Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Thank You Mr. Rawles

Seems I was given a mention and link over at, thank you Sir. Seven thousand hits for one of my simple posts is mind blowing.

By the way, if you have as yet to read his novel, Patriots, get 'er done.


This Sweet Lady

This sweet lady lives a life many of us should emulate. Her blog inspires me. She's located here,

Read her last post, snippet.

Are we there yet?

Yeah, I have been reading the news again, and today as I learned about yet another portender of economic collapse, I kinda hit the wall, if that's the right term.  I guess I was concerned about whether I will have enough stuff saved, given the fact that I am in a place right now where I have to use it already.  And then I think, since I am already using my preps, what does that say about both me and the economy?  If this is the place where I need to dip into the food stores, what happens when it gets a lot worse?  I don't feel ready.

And that's a problem. 

No, it isn't about canning, just wanted to include this picture for effect, though canned food is part of her solution to a bigger problem.

Run by and say hello. She needs a boost.




Home Canning

I thought this was interesting.....quick read.,0,332322.

For Arsenius the Hermit.


This is Just Wrong

Trust me, this is just wrong. I know it's a spoof, but if you dress and act like this, you shall not be my friend. Take the tactical and shove it.

H/T MadOger


Road Trip, Survival Buckets and The Great Three Year Experiment, part 1

We've all read the survival forums, AR15 fiction apocalypse pieces where the our action hero has the foresight to sally forth and prepositions survival supplies in his five gallon bucket. He studies his escape routes, finds just the right bridge, or cattle pasture, perhaps an abandoned farm and digs himself a hole and seals his treasure into mother earth's bosom.

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, our location. Its dense and located on the boundary of a great swamp.

A failed dig. Notice the heavy duty pro-hedge trimmers.The feet of retired Senior Chief Joey and ShooterSteve. Nicknames are used to protect the guilty.

Here's a beauty shot of Senior Chief proving we are ALWAYS ready for action. This next shot is yours truly, taken by Senior. It's as much of me as you'll ever see...

Duke strikes gold above.

The light of day after three years underground.

After the dig. Here we find Senior Chief flipping one of his hand signals...don't know, he's 'hip.'

Above, Rebel takes a break on his bumper...notice the flag, we all fly one on our membership pride.

We left the dig site and drove to a small town for breakfast. Even though the anticipation of discovery was killing us we held off opening our buckets until a long drive to our retreat. The picture above is of my bucket just after opening. So far so good. Next, bag open.

Remarkable. The contents of the bag smelled as fresh as the day it was buried, actually it smelled of pipe tobacco that I had inside. No moisture, so I began to remove items. The following pictures are items as removed in order.

This is an older German made .22 caliber handgun. Nowadays, this pistol is sold under the Heritage brand name. Years ago it was manufactured for Herters. No rust, she was as nice as the day I planted her.

Here is my only damage...mold from the moisture of the leather. Later that evening she cleaned up well using Mink Oil. She's an old Hunter brand holster.

Above, ammunition, two hundred rounds both in the boxes and pill bottle which held one hundred. This is the secret of stashing .22 caliber. Never underestimate the ability and utility of a .22 for survival purposes. As you can see, with smaller calibers you can stock a large amount of protection. Remember, you'll be humping the contents on your back. Think about it.

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.


A Short Story

Yesterday I had a new gun safe delivered.

The above picture is before.

This is after.

I have firearms waiting, so it seems I need another new gun safe....sigh...

Standby, road trip story is underway.