Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Road Trip, Survival Buckets and The Great Three Year Experiment, part 1
Several years ago my friends and I did the same. It's important to understand, as we're all formal (and at times current) military, we don't talk - we do. I suppose it's necessary for me to give some background information on my group, without giving out too many details risking security.
Ready, here goes....several years ago I had an idea. I asked men I knew on an informal basis if they'd like to join me, as we all seemed to have the same world view, and form a support group. We had all taken the oath. We loved our country, and each of us lived our lives in a current state of preparedness (due to that military training) it seemed the intelligent course of action. We did. We drafted bylaws, formed a voting counsel of the senior members with military backgrounds, and offered auxiliary memberships to others without military training. It worked. 'Nuff said.
Like I said, we do, we don't talk. Our group trains. We preposition those supplies others dream of, we train with firearms monthly (you do not want these men shooting at you, trust me.) We are currently building our retreat, have been for over a year. Which brings me back to those five gallon buckets. Before we'd chosen our retreat we thought it prudent to stash a few supplies along our escape route just in case we were caught flatfooted. A bucket of items which might just come in handy filled with what each member thought important to facilitate their efforts to reach safety.
Three years ago we did our planning and executed our plan. Early on a predawn morning our trucks formed a caravan and drove far out into the boonies. We had selected our sight based on several variables, the most important being the ground should be undisturbed for at least ten to twenty years. We dug. Marked our grave on paper and set a GPS, and got the hell out of dodge.
Years passed and we decide it's time to unearth our graveyard. It wasn't needed we decided and last month went out to recover our buckets. We just could not abandoned them since a few held handguns and other important and expensive equipment. Again, here we were before dawn's light, fighting our way through three years of brush growth (some pine trees then were only knee high, when we returned, the trees had grown six feet) stumbling and fighting and cussing in a vain attempt to find the proverbial X that marked the spot. We failed.
Even with the precautions and pains we had taken to map our exact location, we failed. Our GPS had been taken with a cell phone long since replaced. Our landmarks seemed to have shifted. We gave up and regrouped. Metal detectors were placed on our list. We returned last Saturday. It took about thirty minutes of hard searching but our friend Duke found the grave with his detector....I just about kissed him on the lips, but he's just too damn ugly. Man hugs were freely given.
For those of you out there new to the world of survivalism, take notes. These buckets were placed on high sandy soil. We dug the hole about four foot deep, just deep enough to bury the tops of the buckets about a foot beneath the soil and we placed all six buckets in the same grave. Each was sealed using rubber ringed lids and all items inside had been either vacuum sealed or placed in ziplock bags with as much air removed as possible. Then all items were placed within a heavy trash bag and tied securely. Many of us even went so far as to seal our buckets inside heavy three mil contractor bags, but our test proved this unnecessary, as other buckets came through this test in remarkably good condition.
Now, the evidence. Caution, picture heavy.
Above, Rebel takes a break on his bumper...notice the flag, we all fly one on our trucks...club membership pride.
End of part one. In parts two and (maybe) three we'll continue our exploration of the rest of the buckets and take you to our retreat. Until then.
I hope I'm able on this busy business morning to get around to reading all my friends blogs...hope, hope.