Feverishly tooling away (with a tutorial), and teaching archery again

What have I been up to?  Finally filling orders!

Last year, I picked up both leather working and archery instruction as business enterprises, and though I lost some money (mostly on tools and a tiny archery arsenal), it wasn't a whole bunch, and it really set me up for this year (besides, I hear that businesses usually lose money the first three years).

Even January was a bit slow, but, since I'd put "getting my business running" on my New Year's Resolution list on the refrigerator (that's depressing -- I don't recommend it)  I stepped up my game.

First, I re-connected with the Jungs, a wonderful couple in town who run Southport ATA, a very good taekwondo dojang.  They are both amazing martial artists, and more importantly, great and loving people who have allowed me to again offer archery seminars.

My first seminar of the year took place last Saturday, where nine kids showed up to learn the basics of archery.  A good time was had by all, and I've been asked back on March 21st.  Sadly, I didn't take any pictures.  Next time, for sure!

Next, I set to finishing an order that had been placed by a friend of mine, J.R., who volunteers for Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, a group dedicated to protecting our wild places.  J.R. had seen pictures of the bag I'd made for Holly last year, and asked me to carve and tool some arm guards with the Backcountry Hunters and Anglers logo.  I said yes, then immediately became seized with artist's block and debilitating self-doubt.  It's my artistic process.

Three months later, I'd finally worked out my anxieties, figured out how I wanted to approach the job, and set to it.  I also decided to take some pictures and explain the process, since Hippo had asked for me to explain more just how I do it.

It starts with a piece of leather -- in this case, vegetable-tanned leather, the kind you can tool:

The ever-vigilant Rocio... let's all just keep quiet about her being in the house for this part...

I used an earlier arm guard I'd made to trace as my template, and I cut three arm guard blanks with a very precise tool, a "Stanley razor":

Three blanks cut, using the arm guard above as template.  Note the highly precise tool used to cut the leather.

 Next, I printed out a copy of the logo I used, in an appropriate size for the arm guards (it took about one hour to decide on a size... part of my anxiety-ridden "process"):

Note the precision instrument for drawing a circle -- passed down to me by a professional leatherworker.  She didn't say so, specifically, but I am absolutely sure that the flowers are a must.

 Now, I began the process of carving, pounding and stamping the design onto the leather, known as "tooling".  Step 1: Case the leather (a very technical process by which you wet a sponge with water and rub it on the leather).  Cased (or, for you novices, "wetted") leather will look darker.  let the water soak into the leather for a minute or so, then start your work.

Cased leather on the right, dry leather on the left. No biggie.

 I first use a swivel knife to carve out the parts I want to stand out: in this case, the circles and the paw print. Be sure to case your leather when it gets too dry, and strop your blade every few cuts.  The knife should always slide smoothly through the leather, about 1/3 to 1/2 into the leather, not through it.

A sharp knife is vital here; as soon as you feel it "catch" or hang up on the leather, stop and strop.

 After carving out the lines, it is time to pound the leather into place.  A series of specialized tools are very helpful here.  The first one in a beveler.  Push it into the cut line, and hammer down, walking the piece around and along the line.

An edge beveler in action (kinda -- I had to take my own pictures).

 I repeated the process along the outside edges of the paw print.

Next, I used a pear shading tool to put smooth, wide divots into the paw print; then I used a backgrounding tool to stamp out a pattern around the paw print and inside the circle, making the print stand out:

There are many types of backgrounding tools -- this one makes tiny, random dots.

This is the pear shader.

 After this, I made my circles more pronounced.  The two inner circles I pushed down and traced with a ball-point stylus, and the outer circle I traced/cut with a Revlon cuticle tool (that's right).

Stylus on the right, cuticle tool on the left.

 I then used a pyrography pen to burn in the letters.  This took the longest time of any process.

Here are the blanks ready to be dyed and punched.  The pyrography pen is on the left.  Be careful, it is very hot.

Next, I dyed the pieces and cut the edges with an edge beveler:

Pieces dyed and edge beveled.  I then dye the edges a darker color, paint on gum tragacanth, and slick the edges to a beautiful shine.

Following up, I punched holes and attached the hardware: grommets and lacehooks.

Here are two with hardware, and two up next. A rubber or rawhide mallet is a must, unless you like buying new tools all the time.  Note the tiny anvil (a favorite purchase) and the white tool, called an edge slicker (another favorite, since it adds a final touch that makes your stuff look really professional).

 And here they are in all their glory -- four complete arm guards, sealed and waterproofed and ready to be shipped!

Off to Montana with you!

If you or someone you know is interested in an arm guard or perhaps a leather possibles bag or belt bag, let me know!

I am finishing up another website for the two businesses, and will link to it when it is all ready.

UPDATE:  Though still in its early stages, here is a link to my website for archery instruction and leather work:  Wild Spirit & Old Soul.

Just to show you my amazing brother in-law

In case you thought, in my earlier post, that my brother in-law was crazy for bowhunting for pheasants, here's a little video:

Laughing like Sysyphus

My 20 gauge Huglu side-by-side (new cocking dog screw in the center, below the barrels)

For those who have been paying attention (hello, Hippo! and, maybe Dad...), I took a hiatus from blogging.  Life had gotten a little more complicated, what with a new job in a new and fairly complex realm (transportation).  I also didn't think I had much to write about.

But, over the year, I kept getting snippets of encouragement to start writing again (mostly from Hippo, but occasionally from my wife).  Also, I made a sappy resolution to do things that I love (like tying flies, working with my nut of a dog, and apparently writing), rather than things I merely enjoy (like playing annoying little video games on my phone).  So, here goes nuthin.

In addition to venting, I'm using this blog as a reference for my house projects and attempts at hobbies and items of interest.  So first, some house and land projects for the year, in general order:

1)  Increase storage in the attic, since the wife is hoping that I'll eventually move in there and end the charade that I have any space whatsoever left inside the house;
2)  Clean up the 8x16 shed out back, and add a real roof and interior walls(!).  I'm considering this practice for learning how to drywall;
3)  Clean out the washroom and put a washer and dryer in it (what a wake-up call to read that a guy in the backwoods of Angola has a washing machine and I don't);
4)  Fix up the back porch (ideally with an honest-to-goodness roof, a bread oven, sink, countertops, and permanent grill; realistically with a cloth roof, a hibachi, and a three-year old boy eager to carry burning coals).

Of course, each of these endeavors is a universe of joblets, broken tools, trips, agony, despair, makeshift jerry-rigs, and painful attempts at convincing people of progress.  Why, you ask, would a person, knowing what he knows about the utter inevitability of tears and curses, about the futility of it all -- why would he still try?

To understand why I will, yet again, take a running start before I hit the wall (to paraphrase Bill Cosby), let me take you back two months (cue harpstrings and wavy video effects)...

Two months ago, I was happily hunting alongside my amazing springer spanglish, Rocio, and my great brother in-law, who we shall call "Paul".  We'd made a typical circuit in fine California wild pheasant hunting fashion:  a six mile slog through every imaginable invasive weed on a patch of public property almost completely devoid of any game animal.

We'd seen exactly one pheasant, a rooster that popped up in a spot as likely to hold a game bird as a parking lot in front of a 7/11, so of course we weren't prepared.  As we neared our car, however, along a ditch line and near some blackberries, we jumped another bird.

"Paul" was shooting a 50lb draw recurve bow with flu-flu arrows (yes, it's a real thing), and I was -- oddly enough -- perfectly positioned just behind his left shoulder, affording him a clear shot.  Sadly, he missed, but the bird banked left.  I let loose with some #7 steel shot, and the bird faltered in mid-air.  I pulled my second trigger to finish it off, and... nothing.  No sound, no kick, no "click" of the firing pin, even.  Instead, the trigger merely squished back.  Thankfully, the bird fell out of the sky, anyway.

At home, I worried.  I had not taken apart my gun (a Huglu double barreled 20 gauge, found here), and when I looked it over, I noticed that it was missing a screw on its left side (ha ha, I had a screw loose -- okay, let's move on now).

I called Holly, a friend and amazing writer (and editor of CWA's magazine), because she and her boyfriend Hank have a guy.

I asked for his phone number, but I also asked about his prices.  Holly responded that prices would depend on the work being done, but that it had cost around $500 to get her gun fitted.

Yikes.

I called anyway, lacking any options (I'd trust a new gunsmith less than a new auto mechanic).  I knew he was British, at least, and so he had to be nice.

My first conversation with him went well.  Of course he was nice, and when I described the missing piece, he replied, "Ah, it's the (I swear to you he said this in his very British accent) cocking dog screw."

The cocking. dog. screw.

The only way that could get any more British is if Benedict Cumberbatch had uttered it while eating chips.  (My friend Andy pointed out that the Brits have a number of sayings -- "bullocks" comes to mind -- that are both extremely vulgar and completely innocuous; apparently, they name gun parts the same way.)

He did say that he'd look it over for free, and in so doing immediately sealed a deal with me.

Out of curiosity (or as Ronald Reagan quoted the Russians, "trust but verify"), I googled the gentleman, and intimidated the crap out of myself.  Among other things, this man had apprenticed and worked for J. Purdy and Sons and Rigby rifles, guns of my childhood dreams.  Now, he repairs and fits guns, engraves, and teaches shooting.  He also hand-crafts a few guns per year, which he sells, apparently, for many thousands of dollars.  I'd be bringing him a sub $600 gun over which I'd fretted spending so much money.  I felt almost embarrassed.

The following Saturday, my wife and I took a drive up to the hunting and shooting club where he worked.  Driving in, I was impressed -- a beautiful iron-worked gate, a couple of happy dogs, and a nice, clean clubhouse.  We asked about the shop, and were directed down a hill to a small, nondescript workshed.

We knocked, and were invited in.

I was surprised: This man's shop looked somewhat similar to mine, and definitely what mine could look like: only four machines -- a bench sander, a bench-top drill press, a bench grinder, and a metal lathe.  Other tools were strewn about the shop -- engraving tools, and also some typical things like screwdrivers and hammers.  Unlike my shop, of course, guns were also strewn about, in various states of disrepair, and I noted that not one looked cheaper than two grand.  One of them was a shotgun of his own making: a beautiful sidelock hammer gun in 12 gauge.

The gentleman shook our hands and warmly invited us in.  He looked over the gun and quickly confirmed it was the "cocking dog screw" (for those of you from England, an explanation: if an American quotes a person with italics, that means it is to be read in an English accent, unless otherwise noted).  I suppressed a chuckle.

He made nice small talk with us while he studied over the gun and removed the forearm and barrels.  In as nice a way as possible, (I swear, Brits can put you down in such a way as to make you feel like royalty), he recommended that I trade up my gun for an AyA (the next cheapest gun on the market, about three times the price of my Huglu).  He removed the stock-plate and looked to see what socket it might take.  He grabbed a one-piece T-handled socket wrench in 11mm.  Too small.  He grabbed a 14mm.  Too big.

He then grabbed a socket wrench with a drive (for fitting various sized sockets), and put a 12mm socket on.  Too small again.  He looked for a 13mm, but couldn't find one, so he grabbed a 1/2".  That seemed to loosen the bolt right up... and then the socket popped off the drive, stuck in the gun.

The gentleman put the gun between his legs to get more leverage, and slowly pulled.  And pulled.  No luck.  He tried to lever it out with a wide screwdriver.  No luck.  He took the gun over to his workbench, raised it stock-side down, and banged it hard against the bench-top (or as my wife, the English Professor, noted: "he knocked the shit out of your gun").  Finally, he pulled the socket.  Apparently, the nut was still stuck fast to the innards of the gun... hmm, probably a 12mm, after all...

A consummate professional, he earnestly explained each procedure to me, (while I stood there imagining scenarios in which, after sheepishly admitting defeat, this amazing gunmaker would offer me one of his guns in exchange, with the promise that I not utter a word about what had transpired).  After about 45 minutes of small talk, banging, explaining, mild cursing, and awkward pauses (my wife had left about 15 minutes in, when he'd started grinding a socket to fit), he stopped, looked at me and said, "I can fix the gun, I'm just going to need it for a bit."

Mind you, we'd never decided on a price.  He knew well both the amount I'd be able to pay (judging from the value of my gun) and the amount of time(money) he'd be putting into the thing.  He looked me square in the eye:

"I can do it for, let's say, $60.  But that's firm."  I'm sure I'd just watched him put $75 of his time into my little turk.

Deal.

I walked back up to the clubhouse, where my wife was drinking a Coke and reading Gray's Sporting Journal, under various deer heads and birds in flight.  We felt very upper-crust, indeed.

It would be five weeks before I'd see my gun again (although in his defense, we did go on an extended vacation).  When I picked up the gun, it had two matching cocking dog screws, handmade.  He said it is a fine little boxlock, and that the rest of the gun may disintegrate, but he'd guarantee the triggers.

Why does this story inspire me?  Because, watching my gun get worked (and I mean worked), it occurred to me that I was basically watching myself do just about anything.  I was lucky enough to watch a master craftsman hard at work, and I could just as easily have been watching a video of myself changing the brakes on my Subaru.

At one point, as this man took my five hundred dollars and slammed them against the bench to dislodge a seventy-five cent socket, I actually thought to myself:  I can do this.

Turkey on a spit

© 2012 Joshua Stark

That would have been a great title for an article where my cousin and I successfully bowhunted turkeys. 

Of course, "success" can be defined in any number of ways, and by my typical definition when applied to hunting, (amount of time spent doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down one's face), this hunt didn't disappoint.

Yesterday was opening day for turkeys in California.  In Northern California, the turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) is an established species introduced (reintroduced?) specifically for making hunters cry.  It is an impressive bird, both in size (it is the largest upland game bird) and in smarts.  It can hear very well, and it can see, in color, 280 degrees without turning its head.  On public lands, this forest phantom (or, "A-hole of the Woods" as I call them) offers the ultimate hunting challenge.

One good characteristic about turkeys, however, is that they love edgelands, and where you can get permission to hunt private property, you might actually stand a chance of shooting a bird.  So it came as wonderful news when my cousin, a wildly successful salesman, let me know that a client of his was allowing us to hunt his foothill property.  The only catch:  Kevin (my cousin) wanted to bowhunt.

I love bowhunting because it is just about the most pure hunting experience one can have.  While your range becomes limited, forcing you to get better, the type of game you can hunt becomes nearly limitless.  Only a double-barreled shotgun approaches the versatility of a stick, string and broadhead for hunting in the field.  And if you shoot an animal with it, you get to be the Great Nimrod for a bit.

With this I can hunt quail to elk. As for hitting them...

Actually shooting something doesn't happen without practice, though; something I've been out of for a while.  But at least I've got experience.  My cousin, on the other hand, had purchased his the week prior, and his first time loosing an arrow with the apparatus occurred the day before the hunt. 

Kevin was on fire at the range, but since he can hit a gnat's eye with a pistol at 25 yards, I expected this.  His equipment, a Bear compound with quite a few bells and whistles, was purchased used and so was already "tuned".  He'd mentioned nearly losing the ability to have children when he first attempted to draw the bow at the shop, and he asked what the poundage was set for:  71 lbs.  He then, in as manly a way as possible, I'm sure, asked for the archery tech. to crank it down a notch.  Now at 55 lbs., Kevin is much happier.

At the range, we set his three sight pins for point-blank, 20 and 30 yards.  Almost immediately, he was hitting a four inch group from his bow at 20 yards.  I call that hunting time.  I'd wanted to loose some arrows at the range, but had forgotten my glove (see below) and didn't want to set my fingers ablaze just so I could look cool in front of my cousin.  I guess I'm getting older.

On our way home from the range, we discussed the next morning's strategy.  I would meet him in front of my wife's father's house at 4:45 am, and we would be at the happy hunting grounds by one hour prior to sunrise.  Sleeping would be light, then, and in the living room so I wouldn't wake the family.

At 4:00 my alarm blared, waking me and the family.  My keen survival instincts tingled, sensing that if I didn't get ready and get out of the house now, I faced certain doom.  I dressed quickly, grabbed my cup of coffee and my gear and headed out the door.

If you talk to folks who hunt with me, eventually they'll make some insensitive comment about me forgetting pieces of equipment at home (ironically, they never forget to mention it).  Not one has ever thoughtfully inquired as to my mental state or any medication I may be taking; no, they just go through the Standard Litany upon picking me up:  "g'getcher bow/gun/pole?  g'getcher arrows/ammo./lures? g'getcher license?", followed by some smart-assed remark about having to drive a half-hour extra to pick up whatever piece of equipment got left behind.  Thankfully this time I'd only forgotten my belt.  I'd be doing the sidle-shuffle to pick up my pants occasionally, but Kevin wouldn't have to drive me back.

Kevin used to be that guy who would say, "meet at 4 am" and then call you at 10 am with an apology.  No more.  Now married and with two children, Kevin shows up 15 minutes prior to the stated meet-time, a time he, for some reason, set a half-hour earlier than necessary.  Sure enough, he was there and ready to go.

The drive wasn't too awful long this time, about 45 minutes, and as we reached the neighborhood, something stood out to me, something that boded well for our prospects.  The place was covered with houses.

Kevin explained where we could hunt, and also told me the advice the property owner had given him and his reply, which quickly deflated my hopes.  The turkeys show up between 8 and 10 on his driveway; last Wednesday, he'd had to get out of his truck and shoo them away.  Kevin had mentioned that any additional birds we may shoot would be donated to a local food bank.

I guess Kevin had forgotten about my hunting magnetism.  Basically, I am set to the same pole as the game I pursue.  He'd also apparently forgotten about Turkion, the Angel of Embarrassments.  Were it any other human, I'd have attributed his comments to hubris, but it's Kevin: it was excitement, not overconfidence, that led him to make that ill-advised claim.

We drove up to the driveway and parked on the car-wash deck.  We decided to head out a bit, find out where the birds might be, then move in, call, and catch them out in the wilder part of the property.  We set off into the guy's back yard.

This is what you would see if we were to make one of those cool hunting videos.

Immediately, we were hearing gobbling all over the hills.  Kevin called with a diaphragm call, and two birds gobbled back just down the saddle.  We walked a bit, waited, second-guessed ourselves, walked back, walked back down again.  Each time Kevin called, those birds would gobble back.

Kevin, looking quite the part.

Then, another bird called.  A jake turkey said Kevin, judging by its rasp (I'd have thought it was a rooster with a sore throat).  We split up, and I hunkered down in the brush while Kevin walked down a small dirt road.

He came back quickly, shaking his head.  Other hunters, three of 'em, and with shotguns.  They'd been making the jake call.  Dejected, we decided to follow the landowner's advice and went back to the driveway.  On our way back, a doe started snorting at us...

We sat down and talked about how our hunts never go as planned.  We chuckled, had a cup of coffee, and talked about waking up later in the day next time.

It was about 8:15 when Kevin glanced down the driveway and noticed a gigantic turkey walking up the asphalt road.  Camoflauge is definitely relative; our open talking, acting like we just lived there must have given that bird, no wait, those birds a sense of security.  There were now two toms.

Our turkey blind... what you wouldn't see in those videos.

We grabbed our stuff (Kevin knocking his metal thermos over on his truck hood) and started down the driveway right when that doe and her fawn decided to step out onto the road.  Seeing us, they took off running

The turkeys didn't take off running, though, but they did turn off the road and, going at that annoying speed they have (.1 mph faster than you), they walked quickly into the brush.

Two more birds emerged from the brush next to the road, also going away juuuust a bit faster than we could go.  

We walked back up to the truck and after a bit heard more toms uphill from us.

Kevin called and got a response much closer than we'd expected.  A tom was heading our way.  Kevin peeked around the shed and saw him, then another, then another.  Three toms, all walking the edge of an oak grove, coming straight at us.  Kevin called, and I'll be darned if that bird didn't puff right up and gobble back.  It was amazing.

I walked over to the truck and reached for my camera, then saw the bird looking at me.  Crap!  I didn't move.  Kevin called.  The bird gobbled and kept coming.  I snapped a picture, then moved out of the way.

I promise you, that teeny black dot in the field out there is a turkey coming our way!

Kevin called.  They gobbled and kept coming.  Now I could hear the booming that happens when tom turkeys gobble close.  It goes right through you, and it shook the shed such that it compounded those deep, deep tones.  It was one of those moments that is awesome in the true sense of that word: it inspires awe.

80 yards.  70 yards. 60 yards. 50 yards.

Just over the hill to our right came the report of a shotgun.  Two seconds later, another.  I could have cried.

The birds we were watching didn't run, but they shifted their direction, turned away from us and headed down the draw.  I told Kevin to go over and try for a shot.  He took two shots, one he guessed at about 30 yards and another at about 40.  His shots were high, and the birds headed off.

That seemed about right for our turkey hunting.

Did I want to march over that hill and skewer a shotgunner?  Why yes, I did.  Was that guy probably hunting property he hadn't been invited to hunt?  Most likely.

There's always next time.

How can a guy dressed like that be denied a turkey?

A break in the rain, archery & a trip to a sporting goods store

© 2012 Joshua Stark

March is surely going out like a lion, but yesterday and today we've had a slight precip. reprieve.  With the weather clearing, the kids and I were crazy outside all day long, preparing Mommy's garden bed (for her upcoming herb garden), training the boysenberry, pulling bolting bok choy, feeding the cabbage patch, cutting fence posts and birdwatching.  Today it's more of the same, but with a little less enthusiasm (I make the Hippo on the Lawn look like a Marvel superhero, so I'm a tad sore).

The big news for me is hunting, interestingly enough.  Turkey season opens tomorrow and my cousin has access to land.  Archery-only, and the rain has kept me out of practice, but the day before yesterday I took the old Versorger down and flung three arrows into a turkey-sized circle, so I'm happy.

Versorger is the name of my first-ever recurve bow.  I bought it about seven years ago, before doing any real research into recurves and longbows, partly because I was really itching to go to a stick-and-string (lose the training wheels, as they put it), and partly (about 90%) because my wife said, "Let's just buy it."  It didn't have a name back then, except "htg. 56"" scribbled on the limbs, and I had to do some real googling to discover that it is an AIM recurve.  I did know, from the salesman, that it was a 55 lb. bow, which means it takes approx. 55 lbs. of pressure to keep the bow drawn 28 inches, a typical draw length.  Since I'm built like a gibbon, this turned out to be a problem.

If you don't know much about archery or archery terms, let me introduce you to two:  "Stacking" and "pinch."  If your only exposure to archery is obsessively watching Ted Nugent, then go get help; also, you might think that the first term represents a good quality, ala "whack 'em and stack 'em", the profound, entirely original and eloquent phrase used by Msr. Nugent to summarize his hunting philosophy.   However, amongst archers "stacking" refers to the degree of difficulty in pulling the last few inches of the string to one's face.  On bows without training wheels, drawing the bow becomes progressively more difficult for each inch.  On high quality recurves and longbows, the last few inches feel as smooth as nearly every other inch, i.e. each inch of pull on the bow results in ~ two pounds of extra force.  On Versorger, the graph of my draw weight looks like a launching Polaris missile at the last two inches.  In my head, I get fooled every time:  I begin the draw, and it feels smooth, smooth, smooth, up to where the string dances in front of my nose.  Then, as I pull to anchor my hand to my face, I hear any number of tendons begin humming, popping, and relocating themselves to awkward and inappropriate places.  The bow starts dancing around in my hand, and my face takes on a Looney Toons appearance.  Instinctively, I jam my head forward, because that string just won't move. 

I could blame the bow, but part of it is my fault.  You see, even though I'm 5'11", my draw length is closer to thirty inches than twenty-eight, but the bow was built for the "typical" draw.

The other term, "pinch" is exactly what one might think it is: it is the angle of the string at your fingers at full draw.  Mine tries to fuse my fingers to the arrow, and has resulted in me shooting three fingers under (which I actually prefer anyway).

I've drawn bows that cost hundreds of dollars more, and I know why they do.  It's easy to see how spending good money up-front can save you hospital bills in the long run.



Why did the bow get the name Versorger, you ask?  Our last name is Stark, which is German for "strong" (like calling a tall guy "shorty"), and, upon my first kill with the bow (a beautiful little coast blacktail it instinctively hit right between the eyes even though I was aiming for the chest - a story for another day), I needed a word to show how it had provided for my family and gave me strength.  Google translated "versorger" as a German word meaning bringer or provider, and so Starke Versorger it was.  So what that I later learned the term means "caterer"?

So in conclusion I hunt with a recurve bow that may or may not take a finger with it one day and that has caused my right eyeball to permanently stick out about 1/4" further than my left.  But, it magically kills with head shots.

In my hunting enthusiasm earlier this week I took a trip to a "local" outdoor store to see if I might be missing any essential equipment.  I actually went to see if I could afford a Magnus turkey point.  I love Magnus broadheads, and I love the concept around these kinds of turkey heads, but they were sold out.  The other brand of this broadhead type went for forty dollars, which is laughable, so I left the archery department empty-handed, and probably for the best.

On my way out I passed - and drooled at - a ghillie suit.  I think I was a ghillie in a past life.  Alas, I can't justify that to myself, even, much less my wife.

I also walked through the clothing aisle, knowing full well that there are some nice, quality American-made hunting clothes on the market (like Pointer Brand jeans and Danner boots).  Just not in this market.  Or any brick-and-mortar establishment in California, for that matter.  No, this place had a number of the "cool" brands on hand, and for the same price as one can get American-made stuff. 

I was also hoping the store would have a corkboard up with hunting dogs for sale, but no luck there, either.  The check-out lady said that folks bring their dogs to the doors on weekends sometimes, but that didn't satisfy my insane dog craving.

Later today my cousin is coming over to sight in his bow, or rather tune his arrow-launching apparatus (his has all manner of technical gadgetry).  I'll have more on that, hopefully with pictures.