Yesterday the kids stayed in, getting over bronchitis and colds, arguing about Xbox and chores, not in that order. The snow had melted and there were only patches and splashes in the shadows of ravines and slopes of mountains. We wanted to get out so bad. Winter was losing its grip.
I wasn't in any kind of shape, so a forced march was out of the question. "Just a walk out, a little look around," I told the smallest son. He's been sick all Winter with pneumonia, and in general was weak. He hadn't gained much weight the last six months, that's for sure. When you patted him on the back you felt bone, and you could see his ribs from the backside, like photos of prison camp survivors.
When I reached for the Crow knife, I saw it still had that goofy brass tip, and I had no desire to get stabbed as I walked. Some you can leave on, some you want to leave on, but others in the field are placed in such a manner they stab the thigh- this varies from item to item. My Crow definately stabbed. When I went to pop it off, though, the leather finish came off the surface, and an ugly scar was left. Just my luck the Kamis used a superbond for this blade; most of the time you just pop it off. Oh well. A user anyway. I slathered the sheath with a leather treatment and left it to dry. I had to pick another blade to take.
It had been so long since I'd gone outside with a khuk. All the familiar feelings came rushing back, feelings of belonging, of remembered days with strength and friendship and affection the forum had brought, and the feeling of re-visting an old friend in the HI khuk. You see, me and my HI khuks have gone places together for many years now. I guess nothing can change that.
I reached for a replacement blade, and my hand found a scratched scabbard Malla, one of the older ones with scrolling on the sheath and the spine of the blade fat and flat. It was a good blade. A hiker with bite- being maybe 26 ounces and 18" long or so. Bruise had traded it to me for a Kobra. My hand was still wet with leftover leather treatment goo so I slathered the Malla's sheath as well. Spread around the goo. Let there be goo.
We drove the truck through the mud, listening to Revolver by the Beatles. The road started to get bad. I turned off the music so I could concentrate. I didn't want to hit a tree sliding sideways in the mud, and in my old age cannot listen to Beatles music and drive the tight spots with complete confidence. But we made it down into a gully. I turned the truck around, facing up and back home. We climbed out and I took the Malla with me.
The air was moist and cool, the ground damp and spongy. We walked. Little Keith soon wanted my hand. I don't know why. He's almost gone- at that age where he still reaches for support, just before he forgets he ever needed it. The two older hike off out of sight, and I remember I left my Botswains (sic) whistle behind. Damn. Oh well. I yell and they climb back through the bare thickets of Juneberry and chokecherry. Keith and I hike down the slope and find several deer beds in the thick brown grass. It was snowing lightly, but here on the shoulder of the slope there was no wind and almost no snow. Deer knew. We found a lean-to there, a log held by dead sticks between two trees with many dead aspen and pine limbs stacked against it. It had been there a long time and was dangerous. You wouldn't want to use it for it's intended purpose. Sure held up a long time, though. Rotted in place.
On the ground was a fallen rotten cedar limb from the shelter with one of those knots of swirling grain. As always, I took the khukuri out and sliced away. I'm always talking wood samples with me. The worst grey wood can sometimes hold wonderful secrets. As you cut sweet fragrance is released, as if the limb were new, spicey and fresh. And the Malla cut well, just like all its brothers and sister blades out of HI. The surface of a slice is smooth; you can run your hand over it, caress the grain of the wood, like a fine table top. All the boys wanted to run their fingers over the wood. They knew.
The two littlest boys argued over who got to carry the samples, finally each claiming his own precious cargo, the chunks of wood jammed into coat pockets. The wood is on my desk now. It has suffered from dry rot, but I'll see what can be done. We make miniature swords, bows, and axes for toy soldiers and dragons. The wood will come in nicely. That dead fall might live a few more years in the imagination of my sons play.
The sun was going down. We hiked back to the truck, and drove out without incident. That night all the boys slept well. I'm glad Spring is coming and I can carry the khuks again.
munk
I wasn't in any kind of shape, so a forced march was out of the question. "Just a walk out, a little look around," I told the smallest son. He's been sick all Winter with pneumonia, and in general was weak. He hadn't gained much weight the last six months, that's for sure. When you patted him on the back you felt bone, and you could see his ribs from the backside, like photos of prison camp survivors.
When I reached for the Crow knife, I saw it still had that goofy brass tip, and I had no desire to get stabbed as I walked. Some you can leave on, some you want to leave on, but others in the field are placed in such a manner they stab the thigh- this varies from item to item. My Crow definately stabbed. When I went to pop it off, though, the leather finish came off the surface, and an ugly scar was left. Just my luck the Kamis used a superbond for this blade; most of the time you just pop it off. Oh well. A user anyway. I slathered the sheath with a leather treatment and left it to dry. I had to pick another blade to take.
It had been so long since I'd gone outside with a khuk. All the familiar feelings came rushing back, feelings of belonging, of remembered days with strength and friendship and affection the forum had brought, and the feeling of re-visting an old friend in the HI khuk. You see, me and my HI khuks have gone places together for many years now. I guess nothing can change that.
I reached for a replacement blade, and my hand found a scratched scabbard Malla, one of the older ones with scrolling on the sheath and the spine of the blade fat and flat. It was a good blade. A hiker with bite- being maybe 26 ounces and 18" long or so. Bruise had traded it to me for a Kobra. My hand was still wet with leftover leather treatment goo so I slathered the Malla's sheath as well. Spread around the goo. Let there be goo.
We drove the truck through the mud, listening to Revolver by the Beatles. The road started to get bad. I turned off the music so I could concentrate. I didn't want to hit a tree sliding sideways in the mud, and in my old age cannot listen to Beatles music and drive the tight spots with complete confidence. But we made it down into a gully. I turned the truck around, facing up and back home. We climbed out and I took the Malla with me.
The air was moist and cool, the ground damp and spongy. We walked. Little Keith soon wanted my hand. I don't know why. He's almost gone- at that age where he still reaches for support, just before he forgets he ever needed it. The two older hike off out of sight, and I remember I left my Botswains (sic) whistle behind. Damn. Oh well. I yell and they climb back through the bare thickets of Juneberry and chokecherry. Keith and I hike down the slope and find several deer beds in the thick brown grass. It was snowing lightly, but here on the shoulder of the slope there was no wind and almost no snow. Deer knew. We found a lean-to there, a log held by dead sticks between two trees with many dead aspen and pine limbs stacked against it. It had been there a long time and was dangerous. You wouldn't want to use it for it's intended purpose. Sure held up a long time, though. Rotted in place.
On the ground was a fallen rotten cedar limb from the shelter with one of those knots of swirling grain. As always, I took the khukuri out and sliced away. I'm always talking wood samples with me. The worst grey wood can sometimes hold wonderful secrets. As you cut sweet fragrance is released, as if the limb were new, spicey and fresh. And the Malla cut well, just like all its brothers and sister blades out of HI. The surface of a slice is smooth; you can run your hand over it, caress the grain of the wood, like a fine table top. All the boys wanted to run their fingers over the wood. They knew.
The two littlest boys argued over who got to carry the samples, finally each claiming his own precious cargo, the chunks of wood jammed into coat pockets. The wood is on my desk now. It has suffered from dry rot, but I'll see what can be done. We make miniature swords, bows, and axes for toy soldiers and dragons. The wood will come in nicely. That dead fall might live a few more years in the imagination of my sons play.
The sun was going down. We hiked back to the truck, and drove out without incident. That night all the boys slept well. I'm glad Spring is coming and I can carry the khuks again.
munk
