cool nights. We laughed and joked that we could make it easy. I had been studying wild plants and Frank was real good fisherman. We set up camp and caught grasshoppers for bait. The fishing was tough going. We were using  long thin  saplings casting out. We had hooks lines and sinkers. We made our bobbers out of wood. After four hours and covering most the lake all we had was three small bluegills. Cleaning them we cut the head off and had bait for a three trot line for snapping turtles. This had always worked for us and surely we would have a nice twenty to twenty-five pound snapper waiting in the morning. That night we spilt the fish and ate the stew. Drifting off to sleep in the woods the glow of the fire lit up the tent and soon sleep over took us.

I awoke to branches breaking and Frank said, "Hurry up and get the coffee going." His fire took right off. We didn't have fancy water filters so we just boiled the water. Tasted great in the cool morning. We quickly headed off to check the trot lines. Two young men eat a lot of food.  The first line was empty and we tossed it back out. No worries we have two sets left. The next trot line had the bait stripped off. Most likely by smaller turtles. This we wrapped up and set on shore to be re-baited after we caught more fish.  To the last set Frank raced ahead. I was hoping the last trot line held the prize. My stomach grumbled in protest. No doubt from being late having breakfast.

Frank yelled back we got one. A big triumph smile across his face. Good deal. I ran down. The line was wrapped around a snag in deep water. Frank stripped off his clothes and swam out freeing it. He came back quickly dressing saying something about cold water. I tried to pull the big brute in. The trick here is to get the turtle off the bottom. That way their powerful claws have nothing to hold them down. Slowly I applied pressure and the big brute was not coming out to play. I had to wrap a stick around the twenty pound line. The stick prevented the line from cutting into my hands. Frank walked over and together we broke the big brute free. He is coming in now. About ten feet out he to broke the surface of the water. A big old black shell with moss growing on the sides of his shell.  A head that looked like a baseball. Strong powerful legs swimming against us. We just walked backwards up the small hill hauling him in. Of course the easy part was over now. We had to run down and grab the tail without getting bit. About three feet from shore the turtle struggled to the cover of a low hanging branch that wrapped the line around it. Frank raced down splashing out into the water grabbed the line and pulled it up. The turtle seeing him went into full fight mode swimming and failing with his four powerful claws. I raced down to help. About that time Frank yanked on the line to clear the turtle of the brush. The turtle's front right claw caught the line and snap. Frank almost fell backwards into water. I raced in the water trying to grab the tail, but the turtle was gone in a flash.

I looked back at Frank and you could see the disappointment in his eyes. There swimming away was three days worth of food.  Oh well, back to fishing. We fished our hearts and soul out that day and all we caught was one small bluegill about five inches long. I caught a small bull frog. That was our dinner. Needless to say we were starving for some food. With the one blue gill after cleaning him we re-baited the other two trot lines. Drinking coffee over the fire that night it got cold. I was thinking this is not good. The turtles slow down and don't feed much.

Day three. The blackberry patch we found was completely empty. It was too early for acorns. We quickly checked the trot lines. Nothing had hit any of them. We need some food today. A real meal with some meat. We decided to go hunting. The old single shot .22 would bring us food. We drew straws to see who would play dog and who would shoot first.  Frank won. So I played dog. He would sneak ahead about fifty yards and then I would zig zagged through the brush trying to chase a pheasant or rabbit his way. After hours and hours of this it finally worked. A rabbit was sneaking out in front stopped, turned around to see where I was. The .22 rifle cracked. I came running up thinking food at last. Did you get it? What is it? Frank was silent. I could tell by the look on his face that he missed. It was a rabbit. My turn.

We walked back to camp to make up a new plan. On the way back we spotted a large fox squirrel. The squirrel was in smaller oak trees that were only twenty feet high. I shot and missed and handed the gun to Frank he shot and missed. The whole time the squirrel is running from tree to tree. We raced along keeping him in sight. He raced down the other side of a tree and we ran up just in time to see him dive into a hollow hole in the tree.  Frank handed me the little Winchester .22 bolt action single shot. We decided I would sit off about twenty yards and watch the hole. Frank said he had something to do and we would met me back at camp. His parting words I will never forget for as long as I live. Don't miss I am starving.

I sat with my back to the tree. Watching the hole. After ten minutes or so the squirrel poked his head out took a quick sweep of the area and ducked back in. Good deal. I can't shoot until he is most of the way out of the hole. Even then it would have to be a head shot. A wounded squirrel could make it back in and we would go hungry again. A few minutes passed. It was starting to get dark. Come on squirrel it is time to come out and play. He poked his head out and looked all around.  Slowly I raised the gun. I calmed my breathing down. I aimed at the squirrel taking my time. Ok, at least half his body has to be out before I can shoot. He ducked back in. Is he ever coming out or is darkness going to win the battle, I wondered. A few minutes passed. He is there again I can barely see the sights in the pre sunset hours. He turns and starts to climb up the tree and pauses. Now is my chance. I calmed down remembering my Dad's words from the shooting range. Relax, calm down, slowing squeeze the trigger.  The .22 cracked. The squirrel tenses up on the tree. I work the bolt reaching in my pocket for a shell never taking my eye off the squirrel. One paw falls off the tree. I stood up a big smile on my face, shoving the shell in as I started to walk up to the tree. Anther front paw let go and he fell backwards.  But, he never fell to the ground. His back legs still stuck in the hole in the tree. There is my prize laid upside down fifteen feet in the air.

Just my luck, I leaned the gun against a tree. I searched all over for a long enough branch to knock the squirrel down. It was really getting dark fast when I found a branch I thought would be long enough. Running back to the tree. Standing on my tiptoes I could just reach the squirrel.  I swung the branch from the right and hit the squirrel. He swung with the branch, but didn't fall. I kept hitting him and there he is swinging away. Give me a break, I thought. Darkness is full on now. I can just barely see the squirrel's dark form. I cut off one of the branches on the stick I was using and sharpened the end. I swung the branch up standing on tiptoes swinging back and forth in the dark. After what seemed like hours I hooked the squirrel. Jumping up with stick popping the squirrel out of the hole. Free at last.  When my feet touch the ground I flipped the squirrel off the stick. There he finally comes to the ground. Oh man, you got to be kidding me about ten feet up was a branch and just my luck the squirrel landed and stuck in it. But ten feet up in the air was not so bad. I quickly knocked him to the ground. Grabbing the hard earned prize.  Now, get the gun and head back to camp.

Oh my God, where is the gun? Which tree did I lean it against? The flashlight was back at camp. I searched and searched for about ten minutes than figured we need to wait until daylight. If I can't find it I am sure it will be there when we return in the morning. I walked back to camp and Frank looked up from the fire. He had coffee going and was cooking something in the fry pan. I walked in and a big smile crossed his face seeing the squirrel in hand. I grabbed the flashlight and walked down to the small creek and cleaned the squirrel.

Returning with the squirrel on a stick for roasting I asked Frank what are you cooking ? He said, "It is surprise." I had some coffee as the squirrel cooked over the fire. Dinner is served. The surprise Frank was doing as I battled the squirrel, the tree, and darkness was fresh cattail roots. He dug them up, cleaned them, peeled off the rough spots, diced them like potatoes and steam cooked them in the frying pan that is part of the mess kit. I must say that was one of the best meals I have ever ate.

The bet was until 4:00 PM Monday. The next morning first thing we quickly found the .22. Then we pulled the set lines. Nothing on them. Frank said, Lets try to fish again." We tried until about noon then dug cattails roots and cooked them for lunch. We cleaned up the camp and packed up and headed out. Four days and we survived. It wasn't the easy adventure we thought it would be, but it was the beginning of the path to learning how to survive in the woods.

Buckshot

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CUSTOMER COMMENT:
I have ordered several other items from you before.  Keep up the excellent service.  I found your site originally from the survivalblog.com site.

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The Simplicity Of Otter Trapping

By Adam Colvin Age 16

My Brothers (Caleb and Isaac) and I really enjoy trapping together.

Last year we began our trapping "careers" with only two 1-½ coilsprings and 3 box traps. We caught 3 coon 5 possum and 5 skunks.

This year we had 2 dozen traps ranging from #1 longsprings to #4 coilsprings and 50 snares with which to trap on our 42-acre farm. We trapped along the stream and some old roads for a month catching 3 coons, 2 possum, and 2 gray fox.

At this time we got exclusive permission to trap a series of beaver ponds, a 20-acre lake, and 3000 acres of woods in between. We were excited and got ready to set a line down at the beaver ponds. The next day an experienced trapper came down to show us how to set up for beaver and otter. With him he brought 3, #330’s and 3, #280’s! He showed us good places to set and told us how to set them up. We set an otter slide, a deep run in a creek connecting beaver ponds and several beaver trails. We set up a few snares, a couple of mink, coon, and muskrat sets and went back to the house. The next day we practically flew the mile to the beaver ponds to check our traps. We quickly found 1 medium beaver in a snare, 1 medium beaver in a deep run #330, and a muskrat!

Very pleased with the first day’s catch, we went back home. Over the next 3 weeks we caught 5 beaver and 3 muskrat with still no otter. We were pleased with the fur we had caught but were disappointed that we hadn't been able to catch an otter. There were only 3 days to the local Tennessee Fur Harvester’s Association fur sale and still no otter! That day when we went down to check traps, it appeared that every trap was empty. But on the very last trap, we approached from a clearing and saw that the support sticks were gone (it was a #330 covering an otter slide). I hollered "the support sticks are gone!" Caleb (my younger brother) very calmly hopped around doing somersaults at 100 M.P.H. towards the set hollering "it’s a BIG coon!" I was very carefully approaching the trap from the water (the water was ½ inch from the tops of my knee boots) when I saw "the tail" (I know an otter tail when I see one). Immediately I threw a cautious approach to the wind and lunged forward and quickly pulled a large 42" male otter from the water. That day I walked home in wet boots.

That otter sold for $100.00 at the local Tennessee Fur Harvesters Auction. And at the end of the season we had caught 2 otter, 8 beaver, 5 raccoons, 3 Gray fox, 1 Bobcat, 3 Muskrat, and 3 Possum.

You might be asking OTTER?!! How in the world did you manage to catch otter? Simple!! Bodygrip traps in the sizes of #330, #280 and occasionally #220 will catch and either hold or kill otter. With these bodygripping traps it is easy to make a variety of good otter sets. With bodygripping traps anybody that has an otter population--and permission to trap an area with otter in it can catch otter! I suggest that you read Mike Marysada's book No Nonsense Beaver and Otter Trapping.  It is a great in depth book on how to catch and handle both otter and beaver.  Mr. Marysada covers many different things in it that probably won't help you any (such as how he operates his longline, and state hops), but there are great simple sets in it. And it has PHOTOS! This is very important for me. I need photos to help me figure out what different things are or how they work--even what they look like! Of course there are other books and videos etc... but this is the only water trapping book (other than chapters in books) on water trapping Otter and Beaver that I have had access to. It really is a great book.

I want to repeat that it is simple to catch otter. Slap a #280 or #330 in a path to an otter toilet and collect the results. Do you have what you think might be an otter slide? Simply slap a #280 or #330 in front of it and wait! Make a bucket set (explained in detail in No Nonsense Beaver and Otter Trapping.) with a #220 and wait for a few days--maybe a week or two and you have fur!

Please! be careful! #330's, #280's and even #220's can injure you badly if they are improperly handled. I am only 16 and handle these traps on my line, and have used them last season when I was 15. But please remember that I RESPECT these traps greatly. I KNOW what they CAN and WILL do to me if I treat them incorrectly for even a split second while working with them. Also I am plenty strong enough to set these traps. No disrespect but not all 16 year olds ought to set the larger conibears. If you AND your parents are confident that you are STRONG enough, and RESPONSIBLE enough to use these then go right ahead and use them. Other wise stick with #110's and mink and muskrat.

Trapping has given me lots of fun moments and lots of great memories with my brothers. There have also been not so great memories. Like the time I had caught a gray fox. I went through all of the steps that different people had told me to safely and humanely kill a fox. I got myself a good (I thought) stick, approached the animal and bopped it right over the head. I swung so hard that it broke my "good" stick and sat me down on the ground. I watched the fox as if through slow motion do two back flips through the air and land with a snarl. a million thoughts ran through my mind as I sat up quickly with what was left of my "good" stick ready to do what I could do defend myself. After a second or two of "too close for me without a trap stuck on its foot quarters" I managed to get on my feet and run. Is that a good memory? I don't know--but it sure taught me a lesson! Unless I have all the proper equipment (choker stick, a REALLY good stick, [I now use a short part of a hoe handle] and a backup firearm) then I suggest that you use a good .22 rifle. The .22 has done everything that I've asked of it in my limited career so I don't really think for the fur industry you would want anything bigger. I joke around with my brothers that we are lazy hunters. We just don't want to go out and track or wait on a coyote. We wait until we have one snapped and then we can shoot it. Same results with less (I think more) labor.

I hope that some of this information and/or encouragement will help some of you trappers trap successfully and safely.

Good Luck this season and HEY! trap responsibly and carefully!

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22-250

My Dad was a big fan of the .300 Savage. It is a lot like the Winchester .308 but not quite the same speed. It is good deer round kind of small for elk and Moose. Savage back in the 30 came out with .250-3000. It was necked down from .300 Savage. It I believe was the first round to go over 3000 feet per second shooting a little 87 grain bullet. Now comes a wildcatter that took the .250 and neck it down to .22 hence came the 22-250. Remington in 1965 was the first to manufactory this caliber.

Now the .22-250 is quite an amazing coyote round shooting a .50 grain Nosler at 3800 feet per second quite a bit faster then .223. In reading my reloading manual I notice the .220 swift was faster but it seems all other rounds of the centerfire .22 is trying to match the .22-250. Why so many rounds came out is showing the wide range of people like being a wildcatte.

Another noted is the .224 is a Weatherby belted magnum and it still was not a better round then the 22-250. The .22-250 is an outstanding round that is just one of those that came together right. The right case, the right powder the right bullet gives one heck of a round.

A lot of folks don't know this but a lot of rounds are just necked down from another case a real good example is the .270 is a necked down 30-06. The 7mm Mag is a neck down  .338 belted magnum. Just some interesting reading for you.

Buckshot

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CUSTOMER COMMENT:

I can't wait to see your videos. My friends say their the best. Thanks for imparting your extensive knowledge to the rest of us.

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Greed - Common Sense & Take What You Need

Living full time out in an area where most folks drive in to hunt I learned a lot watching the animals every day. I see the Friday through Sunday crowd come and how the game disappears like they have a calendar and know it is the weekend. The truth is the animals learn to read the human sign. Human sign? Yep, living out here full time taught me the same thing. Traffic increases is the big tip off. When whatever your hunting hears and see more cars, trucks, SUV, 4 wheelers, snowmobiles they learn to become hidden. During the week when the traffic is down and less people are around the animals return more to normal until the coming Friday.

I heard of one group of hunters that shoots their limit of ducks in the morning, cleans them and goes back out in evening hunt to limit out a second time for the day. You would think that maybe they have a large family and need to feed them right? Nope. Most will tell you their family does Not eat the meat? Some will admit they give most of the game away? One guy said, "What is the big deal." "NO ONE LIVES OFF THE LAND ANYMORE." We don't waste game someone will eat it? True enough, someone is hopefully eating all the extra ducks and geese they were shooting but WHY be so greedy? Am I a saint. Nope, but I will admit I have over shot my limit years ago when I was feeding a large family on limited money. But I never took more then we could eat.

I guess it was my up bringing. "You shoot it you eat it". Game was prized extra food needed to help get you thru the high heating bills of the winter. I can't tell you the number of times we were able to eat steaks, roast, and venison burger, etc instead of eating hot dogs and Mac and cheese. BTW Mac and Cheese mixed with venison burger is awesome. I think back of spending $75.00 a week in the grocery store to feed three growing boys a wife and myself. Talk about a motivation to ensure filling your deer tag or limiting out on any type of game! We may not have lived off the land, but we certainly depended on the extra meat and fish brought in.  Nothing was wasted. Now, that I'm older the kids grown up and moved on I take what we need.

Four rooster pheasants walked in front of me dodging in the cattail rushes one cool December morning. The birds are highlighted and more brilliant against the snow. Dodging in and out of the cattail swale. The dog worked the trail and a rooster busted up through the snow covered brown cattails, the cackling rung out. The adrenaline dump, the 20 gauge swung up feeling like an old friend. The first shot dumped him out of the air. The dog raced forward looking for the bird. I rushed up looking for the bird and another rooster burst from cover snow. Flying hard, the pounding of the wings as the rooster gained speed. The shotgun swung up, but I didn't shoot. Why? Because I like my pheasants fresh and only wanted one for the day. No need to be greedy, no large family to feed, no reason to take the bird so I let him go.

I found the dog standing on the bird licking the fresh blood. Picking the bird up we walked out thanking God for a beautiful day and rewarding us with the prized meal. A cottontail rabbit burst from a cover of cattails and I made a snap decision to add him to the pot. The rabbit rolled in the snow, the dog was on him before he finished rolling. Time to go home. Common sense is take what you, need don't be greedy. The pheasant was ate for lunch and the rabbit was made into spaghetti sauce over rice for dinner. I smiled, rabbit is the other white meat. :-)

Click The Picture For Full View

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Lunch & Dinner

A great day in my book.

I look at hunting as extra meat, I don't hunt for sport, it is no game to me, I hunt for food, not to be wasted, but feel lucky to enjoy my wild game. Hunting has never been a sport played like a game. It's clean, fresh, no additives or preservatives meat.  Not free. There is of course licenses fees, ammunition, sometimes gas driving to your hunting spot. Some years wild game counts for 40% of meat. To the good years wild game is 90% of all the meat I eat. Maybe not living off the land, but darn close.

Buckshot

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I bought six knifes from someone in Mora, Sweden in 1958. I give all but one away. I still have it. It is the sharpest knife I ever owned Gerald L H

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Time To Celebrate Double Digit weather. (ABOVE ZERO)

Everyone e-mailed, called and said, "What the heck are you doing moving to North Dakota. OMG is it cold there." Well, I looked it up and it was not much different then the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, but one heck of a lot less snow. When we first moved in some guy told us it was 100 below for weeks at a time and when it warms it to 60 below it feels great. You know it was the welcome the new people to tall tales to set a scare in us.

This passed February was our welcome to the state. Day after day, week after week, it was below zero. It warmed up some days to single digits above zero during the day then crashing down below zero at night. What nails you in this state is there are no trees and the wind. That wind pounding you with a wind chill factor of 50 to 60 below makes you wonder why in God name you ever moved to a state that pounds you with very few trees to slow it down. You know what the un-official state tree is? The REA electric pole. :-) Dangerous driving in this state is losing the road and becoming stuck, with a 50 below wind chill walking three to four miles to a farm house can be fatal. Worst yet, is someone like me who is in the wilderness areas miles from any person getting stuck just before dark. Especially during the week when very few people are around. Not like there are any handy trees around to use a come-a-long to get out. Nope, your best bet is having a real survival kit and staying with vehicle through the night and walking out the next day. Having vast experience in taking short cuts to save time, I have learned a very valuable lesson. Walk out the way you came in. That is why I am making the new Survivor video on vehicle survival.

Buckshot

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I have ordered several other items from you before. Keep upthe excellent service.
regards,
Reagan

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I saw your web-site, so far it's the only one that shows me how to build your own snare. thanks...

R & D

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Why is it that somebody always has to ruin my good mood?

If I had ever entertained the thought of buying a new Ruger firearm -- and I have because they make good guns -- that idea just went out the window! A few minutes ago I called their parts department to inquire about the price and availability of two minor parts for my ugly, old model (1968) Single-Six .22 Magnum revolver that I bought cheap recently and that I'm in the process of fixing up. I could use a decent set of standard grips, and maybe a new ejector rod housing, since mine has most of its finish gone, as well as a few dings in it.

Can you believe that it's Ruger's policy to not give any price quotes or sell any parts for an old model Ruger single action revolver that the owner has not turned in to them to have their "safety conversion" done to it? I find that really hard to accept, and I told the little twit on the phone that, plus a few more choice things before I hung up!

I suppose I could call back, hoping to speak to some other little idiot, and just lie about it and tell them it's had the conversion done to it. But then they would probably insist on me giving them the serial number to see check their records and see if I'm lying to them. I've been safely using old style single action revolvers for about 40 years now, and I'm quite comfortable with my old model Rugers, my Colt SAA, and my Uberti SAA clone.

Ruger seems like they just love this "big brother" crap! I still remember very well when Bill Ruger, Sr. got into bed with the federal government over the issue of magazine capacities, and it still gripes my ass that Ruger refuses to sell honest US citizens a magazine holding more than five rounds for their center fire semiautomatic rifles, such as the Mini-14 and the Mini-30.

Their "safety conversion" to the old model single action revolvers may very well be a good deal for the average shooter, but -- and this is just like using seat belts in a vehicle, which I firmly believe in -- I really resent having somebody else's idea of what's good for me rammed down my throat! In the future I'll be sure to only buy a used Ruger so I can be sure they make their profit off of it only once.

Woody

Florida Panhandle

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Waco Tribune (TX)
Ted Nugent: What do you say to a trapper? Say 'thank you'
Controlling animal population just makes sense
By Ted Nugent, Texas Wildman
Sunday, March 11, 2007
http://www.wacotrib.com/opin/content/news/opinion/stories/nugent/03112007

wacHtmlc

It was a brutally cold morning in the frozen Michigan swamp, but I was feeling warm inside.

The magnificent snowfall had reached more than three feet. Walking in its pure white splendor was another example of how I get high.

It was whiter than Johnny and Edgar Winter with Pat Boone singing Lawrence Welk songs with Mr. Rogers, as Chet Edwards tries to rap. Now, that's white.

The world around me was breathtakingly spiritual. I truly was one with the wind. God bless the Spirit of the Wild, baby.

Only a small, bubbling trickle remained unfrozen in the brook winding its way through the Christmas card-like marshland, so I stepped carefully into the frigid waters to check my trap.

I had already put some beautiful muskrats, grey and red fox, a coyote and a mink in my trapper's basket.

But as always, the intrigue and anticipation were palpable as I lifted the dripping conibear trap from the icy pool.

Hoisting my first beaver from this winter water wonderland was one of the most exciting moments in the wild I have ever experienced. Its luxurious fur coat was a thing of natural beauty and wonderment.

Renewable, natural fur is one of God's most perfect creations. Even as a young teenager, I instinctively knew that the best way to respect such a gift was through intelligent utility.

Of course, opponents of trapping would challenge that, sometimes to the point of success in banning trapping.

In our world of city-fied disconnect and intellectually bankrupt denial, we have seen what happens with trapping bans — bureaucrats scrambling insanely for damage control after rabies, distemper, mange and entire wetlands are destroyed from overpopulation of beaver and muskrat. Then the bureaucrats waste more tax dollars to hire someone to trap the animals.

So much for banning trapping. I trap. I'm smarter.

To this day many, many years later, I continue the time-honored tradition of hands-on conservation in its purest form.

After all is said and done, trapping is all about wise use, balance and biodiversity.

I wish Americans knew and better understood the pivotal role that trapping played in the foundation of this great nation. That our so-called education system barely skims over this important chapter in our history is unforgivable.

Thank God a handful of hearty naturalists continue to perform these essential duties for the environment to keep disease and overpopulation under control. Plan B is for idiots.

In the always-thrilling wilds of Texas, a trapper truly is in heaven: coyotes, coons, possums, skunks, red foxes, grey foxes and bobcats galore. To have the occasional crafty cougar on one's trap line is a thrill that everyone should experience.

I crave my long-range rifle hunting marksmanship, for a controlled sight picture and trigger squeeze can pay off in some mighty fine backstraps or fur when a rifleman puts his heart and soul into it.

And of course the black powder and handgun hunter must call upon an even more demanding discipline and degree of stealth to close the gap for these limited-range firearms.

Ultimately, we bowhunters know the unbelievable frustration of penetrating the 20-yard range of the primitive mystical flight of the arrow no matter how state of the art our archery gear may be.

All hunting is mesmerizing whether it is a 300-yard rifle shot or a 10-yard bow shot.

But now to this most intimate of critter relationships: Instead of trying to outwit God's most capable of elusive prey species at those distances, try outsmarting the most cunning predators there are, and try to determine exactly where they will place a foot.

On God's entire good green earth, a trapper must so completely know the ways of the wild as to predict where the target animal will actually step. Exactly! Now, that's wild.

Each year, trappers harvest the essential surplus, just like we do with deer, turkey, doves, waterfowl, squirrels, rabbits and all the renewable game species that feed and clothe our families. Organic, baby, it's the way to go.

No more environmentally beneficial activity exists than hunting, fishing and trapping, and I am doing my fair share. Fur rocks.

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Put If Off To Tomorrow. :-)

So, the first week of March found us in a Granddaddy blizzard. Winds howling and pounding the house. No mercy in the wind looking for the tiniest crack to invade the house to keep  it cooled down. Already lived through the frozen pipes, the spilt pipes, the large holes in the foundation, no insulation on the foundation and floor joist. After curing all those problems. and 8 tubes of caulk I was finally able to keep the house warm.

Anybody who heats with wood will tell you about the junk wood you save for March. You know the funky wood, the too large to spilt, the too knotty to spilt, etc. So, it was warming up good and I wasn't worried about it. Then the 3 day winter storm hit. Each day pounding the house. A friend had plenty of wood waiting to be cut up. Just jump in the truck and drive over and grab a load. I warmed the truck up and thinking thank God for 4 wheel drive. Put it in gear and back into the 2 foot tall snow drift behind it stopping me dead in my tracks. Ahh no biggy, a couple more hits and I will be broke through and make it to the road. Try going forward and the rear wheel spun. That is funny. I get out of the truck check to make sure the 4 wheel drive is locked in. Yep, both wheels are locked in. Jump in the truck and shifted it to 4 wheel drive low. Nothing. Tried again to back up. Nothing.

Ahh great, the worst storm of the year and the 4  wheel drive is out. Unfortunately the wood stove needs wood so out to the junk wood. I fired up the chain saw and cut some in half. You know the great big 16 inch diameter logs cutting them down to 8 inches and they spilt pretty good. But, what happens when you run into that knotty, snarled, twisted piece that doesn't want to spilt. Well, a normal thinking person would have bought a gas or electric splitting maul. Or heck maybe even a standard splitting maul you can swing by hand. Well, that is normal people, not me. So, here I am looking at 5 pieces of wood to heat the house for 3 days. Ok, so in other words I have to figure out how to get this wood spilt. The first two days wasn't too bad dress up for the blizzard, dig out the wood, cut it and spilt it. Friday the storm now turns into a full blown blizzard.

Now, Friday the wind is howling at 45 mph. A blinding whiteout and for some reason the last of the wood didn't magically keep burning all day. :-) Out in the blizzard digging out wood, I mutter next year my garage will be full of wood stack to the ceiling. I cut 6 pieces in half. I trade the chain saw for the axe. Whack. The axe is stuck in the still very solid piece of wood. Just great, way to start the morning. I lifted the axe up and pounded on the ground with the log attached. No luck this Axe is stuck as bad as my truck. Oh great, now what? Well, I made a poor man's splitting maul. I grabbed another axe turned it around and used the hammer end. I beat that first axe through until the wood spilt. I must warn you if you ever do it be very careful can you can send chips of metal off that could knock your eye out. After a few hours of splitting I have enough wood done for a few days.

Maybe I should stop putting stuff off until tomorrow. Ahh, maybe tomorrow I will start that. :-)

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