The woods are nearly one hundred. Thousand acre plots, managed by The Department of Forestry, surveyed, counted and auctioned it off parcel by parcel to the “Pulpers”. They and the heavy equipment they used to
“whack out” a 100 acres daily, leaving huge piles of “trash” branches, too small to haul to the pulp mills, where they make toilet paper.
Pulpers cut mostly birch, tamarack, white wood. Special permits were auctioned for cedar. The oak, maple, and other hardwood had been cut years before. Hundreds of miles of roads were laid out, large enough for double-bottom trailers, pulled by KWs, Peterbilts. Roads that were sturdy enough to handle the tons of pulp. These roads were plowed of snow in the winter. Working night and day, pulping was the only business left on the Range until the Canadians started shipping trainloads of their wood south.
Like Walmart they put all the little mills out of business. Anyhoo with hundreds of miles of trails, a Suzuki Samurai, an Old Blazer, I would load my Winchester model 94 30-30 Lever action 'Cowboy Rifle', my beer cooler, and dog, and hit the trails, spending all day everyday out amongst the deer, bear, moose, and if I sat real quiet upwind with the motor off, a wolf might meander by.
We moved out of Paradise. What a mistake that was, especially for this old “Leave me the fuck alone” Nam Vet. I drink only with a few. They know all my stories.
Since moving, my life has been fucked. Anyhoo, here we are living amongst people who I don't care for, so I bought a 50” tv, and put some big speakers on my stereo. I have over 500 books to read- I like Stephen Hunter books, particularly “Bob Swagger”, who is like some of the old Shinabe's I used to know.
They would lay for hours under the snow, waiting for a buck to show up. They hunted to feed their family, which could be Gramp and Grama, 8-12 kids, maybe a few grandkids. They hunted to eat. One round, one dead buck. Indians don't consider hunting a sport.
Oh yeah, I quit dry firing my Remington 30-06 off my kitchen table. People were freaked, and then all the crazies killin' the civilians. Come on man, join up, go kill over in whatever war- there's always gonna be one. War is like buses, you missed one, another will be along shortly!! I leave my shades down now.
Anyhoo this started out to mean something but I forgot What??? I do that alot lately. If I live till Oct 2nd, I will be 65. Still a PFC. Semper Fi! Rat Oct 2nd Tip one for me!...
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