The Glory of Gabe

I was pleasantly minding my own business one day when I received a call from a guy in New York City. A cubicle-type guy, seventy stories high. He and five of his buddies wanted me to take them into the National Forest for a week-long survival trip. Their choice of personal equipment, the only equipment that each would carry, would be a water bottle and a knife.

I asked the caller, “Dude. Fire, dude. How are you going to make fire?”



“Well, by using fire-by-friction, of course” he answered. “I saw a video on how to do it. It’s not that hard.”

I said, “Dude. How are you going to disinfect water?”

“Whaddya mean?” he asked.

“Not sure if you know it or not,” I said. “But, if you’re planning to stay healthy, you really should purify any water that you procure from a pond, lake, or stream.

“You got to be kidding me,” he replied, as if I was pulling his leg.

I explained Cryptosporidium, Giardia, and waterborne diseases and their effect on the human body..

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You got me on this one.”

I said, “Dude. What are you and the others planning to eat during your week in the woods?”

“We’ll forage like our ancestors,” he answered with new-found confidence. “For plants, fish, and wild game. Nothing big, though. Mainly squirrels, rabbits, and racoons.”

“Wow, sounds like you have it all figured out,” I replied.

“You betcha,” he bragged. “Me and the guys have put a lot of thought into this adventure. We just need you to keep an eye on us and make sure we get back safe.”

I said, “Dude. You don’t need me. Just go do your thing and let me know how it goes.”

“Really?” he asked. “We’ll be glad to pay you quite well for your time.”

I said, “Dude. Keep your money. Maybe one day you’ll run across a sale on common sense.”

I hung up and stood there shaking my head. Maybe shook it too hard and too much. Started hearing the voice of Tonto saying to the Lone Ranger, “Kemo Sabe, phone caller watch heap too much reality TV. Has brain of armadillo crossing I-95 at noon."

Never in forty years have I entered a wilderness area with only a water bottle and a knife. Not even during my training to become an Air Force SERE Instructor. To think such a thing … well, it goes against my grain. Kinda tweeks my trigger. Makes me hear Jay Silverheels. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it can’t be done. Just ain’t very practical. Maybe they had something to prove. Mettle-wise that is.

I did eventually learn that these gentlemen undertook such a survival adventure. An email arrived a couple of months after the dude’s call and a report of their day-by-day activities was attached. It was sent by a fowl friend of mine - a CIA-trained, top secret bluebird specializing in survival happiness. His report follows.

From:  f_ _ kaduck007@nestofspies.com (start of report) *** CLASSIFIED ***

Day One.  At 0915, the six men park their vehicle near a trailhead in the George Washington National Forest, east of Natural Bridge, Virginia. Armed with water bottles, pocket knives, and the clothes on their backs, they enter the wilderness. After walking approximately one-hundred yards on a trail, the men stop. One tries to persuade the group to go off-trail and bust brush, another argues the merits of staying on the trail, two want to return to the car, the littlest guy in the group tells them that they forgot to fill their water bottles, and one huge dude with curly, black hair walks away from the group, leans against a tree, and pukes his guts out. The smell of rancid beer and BBQ’d hot wings (God rest my cousins) permeates the wilderness.

Arguments, complaints, multiple puking attempts, and heated discussions - for and against and just for the hell-of-it - continue among the group for forty minutes. This unplanned break provides an opportunity to deduce names. The fellow who wants to go off-trail is Bobby. He’s the ring leader, your phone caller. The guy puking is Phil. The small man … his name is Gabe. And, the guy who argues for staying on-trail is Tim. The two fellows who want to go back to the car are Ryan and Alvin. Ryan’s having second thoughts about not bringing along a survival instructor. Alvin appears to be the oldest in the group, maybe in his mid-50’s. He’s not happy about the steep terrain. Maybe because of his belly, equal in size to that a pregnant woman in her last month.

“Get it together, Phil,” Bobby hollers. “One last puke, then we’re moving out.” By this time, the best Phil could do was a dry heave or two. The group, with Bobby in the lead, heads off-trail into thick woods. Gabe brings up the rear. Within a few steps he spots a pink roll of surveying tape, almost hidden in the dry leaves. He stoops and retrieves it. Twenty feet ahead, he pulls off a piece of tape and ties it to a tree branch. He continues doing so, unobserved, every one hundred feet or so. At 1315, a couple of miles from the starting point, the roll is bare.

The group rests mid-afternoon on a steep hillside.  “Hey, does anyone know where we’re at?” Tim asks.  Bobby laughs a crazy laugh, then answers, “Virginia. In the woods, you stupid shit.”

“What about water?” Gabe asks. “Where’s water? And, didn’t you say that the survival instructor recommended purifying it? How we supposed to do that?”

“I’m starved,” Alvin chimes in. “Those two biscuits at McDonalds didn’t go very far. Shoulda had three.” 

“Suck it up, you bunch of pussies. Let’s move out!” Bobby commands.

Up the steep hill they go, following their fearless leader. At 1630, they make their way over and down a high ridge and stumble into a ravine, graced with a bold mountain stream. Off in the distance, at the end of the ravine, is a grassy meadow.

“You all can keep going,” Alvin vehemently exclaims. “I’m not going a step further today. I’m hanging at that meadow over there for the night.” The others agree. Much to Bobby’s protest, the majority declares the meadow their camp for the evening. The sun is now going behind a mountain. Temperature is in the low 60’s and dropping. The group’s clothes are soaked with sweat and all in the party dehydrated. Phil and Alvin look a might ragged. To the field they go, scrambling over a myriad of rocks to get there.

Any ordinary group of hikers would have pitched tents, built a fire, started gathering firewood for the cool night ahead, cooked a meal, and gathered water. This group seems at a loss for what to do. Spirits are low, with the exception of Gabe. He has climbed to the top of rock outcropping, where he sits cross-legged, high above the others. A Kodak moment as his eyeglasses reflect the day’s last light. With a huge smile, he shouts, “Let’s order pizzas! New York-style! I’ll buy!”

Alvin, sitting on the ground below, reaches over and picks up a two-foot long chunk of fallen limb and hurls it at Gabe, hitting him squarely in the chest and knocking him off the boulder. On his way down onto several smaller rocks below, Gabe gashes his head above the right eye. Blood gushes, running across his face. His glasses shattered and broken. His right arm bent in an unnatural angle as he lays hollering for help, head-below-feet on the rocks.

Tim and Ryan run to Gabe’s rescue. As they maneuver him to a better position, a blood-curdling scream echoes through the woods, standing my feathers up like a pecker in a house full of naked ladies.  Oral evidence that the group had been presented with a broken arm on Day One.

“We need to call 911, now!” screams Ryan.

“Forget calling 911,” declares Alvin. “Bobby, the Mr. Asshole Survival Guy, made us leave our phones back at the car … wherever that is. We don’t even have a first aid kit.”

“Piss off, fat boy!” Bobby curtly responds. “If you wouldn’t have beaned small fry, he wouldn’t be over there busted up and bleeding. You guys get him fixed up. I’ll make a fire.”

Darkness is upon them. A steady rain begins falling at 2010. Thunder and flashes of lightning toy with their heads. Temperatures are in the low 50’s, with a 10-20 mph wind from the north. The fire never happens. Bobby’s odds at making fire-by-friction are the same as winning the Mega Millions lottery. There will be no source of heat or source of light tonight. Their clothes will remain wet. Their morale low as whale shit.

The group huddles under a pine tree, its sparsely-needled limbs leaking like a seive. It is the best shelter they could devise. They are soaked and shivering. Arguments are replaced with silence. Gabe’s forehead wound leaks blood. An ER doctor would have recommended sutures. Gabe’s right arm dangles at his side, unsplinted. A long night is before the men. But, if they did anything right this night, they stayed together.

Day Two.  The light of a new day brings amicable discussions focused on two important questions:  1)  Which direction is the car?;  and, 2)  Should they drink the stream water?

Five men point and guess five different directions to the car. Gabe doesn’t point. He is blind as a bat without functioning eyewear. All then proceed to kneel down in various opportune places and drink the stream dry. There was a suggestion last evening of drinking rain water, but they decided rain water was contaminated due to nuclear radiation. They much preferred the pukes and runny shits to glowing in the dark.

All now agree and understand the intended week-long adventure is over and that Gabe needs serious medical help. A group decision is made to walk out, staying together at all times. They will try their best to follow Day One’s footprints.

Gathering their soggy bodies, the men depart the meadow and head back up the ravine. It is slow going, especially for Gabe. Injured and unable to see, he holds onto Ryan as they navigate the wet and slippery rocks. One didn’t have to be Kit Carson to find the place where the men entered the ravine. A wide path void of leaves riddles the hillside, from bottom to top. Climbing with a brief pause here and there, using supple trees as hand-holds, they finally emerge at the top. The men turn and spin and look at the ground in all directions. Yesterday’s footprints are nowhere to be seen. A lone deer looks up from her grazing, not more than fifty feet away.

“Hey, there’s breakfast, Bobby!” smirks Alvin. “Go run it down and stab it with your knife, tough guy!” Bobby shakes his head and offers no reply. He stands distant from the group with head down, his thoughts his alone.

“It’s that way,” Tim says excitedly. He points in the direction of a small rise. “I’m sure of it!” Hearing Tim’s revelation, the deer pops its head, raises its tail, and bolts into the thick brush. Alvin watches the deer go, hundreds of fur-covered cheeseburgers vanishing into the woods.

Bobby, the wind gone from his sails, concedes his role as point man. Tim, taking the lead, guides the group up a slight hill and through a stand of small oak trees. After a full morning of travel, they take a well-earned rest, plopping down near the edge of a small clearing.

“We’re never going to make it back!” Ryan exclaims. “We’re freaking lost in the middle of nowhere!”

“Chill, dude,” Tim says calmly. “Everything will be alright. We’d better get up and get going, though, before we get stiff and lock up.” The men stand and begin brushing debris from their soggy clothing. Fifty yards behind them, a piece of pink tape flutters in the breeze.

“Hey guys,” Alvin exclaims. “I feel really bad for clobbering Gabe. Honest. It was me that ruined our trip. I’m sorry. Really sorry. Okay? But I got a feeling we’re getting closer to the car. Maybe that deer back there was a good luck omen. You know, like one of those Indian spirits. Besides, gotta be civilization near ‘cause of that pink piece of tape hangin’ ...”

“Pink tape! Where?” shouts Gabe.

“Back there a ways, hanging from a branch,“ Alvin answers. “Didn’t you see it?”

“Funny, jerk face,” Gabe replies. “You trashed my glasses. Remember? Right after you gashed my head and just before you broke my arm. We need to go to the tape. Now! It’s our ticket out of here.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” inquires Bobby. “ You sure you don’t have some brain damage. Pink ribbon, my ass. Get a grip, little man!”

“C’mon guys. Seriously, we need to backtrack. Get us to the tape, Alvin!” commands Gabe using his best leader voice, enhanced by his battle-wounded, soldier-like appearance. His once-white underwear, cut and wrapped tight around his head, stained with seeping blood, provides combat realism. Alvin quickly heads in the direction of the tape. The others run to keep up.

“There it is!” Alvin yells excitedly. “Twenty feet ahead! Holy shit! For sure! Look!” For a minute, one would have thought he’d sighted Bigfoot. Alvin stands next to the hanging tape, grinning ear-to-ear. He shines in the spotlight. He’s finally done something worthy.

Last but not least, Gabe catches up to the others. After taking a minute to regain his breath, he provides explanation and evidence that he is indeed of his right mind. “Proud gentlemen gathered before me, lend me your ears as I pay honor to this pink piece of dangling tape. It is of my own glorious finding and concoction. But, more importantly, I must give credit where credit is due. My dear thanks to the Brothers Grimm, Hansel, and the golden-haired Gretel. In particular, I would like to …”

“Gabe, enough already,” chides Bobby.  “What in the Sam Hill does that pink tape got to do with us?”

“It’s our ticket out of here!” Gabe hollers. “C’mon, give me a break. I was fresh out of breadcrumbs. Guys, look around ‘cause I can’t see shit. Not sure which direction, but there’s a trail of hanging tape leading from this one. You find that trail and we’ll be eating a glorious New York-style pizza … right after you guys get me to a hospital.”

Looking off to his left, Ryan spots the trail of tape. “Bobby,” he says. “You want to lead?”

“No way. Take the point and get us out of here,” Bobby declares without hesitation.

Two hours later they are at their car. Pandemonium reigns. They whoop and holler and dance, cutting a rug on the grass near the vehicle. Happy as hell to be safe and out of the woods.

Gabe forgoes the dancing and shouting. He stands silent in the middle of the road, his left arm held high, his fist tightly balled. A triumphant smile spreads across his blood-smeared face. Looking deep into the woods, he is feeling no pain. His injuries numbed by helping others. (end of report) *** CLASSIFIED ***

After reading this report, I sat in my office utterly amazed. Definitely glad to have a bluebird for a friend. Picking up my notebook, I scanned the pages looking for Bobby’s phone number. After ten pokes and three rings, Bobby answered.

“Dude, this is Byron. The survival guy down in Florida. You called me a couple of months ago.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Bobby said.  “You’re the guy who told me to buy some common sense.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Good memory. Hopefully you haven’t bought any yet because now the common sense is free. Soon as Gabe’s right arm heals, why don’t you and your friends join me for a four-day survival course. My equipment list this time, including a roll of pink tape.”

“Really?  That would be terrific!” Bobby exclaimed. “By the way, what are you? Some kind of wilderness spook? How’d you know about Gabe’s arm? And, the pink tape?”

“Well, dude. Let’s just say a little bird told me,” I answered with a smile.

The Woods of Horney Creek

I was born in Indiana. Learning as a tadpole that my kin carved their place in Hoosier history living in log cabins, surrounded by wild Indians, cautiously answering knocks on their door with a “Who’s thar?” The earth I first walked wasn’t filled with peaks and valleys. The land was flatter than a pancake. Land where a person could watch their dog run away for six miles. Silos were my mountains. Weren’t no grizzlies, wolves, or moose. Wild animals in my neck of the woods were pissed-off bulls, giant sows, deranged roosters, and goofy coon dogs, usually named Lila or Buddy. We had no raging rivers, canyons, or natural wonders like Half Dome and Old Faithful. Only cornfields.

Back then, as a kid growing up, there were no computers, fancy flat screen color TV’s, or video games keeping a youngster inside. If a boy was inside, he was either sick, doing homework, eating, or sleeping.  Well, maybe for another reason. Now and then I’d hear the words “You’re grounded!” Hated hearing that. Kept me from being outside. From being in the woods. Several hundred acres of woods, right smack dab behind our house. With trees and critters and a creek named Horney. A good Indiana creek. Sized perfect for an exploring kid. Thirty feet at its widest and a running leap at its narrowest.

Never did think nothing dirty-minded about the creek’s name, but always did wonder if there was another reason why it was called Horney, other than for Indians supposedly finding deer antlers along its banks. Maybe its waters had sexual powers, like certain pills for men. Imagine this teepee scene: Thrusting Flower, a beautiful Indian maiden, hovering over her brave, Heap-O-Nuts, as he lies on a buffalo hide. Him waving his arms, pleading, “No sock-it-to-me tonight. Heap wore out. Chipped much chert today.” She grabs his hair, forces his mouth open, pours Horney water down his throat, and says with a smile, “Now we get something straight between us.” Regardless of how the name came about, I do know that in all the years of prowling Horney’s banks, not once did I find any antlers laying around. And, whenever I drank Horney water, I didn’t get amorous thoughts, just the puking shits.

A few years ago, I visited Horney Crick. Hadn’t been there in forty years. Mom and Dad are gone. Looking down now from Heaven. The old home place stands, but in it a new family. Surprisingly, the woods were still there. I had imagined them overcome by development. The creek was flowing, clean and sparkling, like the old days. I wandered for a bit, retracing the footsteps of my youth. I waded the creek, bending down now and then, picking up a crawdad. The water cold and soothing. Dozens of long-gone forts whispered, but their locations eluded me. Taking out my flint and steel, I made a small fire. The smoke’s smell instantly reminding me of the many fires as a youth, whether for wiener roasts or keeping warm while playing hockey. I closed my eyes, letting the wilderness lessons of childhood invade my adult knowledge.   

The woods of Horney Creek. My favorite classroom growing up. A classroom where the teacher never said a word. And, not once did I get yelled at for ever being late.

Doc Kerns

On my office wall hangs a memento of my youth. A framed blue ribbon, won competing in the 50-yard dash. A testament to the glorious moment I was proclaimed a very fast sixth grader. An accomplishment that caused girls to swoon and my head to swell. Thought I was the fastest thing in town. Until I got outrun one day by a gang of crazed idiots.

It was to be a fort building Saturday summer day for me and my neighborhood pals. A day in the cool woods sweating, working, and getting dirty. With no grown-ups. I was elected to bring a rake and shovel.  My friends would bring the other necessary fort building stuff. All had agreed to meet at 10 AM, in the woods where our new fort was to be built.

I had a little trouble getting away that morning. Dad was home, puttering around in the basement where the rake and shovel were stored. Being a kid, the plan was to get the tools out of the house without being seen. The way I figured it, Dad wouldn’t have been too keen in having his prized Sears & Roebuck implements dragged off to the woods. Responsibility wasn’t a trait I’d yet developed. My track record for winning foot races was darn good. My track record for losing things even better.

Finally, I heard the car start up and Dad backing the car from the driveway. Mom was on the porch waving. Telling him not to forget the milk. Immediately, I ran down the basement steps, grabbed the rake and shovel, and clanged my way out the back door. Darting through the yard, curving around a giant lilac bush, I slid down an embankment to the railroad tracks. I was in the clear.

The morning was hot and humid. The sun beating down with nary a breeze blowing. Already my hands were sweaty, the tools slipping from my small-handed grasp. I took a minute to get a better grip, then continued north, walking the tracks between the rails, finally arriving at the trail leading up a hill into the woods. The trail wasn’t my favorite because of the steep climb. But, it was the shortest route to the fort-building site. I stopped and looked around for my buddies, but they were nowhere in sight.

Didn’t even make it halfway up the trail when all hell broke loose. I had stepped directly on a small hole in the hill. The  home of many, many yellow jackets. Immediately, they were upon me. Their guards having buzzed for an all-out attack.  Immediately I dropped the rake and shovel and ran down the hill for home.  Screaming “Help me!” at the top of my lungs. Waving my arms frantically, warding off all I could. Slapping dozens that were administering painful stings. All the way home, ducking and a weaving between the rails, like a midget prize fighter. Finally, I was in my backyard. The long-range fliers of the horde adding their stings to the final tally. Suddenly, they were gone. The crazy buzzing had stopped. My arms and legs had stopped. I screamed for Mom and Dad and they soon came running out the basement door. Mom’s eyes were as big as saucers. Her face white as a sheet. Dad pulled my shirt over my head and began scanning my body, counting bee stings. More of an amazed expression on his face, than a pissed one. Mom and Dad were eerily quiet. Breaking the silence, I mumbled an incoherent rake and shovel confession.
 
Dad replied, “Look at those stinging devils, Liz. They’re hanging all over the boy. The ones hanging there … see … they’re the ones he smacked and ....” With a stern whisper of, “Shush now, you’re scaring him,” Mom grabbed me in her arms and whisked me away to the upstairs bathroom. In a matter of minutes, I was sitting naked in our ancient claw-foot bathtub, slouched down in water to my shoulders.

Mom and Dad never took me to the ER, though Memorial Hospital was a block away. Never even called our doctor. Mom did call every neighbor within a half mile radius. In no time at all, folks of all descriptions were peeking in our bathroom at my riddled, naked body. Each visitor handing Mom a small yellow box. She would ceremoniously rip off the box top and empty powdery contents into the bath water.

Finally, all the coming and going stopped. I was soaking in the tub, my eyes closed. Listening. Dad was counting out loud the number of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda boxes laying about our bathroom floor,  “… eight, nine, ten, and that one over there makes eleven.” Mom bewildered and exclaiming, “Jeeesuz, Garland. Did ya count ‘em? Ninety-one stings on this boy’s body! He’s one lucky fella."

Many years later, while on a trip above the Arctic Circle in the North Sea, I was given a telegram with bad news. My Mom was dying of cancer. As I packed my bags for the long journey home, my thoughts were scrambled, frantic, and sad. No amount of baking soda was going to save her. Not even at the most sophisticated hospital.

On the flight home, high above the Atlantic Ocean, I thought hard. Remembering all she had done for me and others. I filled page after page of my notebook with entries, while fellow passengers watched a movie, conversed, listened to music, slept. I was still writing when the plane taxied to the gate.

As I type this story, those pages of that day lay on my desk before me. Some torn. Some crumpled. Beckoning me to make this one final entry.
Thank you, Mom, for teaching me that kindness is the greatest wisdom.

Love Me Tinder

I’m notorious during a survival course for selecting a student at random, an hour or so prior to my fire craft lecture, and asking him or her to make the group a fire. The student’s response is usually two questions comprised of only two words: “Who?  Me?”

Being the nice instructor I am, I reply with a smile, “Yes, you, and I don’t care if you use a flamethrower to start it. Please make us a fire. Now.”

Once the student begins moving, others will offer to help the student gather materials. I do love and emphasize teamwork, but not during this training evolution. A forceful, “Sorry, no one gets to help!” has the thoughtful and kind wannabe helpers holding their ground while the fire builder wanders the woods, most often within eyesight. As I chat with the remaining students, I watch the designated fire builder, observing where and how the fire materials are collected.

Ninety-nine out of one-hundred “volunteer” fire builders will reach for the ground, picking up leaves, pine needles, dried palm fronds, and various sticks of all sizes and shapes. Then, they’ll return to the fire circle and begin their fire lay. Some are successful at creating fire, especially during the dry season, using lighters or matches. Others, being bold and throwing sparks at their gathered materials (using a newly-purchased ferrocerium rod), are usually not so successful. Why?

These bold fire-making adventurers most often have no tinder in their gathered materials. In fact, many outdoor recreationists carry no tinder with them, on their body or in their pack, when they enter a wilderness area. This is a big mistake – huge – especially when temperatures are 50-degrees or less. Tinder is the essence of your magical act to save a life when one is wet, cold, and hypothermic.

The word has gotten out on the practical use of ferro rods, magnesium fire starters, Swedish fire steels, and metal matches – all incorporating synthetic flint to be used with a steel device such as a knife. But, with those generated sparks, you must have tinder:  something readily ignitable with a spark. Kindling (materials smaller in diameter than your little finger) and fuel (materials bigger in diameter than your little finger) do not ignite by spark. If you are going to carry a ferrocerium rod in your pocket or pack, then carry one additional thing with it – TINDER. Holy bear crap! What a mind-boggling idea of preparedness.

What is the best tinder to carry? As a former US Air Force Survival (SERE) Instructor, the answer is time-tested and proven: Vaseline-soaked cotton balls. Take five or even twenty-five cotton balls (one-hundred percent absorbent cotton), swipe individually through a jar of Vaseline, and stuff them into a pill vial, small metal box, or a baggie. Viola! You now have precious, kick-ass tinder.

Remember. When ready to use one to start a fire, use the principle of FTP, a most-important step associated with the use of Vaseline-soaked cotton balls.  Fluff The Piss out of it.

Happy balls of fire to all.

Don't Be a Clown and Leave It in Town

Entrepreneurial souls constantly encourage me to offer for sale personal survival kits, on my web site and at the conclusion of my courses. “You’d make a killing!” “Every one of your students would buy one!” “You really should sell them. What great customer service!”

Folks, it ain’t gonna happen. Maybe you think I’m being a bit quirky, but I strongly believe that it would be a blatant crime and the worst thing that I, a wilderness survival instructor, could do. The personal survival kit is … well, it’s personal. If you buy a pre-made kit, intended for the masses, how personal is that? Save some dollars, use some sense, be creative, and design your own. Make it personal.

Over the years, especially in the role of a Boy Scout Wilderness Survival Merit Badge Counselor, I’ve had the opportunity to peruse hundreds of personal survival kits. Showing up with such a kit is one of the requirements a Scout must do to earn the badge. Additionally, the Scout must explain its contents and the usefulness of each item within, as pertaining to wilderness survival. Evaluating a Scout’s personal survival kit is serious business. And at times, quite humorous.

Imagine this scenario. It’s Sunday morning, Day Two of a wilderness survival training course for Scouts. I’m kicked-back in a camp chair, having my morning coffee. Before me stands a line of boys, ages 10-16. Some waiting nervously, some waiting and wishing they weren’t standing there. All waiting a turn to speak to me about their personal survival kit. Scout leaders and other adult volunteers are gathered near to watch and listen.

“Let’s do it!“ I holler. “Boy number one, front and center.”

The first young man walks quickly to me, a smile from ear to ear. He holds out a zip-lock gallon baggie, so crammed you couldn’t fit a toothpick in it. I say to the boy, “Empty the bag. Right here on the ground.” He looks at me like I’m out of my mind. “Please, do it, now,” I explain. The boy, his smile gone, begrudgingly prys his stuff free, gingerly placing the items on the ground.

“Next Scout! Front and center!” I shout.

The first Scout now gives me his best “what-about-me, you asshole” look. The second boy hands me a red and white checkered metal suitcase. About the size intended for a week-long visit with relatives. “Could you open it, please?” I ask. He can’t. For some reason it is locked and he hasn’t a clue where the key is. I turn to the adults and ask if there is a locksmith in the crowd.

“Next Scout, please,” I shout. Now two boys are giving me their “what-about-me, you asshole” looks. The third Scout approaches and hands me a Neoprene liter-size water bottle stuffed with stuff. Attached to the lid hangs a tag, labeled ‘Contents assembled by Big Rick’s Outdoors Store.’ A $21.95 price sticker is affixed to the side of the bottle. “Tell me what’s in here,” I say as I hold up the bottle, peering at its contents. He replies, “I don’t know. My Mom bought it for me so I would have it this weekend.” Honest little rascal. Looking over at the first boy I say, “Now, let me see you put all that stuff back in the baggie.” He begins to cry. Holy Baden-Powell.

I could go on and on. But, the gist of this scenario raises an important question:  How are you going to organize and carry your personal survival kit? Maybe in a baggie … a suitcase … in a water bottle … maybe, in a plastic box intended for a bar of soap … an Altoid tin … a small day pack … a vest … in your pants pockets … or a fanny pack.

It is intended and recommended that a personal survival kit be on your person at all times in the wilderness … or, at most, an arm’s-lenth distance from your person. The kit must be near. Accessible. Where you can find it when you need it. And, it must be easily carried and dispersed appropriately. Think fanny pack or vest or use various containers attached to a web belt or harness. You can even utilize a combination of these methods.

Another reason I won’t offer for sale a personal survival kit is because I don’t want folks to think that the kit they purchase is all they’ll need and that it is complete and able to solve their emergency needs no matter where they go. Remember. A personal survival kit must be changed and adapted to the particular region of the world you are in or going to. If going to an arid region, pull out the fish hooks and put in plenty of plastic bags to make transpiration devices. Adapt the kit. Refresh the kit. Know exactly what’s in it. Whether in the wilderness, in a small plane, at open sea in a boat, in a car traveling in winter conditions, or in a desert region. Wherever. Pack a kit and be prepared.

You do not have to be a survival expert, nor a rocket scientist, to create a personal survival kit. Just begin by using the following list of seven survival priorities; then, throw in a few other items. Things that will make you happy to have. Your goofy shit.

Priority One. Positive mental attitude (PMA). What can you put in your kit, personally speaking, that will promote PMA and give you utmost faith until rescue is achieved? A photo of a loved one that you can hold, look at, and say outloud, “I’m coming back to you!  I can do it, no matter what!”  Maybe a religious reading. A small survival manual. A juicy letter from your girlfriend or boyfriend. Your favorite yo-yo or frisbee. Maybe a soccer ball. For immediate rescue, a deck of cards to play solitaire. Someone will for sure come up to you and tell you which card to play where. 

Priority Two. Wilderness first aid. This is a no-brainer. Bundle up some first aid supplies in a soft-kit, not a hard container. Enough for you and a couple of other people. Ask yourself what injuries could occur in the wilderness or during a wilderness survival emergency? Think hard. Go over your entire body, from your feet to your head. Cuts, burns, sprains, blisters, sunburn, insect bites, smoke in the eyes … the list goes on. Now, satisfy the potential injuries you thought of with your personal choice of supplies. And, don’t forget your prescribed medications. Have enough with you so you won’t freak when the pills run low.

Priority Three. Shelter. Be prepared to build a good emergency shelter for yourself and for others. Maybe there will be a patient also to shelter and tend to. Know how to build a shelter that can offer personal protection from rain, wind, and snow. A shelter that can be built in five minutes. A future blog, titled ‘Bombproof Hooch’ will provide enlightening details. Put a 9’x12’ plastic dropcloth (.7 mil.) and 30-feet of parachute cord in your kit. And, throw in a six-pack. A six-pack of titanium stakes.

Priority Four. Fire. The ability to start and maintain a fire quickly and successfully is critical in a wilderness emergency, especially when hypothermic conditions exist. It is also the claim-to-fame of an outstanding wilderness person. Shoot fire, put a flamethrower in your kit. Eight hundred Bic lighters. Four hundred safety matches with their tips coated in parafin. Five Duraflame logs. Three bottles of lighter fluid. To save room, you might want to disregard all those items. Just do what I do. Put a baggie containing twenty-five Vasoline-soaked cotton balls in your kit. And, put in a kick-ass ferrocerium fire starter with an attached metal strike blade. If you really want to get bodacious, put in another baggie containing some lighter pine.

Priority Five. Signaling. Though I’m sure you’ll do as I recommend and always have on your person, when in the wilderness, a whistle and mirror, go ahead and put another whistle and mirror in your kit. Who knows, you may have a companion with you that will need one. And, if your environment dictates, add a flare or three.

Priority Six. Water. Always be aware that you’ll be weaker than a chain-smoking chihuahua and dizzier than Ruth Buzzy if you haven’t had any water during a three-day period. You’ll also be severely dehydrated. Definitely, your PMA will be NMA (no mental attitude). Be skilled at locating, procuring, and purifying water. And, don’t be an idiot and drink your piss. If there’s a camel nearby, drink his. Water purification tablets or drops are essential to have in your kit. Iodine or chlorine. Your preference. A SteriPen or a LifeStraw portable water filter are nice to have in your kit also. Don’t forget to include  spare batteries for the SteriPen. Put in a container to hold water, such as a Platypus bag. Or, if you’re old-school, a condom. Preferrably non-lubricated. And, how are you going to boil water for purification purposes or make hot tea or soup, if needed? A lot of survival instructors say to look around and locate litter; that maybe there will be a useable can nearby your position. I’ve got nothing against a survivor being resourceful, but that’s horseshit. Put a military-style canteen cup in your personal survival kit. Then, pack smart and put stuff in the cup. Remember. There are territories on earth that are considered waterless:  oceans and deserts. If it rains at sea, will you have a device, such as a piece of plastic, to catch rainwater?  Will there be a desalination kit aboard?  In the desert, will you need fishhooks or plastic?

Priority Seven. Food. Not a big deal until about week two in a survival situation. Eat bugs, six legs or less, and stay away from berries, plants, and mushrooms. Put a three-day supply of commercial jerky, power bars, trail mix, tea, Lipton soup packets, etc. in your kit. Red licorice. Slim Jims. Whatever trips your trigger. Remember. If you have no water, skip the food.

Done. The priorities are satisfied. Now, let’s add some goofy shit. A knife. With multiple blades. A multi-use tool, such as a Leatherman. Definitely some duct tape. Not the whole roll. Wind some around a pencil. Then, put the pencil and a small notepad in a baggie. Then, put a another baggie in the baggie. Just wait, I’ll explain. You now have duct tape in your kit. That’s good for a bunch of reasons. You also now have a pencil in your kit. You can record data on your notepad. You can keep a journal. And, even write a hit song to combat boredom. You also now have the means to leave a message for rescuers, if you depart the area for whatever the reason. Write your name and the name of anyone else in your party on a piece of paper, the health and well-being of each individual, and the direction you are heading and why. Put the note in the extra baggie, seal it with duct tape, and tape it to an object in a prominent location where it can be found. Back to more goofy shit. A small roll of pink surveying tape to mark a path. A flashlight or headlamp with spare batteries. The kitchen sink. I’m sure you get my drift by now. Add anything else that will make your personal survival kit appropriate, beneficial, and a humdinger. One other thing that’s not so goofy and you don’t normally “see” on a list of items to put in a kit. Spare eyeglasses or contacts, if needed.  Me, if my glasses get broke, crushed, or lost … well, just call me Mr. Magoo.

The personal survival kit is a good thing if done right. Don’t be a clown and leave it in town.

Alligator Hunting

Thought it always would be difficult and dangerous to
hunt an alligator in Florida. Not necessarily true. Also thought a gator hunter was of a special breed. You know, part Seminole Indian, part Florida Cracker, part swamp-dude.  Wrong there, too. With a few tools-of-the-trade, loads of patience, decent respect for crushing jaws filled with six dozen sharp teeth, the ability to properly cast a fishing pole, and a liking for mosquito bites, most anyone can catch and kill a gator.

In Florida, a prospective alligator hunter must submit his or her name for an annual lottery drawing. If selected, an alligator license will be issued to the “lucky” person for a particular location within Florida. Two gators, per license holder, are allowed to be harvested during certain dates of the year. At the prodding of a friend, I half-heartedly submitted my name for the 2011 lottery. Well, you'd know it. Lo and behold, my dern name was picked.

At the time, I hadn’t a clue how to hunt an alligator. My total alligator hunting experience amounted to watching the television show 'Swamp People.' "Rest assured," my friend said.  "You'll be in good hands with two fine acquaintances of mine who are very experienced alligator hunters. They'll go out with you to your assigned area and will even provide the necessary hunting paraphernalia. All you need to take is your gator license and tags." Reluctantly, I agreed.

On a warm September night, I met my hunting partners at a McDonalds in Orlando. From there we proceeded on a 2-hr. journey, southeast to the hunting area near the swampy headwaters of the St. Johns River. In the distance, the lights of the assembly buildings at Kennedy Space Center marked our eastern boundary. The full moon shined its glory, lighting the sky and the multitude of canals and levees surrounding us. As soon as we got there, I anxiously put a spotlight’s beam over the water. Gazing at me were at least a dozen sets of green alligator eyes. Within seconds, they were gone.

Pause for a brief lesson in Alligator Hunting 101. Anytime there is a congregation of eyes together in a stretch of water, they are usually small gators. The 6-ft. variety. Children. The alligator hunter wants the big ones. 9-feet and longer. Why? Well, it’s not for the hides. No money there anymore due to the economy. More so for the glory, the bragging rights, and the fight. The hunter must also understand the theory of “what comes up, goes down.” Probably the most frustrating part of alligator hunting. And, when the gator goes down, he stays down. Sometimes for twenty minutes; then, reappearing 50-yards from where you last saw him. A tactic the larger ones use … and, that’s why they get so big. They ain’t stupid. If you’re lucky,the gator will leave a bubble trail in the direction he's heading.

So, what we wanted to find was that lone pair of eyes. The gator all by himself with fifty yards of water on each side of him, void of other gators. This will be the big one … habitating his personal territory. No six-footer or smaller, in their right mind, mosies into a big one’s space. They’ll only do it once. A big one’s eyes will be far apart. And, the distance from the tip of his snout to his eyes will be far. Only a half-hour had passed while we patrolled in the darkness along the levee, spotlights beaming over the water, when one of my hunting partners whispered, “There’s one! Across the canal by the bank.” Thirty yards away a large pair of green eyes stared at us. I waited for the gator to go down, but it didn’t. It was as if the gator was daring us to catch him. We all three spazzed and went into “excitement mode”, tip-toeing hurriedly away to get the gator-catching equipment. There the gator was upon our return … same place, with the same taunting look. We had one chance of casting a 5-inch treble hook to the other side of his body and jerking, hopefully embedding the large barbs into his body. If the cast missed, the gator would go down. If we missed and he didn’t go down, I sure wasn’t going to mess around anymore with this particular gator. He would be either one mean SOB with a desire to bite us or he was on Quaaludes … and I wasn’t about to mess with a gator on drugs.

One hunting partner was a big dude and to him went the honors of making the cast. Armed with a stout surf fishing rod, lined with 200# test and a steel leader, he made the toss. He yanked and set the treble hook and on the very first try we had the gator. When he flopped and splashed and carried on and did what gators do when snagged, we saw that he was indeed a big one.

Pause for another brief lesson in Alligator Hunting 101. Big gators, when snagged, get pissed and dive to the bottom. Once there, they dig in. Even though they don’t lift weights, they are tremendously strong.

So, we had a huge gator hooked, at the bottom of an 8-ft. deep canal, thirty yards from where we were standing. And, every mosquito within three miles had arrived to suck our blood. After thirty minutes of strong-armed fighting, and a busted-in-half fishing pole (but not the line), the gator was within harpoon range. While the third dude in our party held the spotlight, I positioned myself precariously on the edge of the bank (thinking holy shit what if I fall in), holding the harpoon high, waiting for the gator to be pulled closer and nearer the top of the water. The dude holding the pole was freaking, hollering, and becoming very exhausted. Saying something like, “Throw the damn harpoon!” I did and I missed. Twice. The third throw I buried the harpoon deep into the gator’s side. Sounded like I’d hit a pumpkin. Now with two lines on the gator, we both pulled and got him beside the bank.

Pause for one more brief lesson in Alligator Hunting 101. There is a piece of equipment called a bang stick. It is a thin 5-ft. pole with an armed charge at the end, typically a .357 or .44 magnum shell. The hunter, poised above the alligator, shoves the pole against the gator’s head in an area behind the eyes, firing the charge and killing the gator.

So, here I am, now poised above the gator holding the bang stick. Ours is armed with a .223 caliber shell. I thrust it hard against the gator’s head below me and nothing happens. No bang. A dud. New shell, another thrust, and nothing happens. No bang again. Finally, with a third shell, I succeeded in demolishing the back of his head. We hauled him ashore. And, he began crawling away, down the levee, quite quickly. Amazingly quickly. Sure didn't wake up that morning expecting to be walking a 9-ft. alligator on a leash in the moonlight. Finally, after another shell to the head, electrical tape around his jaws, and a tag inserted into his tail, we had our gator.

Huge lizards creep me out. Think I’ll stick to hunting squirrels.

Porcupine Thoughts

Never had seen a porcupine in the wilds before, until now.

Up ahead in the woods, my Air Force survival students had treed a big one and were chanting, “Death to Spiny, death to Spiny!” as they pummeled it with rocks of all sizes.

It was forty feet up, perched on a branch, and probably thinking porcupine thoughts.  Like, “Golly, damn, who painted the target on me?”

The rocks whistled upward through the branches in search of their target.  Thump.  Thump.  Well-aimed throws were causing quills to fall like rain, the porcupine soon-to-be taking the appearance of a plump dog with mange.  The porcupine looked down, scanning in a porcupine way, until its eyes found me off in the distance.  Our eyes locked for a moment and I gave him the secret Instructor porcupine salute – basically a signal to run like hell.  It didn’t work.
“Hey!” I shouted.  “Knock off the horseshit!”  I said it again, louder.  The woods became eerily quiet.  The faces of berserk, tired, and hungry Air Force pilots and crewmen turned toward me.  Slowly, they began walking toward my position.

Prior to our rude arrival, the porcupine was sleeping in the tree, taking it easy from a long night of munching.  I saw him as forty pounds of sleepy solitude covered with 30,000 quills.  The students saw him as food.  I asked them if they really needed to kill this creature of the trees.  A vote was taken.  All said, “Hell yes!  Spiny dies!”

The porcupine, dazed and sore, viewed our huddle from above.  Listening and eavesdropping for the students’ next play.  Voices traveled upward.  The porcupine heard what he didn’t want to hear.

Students were now ascending a rock outcropping near the tree.  Each climber carried his rock-of-choice.  One student, a former college football lineman, carried a rock the size of a small car.  Two students remained at the base of the tree, armed with clubs.

The primary target would be the top of its skull.  The unprotected belly would be the secondary target.  The plan was simple: climb the rocks to a position above the porcupine and drop a bomb.  Cause of death – giant rock to the head.

A bomb dropper was ready and in position, twenty feet above the target.  It was the college football player.  I silently prayed for the porcupine, the tree, and the two students remaining on the ground.

Still to this day, I’m unsure whether the porcupine died from fright, shards of broken branches, or a direct hit from the rock.  I do know the students were happy they killed something.  They were shouting and raising their arms in triumph as they approached the lifeless body.  They even asked me to take a group photo of them with their kill.

With porcupine thoughts smashed, there were now plenty of human thoughts.  Like, “Do we have to keep this thing?”  “How much does this thing weigh?”  “What’s the meat taste like?”  “How long does it take to cook a porcupine?”  “How do we clean this thing?”  “Are the quills poisonous?”

This porcupine story makes me sad.  So many northern Indian and Eskimo tribes cherish the porcupine.  They give thanks for finding one, they give thanks for its decorative quills, and they give thanks for the meat it provides.  They know how to cook it properly so the meat is rich and tasty.  They know how to remove the quills and soften the tips so they may adorn clothing and baskets.  Not one of my students said, “Thank You, Great Porcupine, for all that you’ve provided me.”

The porcupine taught me a valuable lesson that day.  One I’ve adhered to and shared with students for over thirty years.  Respect for all living things.  There must be a justified reason to harm, maim, or kill a creature that poses no threat to you.

Now and then, when walking in the woods, I’ll look up into the tall trees and imagine the porcupine there.  Giving me his secret porcupine Instructor salute – the signal to walk in the woods with respect and harmony.