuck in the stew pot, he served up whatever measure of kraut, butt, and dumplings he fancied.
Unlike any meal I’d ever seen, there was no apparent order to this eating except appetite, conviviality, and fellowship. There was certainly no single designated cook. All duties were shared. When one batch of brats was consumed, someone threw more on the grill and assumed stewardship over them until they were done. When the dumplings in the stew vanished, someone stirred up another batch of dough, plopped it in the pot, and watched over it until it was ready. Before the ice chests were emptied of cold beers, somebody would fetch a fresh case, put the cold ones on top, and pack the warm ones on the bottom so they would come up icy in turn. When supper was done-about full dark-dirty dishes and utensils were dropped into a waiting cauldron of scalding water somebody else had the forethought to prepare for the purpose. Everyone then adjourned to the tack room, lamps were lit, cigar and cigarette smoke filled the air.
As a child past bedtime, I was not admitted to this inner sanctum. But I had already witnessed and tasted the unadulterated feats of the Brodhingnagians. I went to sleep full and gloriously fed, as the sound of laughter and chinking poker chips echoed late into the night.
I have been hungry for camp food ever since…"

-Scott Cookman

The Great American Camping Cookbook

CULTURE: Ronnie James Dio (July 10, 1942 – May 16, 2010)

2010-05-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

SPORTING: Elk Trip-2010-Picking A Location

2010-05-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

By the time I started planning the trip, I had already made up my mind as to where I wanted to hunt. Much of my decision was driven by three criteria; 1) Big Bulls 2) Mild Weather 3) Wilderness.

The first two are relatively obvious, and the third is because I wanted a classic Western hunting trip, far away from civilization, and accessible only by foot or hoof. My first thought was Idaho where my Father and Grandfather had hunted, and I asked my Father if he had any inclination to return there, he said he didn’t. All the research I had done was pointing to the Gila Wilderness (pronounced “Hee-la”) in New Mexico. I supplied the data I’d accumulated and my reasoning to the hunting party and they all concurred it was a good option. There is obviously no real mathematical equation for determining where you want to hunt, It’s a combination of the terrain, the quality of the elk herd, the remoteness of the location, and a gut feeling. You may have a completely different scenario in your minds-eye. And more to the point, it’s less about where you hunt than it is about the experience. Your ideal hunt may look more like Montana…They grow ‘em plenty big there too.

Once you’ve established the state and general area you want to hunt, it’s time to start studying the Department of Fish and Game regulations, topo maps, and making phone calls. Knowing where I wanted to hunt I called the New Mexico DFG and asked for the office that managed the Gila. I called the ranger station and got an honest-to-goodness ranger on the phone. I explained what I wanted to do and asked if I could pick his brain. We chatted for 30 minutes about the areas they see the most elk, what affects the herd migrations, watering holes, access, the most remote places with the lowest hunting pressure, etc… My last question was if he could recommend any outfitters. He couldn’t, but he directed me to the list of licensed outfitters they have online and suggested I look for outfitters who have addresses near the general areas I wanted to hunt. “Call ‘em up and ask lots of questions. You’ll get a feel for them and how they run their business. When you narrow it down to a few, call me back and I’ll see if they have any complaints filed against them and how long they’ve been in business.”

This is where the work really started.

INTERVIEW: Carlos Nunez

2010-05-06T10:54:00.001-07:00

The idea of the Sporting Life is that there is beauty in everything, and maybe we all try to capture that beauty in our own way…we want to show the world what our vision is.

I am always impressed and a bit jealous when I find someone who’s found their voice, and are using it better than I ever will, at such a young age. Carlos was nice enough to share a bit of his Sporting Life with us…

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Carlos Nunez: I grew up in Santa Ana-Orange County, CA. Not a Mecca for photography or fashion for sure.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

CN: I didn't really have a hobby. I moved from one thing to another; little league, skateboarding, drawing. Nothing ever stuck.

TSL: What did you want to be when you grew up?

CN: Honestly I can't remember.

TSL: What got you into photography?

CN: Someone buying me a camera for Christmas. I never really had a passion or a pursuit for photography.

TSL: How did you go from opening the new camera box at Christmas to shooting beautiful naked models?

CN: Being in L.A., there are pretty girls everywhere. I pretty much shot my girlfriend at the time and one thing lead to another, and then other girls wanted to shoot with me. Then I decided to shoot girls that wanted to model for a living…all gradual steps for a fashion photographer. I know tons that’ve walked the same path.

TSL: Any unexpected lessons learned along the way?

CN: Unexpected lessons come every day with photography. When you’re just climbing to the top and when you want to stay relevant and not fade, you have to make yourself learn the lessons.

TSL: Name one important lesson you’ve learned.

CN: Know the rules before you try to break them. A lot of young photographers don't understand that, especially in the age of digital photography where you can instantly see on the back of the camera what everything looks like.

TSL: What are the top three rules?

CN: 1. Know your camera, 2. Know how to create a picture rather than take a picture. 3. Know how to edit yourself during your shooting and after.

TSL: Why do you prefer shooting women as opposed to men or architecture or anything else?

CN: I do shoot men, and daily scenes but the world isn't ready for that. A photographer has to be focused on how you want to portray your work. I can't stand looking at photographer’s websites that have portraits of seniors alongside model shoots…it’s just not cohesive. How do you want to be known?

TSL: What is your favorite subject to shoot?

CN: If I could make money shooting dogs I would do it a lot more often, but for now I stick to fashion…or a loose form of fashion. A lot of people think my blog is my work, but it’s not. My blog is about my life and the intimacy I have with my camera and the moments it creates.

TSL: What is your favorite camera?

CN: Hasselblad h3d.

TSL: Do you prefer working in the studio or on a location?

CN: Location is obviously better… you don’t have to do a ton of lighting, and also it's harder for a model to just stand there against a white wall rather than interacting with her surroundings.

TSL: Who are your favorite artists/photographers?

CN: David Bellemere hands down…Guy Arouch, Glen Lucford, Guy Bourdin, Helmet Newton… it's where my work is going to be going towards in the next couple months I've been planting the seeds for the past 6 months and it's a time for me to make a change.

TSL: Do you listen to music while you’re working?

CN: No, not really. I'm very bored by music and it distracts me when I shoot or edit.

TSL: What direction is your work going?

CN: I'm moving on to more higher-end work, higher production and more of a conceptual look.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors?

CN: I just read The Lie by Chad Kultgen, great read... I used to read a lot more, but my photography has sucked my life away…also, The Average American Male is a great book…by the same author.

TSL: Beer and chips or champagne and caviar?

CN: Neither-Ice cream and a soda.

TSL: Where are your favorite places to go…bars, cafes, clubs?

CN: I tend to just go to coffee and the dog park. I live in Echo Park, which is a great little neighborhood that has a very eclectic feel. There are tons of great cafes and restaurants.

TSL: What is your greatest extravagance?

CN: Extravagance? Ha! I don't think I've ever have had the means to be extravagant…always lived a humble existence... kinda sad.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfect lunch?

CN: A juicy burger, coke and fries, from the Fix in Silverlake.

CN: …add a pickle.

You can see more of Carlos’ work at his BLOG and his WEBSITE.

CULTURE: The Bullfight"Footnote to Death in the Afternoon" by Norman Mailer

2010-05-04T21:33:00.000-07:00

This is a great photo narrative of the progression of a bullfight from start to finish. Norman Mailer's take on the bullfight experience is very different from Hemingway's and a very entertaining read...

"Outside the Plaza de Mexico, cheap cafes only open on Sunday, and huge as beer gardens, filled with the public (us tourists, hoodlums, pimps, pick-purses, and molls, Mexican variety-which is to say the whores had headdresses and hindquarters no to be seen elsewhere on earth, for their hair rose vertically twelve inches from their head, and their posteriors projected horizontally twelve inches back into the space the rest of the whore had just marched through). The mariachis were out with their romantic haunting caterwauling of guitar, violin, songs of carnival and trumpet, their song told of hearts which were true and hearts which were broken, and the wail of the broken heart went right into the trumpet until there were times when drunk the right way on tequila or Mexican rum, it was perhaps the best sound heard this side of Miles Davis..."

"I did not like the first bullfights I saw, the formality of the ritual bored me, the fights appeared poor (indeed they were) and the human content of the spectacle came out atrocious. Narcissistic matadors, vain when they made a move, pouting like a girl stood up on a Saturday night when the crowd turned on them, clumsy at killing, and the crowd, brutal to a man. In the Plaza de Mexico, the Indians in the cheap seats buy a paper cup of beer and when they are done drinking, the walk to the W.C. is miles away, and besides they are usually feeling sullen, so the urinate in their paper cup and hurl it down in a cascade of gold, Indian piss..."

SPORTING: Elk Hunting Trip 2010

2010-05-04T10:29:00.000-07:00

I have always envied the people who live in Elk Country. To them, the most majestic big-game animals of North America are as common as the squirrels in my front yard.

The picture at the top of this post is of my father and grandfather on an elk hunting trip in Idaho, back in '68. Back then, you found an ad in a magazine, sent a few letters, made a few phone calls, and the trip was planned.
For most, an Elk Hunting trip is a once-in-a-lifetime event...and as a result there’s a lot of pressure to make the hunt a good one. My intention is to document the journey to the adventure. Hopefully it’s a good read.

FOOD & DRINK: Pork Chops & Sauteed Spinach

2010-04-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite dishes to cook is Pork Chops with Sautéed Spinach. The prep time is minimal and the actual cooking time is even less. I cook the spinach in the skillet right after the pork chops because it picks up all the flavor left behind. (Serves Two)

Pork Chops
2 Thick-Cut Boneless Pork Chops
Garlic Powder or Granulated Garlic
Sea Salt
Pepper
Canola Oil (Spray)

Sautéed Spinach
Baby Spinach
6 Garlic Cloves (Minced)
Olive Oil
Sea Salt

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees. Pat-dry the pork chops with a paper towel. Season them with the Salt, Pepper, and Garlic. Place the skillet on the burner set to high. Coat the bottom of the pan with the Canola Oil and wait for the oil to shimmer. Set the pork chops in the skillet for 2-3 minutes each side; When both sides are brown, place the skillet in the oven for 6-8* minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and set it back on the burner, remove the pork chops and set them to rest on a plate. Turn the burner back on med-high and add the minced garlic to the skillet and sauté until its soft, and then add the spinach, all at once. Add the sea salt to taste, and sauté the spinach and garlic in the pan until the spinach is wilted, but not over cooked. Make a bed of spinach on each plate, and then add the pork chop on top. Add the juice from the “resting plate” on top of the pork chop and spinach. Serve…

(* NOTE: The pork chop is done when it is ever-so-slightly pink in the middle…it is easily overcooked and can become dry)

INTERVIEW: Audwin Pierre McGee

2010-04-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

"Within the heart of every man lives a Savage...let him free to run amok."-Old Sport

Mr. McGee was kind enough to share his Sporting Life with us.

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Audwin McGee: Florence Alabama…lived in the same house till I was 16 beside my grandfather’s house along Sweetwater Creek. The creek was from an artesian spring that boiled up from the ground about a mile northeast of the house back then all us kids drank right from the creek, “Injun Style”.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

APM: I was the Great Pretender as my main hobby. I also caught minnows, crawdads (crayfish), salamanders and snakes in the creek and built forts and tree houses in the woods. I caught minnows in traps from the creek and sold them to Fishermen on Saturday Mornings. I drew a lot back then and read a lot of books about dogs and adventure, watched a lot of Roy Rodgers, Walt Disney, Adventures in Paradise, Tarzan and Marlin Perkins after we got a TV. My Dad, Grandfather, Uncles and other characters took me hunting, fishing, and camping. I tinkered a lot with my Grandfather in his shop down in the back by the creek. I still have a lot of his and my Dad’s tools. We restored an old 1960s model International Scout that became my first vehicle.

TSL: What inspired you to pick up a “hammer” and express yourself with art?

APM: My Dad was in the demolition business and said I worried him to death over learning to weld when I was quite young, I believe around twelve. He had several crews welding on the structural components of a Suction Dredge he had designed. I was always around getting in the way and wanted to fit in with the big boys. Well, he put me with a man named Bud Rideout. Bud taught me the first lessons of welding. They gave me a hood and gloves, both much too large, a handful of rods and turned me loose on something that wouldn’t be seen. It was a mess I was very proud of. My mother postponed my welding career however, as I had burned myself in several places and my Dad and I were properly witnessed to in regards to our lack of brain function. I was aware from an early age that I was creative but never thought about trying to make a living creating art. Never thought I was good enough really. After about thirty-five years of chasing dreams, feelings and many different vocations I found myself divorced, financially stressed and absolutely totally dedicated to a five-year-old daughter, “the unconditional love of my life”, Mareth.

It was the beginning I know now, of a very good road. I wanted something new to work at, felt I was starting fresh and had nothing to lose so I built some things out of metal for therapy, I guess. I still have two of those first pieces. A friend from Santa Fe saw them and along with several other friends encouraged me to pursue more of the same. I had moved into the same house I grew up in, it was still in the family and in the back yard down next to the creek I built a small shop and a forge and taught myself what blacksmithing I know. I had come full circle, was satisfied and at peace. A friend, (that later I would build Safari Camps for along with a house on the Indian Ocean) would come by and check on me. Once during a conversation we came up with an inspirational slogan. We wrote in charcoal on the wall of my shop, “Poverty Breeds Creativity”. It was my mantra; it stayed on the wall till I moved.

TSL: What is your favorite medium to work with?

APM: Man I love to paint. Metal is good for me, very physical, dirty, and reminds me of working with my Father. I can use my hands and body, it’s a familiar process and very satisfying, but painting is deeply personal, I can produce a bit more of what my soul is feeling when I paint as well as get more details overall. I do need the three dimensional-ness of metal though.

TSL: What are your favorite subjects to shoot (photo), paint, sculpt?

APM: Interesting people, dark funky architecture or places, bones and dead animals. Right now I’m painting my wife as a sort of Southern Backwoods Huntress. She is standing with her Cur Hounds at her feet, literally, (she is barefoot) holding my Dad’s old Browning Auto 5 Shotgun in one hand while pulling on the single light bulb porch light by a string with the other…dressed in a short slip and an old vintage camo pattern shirt, old felt hat, a lot of jewelry and various hunting accessories hanging from her belt and around her neck. I’ve got a sculpture started in clay of a man/owl creature standing as a man with a long robe flowing down to the ground. His head is an owl his hands are claws. I call him the Owl King. I like the idea of part man-part animal, I’ll cast it in bronze.

TSL: Who is your favorite artist, if you have one?

APM: Salvador Dali, Georgia O’Keefe, Alexander Calder, Herbert Dunton, they crank me.

TSL: Do you listen to music for inspiration while working? What do you listen to?

APM: Got to have it, it mixes with the creative pulse. I’ll have on Van Morrison, Tony Joe White, Drive By Truckers, Jason Isbell and the Four Hundred Unit. Natalie Merchant, The Stones, Allman Bros, Old Blues and Jazz, like Robert Johnson, Blind Boys of Alabama, new stuff like Iron and Wine, Lucero, Calexico, Justin Townes Earl, lately Amos Lee, Dave Mathews, Eddie Vedder, Mark Knopfler, Emmylou, old and new Bluegrass.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors? Currently reading?

APM: Jim Harrison, Cormac McCarthy, Joseph Conrad, Peter Matthiesson, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carson McCullers, Hemingway, Faulkner…presently reading Ben Lilly’s Tales of Bears, Lions and Hounds.

TSL: What historical figure do you most admire?

APM: Aside from Jesus, Solomon

TSL: Champagne and Caviar or Beer and Chips?

APM: Never liked Beer. Champagne is very good with Fresh Hot Chips sprinkled with Sea Salt and Mexican Queso Dip though.

TSL: Do you feel that the ease of access to media and information has improved our quality of life, or reduced it?

APM: Well, it’s improved the amount of info and the ease of obtaining it but it has also given us another excuse to be even busier. We are running our lives off. We think, the more we can access and learn makes us better. Well, it helps our mind but I doubt it does much for our soul.

TSL: What’s is your current “project”

APM: Designing a small weekend lake cabin for a client, and gearing up for a group of public sculptures.

TSL: If you could sit down at a dinner table with anyone-living or dead, who would it be? What would you serve?

APM: Well, hmmm….My Dad and his Dad and his Dad, then Hemingway, Mongo Park, Meriwether Lewis, Joseph Conrad, Geronimo, John Muir and Santana. Then Bridget Bardot, Frederica Fellini, Jackie Kennedy, Beryl Markham. I would serve some kind of salad just for looks and for the girls. Next, Apalachicola Oysters on the shell, Boiled Louisiana (from Abbeville) Crawfish, Argentine Bone In Fillet of Beef, “three inches thick”, cooked very rare! Baked Whole Garlic, Grilled Sweet Potato Wedges sprinkled with Sea Salt, Cowboy Pinto Beans, Fried Plantains, Grilled Corn on the Cob, Fresh Homemade Biscuits and my Mexican Cornbread. A few good Malbecs from anywhere but France, along with selections of note from California and a few good Ports at the end. If there were drinks at the beginning they would be Southern Whiskeys from Bourbons to Rye to Corn, like Pappy Van Winkle, Maker’s Mark, Wild Turkey and Tupelo’s finest homemade Corn made by a distant relative. Desert would be something very seriously chocolate. Actually I might just serve the Fillet and Biscuits with homemade butter and Molasses. I’d have to also have on hand my One-eared Companheiro, Derek Littleton of Bulawayo Fame, he'd be a little cross with the women to men ratio though.

TSL: Are you worried about global warming or “climate change”?

APM: Negative, I’m a non-believer!

TSL: If you could own any car, what would it be?

APM: Citroen 1955 DS, 4 door. Ghost Black with saddle leather and a rockin stereo! If I could ask I would request an update to the suspension, something more dependable and less complicated as well as a little more horsepower. Say a turbocharged variety from a 911. Maybe fit it out with a little wider wheel and tire combination, well and…we should maybe look at the tranny, see if the 911 version will fit in with the engine. Hey you asked. Yes I also need those wipers on my headlights. And a customized exhaust.

TSL: What is your greatest extravagance?

APM: My daughter and traveling

TSL: If you could live in any era, when would it be?

APM: Throw me down about 1890, with a lot of Malarone, antibiotics and some good pain meds. I would be in my late teens at about the best time to have lived adventure around the world. Still Indians around and places men hadn’t been, oceanic travel was coming into its own. Good stuff, Lots of Big Tarpon and Elephant.

TSL: If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

APM: I’ll stay here in the South.

TSL: Whiskey, Scotch, Vodka, Beer, Wine, Sober, Tea?

APM: Southern Whiskeys and good Ports.

TSL: What else are you into?

APM: I’m into my wife Sandi, she keeps me grounded better than anyone, I’d be way out there, probably too far to come back if it wasn’t for her! I like mentoring Kids, Duck Hunting, Restoring the odd vintage vehicle or just having one around to drive. Soccer, collecting primitive objects, writing, listening to the Voice of America on an old tube radio on my porch. Painting cheeky nudes of my wife just for me. Waiting for Jim Harrison to publish something new and praying for Gabriel Garcia Marquez to turn out one more. The usual.

TSL: What country is your favorite to visit/live?

APM: Argentina

TSL: What is it about Argentina that you love?

APM: Argentina is alive, vibrant, makes good wine, produces delicious meats, maintains a great climate, knows how to live well and has much of the feel that draws me to Africa. It’s big, grows nice mountains, nice trout, has beautiful rivers, sprouts wonderful plains and valleys and the people, well, they are lovely. You can get way out down in Argentina and there’s a safety to it that Africa will never have. The night sky shines stars that are just as bright with the enchantment of far awayness, the enchantment of a frontier, one, with all the amenities. Lots of coastline and those Ocean Run Brown Trout seal the deal. I believe you could build a life and live long and good there, I believe there is a lot of life to go around there. I still would have to have my Africa fix every year though.

TSL: Compare night sounds of Africa and Argentina.

APM: Honestly there is no comparison when it comes to the night sounds of Argentina and Africa. You could say that nothing sleeps in Africa or nothing sleeps very well at least. It’s a menagerie when it goes dark, Woods Owls hoot and screech, Hyena run a round calling and babbling and often as not male lions call back and forth across the river annoying each other. Elephants graze in and around, sometimes very close, walking almost silently you first know they’re about when a huge limb from a nearby tree snaps and crashes to the ground. Sometimes you hear them come in, especially in the dry season, dry leaves rustling, the cracking of limbs and quiet munching can continue all night with the occasional pause, then purrs and rumbles one to the other, just to be sure where everybody is. Leopards will cough, and Bushbuck and Impala will snort when they are disturbed. Occasionally something wakes a Baboon and as they are the self-imposed sentinels of the Bush they will set up a bark for hours or till they are certain whatever threatened, has gone. Only when you think everybody has wore themselves out carrying on all night do you begin to sink into a good deep sleep when, the first of those little early birds begin to chirp, then squawk, then sing, just as a few Samango or Vervet Monkeys come down and run across your tent roof and chase each other through the dry leaves and you know that it’s over, morning, is, again, and you might as well give it up and get up. And did I mention the guinea fowl and all their racket? Why do I ever leave?

Argentina on the other hand makes for a good night’s sleep. Not a lot of hustle and bustle from large dangerous game to speak of. If you’re out in Patagonia its cool at night, you might hear a fox bark and almost the same owl talk going on. I was up near Bariloche once and we heard a Puma call one night. On another occasion a Red Deer or Red Stag gave us a snort and grunt when he walked up close to our camp and was a bit startled to find us there. No, Argentina is where to go to be soothed, still have adventures and rough it in style; Africa is where to go to learn to stay on your toes, sleep with one eye open, long for the past and dread the future. I’m fortunate to have had a little of what once was and that too will soon be gone.

TSL: What has been your most memorable hunting/fishing trip?

APM: Down in Honduras, back in the Caratasca Lagoon Country near Puerta Lempira. My friend Tim Murrey was guiding for Trek Safaris and was in the process of building a fishing camp there. I had met Tim several years before while fishing in the vicinity and we are friends to this day. We lived on sparse rations including Iguana and some type of Neutra like creature, beans, eggs and rice and of course Snook. We fished and hunted everyday, caught Snook, hooked Large Tarpon, landed lesser ones, shot doves going to roost from a dug out and had a most adventurous time. Natives “Miskito” Indians from La Misquitia still inhabit the area and live off the land hunting Jaguar, Ocelots, Howler Monkeys and fishing in the lagoon as well as the Gulf. We visited old Indian Haunts where they used to butcher Manatees, which still inhabit the area but are more sacred now and are left alone mostly. We had an old Moskito Shaman that would come and camp on our dock as he paddled to and from the jungle to Lempira for supplies in a tiny dugout or pipante, pitpan (Spanish) or dori in moskitia. Our camp was built on stilts over the water from bamboo. It was a two-hour trip in a flat bottom with a 40hp Yamaha to Puerta Lempira for our supplies. Our water came directly from the Lagoon, which was crystal clear back where we were, I would even drink it directly from the lagoon. We had a worker that could speak a little Miskito and he translated late night stories from the old man (which we swapped beer for) about Spirits and Walkum Boy. Walkum Boy was their name for a creature that watched over the animals of the forest. He always had a number of Peccary (Wild Pigs) with him and he was said to herd them along with a staff like stick. He was both mischievous and deadly, as he would lure people into the forest by talking like people and whistling to hunters to lure people to see who was there. When they went to look and it turned out to be Walkum Boy they found, they never came back. It was a good time back then we didn’t even have a Sat Phone.

TSL: Do you make a living with your art?

APM: I do, I live off my art and creativity I guess. I design a house or design a remodel about once a year or so. In the meantime I sell a few paintings, build a few pieces of furniture or lighting do a little interior design and make enough to survive and support a little travel and adventure.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfect lunch?

APM: Homemade deer/pork and liver/cheese/jalapeno sausage, some great homemade bread, toasted, with orange marmalade. A good group of cheeses, Brie, blues and buffalo mozzarella. Balsamic marinated tomatoes and onions, cold slices of rare tenderloin, some good wine and whiskey. OR. Hoop Cheese, Fresh Saltine Crackers, Tube Bologna, Possum Sardines in Mustard Sauce, fresh purple onion, good jalapeno peppers, black olives, hot sauce and a Dr Pepper, up on the West Yellowstone sitting on a river raft in the sun with my Dad and Daughter, my arm sore from casting.

You can follow Mr. McGee’s musings and adventures @ www.sonsofsavages.blogspot.com and check out his art and such @ http://www.apmcgee.com/

SPORTING: Vintage Hotel Ads

2010-04-18T15:15:00.001-07:00

"Be lazy or active, as you chose!"

"There's nothing finer in Florida!"

I love studying old magazine ads, the images and words they use to sell...The two above are from the February, 1949 issue of HOLIDAY magazine. If I had to chose between the two, it'd be the Boca Raton, especially with Fred Perry as the tennis pro.

...and based on the illustration for the "Bahama Shores", the ratio of men to women seems a little off at the pool.

INTERVIEW: Steph Davis-Follow Up

2010-04-15T10:39:00.001-07:00

Steph Davis is a world-class mountaineer and rock climber. She holds the record for fastest woman to solo-climb El Capitan in Yosemite and is a talented writer and photographer. She was kind enough to take ANOTHER moment to share her Sporting life with us…AGAIN.

TSL: Last we chatted, you were getting into BASE jumping and wing-suit flying…I’ve seen some of your videos of Lauterbrunnen…and I have two words…”Holy Crap!” What new world has wing-suit flying opened up to you? How has it changed your life?

Steph Davis: Well….I can fly.

Two Birds from Steph Davis on Vimeo.

TSL: Where has been your favorite place to fly?

SD: I like Lauterbrunnen, for the convenience. The Eiger is a famous jump for a reason, it’s fantastic.

TSL: I’m assuming your suit is custom made…who made it? How many different versions have you gone through, tweaking, etc…

SD: I’ve been jumping a Phoenix Fly Vampire. I’m getting a Tony Suit X-Wing right now, which will be my 4th wing suit. It’s hard because the innovation is constant, and it’s changing every day. No one is really sure what is the best design yet.

TSL: From the first moment you went skydiving (I’m also assuming that you jumped out of a plane first, before you started base jumping and wing suit flying.) what has the progression been like to wing-suit flying. What were your feelings on your first jumps (plane, base, wing suit) and how have your feelings they evolved?

SD: I started tracking almost immediately in skydiving, which is flying your body kind of like a wing suit, but you’re not wearing a wing suit. I did that until I progressed to wearing a wing suit. I have become more conservative over my first years in the sport. I want to become the best I can at the things I am doing, rather than just surviving tricks.

TSL: What is the next level?

SD: I want to figure out which wing suit gives me the optimum flight.

TSL: What music are you listening to now?

SD: Lots of Robert Miles, some Lady Gaga, lots of MC Solaar

TSL: Any new vegan recipes?

SD: I’ve been perfecting my wheat-free, sugar free vegan chocolate chip cookies. They are good! The secret trick for all chocolate chip cookies is you want to refrigerate the dough for a day, which is not easy.

TSL: Where have you been traveling?

SD: I spent October in Switzerland, just base jumping my wing suit, and have been sticking close to home in the desert all winter.

TSL: How has your life/perspective changed-evolved since our last interview…what lessons have you learned about yourself, pursuing your passions, etc…

SD: I feel like I am in a period of rebirth and wonder.

TSL: What is your answer when people ask about getting into wing-suit flying?

SD: I’ve been approached several times by journalists who want to do a story where I teach them how to base jump. I explain to them the requirements of skydiving, and the progression, and that seems to be the end of it. It’s a big commitment to become a jumper, in time and money. Also, the person who approached me most recently has two little girls. I explained to him that I don’t recommend or support base jumping for people who have dependent children, because the risk factor of death or serious injury is just too much, especially in the first years of learning. Highly experienced base jumpers tend to die a lot too, perhaps because they are pushing the edge more.

TSL: What other projects are you working on, any new books, new climbing goals, new sports?

SD: I’m working on another book, called “Learning to Fly,” about this transition phase I have been living through from only climbing to now skydiving and base jumping as well. I lost my dog Fletcher last summer, and it’s going to be easier to travel this year, unfortunately and fortunately. So I’m organizing my plans for spring/summer/fall to climb and jump lot and be traveling much more than last year when I was nursing her at the end of her life. I’m also going to Japan in July to be a guest instructor for a yoga teacher training course in Tokyo.

You can keep up with Steph and her adventures at LINK

(OLD INTERVIEW)

The Sporting Life: Where did you grow up?

Steph Davis: I grew up first in Illinois, then in Maryland.

TSL: What were your hobbies as a kid?

SD: Playing piano, reading, messing around in the woods.

TSL: Where do you live now?

SD: Moab, UT and Yosemite, CA

TSL: What are your favorite haunts?

SD: Kane Creek Canyon in Moab and the top of El Capitan in Yosemite are two of my favorite hangs.

TSL: What did you want to be when you grew up?

SD: I had no idea!

TSL: What was the moment that you decided to become a climber?

SD: The first time I went rock climbing, at age 18, I had a hard time wanting to do anything else.

TSL: I understand you lived somewhat of a vagabond life when you began climbing, what were your living conditions like?

SD: Yes, I had a hand-me-down Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera from my Grandma. It was a real step up for me because I couldn’t afford a car before that and was riding a Honda 550 road bike. When I finished my Master’s degree, I was free to live on the road, climbing and traveling, and the Cutlass became my home. Eventually I took out the back seat and the passenger’s seat and put a piece of plywood down for a bed. It was great—I could sleep in there, cook in there, and it was super low profile in Yosemite. Rangers were always on the lookout for climbers sleeping in trucks or vans (which is illegal for some strange reason), but no one was looking at the Oldsmobile sedan. I was pretty excited, though, when I finally got a truck… way roomier and better for 4 wheeling.

TSL: What was your first challenging climb?

SD: Climbing was challenging for me from day one, and I think that’s why I got so sucked in. The first time I put discipline into actually projecting a climb that was hard for me was a long crack at Indian Creek, near Moab, called “Tricks Are For Kids” when I was about 23. It took me 7 or 8 attempts to lead it, and that was a real commitment for me at the time.

TSL: What made you decide to make climbing an occupation?

SD: I was waiting tables after college, and then guiding, and then slowly started to make enough money from small sponsorships to stop those jobs.

TSL: How did your life change after making that decision?

SD: I was able to climb more, but it also added a strange pressure because I changed from just another enthusiastic climber to a name that other climbers felt either inspired by or competitive with. That has been a strange feeling for me, and I have learned to appreciate the positive sides and send positive energy toward the less constructive sides.

TSL: What has been your greatest personal triumph in climbing?

SD: Staying true to my own path.

TSL: Who are your climbing heroes?

SD: I always loved reading about Layton Kor as a young climber. He did many early, futuristic climbs in all the places I most love: the Utah desert, the Diamond and Yosemite.

TSL: If you could climb anything, what would it be?

SD: In my dreams I could free solo El Cap. Don’t worry; it’s not on my actual project list.

TSL: What does the inner dialogue sound like when you get into a tough spot?

SD: It depends…If I’m free soloing (no rope), it’s very important for me to maintain a calm, positive mind-state throughout the ascent. So I start saying “Be relaxed. Have good feelings.” from the minute I step my foot off the ground, and just keep saying that over and over until I’m at the top. For a hard free climb (with a rope), I am climbing at a higher ground, and need to go for it a little more aggressively. I’m usually not saying anything, just trying to conserve energy and unleash at the hardest parts, trying not to care if I fall.

TSL: What training do you typically do in prep for a big climb?

SD: I usually train on the climb I want to do, if it’s a free climbing project. For the mountains, I mostly carry backpacks up snow before a trip. For a free solo project, I do a lot of mental preparation, making sure I am calm and unattached. Generally, I climb on plastic, do pull up workouts, lift weights, do yoga; skate ski and run, for overall fitness.

TSL: Mentally, what are the different preparation techniques you use for Mountain Climbing as compared to Rock Climbing?

SD: Climbing in the mountains is very different from rock climbing, even if you are rock climbing in the mountains, because things are so much more conditions-dependent, and not always in your control. Also, when rock climbing, the lighter you can be, the better. Starving yourself gives you great results. Not so in the mountains, where it’s all about carrying heavy packs, having strong legs and enduring fatigue, cold and scary conditions, and the light fanaticism is more about your equipment, always trying to pack lighter and have lighter gear.
Physically, they ask for completely different strengths and training programs. Mentally, they are also completely different. I find that in the mountains it’s very important for me to be totally unemotional, always. When pushing myself in the safer, high-end rock climbing environment, detachment is also crucial, but at the hardest moments, I have to unleash my emotions.

TSL: What are the five most important things in your backpack when mountain climbing?

SD: Light is right when climbing in the mountains. Everything I carry has to be the lightest thing possible. I usually carry a small piece of plastic tubing in my shirt pocket, to suck water off the rock if there is some running water on the wall or in a little crevice. I always have a small headlamp, and an extra set of AAA batteries for it. I also carry a super tiny, extra headlamp, rather than a second set of batteries. This way you have a backup light even if you drop the first one. I also have the lightest possible Gore-Tex shell jacket and pants in my pack. Usually I also take an extra set of glove liners, to have a dry pair.
It’s always a great debate when starting up a long alpine climb, of what to bring in case you have to bivy. It’s tempting to bring a light stove, but that requires a fuel cartridge, a lighter, and a titanium pot, for melting water and having something hot to drink in the night. Sometimes it is totally worth it, and you need the stove. But often I end up settling for a light bivy sack instead, which is a little more grim but can be adequate for survival. I have a European one that weighs only 550 grams, and can fit two people. It has saved me several times.

TSL: How do you maintain focus when you are exhausted?

SD: My favorite activities are those that require technique through exhaustion. That’s why I am most attracted to big free climbing projects, and that’s also why I love skate skiing. To me, maintaining focus when I’m exhausted is one of the most interesting challenges. You don’t get that in bouldering or more power-specific activities. I have had my biggest personal breakthroughs on major climbs where I found myself climbing at my best many hours into the climb. Once you know you have that ability, you can always try to reach for it again. Training is key, though.

TSL: What future climbs are you preparing for?

SD:I’m working on a hard crack project here in Moab.

TSL: What other Sporting Life activities are you into, i.e.: Skiing, Surfing, Polo, Hunting, Fishing, Croquette, Axe Throwing, Yachting, Drinking, Cooking?

SD: I love skate skiing (a lot!). I don’t know if BASE jumping is a Sporting Life activity, or wing-suit flying, but those are my other latest crazes. I like drinking Americanos, red wine and margaritas, and I am vegan, so I cook a lot too.

TSL: If you could have a soundtrack to your climbs, what would it sound like?

SD: That depends on the time. I usually get pretty wrapped up in a specific album or artist in certain phases, and when I look back on the climbs I did, I always think of that music.

TSL: Who are you currently listening to?

SD: Right now I’ve been listening to Christina Aguilera’s album “Stripped” for a bunch of months. I always listen to a lot of Paul Oakenfold too, and Black Eyed Peas.

TSL: Who are your favorite authors?

SD: I am a reading fanatic. I usually read a book every day or two, sometimes more. I love T.C.Boyle and Victor Villasenor. I also read a lot of Rumi as translated by Coleman Barks.

TSL: Currently reading?

SD: The Food Revolution by John Robbins, Stiff by Mary Roach and Sister Coyote by Mary Clearman Blew.

TSL: What inspired you to write your book? How long did it take?

SD: I’ve been keeping a journal since I was in my teens, and I have a master’s in literature. For the last decade or so, as a climber, I’ve written articles or essays along the way. I’ve always envisioned myself writing a “proper” book, a narrative type story. So it occurred to me that if I did a book project which started with some stories I already had, I could learn what it actually takes to write a book. Then it would be easier in the future. It took about a year, since I ended up writing a bunch of new stories and essays. I learned the process of writing a book, and it also got me started with blogging, which I really like for the absolute freedom it gives me as a writer and photographer.

TSL: Do you feel that climbing Everest has become somewhat of a “thrill seeking” rite of passage, much like the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona?

SD: Yes.

TSL: What’s your idea of the perfect lunch?

SD: I don’t usually eat actual Lunch, because it makes me get lethargic. I usually just snack throughout the day, but my favorite meal foods are greens (kale, chard, and spinach), quinoa, broccoli and curry. Chips and super-spicy salsa are always good too!
If I could be transported anywhere for a meal, I’d go straight to Italy! It’s one of my favorite places in the world, and I love the food and wine.

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge Pt. 6

2010-04-13T21:33:00.000-07:00

In that moment, sitting there in my rented, maroon Grand Prix, I felt like I’d found the key to my own existence…the reason I was put on this planet. I was not meant to be a farmer, or a machinist. I was meant to out amongst the people. I was meant to be living and breathing a Sporting life. It didn’t take money or fame; it took normal people living extraordinary lives to help me see that.

The actual race was the least exciting part of the adventure. I snapped some pics at the starting line and again at the finish. The closest I could get was too far for any good photos, and in all reality, watching a car pass at 150 mph is not all that interesting. The scream of the motor was pretty exciting.

I packed up my gear after about half the field had finished…right after the guy in the Lincoln Mark V pulled in with his AC blasting and his radio set to some cool jazz. It wasn’t really a race, it was an excuse to go fast, which I can appreciate, but compared to the weekend I just had…
I pointed the car at the setting sun and headed for home.

BE A MAN: #39) Hold The Door

2010-04-13T10:04:00.000-07:00

Common courtesy dictates that a gentleman opens and holds the door for a lady. This courtesy should be extended to everyone. If you reach the door first, open and hold it for those passing through. When the next gentleman arrives, pass the task to him. Always open a car door for a lady.

CULTURE: Ernest Hemingway-"Death In The Afternoon"

2010-04-04T22:00:00.000-07:00

With spring comes a new bullfighting season, and time to dust off some old favorites...

Ernest Hemingway set out to write the definitive book on bullfighting; “Death in the Afternoon”…critics debate whether or not he achieved his goal.

Hemingway had intended the book to be a photo-journal with his narrative added. As he studied nearly 1500 bullfights, the project grew beyond its original scope providing a history, a glossary of terms associated with the bullring, three appendices, and 278 pages of text in an attempt to distill the “tragedy”, as he called it.

Hemingway critiques the work of both good and bad matadors and recalls the remarkable bulls that fought. The controlled, ritualistic administration of death in the bullring allowed Hemingway to study violent death, and attempt to better understand it’s affects on society, and himself.

CULTURE: Steve McQueen-Unseen Photos from LIFE

2010-03-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

...maybe Steve will do for these shoes, what James Dean did for Jack Purcells

Photograph by John Dominis for LIFE magazine

SPORTING: "THE GREAT BLUE RIVER" by Ernest Hemingway

2010-03-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

I have long since given up hero worship but I still like to thumb through the catalog of people that have inspired me, more so for a reminder than a path to be taken or a voice to emulate.

I found this story in a very roundabout way. Searching for first editions I could afford on ebay, I stumbled across a small book I had never seen or heard of before. I did a little research and found out it was legit. I won the auction after a ridiculous bidding war. It is still wrapped in its original cellophane wrapper (for all I know the pages inside are blank...) I later found out that the story within was a reprint of a story Hemingway had written for Holiday Magazine, back in 1949. I easily found a copy at the Rose Bowl Flea Market and sat down right there and read it after paying a dollar for it.

The first few paragraphs are what really inspired me, and I thought I'd share that inspiration...

People ask you why you live in Cuba and you say it is because you like it. It is too complicated to explain about the early mornings in the hills above Havana where every morning is cool and fresh on the hottest day in summer. There is no need to tell them that the one reason you live there is because you can raise your own fighting cocks, train them on the place, and fight them anywhere you can match them and that this is all legal.

Maybe they do not like cock fighting anyway. You do not tell them about the strange and lovely birds that are on the farm the year around, nor about all the migratory birds that come through, nor that quail come in early mornings to drink in the swimming pool, nor about the different types of lizards that live and hunt in the thatched arbor at the end of the pool, nor the eighteen different kinds of mangoes that grow on the long slope up to the house. You do not try to explain about our ball team-hard ball, not softball-where, if you are over forty, you can have a boy run for you and still stay in the game, nor which are the boys in our town that are really the fastest on the base paths.
You do not tell them about the shooting club just down the road, where we used to shoot the big live-pigeon matches for the large money, with Winston Guest, Tommy Shelvin, Thorwald Sanchez and Pichon Aguilera, and where we used to shoot matches against the Brooklyn Dodgers when they had fine shots like Curt Davis, Billy Herman, Augie Galan, and Hugh Casey. Maybe they think live-pigeon shooting is wrong. Queen Victoria did, and barred it in England. Maybe they are right. Maybe it is wrong. It certainly is a miserable spectator sport. But with strong, really fast birds it is still the best participant sport for betting I know; and where we live it is legal.
You could tell them that you live in Cuba because you only have to put your shoes on when you come into town, and that you can plug the bell in the party-line telephone with paper so that you won’t have to answer, and that you work as well there in those cool early mornings as you ever have worked anywhere in the world. But those are professional secrets.
There are many other things you do not tell them. But when they talk to you about salmon fishing and what it costs them to fish the Restigouche, then, if they have not talked too much about much it costs, and have talked well, or lovingly, about the salmon fishing, you tell them the biggest reason you live in Cuba is the great, deep blue river, three quarters of a mile to a mile deep and sixty to eighty miles across, that you can reach in thirty minutes from the door of your farmhouse, riding through beautiful country to get to it, that has, when the river is right, the finest fishing I have ever known.
When the Gulf Stream is running well, it is a dark blue and there are whirlpools along the edges. We fish it in a forty-foot cabin cruiser with a flying bridge equipped with topside controls, oversize outriggers big enough to skip a ten-pound bait in summer, and we fish four rods…

To read the rest of the story, you’ll either have to find a copy of Holiday Magazine (July 1949) or track down a copy of “Marlin!”.

Ask Ol' Sport: Facebook Restitution

2010-03-08T21:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Ol' Sport,
I recently found an ex college girlfriend on Facebook that I had wronged and wanted to make good. What is the protocol?

Regards,
Sam Alden,
West Chester, PA

Dear Sam,
I'm speculating here, but unless you killed her dog or got her in "trouble" and flew the coup, she's been over you since the captain of the chess club took her Queen with his King. I'd also guess you're only really trying to make yourself feel better about the breakup.

My suggestion is to lead with some self deprecating humor...

"Mary, I was a total moron when you knew me, and I'm still a moron, but I'm a moron whose sorry for being an ass."...something like that.

She'll probably respond with..."Yeah, we all do stupid things when we're young.", which really means, "I slept with your roommate the night you were an ass, and was over you then."

So now, Sam, you can get on with your life. She got on with hers a long time ago.

-Old Sport

INTERVIEW: Jim Graham-Desert Dingo Racing

2010-02-24T20:00:00.000-08:00

Jim Graham and his Desert Dingo racing team set out to conquer the Baja 1000 in a car that most people wouldn’t feel safe driving to the 7-11…they are truly living The Sporting Life.

The Sporting Life: What inspired you to race an almost stock VW Beetle in the Baja 1000?

Jim Graham: Back in December 2006, I rented Dust to Glory, a documentary on the 2003 Baja 1000, since it was about the only DVD in the local video store we hadn’t watched. Ten minutes into it I turned to my wife and said “I have to do this.” She said “You don’t know anything about cars.” I said “I don’t care. I’ve gotta do it.” I convinced Skid (team co-founder Mike “Skid” Aquino) to watch it and it snowballed from there.

TSL: What was your interest in Class 11?

JG: We opted for Class 11 because we thought “How expensive can it be to fix up ‘69 VW Bug to race off road?” It turns out, if you’re going to do it right, it’s plenty expensive. Granted, we’re not dropping $500,000 on a Class 1 buggy or a million dollars on a trophy truck, but to race prep a stock VW will run anywhere from $5,000 to $20,000 and that doesn’t count all the recurring costs, like entry fees, race fuel, hotels, food and gas for all the vehicles driving to a race..

TSL: What’s your role with the team?

JG: I handle public relations, marketing and sponsorship. For the Baja 1000, the team has three key operations; mechanical, logistics, and communications. I make sure everyone knows what everyone else is doing. I co-drive once or twice a year.

TSL: You’re not interested in driving?

JG: There are plenty of folks on the team who are way better at it than I’ll ever be. I like the logistical challenge of getting a VW Bug 600 to 1,000 miles across the Mexico desert. Class 11 isn’t about going fast. It’s about surviving. It takes a team of people to pull this off. We’re good but we’re still learning.

TSL: Which has been your most memorable race, good or bad?

JG: Race Week in Ensenada leading up to the 1000 is surreal with hundreds of thousands of fans. Lots of partying and some of the most technologically advanced race vehicles you’ll ever see. That’s cool. The toughest was the 2008 Baja 1000 when I had to radio Weatherman at 2 a.m. to report we were out of the race. The team worked hours replacing a blown transmission when we encountered a problem we couldn’t fix. It sucks when the team has worked so hard and it hits everyone at once that you can’t continue. You never want to give up.

TSL: How did the reality of off road racing differ from what you expected when you started?

JG: I used to get stressed out when my car got a flat tire. Now we blow a transmission and I’m like, “Ok, how long to get the replacement in?” It’s a given that the car’s going to break, so you just get used to constantly working on it, either fixing damage or looking at ways to make it better. It’s a never-ending process. It also amazed me how many spare parts we have to carry; nearly enough to build a second car. Also, racing is a lot more expensive than I figured.

TSL: How do you pay for all of this?

JG: We get a tremendous amount of support from our sponsors, but pretty much anything that requires cash, i.e. race fees, fuel, spare parts, hotels, food, etc., comes out of our pockets.

TSL: Who are your biggest sponsors?

JG: MyLLC.com set up a limited liability company for us. This is a high-risk business and it makes sense to run it in a way that protects your personal assets. TrailGlow Lighting set us up with illuminated number panels, pit signs, driving lights, safety vests and pit signs. Everyone is going to be running their illuminated number panels in a year. We haven’t had a flat since we started using SLIME in our tires. EMS SkyConnect provided us with a satellite-based tracking and communications system that allows us to track and communicate with the race car, chase trucks and support vehicles in real time. I don’t think any other team has that capability. It’s a game-changer for us.

TSL: How did you become the World Diabetes Day car?

JG: When we started the team, my wife suggested we affiliate with a charity and use the race effort to raise money. Two team members (Skid and Crew Chief Richard Palasik) live with Type 2 diabetes, so it was a natural fit. I just cold-called them and told them what we wanted to do. We do a drive-a-thon fundraiser for the International Diabetes Federation in Belgium and we distribute thousands of hero cards with a picture of the car on the front and the warning signs of diabetes on the back in English and Spanish. We make the car and drivers available for public events and shipped it to Montreal last year to be on display at the World Diabetes Congress. 

TSL: What do you do for a living?

JG: I co-founded a company, Satellite Telework Centers. We build professional office space in bedroom communities that surround large metropolitan areas and rent it by the hour, day, month-to-month or 24/7 to telecommuters, home-based business owners, consultants and start ups.

TSL: What is your favorite race car?

JG: I like our car the most. But after that I’m partial to the Touaregs that race Baja and Dakar. The Trophy Trucks are a fan favorite, but I’m still partial to the Class 1 buggies. They just look alien. Outside of that, I like whatever The Stig drives the most recent episode of Top Gear.

TSL: What is your dream race car?

JG: No question, one of those Russian Kamaz race trucks that seem to win Dakar every year. It’s not a race car, but I’ve always wanted to buy this guy’s 2005 Nissan Xterrra since he’s throwing in a pair of Hammer pants.

TSL: Which race would you most like to compete in?

JG: First thing we’ve got to finish the Baja 1000. Then we’ve got to win it. That means beating Eric Solorzano, who helped us get our start in racing. He’s won the 1000 nine times and has 41 career Baja race wins. I’ve done the math and the only way to beat him is to convince him to retire. I’m working on that. If I won the lottery we’d do Dakar. If money were no object it’d be the ERG Oriental. Since I’ve been to Russia, the Russia Northern Forest rally would be a good time.

TSL: What is your next major race goal?

JG: We finished third in class in the SNORE series last year, our first full season of racing. We’re racing a new series this year, VORRA, and it includes four short course races, which should be fun. That’s a different type of racing than we’ve done in the past. Big goal though is to finish the 1000. I’m confident we’ll do it this year.

TSL: Champagne and caviar or beer and chips?

JG: I drink box wine, though I’d never say no to caviar. Beer and chips reminds me that I haven’t made nachos in a while. I’ll have to make some this weekend.

TSL: What historical figure do you most admire?

JG: All of them. Actually, there are plenty of people still alive that I admire. Most of them aren’t famous. They’re just regular people doing great things.

TSL: If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?

JG: I enjoy cooking, so given the option I’d cook dinner with someone…much more sociable. Again, the list of folks would be so long it’s impossible to pick someone.

TSL: What other Sporting activities are you into?

JG: I broke my leg during the 2009 Baja 1000, so haven’t had a chance to get too much exercise, though it’s fully healed and I’m probably just being lazy. I watch NASCAR on TV, mostly for the commercials and to study how they market the sport. I love cooking though my wife is 10x better at it than I am. Between work and racing, my time is pretty much all accounted for.

TSL: What is your favorite work of fiction?

JG: I don’t read much fiction. What’s on my nightstand now? “Limited Liability Companies for Dummies." The folks who wrote it and who run MyLLC.com sponsor us. “The World in Bite Size”, a book of appetizers. “Unfair Advantage”, a biography of racer Mark Donahoe. “Sports Marketing” by Phil Schaaf. And “On Killing”, an analysis of post-traumatic stress disorder.

TSL: What are your favorite racing movies?

JG: Definitely “Dust to Glory.” Watched it 19 times over five days when we had the car on display at the World Diabetes Congress last year. I can quote it from memory. “Two Roads to Baja” gives a good contrast between pro teams and privateers. Born in Baja, the documentary on the making of the Ford Raptor has a good section on the monotony of racing off road at night. And THIS piece cracks me up.

TSL: What advice would you give to aspiring racers?

JG: Anyone can do this.

TSL: What is your idea of the perfect lunch?

JG: I’m going to make this grilled cheese and short rib sandwich that’s on the February 2009 cover of Bon Appétit. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Update: JG: The sandwich was good, but not worth the three and a half hour prep time...

FAVORITE THINGS: Dixon Ticonderoga #2

2010-02-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

I walked past a jewelry store in the Country Mart and noticed something out of place in the window. Behind the black-velvet simulated busts displaying necklaces was an old wooden re-curve bow, a brown leather quiver, and a dozen target arrows with white and yellow feather fletching, cedar shafts with three green stripes painted a third of the way down from the knock and on the tips were the standard target points, worn smooth. I studied the bow and arrows for identifying markings but found none. It reminded me of all the hours I spent target shooting in our yard...blue-green grass, the white-black-yellow-red circles of the target against a thick green stand of oak and maple trees. I studied the wear marks on the bow and felt the calluses on my draw fingers and then the callus on my ring finger from holding pencils too tightly. One of the beautiful aspects of archery, besides the feminine curve of the bow, the bright plumage of the fletching, and the preciseness of the arrow shaft, is the simplicity of the tool itself…That same simplicity and deadly effectiveness of design is what I love about the pencil. What they share aside from general form and construction, both sharing cedar as the wood of choice, is the supreme beauty of accuracy…In the right hands they’re both capable of toppling empires.

My favorite pencil is the #2 Dixon Ticonderoga. I’ve tried fancier versions, mechanical versions, softer and harder versions, but I always return to the D-T #2. There’s something about the yellow shaft, shiny green stamped label, the knurled eraser holder, the pink eraser, and the smell of the cedar wood, and the graphite (lead)…maybe it’s just a trigger for fond memories of simpler days, unharnessed creative expression, and just pure freedom of will.

CULTURE: Downhill Racer (1969)

2010-02-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

With ski season in full swing, I was inspired to dust off one of my favorite skiing movies.

Robert Redford plays David Chappallet, a cocky, all-American kid from the sticks who sees skiing as his only way out. In the beginning, he’s pure raw talent, but as the movie progresses he hones his skills and builds his strength as a skier. As his success grows, so does his ego. He’s the typical American anti-hero of those late 60’s-early 70’s movies (Le Mans, Grand Prix). He’s cold and seemingly unfeeling, focused on his one goal…Winning.

Another running theme in these movies is the French ingénue that our hero always seems to find as a much needed distraction. (If you're into that sort of thing...) In the case of Downhill Racer, the love interest (Carole Stahl) is played by Camilla Sparv.

The girl breaks him up real bad (Don't worry Chappy, there's plenty more where that came from...), but once she's out of the picture, he dominates and wins the Gold. Gene Hackman does a bang up job as the tough coach and this movie is probably the best Dabney Coleman ever looked. (If you're into Dabney Coleman)

My favorite scene is when Chappalet gets behind the wheel of Frenchy's 911, replete with ski rack…Tres SPORTING!

Camilla Sparv

Ask Ol' Sport: Drinks For All My Friends?

2010-02-21T20:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Old Sport,
I do a lot of entertaining and like to buy my booze at Costco because its so much cheaper. The problem is that the bottles are huge and don't look good on my bar. What can I do so that people won't know I buy my booze in bulk?

Sincerely,

Ryan Parent,
Deerfield, IL

P.S. I thought about making the bar bigger so the Costco bottles would look proportionally correct, but the quotes I got were expensive.

Dear Ryan,
I am assuming you're talking about stocking a full bar, so I would suggest you buy at least one normal sized (750 ml) bottle of each type of booze you buy at Costco, and then just refill it.
Or, if you're really cheap, buy a bottle of the expensive stuff and refill it with a cheap brand. Most people won't know the difference, but then again you have to live with yourself.

-Ol' Sport

SPORTING: Hill Billy

2010-02-12T12:28:00.000-08:00

You can take the Billy out of the Hills, but you can't take the Hills out of the Billy, I always say...

Saturday morning we had a good rain coming down here in Los Angeles and my dog was itching for a walk. Because I’m the only one I’ve ever seen out walking their dog in the rain in my neighborhood I left the leash behind. At the exact moment I opened the front door to let her out, a fat raccoon came running across the lawn and through my rose bushes… what’s a hound to do but give chase.

I don’t think Shelby’s ever even seen a coon close up and probably thought she was chasing an overfed house cat. She had that coon up our liquidambar tree in a matter of seconds, standing at the base howling and bawling like she was bred for it. The coon climbed up a few limbs and was looking down at us. A cornered coon is unpredictable and the last thing I wanted was a trip to the vet or the hospital.

It took all I had to pull her away from the tree and continue our walk. By the time we came back the coon was out of the tree and on down the road, or so I thought. I brought Shelby in and toweled her off and she lay down by the fire next to me.

After a restful twenty minutes of drinking coffee and reading the paper, her ears perked.

Seconds later she was at the kitchen window barking and scratching. Our friend had returned and was now taunting us, peering around the tree like a bandit. I went to the gun safe and pulled out my .22. Shelby kept running back and forth from the kitchen window and mudroom doors, trying to find a way out.

I came around the corner with the rifle and loaded clip in hand.

My lady friend came into the kitchen to see what the ruckus was about.

“Need I remind you about the last time you brought out a rifle?” she asked sweetly.

I had dispensed with a pair of roving coyotes that had been terrorizing house cats and dogs, leaving various bits of carnage strewn across the neighborhood lawns. Apparently it’s not OK to shoot wild animals unless they’re actually in your house with one of your offspring in their jaws…nor is it OK to discharge a firearm within the city limits. Huh, learn something new every day…

The police were understanding but strongly discouraged any future discharging of firearms.

“One shot. It’ll be quiet. Plus, it’s raining…people will think its thunder.” I argued.

She just gave me a look.

I put the rifle and ammo back in the safe.

I called animal control. They never came.

When you grow up in the country everything gets categorized differently in your head. That which is perfectly normal there is considered an act of barbarism here. A wild animal that is comfortable enough to approach humans or domesticated animals in the country is typically unhealthy or desperate to the point of causing harm. Here in the city, they adapt and are unafraid because there is nothing to challenge them, save maybe the tire of a car. They are still just as wild and dangerous.

Eventually the coon ran across the street and disappeared into the neighbor’s yard.

It took Shelby a few minutes to calm down and find her bed by the fire. She quickly fell asleep and started twitching her legs and making muffled barks.

I went back to reading my paper…and thinking about how to make coonskin caps.

SPORTING: Great Expectations

2010-02-04T20:05:00.001-08:00

Seven years ago I was standing inside a kitschy store on Third, waiting for a table at Quality for breakfast, when the ghost of one of my heroes appeared outside the store window. I nudged my lady-friend, "The ghost of Steve McQueen is standing outside." I said.

She looked and her mouth fell open..."That's Steve McQueen!" She tried not to yell. He came into the store and was browsing. My lady-friend nudged me..."Go up an talk to him."

What was I going to say? Before I could tell her no...my policy is to not bother people because I wouldn't want to be bothered...but before I could say anything she was in front of him asking the question...

"Has anyone ever told you you look just like Steve McQueen?" she asked with a big smile.

He took a step back."Yes."

"You look exactly like him!" she continued.

"Hi, my name's ----." he said cautiously and extended his hand.

I will admit that I was giddy as a school girl, although I'd never heard of a son other than Chad. I was suspicious and studied every move and every hair on his head. By the end of the conversation I was convinced. We exchanged numbers.

Driving home from breakfast I was freaking out. I called some people and told them the story. I thought about my new "best friend", all the places we'd go, all the cool stuff we'd do...my lady friend suggested I had a man-crush...maybe I did.

His story went something like this...His mother was married, living in New York in the 50's, and went out for a girls night out. They met up with some "boys on motorcycles" and she had a one night stand with Steve.

Through conversation, I found out how old my new friend was and did a little rudimentary math...McQueen was living in NYC and racing motorcycles at about that time. That was all the convincing I needed.

We spent time together hanging out but through the course of the conversations and time spent together I found myself being disappointed, but it wasn't him that was disappointing, it was that I had expectations of him being just like his father.

I would ask questions, "Are you into motorcycle racing, do you want to be an actor?" , and would get answers back, "I used to ride a Harley until I wrecked it and broke my back. And now I don't ride anymore., I just got an agent, and I'm taking acting classes." Instead of being sympathetic or encouraging, I was disappointed that he wasn't Steve.

I realized that I was being unfair to him. I had all these expectations that he would be just like his Dad, but he wasn't.

Our friendship got weird, probably because of me, and we gradually stopped talking to each other. I saw him in a commercial a few years later and called him to congratulate him. We chatted a bit about what he was up to and what I was doing. When I hung up I realized that the only thing we had ever had in common was that we both wanted him to be something that he wasn't, and I realized I was the one getting off easy.

CULTURE: Mind-Blowers Volume 1 (The Early Years)

2010-02-04T13:20:00.001-08:00

This morning when I visited A Time to Get, I was reminded of things that had blown my mind...

When you grow up in the sticks of the Middle-West, you're typically not as exposed to "Culture" as the kids who grow up in the cities. For me, the introductions to most things cultural was via the TV and the radio. I remember staying up late to watch "The Midnight Special" right about the time I discovered KISS.

I think I was about six or seven at the time, so this was heavy shit. This was the first time I can remember thinking..."Holy crap! People can do that?" As far as "Cultural Awakenings", that was where it all started for me. From there, it was a long haul until I found something else that expanded my mind. Led Zeppelin was next in line, and I can't remember how I found them...probably hearing Stairway to Heaven for the bajillionth time. It took me a few year of listening to them, getting past all the "Hits" to really hear what they were capable of.

...and then when I was working as a dishwasher at a biker bar, the bar tender told me Led Zeppelin had ripped everything off from the old blues guys...this was the moment I became aware of the progression of music,art and literature...that they were all intertwined, one leading to another, pieces of this from that make a new whole. I didn't feel cheated, I started digging deeper. I remember bringing home my first Howlin' Wolf record, putting it on loud in the living room, and my mom peering around the corner from the kitchen looking at me like I'd just lost my mind...

SPORTING: Flagship Part-6 The Smoke Is Clearing...

2010-01-27T20:06:00.000-08:00

As I have mentioned in the past, I am not practical...If I were practical, my life would in fact be the exact opposite of what it is now, and truly my worst nightmare. Therefore, I do impractical things like buy muscle cars, live in Los Angeles, drink coffee not made at home, and obsess over things incessantly. Well, not ALL things. There are a thousands decisions a day that I make with little or no thought because I know the right answer. Choosing the "Ultimate Sporting Life Flagship/Safari Wagon", on the other hand, has been somewhat of a time consuming process. However, I have learned a significant amount about all of the potential vehicles, their shortcomings and their strengths. And in this process, as impractical of a thought as it is to buy and own a vehicle whose sole purpose is to be dedicated to helping me achieve the pinnacle of Sporting Life-edness, I have had to make some very practical considerations...

One of the sites that has been HUGELY helpful in my selection has been Expedition Portal. I didn't even know this "subculture" existed until I started googling about expedition vehicles. What sets this site apart from a lot of the other off-road sites is that there is narry a mention of things as "Mudboggin" or "Rooster Tails" or "Catchin' Air". Now don't get me wrong...these activities may have their place, but they are not what I'm currently interested in. These are people who've devoted their rigs to getting deep into the heart of darkness and back...safe and sound. Their rigs by design, are practical. I found this particular article about half way through my search...LINK

SPORTING: Laguna Seca-ALMS (October, 2009)

2010-01-20T14:27:00.001-08:00

Acura LMP1, Chaparral 2E, Chapparal 2

Our "Man-In-The-Field" just washed up on the coast as a result of the El Nino we're currently experiencing...Seems he was attempting to "float" back to Los Angeles from up north on a raft made from old racing tires and helmet foam. Lucky for us, the story and pictures survived. Welcome back John!

This year the highlight of the weekend could well have been the Thursday before Saturday’s race, when Jim Hall and Gil De Ferran squeezed into 1960’s era Chaparrals and drove several laps to celebrate the retirement of Gil as a driver.

(He will continue on as a team owner in ALMS and may launch a team in the IRL next season.) Tons of racing history was packed into that display on the track, which I was privileged to witness. Gil De Ferran is French, but grew up in Brazil, where his racing career began. Jim Hall gave Gil his start in racing in the U.S. as a driver in the Champ Car series, where he was rookie of the year in 1995. De Ferran ultimately won two championships and the Indianapolis 500 when racing for Roger Penske, who along with Jim Hall, was another of Gils mentors.
Jim’s Chaparrals, and his contribution to racing as a driver, engineer, designer and team owner is legendary. His innovations in aerodynamics, use of high mounted rear wings to increase down force, the introduction of semi-automatic transmissions and the design of semi-monococque fiberglass chassis’ forever changed the course of motorsports. He is sort of the Leonardo Da Vinci of car racing.

The Green Flag Drops!

In 1995 Gil De Ferran won his first race in The United States at Laguna Seca, driving for Jim Hall. And, as an appropriate end to his driving career, Gil won the pole and his last race behind the wheel at Laguna Seca on October 10, 2009, with Jim Hall looking on.

P1 Champion for 2009, David Brabham in the Patron-Highcroft Acura

So, what about the four hour “race into darkness”? Compared to the last several years, significantly fewer yellows, primarily due to design changes in several track run-off areas, made for a far superior experience for drivers and spectators alike. That’s the good news. The not-so-good-news is that the prototype classes were missing the Audi R15 factory team in LMP1 and the Penske/Porsche RS Spyder factory supported team in LMP2. Penske has announced he will not return in 2010 and Audi has yet to make an announcement either way. If Audi is serious about winning the 24 Hours of Le Mans in 2010 with the R15, they would be wise to commit to the ALMS in order to properly prepare for retaking the crown that was lost to Peugeot in 2009.
Despite fewer prototype teams competing this year, the last hour of the race unfolded as one of the most suspenseful and entertaining ALMS races over its 11 years of running at Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca. And consolidating the GT1 and GT2 classes into one class actually enhanced the competitiveness and overall drama in GT racing. The LMP1 championship was decided when Highcroft Racing’s Acura successfully completed 75% of the race (and then went on to finish 3rd overall and 2d in LMP1). This gave driver championships to David Brabham and Scott Sharp and the team title to Highcroft.

Fernandez Racing's Last Pit Stop

The real battle for overall win of this race was a duel between De Ferran Motorsport’s LMP1 Acura and Fernandez Racing’s LMP2 Acura. De Ferran won by only 0.662 of a second, after losing the lead twice in the final laps. Fernandez was on fresher tires, but the extra power of De Ferrans P1 class car proved decisive in the last straight to the checkered flag. Sadly, Fernandez Racing will be dissolved in the off season and Adrian has no plans to return to racing in the United States. He had a long and stellar career, primarily in open wheel racing both in Champ Cars and the Indy Racing League.

Gil De Ferran on his way to victory in his last race as a driver

The GT2 championship was won by the Flying Lizard’s #45 Porsche 911 GT3 RSR with their drivers Patrick Long and Jorg Bergmeister taking the driver’s championship. This was the 100th victory for a Porsche in the ALMS series.

Joy In The Pits-Jan Magnussen passing for the lead

Jorg won the race by 1.037 seconds over Corvette Racing’s Jan Magnussen in his C6.R. This was the most exciting, emotional, lead-swapping, edge of your seat class victory I have witnessed. Unfortunately for Magnussen, in the final flurry of contacts which started at the final turn before the finishing straight, Jorg forced the Corvette towards the pit wall. The cars touched one last time in a drag race to the finish, and Masgnussen hurtled across the track at 130 MPH, slamming nose first into the outside concrete barrier.

Pain In The Pits-Jan Magnussen crashes out at the finish line

He got out of the car dazed, but was uninjured. I can’t wait to see these two guys go at it next year at the season opening 12 Hours of Sebring...

Bad ending to a thrilling race

-John Steinmetz

SPORTING: Flagship Part-5 The Great Divide Edition...

2010-01-07T12:55:00.000-08:00

Back in '89, Land Rover was promoting their Range Rover in conjunction with the new "Tread Lightly" program by driving the length of the Continental Divide trail from Denver to Telluride...

There were only 409 made; 400 sold to the public, and 9 used for promotional vehicles. You can read more about them here.

Rangerovers.net is by far the best and most comprehensive resource I have found for the Range Rover.

I will be the first to admit that I am NUTS in regards to cars. It took me almost two years to buy my current daily driver ('08 Bullitt), but the moment I sat in it, the deal was done. I recently looked at some '03 & '04 Range Rovers on a used car lot in Santa Monica, and the minute I sat in them I knew they wouldn't do. The plastic was broken, fading, bubbling, all over the interior. The salesman was honest enough to tell me they all suffered from the same problems. I have always liked the look of the Range Rovers, but I was actually a bit shocked that for $80k, this is what you get. I left the lot not feeling discouraged, but refreshed. I could officially check the new RR's off the list. I have driven the Lexus/Landcruiser, and I know them to be superior with regards to reliability, but I do live in LA and I am vain as hell (sometimes). They just don't look cool enough.

"Would you rather look cool or have your car start?"...I can hear the Logical speaking now.

There's an '88 RR down the street from me that is in very good condition and purrs like a kitten (rebuilt motor and trans...supposedly) that I have my eye on. It's been on the lot since before Christmas.

I swing by TLC and leave greasy nose prints on the showroom windows. Seeing all those knobby tires gets the blood flowing. I've looked at a few FJ60's and 62's, and had a few friends that had the FJ80's and loved them, but then the fact that they're a Toyota turns me off...again, vanity wins over practicality.

And then sometimes I think to myself..."Could I wear a cowboy hat in that car and not look like a total moron?" I'd probably look like a moron regardless, but I am going to start working the new California Cowboy look of blue jeans, Lacoste shirt, Puffy vest, RM Williams boots, and a cowboy hat. It's a modified John Denver look.

So in the mean time, as the quest continues, enjoy this video of the Range Rover in action. My favorite moments are at 3:05 and 5:10-5:50. My yoga instructor/college girlfriend didn't even have that much suspension articulation.

The quest continues...

SPORTING: Auld Lang Syne...

2010-01-04T11:55:00.000-08:00

It is January 2nd and I've just finished my "Thank You" notes for Christmas, and I'm thinking about the year to come...as I'm sure most people are. The Dakar is underway and I've been watching the limited footage on VS. Robbie Gordon is already complaining... There's a lobster left over from New Years Eve in the fridge waiting to be turned into a Lobster Louie for dinner...

We humans are blessed and cursed in a million ways, depending on your perspective, one of those ways being that we keep a yearly calendar. Multiple times throughout the year we're given reference points to take stock of our lives..Birthday's and New Years are the typical ones, some people follow the seasonal changes, but they're still marked on a piece of paper somewhere, and counted up or down to.

This morning I sat and watched a squirrel pick an orange up from the ground and carry it up a tree and proceed to peel it and bury his face into it until it looked like a helmet...every few seconds popping out of the orange to check for trouble, his fur wet from the juice. As I sat there watching I thought, "He doesn't know or care what day it is. He's hungry and thus he's eating. In a few weeks he'll be horny because its time to make more squirrels and his lady-friend will let him know when the time is right. His biggest concern is whether he gets hit by a car when he crosses the street...and he's probably not too worried about that. This reminds me of a Ted Nugent interview conducted by British journalist Robert Chalmers, for the The Independent on Sunday...

RC-"What do these deer think when they see you coming?" I ask him. 'Here comes the nice guy who puts out our dinner?' or 'There's the man that shot my brother?'"

TN-"I don't think they are capable of either of those thoughts, you limey asshole. They're only interested in three things: the best place to eat, having sex, and how quickly they can run away. Much like the French."

...to the point, with the rewards of being "conscious" come the burdens of being "self-conscious". Inside all of us we have the capacity for savagery...which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but one thing that sets us apart from the savages is that come January 1, it's a new day.

Which leads me to New Years Eve...

My motto is, "Never Chase A Good Time.". Or, as Mike Damone put it "...wherever you are, that's the place to be."

I stopped chasing the dragon a few years back...too many nights going from bad party to worse party and eating overpriced airplane quality food with the hoi polloi. This year we had people over for dinner, drinks, and if we lasted long enough, a little "Three-Two-One!" action.

New Years Eve Menu:

Lobster (Boiled) w/ Butter
Pan-Roasted Potatoes with Garlic
Roasted Brussels Sprouts and Carrots
Arugula Salad with Hearts of Palm, Fresh Orange, and Vinaigrette Dressing

The one comment most people made when I was said I was serving lobster was..."I can't take the idea of throwing a live animal into a pot of boiling hot water." I don't like the thought either, but I like eating lobster more than it bothers me to kill them. The key to a "humane" preparation is to boil the water, hold the lobster by the tail, and plunge their head into the water and hold them for a count of ten. The tail usually curls up, and that's when I put them in the rest of the way. If you just throw them in, all of their body is shocked by the heat and they splash around, thus throwing boiling hot water on you. I've used this technique for years and have never had one splash me or "scream" as some people have said they've experienced. Eat what you kill.

I typically buy 1-3/4 to 2 lb. lobsters. They cook in about 12 minutes. It's better to err on the side of over-cooked as no one likes raw lobster...

Let me know if you want the recipes for the other menu items, I'll gladly pass them along.

Oh, and here's the Lobster Louie I made with the leftovers...

Happy New Year!

SPORTING: Dakar 2010 (Argentina-Chile)

2009-12-31T12:04:00.000-08:00

The Dakar starts tomorrow, thus kicking off the 2010 Sporting Season...

Volkswagen has put some major money behind their team this year, as well as supplying the Service/Support vehicles for the race.

Subaru has also thrown their hat into the ring with a heavily modified (read-not similar to the actual one) Forrester.

Robby Gordon will be returning with his Hummers...it should prove to be an interesting race.

We are looking forward to an exciting new year. Stay tuned...

SPORTING: Equipment-Land Rover Series IIa

2009-12-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

This one was parked in front of the same house as this one (LINK), but this time I got out to snap some pics...

SPORTING: Flagship Part-4 The Quest Continues...

2009-12-15T21:50:00.000-08:00

I have had the good fortune to meet with Jonathan to discuss my future project "The Ultimate Sporting Life Flagship Expedition Vehicle", and tour his fab and repair shops. The CJ3-B ("The Dog") does not necessarily fit my needs, but is an impressive vehicle nonetheless, and an example of what's possible. I was inspired...ICON

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge Pt.5

2009-12-04T09:59:00.000-08:00

If I was an undercover cop, I was doing a piss-poor job of it. I laughed at the note and in that moment my paranoia left me…I was all in. I wanted Red and Toni to show up with a bucket of fried chicken and a few bottles of ice-cold Korbel champagne, respectively.

I ate breakfast at the Hotel Nevada and had some time to kill before the pre-parade meeting at the high school, so I headed out to the White Pines shooting range to shoot some trap. The range was in bad shape with only one house but I managed to get a young kid to come out and pull for me. The one thing that affects my shooting the most is what’s down range of the trap house. If the background is a hillside, I shoot better than if it’s an open field. I think it has something to do with judging distance. I shot from different stations and different handicaps. I took my time and worked at the stations where my shooting was the weakest.

I drove back past the Arbys and stopped in for two roast beef sandwiches. The meeting at the high school started @ twelve, and the parade through town started at one. I met some more drivers and shot some pix and then went back into town to find a good spot to shoot pix from. There were a lot of people on the street, lining up. You could hear the horn of the General Lee six blocks away. John had a driver and he sat in the window on the door waving at the crowd. All the car clubs were in line, the Panteras, the hot rods, muscle cars, pony cars, tweaked-out rice-burners, all moving slow, revving engines and honking. From there we went to a park and all the cars lined up so people could check ‘em out. I met up with my friends from last night.

I made my way through the throngs of people lined up to buy Dukes of Hazzard stuff, and for autographs. I bought a t-shirt and had John sign it. I told him I was a member of the press and wanted an interview. He asked if I could hang out until the crowd was gone...so I waited. In the mean time, I made more friends. One guy had Lord Vader’s car, an Impala SS, and needed a navigator. I offered up my map reading services, and the deal was done in a handshake. His driver couldn’t make the trip, but lucky for me he had his racing suit and helmet, both of which fit like they were my very own.

I went back to my car to reload the camera for my interview with John and found the trunk wide open. My heart dropped….my shotgun, my lenses, etc… Everything was there and there were no signs of forced entry. I must have left it open in my excitement, or maybe I hit the remote open button. Either way, I realized I'd better check myself...I'd been running around like a dope fiend...how many warnings did I need?

I reloaded my camera and put away the rest of the gear. John wasn't ready yet, so I convinced the boys in the DB6 to go for a joy ride.

The Aston felt like an anvil and approaching the 100 mph mark I could feel the wobble of the wire wheels...he pushed it to 110 and that's all she had. He pulled over to the side of the road and asked if I wanted to drive it back to town…of course I did. I climbed in and shut the door…it was a tank. This was a car that needed to be driven. There was no time for lolli-gagging about, it required your full focus. It felt like a mercurial silver blob on the road…too heavy for the tires, hard to keep on the road on the straights and almost impossible in the twisty’s, but who the hell cares when it makes you feel as cool as Bond. We got back to the park just in time for “Bo Duke” to be wrapping it up.

I asked if he had time for an interview, and a drive...

I can't remember what I asked him. I forget. I know we talked about car specs, 511 Hemi, 725 hp., stiff springs, etc...all I remember thinking the whole time was "Holy shit, I'm riding in the General Lee with Bo Duke!”. I joked that I’d learned to counter-steer on the gravel roads around our farm from watching the Dukes. He chuckled and pulled over. “You drive back.” he said. “I’m tired.”…

Glory-be….there I was sitting behind the wheel of a fully-race prepped General Lee, a shit-eating grin on my face. It took all I had to not let out a “Yee-HAW!”. I did my best to play it cool and turned the General around and pointed back to town. As soon as I got all four tires back on the blacktop I punched it. I knew this would probably be the only time I’d ever be behind the wheel of the General, and I wasn’t going to pussy-foot around. I saw him grin out of the corner of my eye. This was a completely different animal from the DB6 (obviously), but I mean different on every sensorial level. The DB6 was meant to be a refined touring saloon and the Charger was meant to be a savage beast. The Charger was all sledge hammer to the DB6’s feather duster. I grew up driving and working on big-block Buicks and the sound of an American muscle car tear-assing down the road is akin to the most beautiful symphony you’ve ever heard (or perhaps a good version of “Dueling Banjo’s). I won’t bore you with all the typical test-drive verbiage…I mashed the pedal to the floor and the ass tucked and the front lurched up as I was pushed back into the seat. I was holding on for dear life and giggling like a little girl. We hit 100 in a matter of seconds and pinned the speedo soon after. I backed off at the first turn and the General tracked true and sure. I stomped the gas coming out of the turn and into the next straight. The General never got squirrely. This continued all the way back to Ely where I came to a screeching halt next to my rental. John was no longer smiling. I thanked him, shook his hand vigorously and jumped into my car as he sped off. I was as pumped as a teenage boy who had just touched his first-real life breast...I sat there idling in the Gran Prix counting my blessings…in the last hour I had driven both James Bond’s AND them dang Duke Boy’s cars. Is this what life is like when you’re living your dream?

(Bond drove a DB5, but don't let the details get in the way of a good story)

SPORTING: Family Heirlooms

2009-12-02T14:51:00.000-08:00

Before my Grandfather died, he began giving away the things that meant the most to him. His most prized possession was his collection of hunting rifles and shotguns. He gave a rifle to each of us, and to my younger brother he gave his favorite of all, his Winchester 101. We are not a competitive family and there was an unspoken understanding that as much as he was bequeathing a specific gun to each of us that the collection was part of a whole and that we were all merely the guardians of the collection. I will admit though that I was a bit jealous of my younger brother getting the 101, it was my Grandfather’s favorite, and the one he’d shot the most. I was jealous until my Father gave me my Grandfather’s hunting knife. Being the sentimentalist I am I had to choke back the tears. This was the one thing that connected all of his hunts, all of the game he had killed, all of the trips he’d been on, all of the time he spent in the quiet of the woods…this knife had been with him…The Moose, the Mule Deer, the Elk, the Whitetail, The Antelope. This knife had been the tool he used when the hunt was over and the work was to begin.

When my Father left home, my Grandfather stopped working the farm that had been in his family for three generations and became a butcher. When we would visit he would take us the butcher shop on the days they would slaughter. I watched pigs and cows being slaughtered and butchered long before I was ever old enough to pick up the BB gun and cull the English sparrow population on our own farm. It was there that I first learned about death…but I digress. To watch a good butcher at work is like watching Picasso paint. I watched my Grandfather break a cow in a matter of minutes and with such fluid of motion that it looked like a dance. As much as I’m a sap, I’m a romantic too, but it was really beautiful to watch him with a knife.
The one time I hunted with my Grandfather, I was fourteen. We were planning a family trip to hunt Mule Deer and Antelope in Wyoming. During my summer visit, he and I went shopping for a suitable hunting knife for me. Of course being fourteen, I was looking for the biggest pig-sticker I could find. We went to about ten different sporting goods stores and finally found something made of steel that would actually hold an edge. I didn’t truly understand what he was looking for until I saw his knife, and then I felt foolish. On the hunting trip I shot my Antelope first. He showed me how to field dress without contaminating or ruining any meat. He was quick and precise and all business. He was done in less than five minutes and it looked like the work of a plastic surgeon. When I shot my Mule Deer I was alone. My knife was sharp, but immediately felt too big and clumsy. I did my best to be careful and clean and precise. I got through the field dressing in about twenty minutes. The work was done and I was happy to be done, but I wasn’t proud. Lesson learned.

The last Deer I shot was a Kentucky Whitetail. I had my Grandfathers knife with me and made quick and clean work of the field dressing. I’m planning an Elk hunting trip for next year and am already getting excited and prepping my gear. I brought the knife out of the drawer last night and dragged my thumb across the blade. It was still razor sharp. I thought about all the adventures it had been on with my Grandfather, the few with me, and dream of the adventures to come. If I were to have to choose between all the mementos of my Grandfather, his knife would be the one I would keep.

BE A MAN #17) Build A Fire

2009-11-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

Fire is perhaps the greatest power to be harnessed by man, and it is the most influential in the progression of society. Having the skills to make a fire could save your life, or at the very least your date...

The key to making a civilized fire is to start small and dry. Start by using small pieces of dry kindling, about the size of your finger. You can typically light these pieces without paper. The shape of the kindling stack differs; the most important thing is to allow for air flow. Once the kindling is burning well, add larger dry pieces. Go slowly allowing the fire to grow.

Tips: Buy cedar shims from the lumber yard, normally sold in bundles, to use as kindling. They’re easy to light, smell good, and burn hot. The best matches I’ve ever found are Ohio Blue Tip. They're damp proof, and strike anywhere (great for lighting on year jeans like the Cowboys in the movies). They can be made “waterproof” by dipping the tips in paraffin wax. I keep a few in my glove box in a waterproof match case. You can pick one up at REI.

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge Pt. 4

2009-10-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

Toni took me by the arm and led me to the back.
“This is my apartment where I stay.” she said.
On the nightstand next to her bed was a picture of a little boy.
“This is my son…”
This is all I remember of what she said. My brain turned off.

There were rooms with bath tubs, rooms with showers, rooms with heart shaped beds. I had brought my camera but I didn’t want to shoot any photos. The pink tub and green carpet reminded me of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
The tour ended. I thanked Alma for the beers and the tour and said I’d be back.
Back out into the blinding light of day I headed back to my room for a quick nap.
When I woke it was dark and cool. The radio was playing in the office, and I could smell dinner cooking. In the dark I thought I was somewhere else, I forgot I was in Ely…I felt like Cpt. Willard. I lay there in bed with the ceiling fan turning in the dark listening to the muffled voices coming through the walls, but they only came from the office. The hotel was full, and the parking lot was full, but there was no sound coming from the other rooms. Maybe everyone else was out gambling, or visiting with Toni. I opened a beer from the cooler and it was cold and delicious as I lay there in the bed, on my sleeping bag. This was the dream, this was what I wanted, all I ever wanted, in that moment…to be somewhere, anywhere with a purpose…the purpose of living it, breathing it, feeling it, tasting it…life. My purpose was to take in every moment and that feeling made that moment, on a sleeping bag, on a bed in a piece of shit motel, drinking ice cold Pabst, listening to radio in an unfamiliar language, smelling someone cooking…it was all I wanted, all I ever wanted, and I lay there soaking it in, until that beer was gone, and it was time to be somewhere else.

I showered and dressed and walked down the street to the Bristlecone Center where they were having the driver’s safety meeting. The place was packed with men and women from all walks. There were teams from Japan, the UK, and Fresno. It was boring and I payed no attention. After the safety meeting for the drivers there was a safety meeting for the press…equally as boring, but I met some compadres in our folly…

From there, the press was invited to a dinner with the race promoter, the Grand Marshal John Schneider; Bo Duke from TV’s Dukes of Hazzard, and the manager of the Hotel Nevada. Dinner consisted of surf and turf, rubber and gray, served in a banquet room in the basement of the hotel…and as much Wild Turkey as I could order, but it was to be a late night, and I needed to keep my wits about me….relatively.

I was full of lobster and filet and a few wild turkeys, and this meant it was time to go. I buddied up to some racers and we headed back to the Stardust. The bar was half full, and Toni was out working the floor, mingling. The new girl was there, the one they brought in to take up the slack. She was in her late twenties, but had the body of a woman who'd reached her physical prime at about fourteen. She was wearing a black dress that showed lots of décolletage. Her face didn't help much, but what she lacked in physical appearance she made up for with charm....some of the guys liked her over Toni, or maybe they just didn’t care. She made Toni look like a prom queen. Toni was quiet and sweet.

I was reminded me of an old German saying my friend used often..."A hole is a hole, but I still have my dollar." But in this case, you were paying for it, so I guess you had to give up your dollar for the hole. Toni smiled at me, and my new friends figured I'd already dipped into the well. I just grinned.

"Three Pabst please Alma."
"Dude, what do you own this place?" My new friend asked me.
“No, I'm just good with names.”
“Did you say Hi to Kathy?” Alma asked.
“No, we haven't been formally introduced.”
Kathy came up beside me.

I tried to do a quick headcount and before I turned back around, Kathy was leading one of the racers to the back room. I tried in vain to monitor how many people came in and out of the door to the back rooms.

It was an even split between Toni and Kathy, on average they were gone for no more than 15 minutes each time.

The night progressed and beer flowed, and at about two I realized the bar was almost empty, save the few new friends I'd made, as we sat shooting the shit.
“I’m going in.” one of my new friends said, as he got up and met Kathy at the door.
It took a few minutes for my brain to navigate the beer fog, but the gears kicked in and the thought came to mind, “Why wait so long? Why wait until the end of the night to take your turn?”

Toni sat down beside me.

“Hi."
“Busy night.” I said. I was nervous and drunk, but tried to maintain my composure.
She spoke softly and sweetly, and I felt a spell coming over me.
“Maybe I could take some pictures.” I thought to myself. “Maybe this would be good for the story.”
The brain is capable of convincing itself, and the body, of anything. Like a siren she was calling me to the rocks.
"What time do you get off?" I asked, thinking I was being funny.
"Do you want me to go with you to your hotel?"
“You can do that?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes, were allowed to leave.” She said with a laugh. “Where are you staying?”
“The White Pine..." I hadn't meant to divulge where I was staying. Things can get weird in these high desert towns. My mind flashed through unpleasant scenarios. All this paranoia and I wasn't even stoned...just a bit too drunk.
“I can go with you for the rest of the night for $300.” She offered.
The gears ground and the mind drifted through the turn until my friend came back out and a finally the tires caught.
“I'm not ready for that kind of commitment, but I appreciate the offer.” I said.

We stumbled out onto the street and somewhere on the way back to my room I realized I was talking to myself and walking alone...and I was a lot more drunk than I realized.
Back in the room I undressed and fell asleep on the sleeping bag.

In the morning I woke and felt great and couldn't figure out why. According to the laws of physics I should have felt like shit. Maybe it was that the adventure was continuing, that I was living my dream, that I felt bulletproof, that I hadn’t paid a prostitute who had just been with thirty or more (I lost count) men, that I still had my $300...I felt happy to be alive.
I got dressed and went out to find some breakfast. There was a note on the windshield of my car.

"Nice car cop." The note read, and there was phone number.

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge Pt. 3

2009-10-22T10:55:00.000-07:00

“Toni, this man is writing about the race and wants a tour. Would you show him around?” Alma asked.

“Sure” she said.

She smiled and took me by the arm...

Fourteen hours ago I was sitting in my rental car taking inventory of the equipment I had packed for covering my first “assignment”…albeit self-assigned. A now defunct online magazine was looking for content, and in exchange they would secure me access and press passes to Sporting events. This was uncharted territory for me, having never really written anything, much less having done zero reporting, but they had nothing to lose and I had everything to gain.

Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing. I borrowed some camera gear; lenses, filters, etc., from a friend who writes for the car mags…I needed something capable of high shutter speeds for shooting cars doing 100+, filters and shades for the bright sun, and telephoto lenses for any long shots. I packed a duffel bag with three changes of socks, four pair of underwear, two t-shirts, a pair of levis, a pair of khakis, a blue oxford shirt, blue blazer, a pair of brown loafers, and a pair of Rod Lavers. I also packed two marble composition books, a few pencils with a sharpener, and my Mossberg pump field gun and five boxes of heavy target load Winchester shotshells. There was supposed to be a trap range on the outskirts of Ely if I had some time to kill.

I sat there idling in front of my building, listening to KKJZ, taking inventory of the contents of my car, and my life. It was still dark and the streets were empty. I flipped a U and made a left up Broadway to the Winchell’s @ 6th, for a large Coke and two chocolate raised-glazed doughnuts for the ride. I like the nugget-style ice cubes at Winchell’s, but I hate the Styrofoam cups…”Oh me, Oh Life.”

I dropped back down to Fourth and made a left, on up the hill to the on-ramp to the 10. I mashed the pedal and got the Gran Prix up to 80 before I merged. I backed it down and set the cruise control for 72 and settled in. Dave Frishberg’s “I’m Hip” came on the radio.

“This dude is goofy as hell…but I bet he’s had his share of STRANGE.” I thought.

“ 'Cuz I'm hip.
Like, dig! I'm in step.
When it was hip to be hep, I was hep.
I don't blow but I'm a fan.
Look at me swing. Ring a ding-ding.
I even call my girlfriend "man," 'cuz I'm hip.
Every Saturday night with my suit buttoned tight and my suedes on
I'm getting my kicks digging arty French flicks with my shades on.
I'm too much. I'm a gas.
I am anything but middle class.
When I hang around the band,
Popping my thumbs, digging the drums,
Squares don't seem to understand
Why I flip. They're not hip like I'm hip.”

The cityscape of downtown Los Angeles rose on the horizon with the sun coming up behind it. It dawned on me (no pun intended) that in the five years I’d been here, I had never seen this view. It was beautiful and magnificent, and the smog makes for great sunrises as well as sunsets. Once past downtown, “civilization” dwindles…strip malls, strip malls, shopping centers, tract houses, strip malls, industrial facilities, a train yard, the original In & Out Burger, tract houses, and then nothing but desert. The wave of humanity reaches back onto the shore and leaves behind a scummy foam residue, a few bits of trash, and then the sand.

Heavy.

I had reached the end of the world, the land of milk and honey, Manifest Destiny! But, there was more to see and more living to do. I had made it to a soft and comfortable place in the world, and I was not happy. It was time to throw myself back into the fray…”Once more unto the breach!”

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge Pt. 2

2009-10-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

“What time do you get off?” I asked
“Six.” Red said.

After a few more hours of trolling the back streets and alleyways looking for trouble, and finding none, and not really in the mood for starting any, I decided to check out the other reason people come to Ely.

The Stardust Ranch is an oasis from the heat and bright light of the afternoon. The wave of cold air and a waft of vanilla perfume met me at the door. There was a man sitting at the bar. He had a hundred pounds and six inches on me, and a bad right eye. It was cockeyed and small and dead. He had a thick moustache and looked a little bit like Jim Harrison. He also had an inch deep hole, the size of my thumb, in his right bicep just below the edge of his farmer tan. He was wearing gray work pants and matching shirt with a patch on the pocket that said “Nevada Energy”.

My eyes were slow to adjust to the dim light.

“I got shot.” He said when he caught me looking at the scar on his arm.

“I got shot four times…once in the arm, in the back twice, and in my right leg.” He lifted his shirt to show me the scars on his back. They were the same dark holes as the one in his arm.”

The little old lady behind the bar asked if I wanted a beer.

“What do you have?” I asked.

“We have Pabst and Miller and Bud Light and…”

“I’ll have a Pabst.” I said, cutting her off.

She opened the can and put it on the bar.

“I was up a pole disconnecting a bootleg when I heard a crack…and then my arm went numb. I thought I’d shocked myself, but then I heard another crack and my leg jumped and pulled the spike out…and then I saw the blood. Then I blacked out.” He said, and sipped at his beer.
I concentrated on looking at his good eye when he talked, but it was hard to not look at the rotted one. I would have worn a patch over it, but I don’t think he was much concerned about his looks anymore.

A cherubic girl came from the back room and said something to the old lady behind the bar. Alma nodded towards the lineman.

“When I woke up, it was dark. I was hanging upside down by the strap of my spur, covered in blood. I was a lot stronger then so I pulled myself up and climbed down and drove to the Dr.”

The girl had put her arm on his shoulder and was smiling sweetly. He turned and smiled at her.

“I still work for the power company…now I just drive around and check the meters on the oil wells.”

“Sounds a lot safer…anybody shoot at you yet?” I asked.

“I don’t get out of the truck much anymore. They have this laser gun that you point at the meter and it reads it for you. I run my route and whatever time I have left over in the day is mine.”

He took another pull from his beer and went to the back room with the girl.

“That’s Toni, she’s real nice.” Alma said. “We got another girl comin’ in for the racers…You here for the race?”

“Yeah, I’m writing a story for a magazine, and shooting some pictures.”

“All the racers come here…should be a full house tonight.”

“How many people do you expect?” I asked.

“Oh, we usually get about fifty to seventy five people a night during the race weekend.” She said.

“What’s an average weekend?” I asked.

“Oh…about ten or fifteen. We do pretty good through the week. Lots of truckers.”

“How long do the girls stay here?”

“Most of them are here for a month or two, and then they go home for a while and then some come back. Some of them go to the other brothels.” She said.

There was a system. I had never thought of how it worked before.

“Can I take a tour…for the story?” I asked.

“When Toni comes out, she can show you around.”

Toni was about five-four and about a hundred and forty pounds, with a platinum bob hair-do and a round face. She was wearing tight black Capri pants, a black tank top, silver heels and had thick ankles.

The Lineman opened the door and held it for Toni as they came back to the bar. He ordered a beer and Alma opened it and gave it to him in a paper bag and he left.

“Toni, this man is writing about the race and wants a tour. Would you show him around?” Alma asked.

“Sure” she said.

She smiled and took me by the arm.

SPORTING: Silver State Classic Challenge

2009-10-07T21:57:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t thought ahead to make reservations, or maybe I just thought it wouldn’t be an issue, but either way I needed a place to sleep.

I was resolved that if I didn’t find a bed, I could sleep in the car, although that was not ideal, it would add to the adventure I was already having. The Hotel Nevada was booked solid, even for a distinguished member of the Sporting press…and a soon to be close friend of the hotel owner and mayor. The only place that had a vacancy was the White Pine Motel. I have no idea why it was named the White Pine. The place was an “L” of two story stucco facades. The front office smelled of curry and cumin...the manager was cooking dinner in the back room which was behind an old dirty curtain...and they were listening to a radio program that sounded like farsi. I thought to myself “What would bring this person all the way here to the middle of the middle of nowhere to run a dive motel? What had they left behind? What were they running from? Was this an adventure turned bad and she was stuck here?” She handed me the key attached to a big gold plastic fob with a worn “#3” on it. “It’s the last room.” she said and pointed next door.
Room #3 at the White Pines Motel was next door to the front office and it was a filthy dump. It smelled like a New York City cab and through the paper thin walls I could hear perfectly the radio from the front office. What it had going for it was that it had hot water, a place to stand under it, a roof over it, and a soft place to stretch out. It was all I needed as I planned to spend as little time there as possible.

After I’d checked in and settled into my room I decided to go out and explore the greater Ely Nevada area. The only thing I left in the room was the rolled up sleeping bag. I kept the shotgun, cameras, and my bag of clothes in the car feeling it’d be safer with me than in the room, and I went looking for some fun.

There was a major shortage of attractive women in Ely…The one girl I did find worked at the Arby’s on the edge of town. I went through the drive through, and she was working the window.

"What do you do around here for fun?" I asked...
"You a cop?" she asked.
"No, I'm here covering the race."
"You look like a cop." she said.

I guess I did...in the rental car and sunglasses.

CULTURE: Kids today...

2009-09-24T12:53:00.000-07:00

"Chad McQueen stopped by the other day."
"Who's Chad McQueen?" the lad asked.

"He's the son of Steve McQueen." I said. "He lives a few houses down the street."
"Who's Steve McQueen?" he asked.
"Who's Steve McQueen?!?..How old are you?"
"Twenty Five. Who's Steve McQueen? Is he famous?"
"He was an actor. He's dead...the "King of Cool?"...Never heard of him?"
"What movies was he in?"
"The Great Escape."
"Never heard of it." he said.
"Bullitt?", I tried for the most obvious ones...
"Never seen it."
"Papillon? The Thomas Crown Affair? The Getaway?"
"Dude, I never heard of any of those movies."
"He raced cars, motorcycles, bad-ass dude...You've never heard of Steve McQueen...? Really?"
"Never heard of him."
"What about Ernest Hemingway?"
"Is he an actor? From that movie 'Ernest Goes To Camp?'" he asked.
"The Old Man and the Sea?"
"Is that a movie?"
"I give up..."

SPORTING: A Note From Africa

2009-09-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

This is a letter from our Safari guides in Africa...and as envious as I am that I'm not there living the Sporting Life, there is a Sporting Life here to be lived too...

Dear S and B,
Thought it was time for a bit of a catch up with you and to see how you are? We are all well and have been at the coast for a few days holidays, but it seems as soon as you leave your office lots of things happen so have been answering emails everyday!!...

Had a day in Mombasa buying materials for my stepmothers's business and as it is Ramadan, the place was chaos. Large bellied shop owners sitting on the counters of their shops staring listlessly out at the hot streets, while their assistants tried to show us samples. The market sellers had all their stuff on the road, and then a large white lorry made a delivery and everything had to be rolled up and stacked against the shops!! We dodged potholes, pick pockets and motorcycle taxis and Sofia's eyes were out on stalks. We had such lovely families on safari with us this season and were lucky enough to go fly-fishing up Mt Kenya one morning by helicopter, and be flown to Nairobi half way though our safari to watch M play in the finals of a big polo tournament, which luckily his team won, they were sponsored by Virgin and so called "The Red Hot Virgins!"
Lions coming through camp several nights, making so much noise we all woke up, and although we didn't go to Shaba much as the cattle were using the grazing, we had a wonderful time in Buffalo Springs and Meru national park instead. Huge old elephant bulls with fantastic ivory, so rare to see these days.
Am now trying to work out our safari to America? Probably early next year. It would be great to catch up with you.

Best Wishes,

M and C

CULTURE: Ned Smith

2009-09-07T20:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid...

I used to pour over my Grandfather’s collection of hunting books. One of my favorite elements of the books was the line drawings that most of them used for illustrations. I would study every line and every bit of negative space created. I sometimes learned more from studying the drawings than I did from the words in the books. This is a drawing from one of my favorite wildlife artists, Ned Smith. It is from the book, “Hunting in North America”, written by Constance Helmericks.

ON THE CHEAP: Your Thoughts On Paper

2009-08-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

The two weeks leading up to the start of school are one of the best times to stock up on stationary...

The Mead "Composition" books are a favorite because they're bound in a sturdy and durable cover with lined pages and are excellent for chronicling your thoughts and musings. They'll normally set you back about $3.50, but during this time of year you can stock up on them for about .75 cents.

And best of all, you won't feel the pressure to write something profound, like when you're writing in one of those fancy leather-bound journals.