John Maynard Keynes
"There is no subtler, no surer means of overturning the existing basis of society than to debauch the currency. The process engages all the hidden forces of economic law on the side of destruction, and does it in a manner which not one man in a million is able to diagnose."
The supreme irony that became apparent as the event unfolded was that the school of thought which has long billed itself the representative of science and enlightenment, presented an argument that was practically devoid of scientific merit, whist the camp of so-called superstition and religion gave a superb presentation of scientific fact and emotionless reason.
FSU philosophy professor (and part-time Darwin worshiper) Michael Ruse was clearly a skilled debater with a well-developed sense of comic timing, and a demonstrated mastery of the witty rejoinder.
But it must be said by any objective observer that he gave short service to his camp’s position that the matchless complexity of the biosphere is the result of mindless natural forces. He and his ilk are ready to consider any and all possibilities regardless of the statistical improbability; all save one possibility: that intelligence may have played a part in the present state of the biological universe. Because to admit intelligence simply points the seeker to the begged question of “Who”, which most of us would naturally assume to be …dare I say it? God! I hesitate because of the obvious discomfort that Professor Ruse began to display at any point where his and our consideration were involuntarily pointed upwards.
Oh he did fine in his lengthy (and wholly irrelevant) dissertation on the history of the debate where his sole point seemed to be the need to carefully label the various Christian parties as either “traditional” or “conservative/evangelical”. But I thought I detected from my second row seat almost a trembling in him when he uttered the latter of the two. I hyperbolize slightly for literary effect, but in truth Dr. Ruse position was best summed up as:
- The entire Intelligent Design argument is nothing more than Christians with an agenda!
- There just cannot be the possibility of anything supernatural (God)
- The various schools of biblical interpretation actually is a factor to be considered (I’m not kidding!)
- A veiled inference that ignorant southern Americans have had a disproportionate role in the debate thereby lessening its validity as debatable in the first place
- The debate at large is really only in America – the implication being that Europeans are above such plebian considerations and there must be something wrong with America that we would still give any thought to a God figure
But again…the perfect counterweight to the smoke and mirrors of Ruse’s presentation was the factual and unemotional position espoused by Professor Paul Nelson of Biola University.
He remained focused and factual, and consistently rested his positions on scientific observations, whether it was the extraordinarily complex sequence of chemical reactions necessary for blood to clot, or the inexplicable development of irreducibly complex physiological systems like the eyeball. He was at once unflappable and imperturbable throughout the pointed questioning of hostile audience members and the emotional see-saw displayed by his opponent.
I struggled to keep my cool – but Professor Nelson showed no sign of losing his. Where he simply stuck to the merits of his position, I would have probably devolved into counter-pointing the inanities that masqueraded as debate coming from Mike Ruse.
I would have pointed out the hypocrisy of saying the opponent’s camp is motivated by an agenda as if an entire lifetime of cheerleading for Godless evolution was simply the natural result of impartial and unbiased interest.
I would have made the point that whether St Augustine was a traditional Christian and not a conservative Christian has exactly no bearing on the merits of either evolution OR intelligent design. I kept wondering if Professor Ruse had ever heard the phrase “rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic”.
I was definitely not convinced that Professor Ruse’s sole beef with America was limited to Diet Pepsi. I have a sneaking suspicion that Christians, and particularly southern American Christians are a lot lower on his list than Diet Pepsi. But again, I failed to see how the venue of the debate, or the nationality of the opponents, had even one iota of bearing on the issue at hand. I was moved to an involuntary outburst when a man stood up and gave the following observation:
Paraphrased: I was raised and educated on the evolutionist (atheist) side of the debate. But today I am a Christian, as well as being a medical Doctor and molecular biologist. I was eventually swayed by the incredible complexity and phenomenal order of the natural universe. And by the way, I’m proud to be an American.
To Professor Paul Nelson I want to say “You did a fine job Dr.”
To Professor Michael Ruse I would like to say “Professor you unwittingly validated an aspect of my own personal theory regarding the agenda of those in your camp. I believe that you are motivated to exorcise God from every corner of the universe in order to free yourselves from any feelings of guilt for the oftentimes immoral lifestyle you so often pursue (I am speaking collectively). Your gleeful embrace of sex and sexuality at every point in the discussion belied your real goal: which female college senior might be sufficiently beguiled by your shallow veneer of charm and wit.
You're correct Dr Paul. There is a fundamental misunderstanding of the difference between capital and credit, and you cannot re inflate the bubble once it's burst. We have indeed come to end of an era...but some folks are too stupid, or too ideologically blind to see it.
I snuck my first drink of beer by hanging around the adults while they were talking and snatching my Dad’s beer off the table when he wasn’t looking. I remember thinking “This stuff tastes terrible!” Boy how my taste has changed!
During my wild teen years I drank literally ANYTHING I could lay hands on. That once included something I found in my mothers pantry as I headed out for a camping trip. It was called “Cooking Sherry”. Whew! That stuff did indeed suck.
It was when I joined that famous and illustrious organization, the USMC (Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children) that I really came into my own as far as consumption of alcohol was concerned. My first gigantic hangover was the result of my first Friday night spent at the E-club. There was a country music band (which I hate) and there was unlimited draft beer (which I love). Before the evening was over, I was numbered among 20 or so other brand new jarheads who decided the way to really celebrate was to tear the place apart in an attempt to beat each other’s heads in.
Somewhere along the way during my tour with the Marines, I discovered the joys of rum. I particularly liked Bacardi light rum. One evening after a unit field meet, I sponsored a party at my apartment and I turned over the responsibility for pouring the drinks to a young Lance Corporal that I was training in the finer arts of alcoholism. Unbeknownst to me, Lcpl Barnes replaced the 80 proof rum I had thoughtfully provided with a bottle of that 151 stuff. I wondered why the drinks tasted a bit strong, but I proceeded to anesthetize myself right on as if it were the regular rum. That I later went out and wrecked my car is testament to the principal that one should pay close attention to who’s mixing the drinks, and what they put in ‘em!
Another time during my “rum years”, me and some of my brother Marines decided that instead of running for exercise during the lunch hour, we would run off to a bar and drink our lunch. Three of us consumed an entire liter of Bicardi in the 75 minutes we were allotted for lunch! When we returned to the building somewhat late, I decided that the quickest way to reach the third level sub-basement where we worked was to ride the mail-shute down. My compatriots declined, but I couldn’t back out so I went ahead and climbed in. It was fast alright! Especially when the shaft went vertical (in complete blackness) for about 30 feet. None the worse for wear, I came sliding out in the mailroom to the amazement of the civil service pukes working there. I got to the office where I was assigned and promptly crawled UNDER the desk for a little shut-eye.
I admonished Lcpl Barnes to keep a watch out for the Gunny and went fast asleep. Several hours later I opened my bleary eyes to the sight of Gunny standing over me glaring down with a look of exasperation on his face. His only words were “Don’t ever do that again.”
These events happened when I was stationed at Kansas City in the Bendix building. There were about 300 Marines and about 10,000 civilians employed there. Our rules were not their rules, and their rules were not ours. The civilians had great trouble understanding that.
One Friday morning when it was about 20 below outside, I brought a bottle of rum to work and shared it with my squad. We were located in this huge office that had maybe 300 workers in it. You could see from one end to the other because there wasn’t a cubicle anywhere. The Marines under my auspices had decided that we wanted some cover and concealment, so we formed a sort of enclosure by moving all the file cabinets around. That way we could escape the prying eyes of the puke civilians. It was here that we were enjoying the bottle of rum I had supplied. Although we were working while we drank, the rum still was beginning to have an effect of course. I got kind of hot in my wool trousers and long johns so I went to the head and took off the long johns. I came back to our little cabinet fort with LJ’s in hand. To make the guys laugh I pulled the long johns on over my head and stuck my tongue out of the crotch panel. Real sophisticated humor right? Well I was rewarded with the expected guffaws from the fellows, but in a moment it died away rather suddenly. I pulled the crotch panel wider so I could see and low and behold I was standing there looking at the unit Sergeant-Major, the LtCol. in charge of all the Marines stationed there, the brand new civilian GS-million or so who was in charge of all the civvies, and his personal secretary. Fortunately none of them was standing close enough to get a whiff of the alcohol that I’m sure we all reeked of. I mumbled something about trying to boost the morale of my troops, and was only subjected to an evil glare from the LtCol and the SgtMaj, and looks of total disbelief from the civilians. It scared me at the time, but I have looked back for years at the fond memory of that moment.
I also spent quite a few years drinking Miller Lite, and I thought that I had reached the pinnacle of beer delight. My fellow leathernecks and I consumed oceans of the stuff. I didn’t consider any other beer even palatable for many years. Then in 1980 I got orders to go down and defend the American Embassy in Kingston Jamaica from hoards of rampaging tourists. There was a serious problem when I discovered that there was NO American beer on the island. That has since changed, but back then the only beer to be found in Jamaica was Red Stripe, Heiniken, and Guinness Stout. Now the first two I was just less than passionate about, but Guinness was positively raunchy! That stuff would make a maggot wretch.
Well I persevered, given my lack of options, and made Red Stripe my new beer of “choice” since I had no other choice. After being in Jamaica for about a year I got a chance to fly to Gitmo on a supply flight that the Navy was kind enough to send our way. First stop: Navy Exchange. I bought a six pack of Miller Lite and went out behind the building to quench a year’s thirst for my old favorite. I couldn’t even get one bottle down. It tasted like pure piss! Compared to Red Stripe it was terrible. So was Bud. I have never gone back to Miller Lite, but I will drink Bud Light if Red Stripe isn’t available.
I couple of years ago I tried some of that Japanese beer, Sapporo. It is excellent, but prohibitively expensive. So I am satisfied to remain with Red Stripe as my overall favorite beer.
As far as liquor is concerned I eventually grew tired of rum and started drinking Crown Royal. My very best friend Bob Winston introduced me to the drink because it was his favorite poison and the only booze he ever stocked. His girlfriend at that time stitched him an entire quilt from the little purple bags that Crown comes packaged in. I’ve poured down quite a bit of Crown over the years, but on New Years Day 2002 I swore off casual consumption of Crown Royal and reserve it for special commemorative events. Bob died that day. He drank himself to death at the age of 43. Lord knows I miss him cause I loved him like a brother. He’s guarding the streets of gold up above.
I’ll close this little history of boozing with the recipe for my present drink of choice. I got started on Cosmopolitans when I tried ‘em at this high class steak joint where I took my son to celebrate his 21st birthday. The name of the drink might sound sort of girly, but I guarantee that if you follow this recipe, you’ll find out just how manly you really are.
Semper Fi Bobby…this next drink’s for you brother
GunRights4US’s Cosmo par excellence:
1 ½ part top shelf vodka – preferable Grey Goose or Skyy
1 part Gran Mariner – Cointreau is an acceptable substitute
1 part cranberry juice
1 dash of Rose’s sweet Lime juice
Chill the mixing glass, the shot glass and the cocktail glass thoroughly in the freezer. Put ice in the mixing glass and mix the ingredients over it. Stir and let stand for a moment before straining the drink into the cocktail glass sans ice. Add a slice of lime and enjoy.
“A man wearing a T-shirt depicting a cartoon character holding a gun was stopped from boarding a flight by the security at Heathrow’s Terminal 5,” The BBC reported on June 1.
Brad Jayakody, from Bayswater, central London, said he was “stumped” at the objection to his Transformers T-shirt.
Mr. Jayakody, a clean-shaven young man with eyeglasses and short hair, said the incident happened in mid May, when he was challenged by an official during a pre-flight security check.
“He says, ‘We won’t be able to let you through because your T-shirt has got a gun on it’,” Mr.. Jayakody told reporters.
“I was like, ‘What are you talking about?’
“(The goon’s) supervisor comes over and goes ‘Sorry, we can’t let you through and you’ve a gun on your T-shirt’.”
Mr. Jayakody said he had to strip and change his T-shirt before he was allowed to board his flight.
“It’s a cartoon robot — what threat is it to security or offensive to anyone at all?”
A spokesnerd for BAA — the quasi-private outfit that operates seven major British airports, owned in turn by the Spanish Grupo Ferrovial consortium — said there was no record of the incident and no “formal complaint” had been made.
“If a T-shirt had a rude word or a bomb on it, for example, a passenger may be asked to remove it,” he said. “If it’s offensive, we don’t want other passengers upset.”
Jared Diamond wrote a book a few years back called “Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed.” The premise was for the most part trendy Green: Cultures fail because they try to support too many people on the land, causing them to ruin the soil and cut down all the forests, etc. He actually praised the societies of highland New Guinea and others of their ilk for developing “sustainable” agricultural methods.
It’s an interesting premise, but (I submit) hugely flawed. Cultures like the Maya may occasionally collapse due to a failure to develop fertilizers and crop rotation, putting them in dire straits when the inevitable drought or crop blight strikes. It’s even possible a shortage of meat protein in the peasant diet renders them smaller and less effective as warriors.
But most primitive cultures have collapsed, virtually overnight, because of the arrival of a more warlike neighbor with better weapons and tactics. Cortez did not conquer Mexico with the plow. It didn’t matter whether the Apache and the Navajo (and before them, presumably, the southbound Aztecs) had better agricultural methods than the Anasazi and other relatively peaceful agriculturalists of the Southwest; the warlike newcomers were simply fully willing and better able to raid them, stealing their women and corn. (Why else did they become “cliff dwellers”?)
It may be that the natives of highland New Guinea do not grow too numerous for their agricultural methods to sustain precisely because they have no modern medicine to extend life spans and reduce infant mortality. They may also have survived because no one with better weapons has yet considered their remote jungle worth taking.
The Picts fell to the Celts who fell to the Romans who withdrew and left the natives to the mercy of the Saxons, who were invaded by the Danes and eventually conquered by the Normans. Yes, agriculture sustains larger populations and thus larger armies than hunting and gathering, but you may still be better able to grasp such a course of events by studying the development of the spear, the iron sword, the shield wall, the bow and stirruped cavalry than by analyzing crop rotation.
Watch a cat kill a bird, sometime. If you intervene quickly enough, while the prey is still frantically struggling, you may still be able to set it free. But at some point the victim seems to pass into a kind of trance of resignation. At that point, even if rescued and set free, the bird seems past the point of resistance. It will often die even when its injuries appear non-life-threatening.
I submit Western culture is entering a similarly strange and suicidal reverie. Eventually, loud and angry foreigners who have grown up hungry will arrive to kill us and take our stuff, as we sit chanting in self-satisfaction at how wise we were to revert to the imagined peaceful lifestyles of our pre-coal, pre-firearm, pre-industrial, short-lived toothless ancestors.
I used to predict that our women (and young boys, I suppose) would at that point shriek and moan as they are carried off into slavery, asking what has become of the men with guns who were supposed to defend them.
I may now have to revise that. I may have to add: “assuming they even remember what a gun looked like.”
A US $20 dollar gold piece would buy a beef cow on the hoof in 1900. A US $20 dollar gold piece will STILL buy a beef cow on the hoof today!
Much better to use your Gubmint IOUs, otherwise known as paper dollars, and buy the things you will probably use tomorrow at today's lower price. I know alot of folks are buying GOLD [me too], and some even advocate lesser obvious tangibles like liquor [me too]. But skip the beer, because it's perishable and it's apparently lost its appeal during these hard times, compared to liquor and wine!
Oh I almost forgot! Make sure you're well stocked with brass and lead (wink). Its price has been going through the roof too. And it's NEVER coming back down either!
There are some people out there…some really devout Christians…who place all their trust in the Lord to the extent that they have no intention of “looking to what tomorrow brings”. They smile when you discuss preparations and nod their heads, all the while you know darn well they aren’t going to set back the first bit of survival stores.
"After all, it’s in Jesus’ hands!" they're quick to point out.
But is that really the correct viewpoint for a Christian?
Here’s an interesting post on SurvivalBlog.com that discusses this very issue. Give it a read…it’s not very long! You were only going to watch some mind-numbing TV anyway!
From my end, it all looks various shades of yellow and blue.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! LOL
A government scheme offering fast-tracked gun permits to men who agree to undergo a vasectomy is being criticised by the men who say officials are reneging on the deal.
More than 700 and perhaps as many as 1300 years ago — back when the peace-loving Muslims were trying to conquer Europe by the sword (till they were stopped at Tours by Charles Martel) — the ancestors of the people who became the Aztecs passed through what is now Utah and Arizona, on their way south.
Left behind were relatively peaceful farmers, the Anasazi, likely the ancestors of today’s Pima and Papago (Tohono O’Odham.)
Nature hates a vacuum, and peaceful farmers tend to rule a land only until a more aggressive group arrives to take their women and their corn. It appears that warlike group, for the land to become Arizona, consisted of a couple of tribes speaking Athabascan tongues (thus, probably from Canada), the Navajo and Apache.
Did the Navajo and Apache buy their lands? Of course not. They took them.
A little more than a century ago, it was the turn of the Navajo and the Apache to have a good portion of their lands taken from them by a people better skilled or more ruthless in war — the “Americans.”
Click HERE to read the rest of the story
Read Vin's book...Send in the Waco Killers, and get a complete education!
College ousts Marine for legally concealed gun
'Look, no weapons are allowed on campus, period'
Posted: February 19, 2009
12:00 am Eastern
By Chelsea Schilling
© 2009 WorldNetDaily
A Marine has been arrested, suspended from college and ordered to undergo a psychological evaluation for bringing a handgun and knife to campus – even though he holds a concealed carry permit issued by the state.
"They put me in cuffs as quick as they could and hauled me off," Western Oregon University student Jeffrey L. Maxwell told Portland's KATU-TV. "With my concealed weapons permit, I thought I was well within my rights to carry it. I never remember signing away my right to keep and bear arms."
GR4U - And the same little punkassed student panel that ordered the psyche eval wants him to "submit a 10-page essay on the importance of following the law, accepting responsibility for his actions and recognizing the impact of possessing weapons on a college campus before he will be allowed to return next spring."
As I see it he:
a. Followed the Constitution over the dictates of all lesser "authorities"
b. Accepted the consequences of his actions more fully than the typical person
c. Recognized the impact of possessing a gun to the benefit, not only of himself, but all those in the vacinity who could be saved by Jeffrey Maxwell's armed response to the next whacko loonie that chooses to take advantage of a victim disarmament zone!
But Friday was no typical morning. Before he left his rented farmhouse, authorities say, the 11-year-old fatally shot his father's pregnant fiancee in the back of the head as she lay in bed. He then put his youth model 20-gauge shotgun back in his room and went out to catch his bus, police say.
This post is to help plan a trip to Jamaica with some good friends. The one thing I will try to refrain from posting openly here are the specific dates of our intended travel. OPSEC you know.
A word about the cooking - These ladies can flat cook!!! Either continental, American, or local; I am going to bet you will be very pleased with the quality if the food prep.
Here's a good video showing what the beach looks like.
by James Bovard
Delusions about democracy are subverting peace and freedom. The American system of government is collapsing thanks to ignorant citizens, lying politicians, and a government leashed neither by law nor Constitution. While presidents and pundits harp on democracy’s inevitable spread around the world, it is perishing at home.
Victorious politicians routinely invoke the "will of the people" to sanctify their power. But voters cannot countenance what they do not understand. The "will of the people" is often simply a measure of how many people fell for which lies, how many people were frightened by which advertisements, and which red herrings worked on which target audiences. Rather than the "will of the people," election results are often only a one-day snapshot of transient mass delusions.
Many Americans have little or no idea how government works or who is holding the reins on their lives. The majority of American voters do not know the name of their congressman, the length of terms of House or Senate members, what the Bill of Rights guarantees, or what the government is actually doing in the vast majority of its interventions. A survey after the 2002 congressional election revealed that less than a third of Americans knew "that the Republicans controlled the House of Representatives prior to the election." Recent polls show that almost two-thirds of Americans could not name a single Supreme Court justice and that 58 percent of Americans could not name a single cabinet department in the federal government.
Americans are assured that they are free because rulers take power only with the people’s informed consent. What does "informed consent" mean these days? It means knowing the names of the president’s pets but not knowing his record on key issues. It means knowing the sexual orientation of family members of candidates for high office, but falling prey to their rewriting of history. It means recalling the phrases the government endlessly repeats, and screening out evidence of government atrocities.
The political ignorance of scores of millions of Americans prevents them from recognizing the consequences or dangers of government actions. The citizenry is increasingly on automatic pilot, paying less attention to each new war, each new power grab, each new dubious presidential assertion.
The rising gullibility of the American people may be the most important trend in U.S. democracy. With each passing decade, with each new presidency, it takes less and less to snooker Americans. And a candidate only has to fool enough people on one day to snare power over everyone for four years.
Attention Deficit Democracy begets a government that is nominally democratic – in which elections are boisterous events accompanied by torrents of deceptive ads and mass rallies. But after the election, the president returns to his pedestal. Attention Deficit Democracy lacks the most important check on the abuse of power: an informed citizenry resolutely defending their rights and liberties.
In 1693, William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, wrote what could be the motto for modern American government. "Let the people think they govern, and they will be governed." Rulers endlessly assure people that they are in charge – while creating agency after agency, program after program that people can neither comprehend nor control. Americans’ political thinking is becoming akin to the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance – a series of bromides that sink into the mind and stifle independent, critical thought.
Listen to this with no distractions (a tough thing to do in our soundbite addicted society)
Or...don't listen, and remain ignorant.
I grew up under the tutelage of old parents, my father being 45 when I was born, and my mother being 40. They were both products of the depression, but particularly my father who came from real dirt-poor poverty.
It wasn’t apparent to me as a child that we were “poor”, but it was made clear to me years later in a conversation with my aging mother who pointed out that I didn’t have a bicycle until I was about 10 years old. And the Christmas that produced the bicycle was a year when the tree was absolutely devoid of all presents except that bike. My needs were met and that’s all I knew as a boy.
Waste was a hideous sin in the GunRights home. And no waste was more sinful than wasting food. Above all else, food was to be stretched as far as possible, and nothing edible was ever thrown away. It was a constant refrain in my home around mealtimes: “Don’t you waste that food! There’s people going to bed hungry tonight!” The little GunRights’ only thought on hearing such truisms repeatedly was “They can sure have MY liver or beets.”
When my father lay dying in a hospital bed I was sitting there one afternoon just watching over him. He didn’t feel like talking and seemed asleep. The nurse walked in all cheery and chatty and bustled about doing this and that. She took note and commented that there was a full glass of milk left untouched that Daddy hadn’t drank.
“Oh Mr. GunRights, you didn’t drink your milk” says she. “Well I guess not! It’s all warm now. Let me just throw this out and get you a fresh glass.”
My Dad popped up to a sitting position like he’d been catapulted there. “Don’t you dare waste that milk! Give me that!” he snapped.
Snatching the milk out of her hand he guzzled it down in one fell swoop and handed her back the glass. Without another word he sank back down into his torpor.
She looked at me with a semi-shocked look and then made a hasty retreat. Foolish woman; I could have told her she was screwing up at just the thought of wasting a glass of milk, whether warm or not!
I’m afraid that tough times are coming for America, and I suspect that many of us will rue the day we wasted anything – but most especially food.
Victor Davis Hansen is a classicist author and historian whose words are always worth hearing. Here’s his take on some Depression memories, and the contrast they afford with modern times.
Okay picture this: It’s a sunny day, the birds are singing, the weather’s great and all’s right with the world. I’m sitting at a traffic light waiting for it to turn green. There’s an old pickup truck in front of me waiting for the same light.
Suddenly the driver of the pickup truck starts yelling cussing at a black guy walking down the sidewalk nearby. In fact, he not just yelling …he’s raging! He’s cussing the guy for all he’s worth, including those ugly racial epitaphs guaranteed to get a black’s attention! Now I’m thinking “What did I miss here?” Because the pedestrian hasn’t done a damn thing that I can see. And when I look closely it’s evident from the look on his face that he doesn’t know what his offense is either.
A green light ended the mysterious affair, we both rolled off and my attention shifts back to my own thoughts and concerns. Both the truck driver and I were in a hurry. I was late for class at the university, and who knows what his excuse was.
We both got up on a stretch of expressway, and then by coincidence we both got off at the same exit. At the bottom of the ramp I again find myself behind the truck driver waiting on a light. Here’s where things get a bit weird. Ever catch someone’s eye in their rearview mirror? That’s what happened; we made eye contact in his rearview, and that’s what started it.
The guy starts ranting and raving, first at the mirror, and then thru the rear window of the truck. Now keep in mind that all I’ve done is make eye contact! This fool starts raging and frothing at the mouth like he just caught me in bed with his wife. Well of course I reacted. In my surprise I mouthed something along the lines of “What the hell is your problem bud?” This had the exact same effect as if I had pissed in his eye. He jumps out of the truck – and what a shock: HE’S BUCK-ASSED NAKED!
He’s also practically foaming at the mouth and …well…raging like an insane idiot! There’s a dark smear of blood across his face starting under his nose and extending all the way around the side to his ear. A big ugly bruise is glaring out from the middle of his forehead as well. It’s clear that Birthday-suit boy has had a run in with someone today already, and he looks like he came off on the short end of the stick.
Now here I am blocked by traffic to the front and rear. And this took place during my poverty stricken years while struggling to raise a family and complete a four year degree in accounting. The car I was driving was a model POS (Piece of Sh*t!) that barely got me from point A to point B, and the most salient aspect of this old heap on this particular day was that it had no windows on either the driver’s or passenger’s side. I had no money beyond just keeping it running enough to cart me around. Now I was in a situation where I couldn’t even lock the door from someone who had all the appearances of being a lunatic.
In far less time than it takes to tell about it, this bloody-faced wanker was advancing on me uttering the most vile threats of violence and mayhem. And I’ve been in my share of fights and fracases, and I know what postering and bluffing looks like, and this was none of that.
When my new friend Buck Nekked made some suggestion that he was going to pull me out of my car and stomp my eyeballs out, I decided to introduce him to my .38 revolver. In those days I didn’t carry, I merely kept a gun in the car. So I raised it up where he could see it as he got closer. I didn’t point it at him – at first, just showed it him.
It didn’t exactly elicit the response I hoped for!
Buck says “I’ll stick that gun up your ass muthaf*cker!” and if anything he stepped up the speed of his approach.
Okay, here goes…last card.
I pointed the gun full in his face (which by this time was only arm’s length away) cocked the hammer and in my most serious tone I said, “I’ll shoot you where you stand you Sumbitch…get your f*ckin ass back in that truck!”
I meant every word of it too. I had no intention of dancing with that whack job there by the side of the road, with him all naked and bloody and wild-eyed.
Something about the tone of my voice, or the look in my eye, coupled with the sweet sound of cocking that S&W made the jackass reconsider his intentions, and his sails deflated pretty quickly. I fretted a moment that he might have a gun of his own in the truck, but the light turned green and we all went mobile again.
It all happened in just seconds…literally. I wasn’t scared as it was happening, but a few minutes later I got a little shaky and had to pull over to take a few deep breaths.
Less than a week later I refused to return a security deposit to a departing tenant who was renting my home out. The very large man walked purposefully toward me and said he’d be just fine with taking it out of my hide. So I allowed HIM to also stare down the barrel of my .38 while he reconsidered his short-term plans for recoupment.
You never know when you're gonna need a leveler …just to keep things peaceful. So these are the events that convinced me that carrying is a good idea. ALL THE TIME.
A little over six years ago I landed my dream job. I plan to remain there until I retire, or they run me off. Unfortunately they have a written policy against guns in the workplace. Hmmm….what to do. I went to each of the two partners whose company it is, and I laid my CWP down in front of them and asked “Is this okay with you?” My thought was that the policy was really only for liability purposes in today’s litigious business climate. Well I got the nod from both men, and I carried in the office just like I would anywhere else.
Now roll the clock forward about 4 years. Ours is a shirt & tie workplace and I’ve settled on an ankle holster as my workplace carry rig. Every Monday morning, as regularly as the sun rises, we have a manager’s meeting in a big conference room. The room is arranged with the tables in a circular pattern that will seat about 15 people. The unintentional effect of this table arrangement allows the gents across from you to see your feet and legs.
On one particular morning after the meeting was concluded the junior partner approaches me as I’m getting my coffee. The conversation goes like this:
Boss: “Umm …Have you been in some trouble or something? Is there something you want to tell me?”
Me: “No… nothing to tell Chief. What are you talking about?”
Boss: “Well when I was in the meeting I noticed something on your leg. What is that?”
[The light suddenly dawned: he thought it was a court-issued monitor anklet!]
Me: “That’s a pistol”
Me: “Yeah it’s a pistol – a .40 pistol, are you gonna have a problem with that?”
I made up my mind right then and there that I was not going to back up and compromise my principals, even for the sake of my dream job. Let’s see where this goes says I.
Boss: “Umm, well, umm, uhhh, well….I guess um …I guess if I ever um, ever have to fire you I’ll do it by …um, phone or email. No…there’s no problem. But why do feel it necessary to carry a gun? What are you scared of?”
Me: “First of all, I carry cause it’s my God-given right to do so! Secondly, I’m not scared of a damn thing BECAUSE I carry.”
I then went on to relate to him the incidents that I alluded to earlier in this post. (I’ll save those for a future blog entry) I also emphasized that only someone who intended to do me harm had anything to fear from me, and that in fact the office and its staff are far safer by having an armed “me” around! He reluctantly agreed with both of those points.
The bottom line is: I will NOT be disarmed!
Stayed tuned boys and girls and I’ll soon post the story of WHY I carry religiously. You’re gonna enjoy it I’m sure.
The Dow at a 10-year low.
A tax cheat running the IRS
Another tax cheat as the Chief of Staff
A trillion-dollar plus federal deficit
Over one-half of voters relieved of any federal tax liability
Government mandated limits on executive compensation
Three failed attempts and still no Commerce Secretary
Tom Daschle rides his free limo into the sunset - after paying taxes he evaded.
The White House performance czar turns out to be a tax cheat also
Lobbyists hired to work for the Obama Administration
The census gets politicized
Double government spending in one year
The word "freedom" fades into obscurity
Increasing home loan mortgage rates across the board
Millions of Americans made dependent on government
Moving unionization-by-intimidation forward
Welfare checks become "tax cuts."
Illegal aliens free to work on taxpayer-funded "stimulus" projects
Welfare reform reversed, states ordered to increase welfare roles
Move to silence critical talk radio shows
Selling Senate seats
Obama books in religious sections of book stores
More government workers, not private sector jobs
A government bureaucracy to intrude on doctor/patient relationships
Stage set for medical services rationing
Annual welfare checks for middle income families
Americans have devoted far more effort to spreading democracy than to understanding it.
Modern democracy is far more effective at unleashing government than at protecting individuals.
When people blindly assume that their leaders are trustworthy, the biggest liars win.
Rather than a democracy, we increasingly have an elective dictatorship. People are merely permitted to choose who will violate the laws and the Constitution.
Instead of revealing the “will of the people,” election results are often only a one-day snapshot of transient mass delusions.
The biggest election frauds usually occur before the voting booths open.
A democratic government that respects no limits on its own power is a ticking time bomb, waiting to destroy the rights it was created to protect.
Leviathan is premised on government’s need to control the people. Democracy rests on people’s right to control the government. The conflict between these two principles generates much of the deceit that permeates contemporary politics.
Washington policy debates are often like a criminal trial in which all the evidence of the defendant’s past offenses is ruled inadmissible.
America is becoming a democracy of knocking knees, sweating foreheads, and folks who jump too high at any sound.
Bogus fears can produce real servitude.
With the Battered Citizen Syndrome, the more debacles government produces, the more tightly voters cling to their rulers.
The more fears government fans, the fewer people recall the danger of government itself.
Americans cannot expect to have good presidents if presidents are permitted to make themselves czars
Being crowned a winner by the Electoral College does not give one American the right to dispose of all other Americans’ lives and liberties.
As long as rulers are above the law, citizens have the same type of freedom that slaves had on days when their masters chose not to beat them.
As long as American presidents praise freedom, they are permitted to seize as much power as they please.
Democracy is merely a form of government. It is not a penicillin that cures all politically transmitted diseases.
Democracy unleashes the State in the name of the people.
The bigger government becomes, the more votes it can buy.
The more that democracy is assumed to be inevitable, the more likely it will self-destruct.
It is far easier to reduce politicians’ power than to raise their characters.
Are Americans free simply because they are permitted a perfunctory choice on who will molest their rights and liberties?
Attention Deficit Democracy produces the attitudes, ignorance, and arrogance that pave the way to political collapse.
I have no memory of the first shots I ever fired. If my brother had anything to do with it, and I’m fairly sure he did, it was probably around the age of two that a rifle was put into my hand and my finger directed towards the trigger. My brother has always been pretty enthusiastic about guns, and it would have been perfectly within his nature to stake some sort of claim to having guided me to my first shots. Just to calm the reader’s nerves; my brother is 19 years my senior. So it was not a case of a child leading a child.
Guns were a huge part of my home-life and childhood. Not in the sense that there was an Olympic shooter in the house, but in the sense that they were a tool of ubiquitous purposes. Every door hid a long gun of some sort leaning in the corner behind it. Every drawer or knic-knac bowl held stray rounds of various calibers. And the wildlife of the area in those days, whether it was wild dogs, snakes, coons, possums, squirrels or blue jays, necessitated some kind of shooting incident with almost boring frequency. Either there were squirrels or jays in the figs (or grapes, or pears, or plums, or pecans, or etc.) or there were dogs amongst the chickens. At the very least there were coons and possums in the trash.
As a small boy of maybe six or seven, one of my chores was to sit out in the back yard and kill squirrels and blue jays to keep them out of the pecans, grapes, or figs. We tried various kinds of scarecrows and pie-plates and other such gimmicks, but shooting them was the tried and true method! Besides…if the offender was a squirrel, he was always welcome in our freezer!
Some will think I’m exaggerating here, but I swear it’s the truth. By the age of seven I had the privilege of taking Daddy’s single-shot .22 and going squirrel hunting in the woods behind our house – unsupervised. I can still see my father call out from his workshop the stock admonitions of either “Don’t shoot toward the house …boy” or “If you kill it, you better eat it…boy!” (My father, being a child of the depression, was sincere in his belief that a boy should be treated like a man as the best method of making him a man.)
I can honestly say that the hours I spent stalking and shooting squirrels down in that swamp were among the happiest of my life, and it is my fervent desire to revisit those woods and swamps in the twilight of my days when my mind becomes enfeebled with age.
At the ripe age of seventeen I joined the Marines - where I remained for the next 7 years. For a couple of those years I was stationed in places where there was no rifle range suitable to the fire Marine’s KD course for rifle qualification. But in the other five of those years I qualified as rifle expert (and pistol expert as well) with my personal best of 237 out of a possible 250. And for most of the years since leaving the Marines I’ve continued to hunt and shoot regularly. While I have no real trophies to speak of, I consider myself a pretty good hunter. (There is this small matter of a hunting jinx, but I’ll spare the reader that tale for another day.)
I come from a world where guns were highly useful tools that had a place in our lives. It’s sad that today they’re treated as catalysts of evil, accused of driving otherwise sane and law-abiding people to commit heinous acts of barbarism. One of the things I detest most about liberalism is the mindless hysteria it tends to incite, about many things, but particularly about guns!
SACRAMENTO, Calif. – After a frustrating holiday weekend that failed to yield the one vote needed to end California's budget stalemate, the state is poised to begin layoff proceedings Tuesday for 20,000 government workers.
In addition to the layoffs, the state also plans to halt all remaining public works projects, potentially putting thousands of construction workers out of jobs.
"We are dealing with a catastrophe of unbelievable proportions," said state Sen. Alan Lowenthal, a Democrat from Long Beach and chairman of the Senate transportation committee.
Senate leader Darrell Steinberg announced late Monday that lawmakers had failed to find the final vote in his chamber as Republicans refused to support tax increases. He called a session for Tuesday and said he would put the tax provisions of the budget proposal up for a vote, even if they would not pass.
GR4U - Is it just me, or is there no discussion herein of CUTTING SPENDING? WTF! Is raising taxes the ONLY possible solution that occurs to these morons?
Wearing a quilted camo jump suit with two pairs of long-johns underneath means stepping out into the 30 degree pre-dawn darkness is actually a relief. I don’t bother turning on the heater in the truck because I don’t want to delay the adjustment my body needs to make to the freezing temperatures outside. Neither do I listen to any radio as I drive because I want my hearing to begin the process of sharpening, and the radio only forestalls that.
I sip a small cup of coffee as I drive, and I think carefully about my choice of stands this morning. A certain amount of second-guessing happens here too. Mentally I weigh the pros and cons about what position I will be taking on this hunt, factoring in such things as wind direction, and whether it will sunny or not. But eventually the choice is made and ratified in my mind. Passing some does standing alongside the road waiting to cross gives me hope that my hunt will be a success. After all, if the deer are walking here along the roads this morning, maybe they’ll be walking the vicinity of my tree-stand too!
Parking my truck I glance at my watch. The time is now 5:00 a.m. Sunrise is at 7:11 a.m. at this latitude, which means legal shooting time begins 30 minutes before at 6:41 a.m. My goal is to be in my stand and situated no less than 30 minutes prior to “legal”. That means I have exactly 1 hour and ten minutes to walk 800 yards and climb 25 feet up a pine tree.
Leaving the truck behind, I step off the road onto a pre-marked trail that heads downhill through a pitch black forest of small pines and hardwood saplings. Glow-in-the-dark tacks every 25 yards or so confirm that I’m on the right path. My head lamp is the only light visible since the closeness of the forest blocks out any view of the moon or stars. It’s beam reflects eerily off the clouds before me that are my exhaled breath. The leaves crunch beneath my steps so loudly that surely everything within a mile is aware of my approach. Stopping for a moment, I take note of the absolute silence that reigns over the cold dark woods. I can hear nothing save the sound of my own breathing; no traffic, no barking dogs, no nothing. Just a cold oppressive quiet that makes me more aware than ever of the noise I am making as I pass through this place.
After an indeterminate length of time, I come to “the bottom”: the tiny creek drainage that flows through the area. Carefully I thread my way across the narrow boggy strip, stepping from root ball to weed clump, step by step, all the while trying not to make a false move. False move being defined as not stepping in a spot that appears solid, but isn’t…with the result of sinking up to my knee or beyond in swamp muck and stagnant water.
Once across, and painfully aware that I’ve been pretty loud in the process, I now start the climb up the other side through saplings that are thicker than ever. I don’t really need glow in the dark tacks here. The trail that I’ve cut here months ago stands in marked contrast to the thick saplings around me. I couldn’t get off this trail even if I wanted to!
I’m sweating now. My cap brim actually drips a sparkling bead of sweat that glistens in the blue-white glow of the headlamp before falling to the ground…leaving evidence behind of the passing of this human predator. I feel the clamminess of my jumpsuit as it soaks up the perspiration. Cold isn’t a problem now, but later…later it certainly will be.
A few short yards ahead I step out of the barrier of saplings that shields this side of the creek bottom. In front of me I know there is a large circular tract of big pines surrounded on three sides by the curving course of the creek. I know this, but I cannot see it. All is still very dark, and the woods look pretty much the same in every direction. Only the trail of glowing tacks allows me to distinguish which way to go.
Dividing the pines from saplings along the creek is an ancient logging road that starts from nothing, and leads to nowhere. I know this because during the previous summer, on one of my scouting sessions, I explored its entire length. It has long since ceased to resemble anything other than a vague trail, but it offers an easy path to my destination. During the summer I used a small pair of clippers to trim away limbs and branches that overhung the path so that now I can pass along with a minimum of disturbance.
As my head lamp beam plays across two glowing tacks placed side by side in the manner of staring eyes, I know I’ve reached my stand. My tree-climber is still attached to the tree, just like I left it. This far down in the woods there’s little chance someone would steal it, but I took the precaution of locking it to the tree nonetheless. What a horrible thing it would be: to arrive at my stand and find my climber stolen by some unethical bum!
As quietly as I can I ground my weapon and my gear. I flip the seat pad of my stand over so that the frost is down toward the seat and won’t be pressed against my backside. Tying my rifle and gear bag to a rope attached to the stand, I lay them down in such a way that when lifted from above they won’t bang into the tree. Climbing into the stand I’m careful not to slip on the icy bar that is the lower step. Cutting off my headlamp as unnecessary, I begin to climb.
Allow me to describe for you how a climbing tree stand works. There is a lower step that grips the tree as you stand on it. Most tree-climbers either have straps or a bar arrangement whereby you slip your feet into position such that while seated you can lift up the lower piece with your feet. While standing on the lower piece, you lift as high as you can the upper piece that forms the seat. It is also designed to grip the tree when you put downward pressure on it (such as when you sit in it). By alternately lifting the lower piece and then the upper piece you gradually ascend the tree at approximately 8 inches per “step”.
On a hardwood tree a practiced climber can ascend fairly noiselessly. But on a pine tree a tree-climber is damned loud, especially in the relative silence of pre-dawn. The key is to take your time and not get in a hurry. Just don’t try to rush the process or you’ll get sloppy, and that means you’re getting even louder. Another trick is to use other sounds to mask the sounds you are making. A stray gust of wind, a big truck out on the highway, an airplane passing overhead; all these things can provide enough covering noise to benefit you. But then sometimes these noises are too few and far between to be of any use. A peek towards the eastern sky tells me that time is dwindling. So as quietly as I can I continue the climb.
Sometimes, the first time you climb a particular tree, you get a surprise: the resulting view of the area can be either better, or worse than you expected. Sometimes it has to do with how high you climb. There are times when the canopy of surrounding trees is so low that if you climb too high, you actually ruin the view. All you can see are the tops of the little trees around you. Other times, you climb so high that the resulting view is spectacular and rewarding enough that even if you see no deer, you still feel good about it.
Twenty or so minutes later I reach the height I intended. I settle in and pull my gear up after me. By this time I am almost drenched in sweat. I open up my jumper top and remove my long john top. I pull out a fresh long john top from my gear bag and quickly pull it on. Tied up in a bundle is my big camo overcoat, which I’ve lined the inside of with adhesive-backed chemical warmers. It feels really good now as I pull it on. Underneath my behind I shove an oversized cushion, and across my legs I lay my Browning automatic .243. I cover my head with a camo stocking cap that I’ve cut out holes for the ears. I cannot allow anything to impede my hearing since most often you hear deer before you see them.
In silence I sit awaiting the dawn…and the deer.
Sunset is almost eleven hours away. When it finally arrives, I’ve seen no deer.
Ahh the wonderful religion of peace, OR Why protection orders aren't worth the paper they're printed on.
Prominent Orchard Park man charged with beheading his wife
Muzzammil Hassan is the founder and chief executive officer of Bridges TV, which he launched in 2004, amid hopes that it would help portray Muslims in a more positive light.
The Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield. The subtitle bills it as “An epic novel of the Spartans at Thermopylae”. The author has a real ability to describe events in such vivid detail that you almost feel a part of the action. It is a thoroughly enjoyable read to be sure.
The Spartans were an interesting people. They devoted their entire lives to training for war. In fact their whole culture was based on a warrior ethos that has never been duplicated before or since. I hear that the US Marines now have a recommended reading list for its officer and NCO corps - and Gates of Fire is on it. Methinks it’s a good idea to attempt to incalculate the warrior virtues into the men charged with “manning the wall”, but alas the warrior class will be no good to the nation if the nation has lost the will to defend itself.
We train our children in school to not fight back. And when one does, he’s expelled or suspended right along with the aggressor. We’ve vilified guns and gunowners in this country to the extent that they are almost a sub-class that it is perfectly okay to denigrate. The rights that our Constitution supposedly guarantees are under daily assault, and I believe it’s only a matter of time before they are stripped from us completely. I saw a news article about a man down on the US/Mexican border who is being sued by the very illegal aliens he was trying to prevent from crossing his land and destroying his property. These are all signs of a loss of national will. I voted for Bush twice but eventually became very cynical about the man. He ordered American servicemen halfway around the world to fight terrorism (which I’m perfectly fine with) but couldn’t muster the will to close the borders – even slightly!
Without the will to use it, no warrior and no weapon will be worth a bucket of warm spit. And that, my friends, is where America stands today.
We were camping, my youngest son and I, along the St Mary’s river, five miles or so upstream from Folkston, Georgia. Using my 14 foot boat we had gone to a secluded camp spot that has become a family favorite in recent years.
Reachable only by water or logging road, the spot sits perched on a bluff some 12 feet above the languidly flowing river. The clearing is bounded by a 2 acre clearcut to the rear, and mature oaks on either side. It is a lovely place for a relaxing weekend that maybe sometime I’ll photograph and post here for any who’re interested.
On our first morning, I rose early to start breakfast (and especially the coffee part of breakfast!) Josh, who was 11 at the time, asked if he could go over into the oaks and hunt some squirrel. With a sincere “Be careful” I gave my go-ahead. Now before you gasp in shock that I would allow an eleven year-old to wander the woods alone with a shotgun, know that both my boys have been raised with guns and are as familiar and safe with firearms as you are with your car. If you ever saw my father drive, you may say that was an arguable statement! Anyway...I turned the junior Nimrod loose and went about the business of brewing some wake-up juice.
It wasn’t too long before I heard a shot. Then another. And still another. The thought that honestly popped into my mind was something like “that confounded young’un is wasting my shells!” I resolved to “fuss” about it when he returned. More shots rang out from the oak glade as the minutes ticked by. In the space of half an hour I counted no less than 10 reports. “Oh man …am I gonna kill him”.
As I began my second cup of coffee, while tending my simmering bacon, the boy strolled into camp with squirrels in hand and more tails visible hanging from his jacket pocket. With a final count of seven squirrels, and a grin wide enough to span the creek, the boy had experienced his first squirrel melee. That’s something that a squirrel-hunter never forgets …and may strive his whole life to repeat.
A squirrel hunter’s daddy won’t soon forget it either!
Just imagine there coming a point in time where Americans who remember their heritage as free men grow over weary of the depredations of an oppressive Nanny State.
If I've managed to pique your curiosity...well good! Go here and start reading.
Enjoy ABSOLVED by Mike Vanderboegh
So this entire trip is predicated on being in extremely good physical condition. If you can't hike all day at a forced-march pace with 40 plus lbs. of gear on your back for a minimum of 10 miles, then this trip is NOT for you.
Additionally you will be in one of the most beautiful places in the Western hemisphere - so bring a camera.
You arrive mid afternoon at Norman Manley airport in Kingston Jamaica. If this were my trip, we would have embarked from Orlando Florida and the price of a round trip ticket would be approximately $400.00 per person.
Ground transportation in the form of a chartered mini-bus would take you on the one hour drive from the airport to your first stop at the little town Mavis Bank high in the Blue Mountains. I haven't shopped this specifically, but I believe the cost to be about $150.00 for the group.
Here you would be met by the driver from Whitfield Hall and you would change vehicles into a land rover for the very rugged trip. This drive is one of the steepest and most hair-raising trips you could ever imagine! I know cause I've been there. My trip, at night, up what seemed like a straight up incline, was in a land rover that had no less than 6 people inside, and another 6 or 8 people hanging onto the outside. I deeply regret that I don't have a picture, cause the image of it will remain in my mind forever. The cost of the land rover shuttle to Whitfield is $50 for 1 - 6 people.
Whitfield Hall is an old coffee plantation that provides guides and a staging point for the climb to the peak of Blue Mountain.
There is an old bunkhouse with bunk beds that's amply suited for resting up before the hike begins. No doubt dinner at Whitfield will be the plan and you can expect to spend about $10 bucks a head for some down home Jamaican cooking. Maybe some advance arrangements could be made and the menu would entail Oxtail and rice or curried goat.
You arise to begin the hike between 1am and 2am the following morning. With flashlights in hand, and all the gear you'll need for the next 12 to 15 hours, you start your trek amid howling winds and under starry skies. Since there is no water at the peak, and one solitary tap about two thirds of the way up, you'll need to take a sufficient store of H2O. Warm clothes and some energy bars or light rations wouldn't be a bad idea either. At the 7,400 foot summit, the dampness (from being in the clouds much of the time) and the high winds and low temperatures will turn your well-earned sweatiness into misery. So some dry long johns and sweatshirt would be well worth the cost in weight carried.
The trail is initially very steep. I recall some hands and knees action at some points along the way. But mostly it's about the steepness of a standard staircase....just without the stairs. In short order upon starting out you'll be in a position to look back and see the lights of Kingston spread out below you. It's like one huge sheet of yellow light filling the Ligeaneau Plain.
Here's a couple of shots taken from about 1,500 to 3,000 feet above the city. You can maybe imagine the same view from 5,000 feet!
And here is an example of what the trail looks like:
Now the whole reason for beginning the climb in the wee hours of the morning is to enable you to reach the peak in time for sunrise. If the weather is clear you will be rewarded with a simultaneous view of both coasts of Jamaica, and a view of Cuba 90 miles away. If the weather is NOT clear, you'll see something like this:
Here are some miscellaneous views from high up on Blue Mountain:
Naturally, the trip down is a lot less difficult than the trip up, and being done in daylight the views are spectacular!
The next phase of the trip, once we're back to Mavis Bank, is to make the trip to Portland parish, presumably in a chartered bus. Again, I have not directly shopped this but I can safely bet that the cost for the two and half hour trip will be approximately $200.00 for the group.
Depending on the time it takes to descend from Blue Mtn. peak, we will arrive at our next stop, Frenchman's Cove, sometime late in the afternoon. The trip across the island will likely include the twenty-five miles of the Junction Road.
Now the Junction Road is winding and narrow with plenty of hairpin curves, cliffs, and sheer rock faces. Just your typical mountain highway in Jamaica really!
The evening of the second day, and a good place to rest up for the main event, is the old resort at Frenchman's Cove. Its beach is still one of the most gorgeous in all the Carribbean.
Once upon a time this place was top of the line. But it's run down quite a bit over the years. It's still a good place to rest up for the night, and depending of your budget you can get either a room or a cottage with a view of the ocean. For a 3 BR villa it's $300 a night - split by however many are in your party.
Here's one of the cottages I've stayed at before...
...and the view from its balcony.
We'll have to "forage" the area for food, and the price will be what the locals pay. I'll estimate the cost of eats to remain around $10 per head for Jamaican dishes.
Here are some views of the grounds at Frenchman's. Not too bad huh?
Additional transportation from Frenchman's to Mooretown will be required, as well as breakfast along the way. Not sure the cost, but the trip is a fairly short one so $50.00 is a reasonable estimate.
In Mooretown we'll meet a guide who'll take us up the backside of the Blue Mountain to the site of the abandoned Maroon village called Nanny Town. There's a lot of history relating to the Maroons and the Nanny Town site. So rather than try to relate it all here, I suggest you just follow the links.
Rumor has it that the site of Nanny Town is haunted. Not unreasonable to expect that since most of the defenders leapt to their death off a 600 foot cliff, rather than surrender to the British in 1734. Apparently the legend has gained traction among the locals because several of the guides that bill themselves for this hike have one thing they have in common: they ALL refuse to camp overnight directly on the site.
It's a two day hike and you'll camp on the ground somewhere in the vicinity of the old village, but unless you defy the advice of your guide, you WON'T be camping right at Nanny Town. Hmmmm... methinks we'll see if this is true or not.
Nanny...the old Obeah priestess that led the Windward Maroons during the years of fighting the British.
I have not been on this hike personally so I have to rely on the reports of others, but Carribbean Hiking Guide says that it's even more difficult than the hike up Blue Mountain. Considering the British spent three years in their attempt to destroy it, Nanny Town's main asset must have been its remoteness and its general inaccessibility.
I am currently in negotiations for the correct guide service, and the exact price is presently unknown. But if the guide service on Blue Mtn. is any indicator, the bill will be on the order of $300.00 for the entire group.
DAYS FOUR AND FIVE
The return from Nanny Town will consume the majority of the day no doubt. We'll take another bus ride back to Frenchman's, and spend the next two days resting our feet, and enjoying the beer, the beach, the jerk pork and the fresh fish!
With many of the costs split over a group of five, I believe this trip is entirely possible for less than $1,500 per person. If we planned this trip a year in advance, I think most of us could manage it financially.
So? YARRRRRRRR ! Are ye willing to give it a go mates? Be ye men? Or be ye pansies?
Afterthought: If the two day hike to Nanny Town is too daunting, we could consider The Troy-Windsor trail through the Cockpit Country. Although this is only a one day trip, the terrain makes this a monster hike in its own right. Read this link thoroughly to get a feel for what I'm talking about.
The Cockpits look like this from the air:
No big deal you think? Okay...here's what that type of Karst topography looks like when it is not covered by tropical jungles:
NOW you understand why, even in this age of satellite photography and GPS navigation, the Cockpit Country of Jamaica remains almost completely unexplored!