CAMPFIRE STORIES

[Dusty Devil Dale]

Just for reading fun, let's share some funny or interesting stories of past experiences. Everybody has a few. Here is one of mine: 

 

For over 65 years, Ive been a serious collector of insect specimens. Over that time, I've traveled over much of the world, assembling a museum quality collection that today houses 200+ museum drawers filled with about 18,000 pinned specimens, representing 11,000 worldwide insect species.  In those collecting pursuits, I have spent many nights sitting out all night in remote places, either alone or with fellow collectors, listening to small generators powering UV black lights or Mercury vapor lamps hung above suspended collecting sheets.  

 

One June night back in the '90s, I went with my friend from work to collect beetles in the local Sierra Nevada Mountains, about 60 mi. north of my home.  We were in the dry upper foothills of Madera County, Ca. at about the 3,000-foot elevation, within the Sierra National Forest.  

 

 We drove dirt roads all afternoon looking for a good place to set up our two generator operated light traps.  Finally we came upon an old dilapidated corral that was free of grass, which we thought would avoid fire hazard from our generators. 

We set up the two generators and  lights about 100 yards apart; one in the corral and the other in a wide spot on an adjoining dirt road.  

 

While we waited for nightfall, Rod and I tramped around through the nearby semi-dry meadows looking for whatever crawled.  The site was remote.  We saw only one other vehicle all afternoon -- a pickup bouncing over the rough road with two men passengers.  We paid little notice. 

 

 In hiking around collecting we both noticed an unfamiliar red wildflower that grew abundantly amid the drying grasses of the meadow.  By then it was late afternoon, so the blooms were pretty much closed.  We decided it was an introduced  ornamental variety and paid little attention, except to ponder, in our naivity, how a showy ornamental ended up so far from any human habitation. 

 

As darkness began to set in, we started up the generators and proceeded to walk back and forth between the lights with flashlights, looking over the ground for beetles and moths being drawn in short flights toward the lights.   We continued throughout the night, alternating  between resting in my pickup and stepping out every half-hour or so to check the lights for specimens.  

 

Most insect species have fairly  specific flight hours; thought to be an adaptation to concentrate their numbers to enhance chances of successful mating.  Some species are early-evening fliers, while others fly later, after midnight into the early morning hours. To collect the array of species present at a site, you generally need to run the lights all night and make do with very little sleep. But it's always pleasant to sit out in the woods at night listening to the sounds and watching out for nocturnal wildlife. We enjoyed this night, visiting, watching for animals and collecting, until we began to fade at about 3:30 AM., when we began packing up our gear.  

 

You just never know who or what you will encounter very late at night in remote places, so when I  collect (particularly in my annual trips to the southern border areas of Arizona or New Mexico),  I always have one or more of my carry guns with me; usually a S&W 686 .357 magnum revolver.  But over many, many trips, I've never had occasion to draw it from its holster, even down in the risky southern U.S. border zones.  The only people we've ever encountered late at night were a group of Hell's Angels who asked to park under our Mercury vapor light to repair a motorcycle, and another time in the Rio Rico area of Arizona where we had a visit from two curious U.S. Border Patrol agents.  But I still feel some comfort knowing my guns are always there.  

   

This night was pretty uneventfull.  We never heard anything (above the generator noise) or saw anything particularly interesting, except a couple blacktail does, a racoon, a way-too-close skunk, and a lot of insects.  We had a very productive night of  collecting; picking up a number of uncommon beetles and seeing a major emergence of a species of large (5") native silk moth in such abundance as to almost cover the collecting sheets.   

 

Both of us had taken leave time from work the following day.  We knew we would be dragging after being up all night.  So the next time I saw Rod was a day later at work.  I'd been working at my desk a couple hours when he walked in smiling and carrying a newspaper, which he dutifully spread on my desk, pointing to a picture and article.  

 

There on the front page was unmistakably that remote corral that we had occupied two nights before, decorated with law enforcement vehicles and officers.  The article described a major drug bust in which five Madera County Sheriff's deputies, assisted by four Forest Service Officers and several deputies from neighboring Fresno County had, the prior night, apprehended six perpetrators of an opium growing operation at the site of the remote (pictured) corral in rural Madera County.  The Forest Service Officers had earlier discovered and watched the crop of opium poppies mature, while planning the bust operation.  At the critical harvest time they staked out the site, waiting for the growers to show up to harvest sap from the big red flowers.  In the bust, they took posession of about $2.8 million worth of Opium product.  

 

The article described how the frustrated deputies (and evidently the growers too) had separately sat back hiding in the rocks and brush all night, watching two "recreational butterfly collectors" who occupied the site until nearly 4:00 AM.   When they (we) finally packed up and left, the growers reportedly descended on the site and began to slice the bottom of the flowers to extract the sap.  The deputies waited for them to finish, and moved in at daybreak.   The article quoted a Deputy as saying, "Considering the site's remoteness, the two recreationists were very lucky not to have been harmed by the six heavily armed growers." 

 

I guess we tested everybody's patience that night.  Rod later had a chance to talk with two of the Forest Service LEOs who participated. They said we were lucky not to have heard the frustrated LEO's conversation as they waited for us to pick up and leave.  I don't even want to think about what must have been said and contemplated by the growers.  

 

Often, things just are not as simple as they appear.  But deep within this episode is buried some humor, which catches up with Rod and me at times and gives us a good laugh together.  

[Wallaby Jack, SASS #44062]

PAGING UNCLE HARDPAN !!

 

     ...... time to open up your book ......  

[Dusty Devil Dale]

46 minutes ago, Wallaby Jack, SASS #44062 said:

PAGING UNCLE HARDPAN !!

 

     ...... time to open up your book ......  

If I know Hardpan, he is writing right now.  

[Subdeacon Joe]

Is it safe to assume that Rod is a certain gentleman of layers impervious to water and plough?

[Subdeacon Joe]

Oh, great story.

[Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967]

Awrighty, youse guys... I'm gonna re-post an old story of mine below, but with a new lead-in ~ thanks to our very own Snakebite!  

 

 

The Great Dummy Drop!

 

     Late one cold, dreary, and boring evening last winter (2021 – 2022) I was settled in my recliner, television on but muted, attempting to amuse myself by noodling about the internet as we old farts are often wont to do.

 

     And I was successful!

 

     I somehow stumbled across a most amusing news story from late 1989, centered about an incident at the Fresno International Airport.  Newscasters Bob Long and Stefani Booroojian presented the evening news on KSEE Channel 24, and showed a quick replay of the weather segment from the midday broadcast.  Now, the weather format segment in that period called for the meteorologist to deliver his report and forecast with the Fresno Air Terminal tower in the background.

 

     Well… on this particular day, there had been a shocking surprise.  Unseen by the weather guy, as he delivered his predictions, his audience was shocked to see what appeared to be an individual leaping to his doom from the tower’s parapet.

 

     Stefani stated that the KSEE switchboard had lit up like a Christmas tree with calls from shocked viewers, and evidently the 9-1-1 boards did likewise.  The good people of Fresno and its outlying areas were just not used to seeing such things.

 

     However, there was a second surprise.  (Actually there was to be a third!)

 

     The second surprise came in the form of an announcement that the hapless soul leaping – or being tossed – to his demise was in fact… a dummy!  Pictures were displayed of said dummy, a fairly crude but effective effigy that had served its intended purpose quite well.

 

     The third surprise was the announcement that there was a suspect!  News reporters as well as investigators were very interested in interviewing a tower “maintenance worker” named Doug Gilmore, who had been identified as the individual responsible for the prank.   

 

     However, Mr Gilmore was nowhere to be found – a reporter declared that “Doug Gilmore had vanished into thin air.”

 

     Now, why was this third item a surprise?  It was to me, as Doug was a long-time friend!  Doug "Snakebite" Gilmore had grown up and gone to school with my old frat brother, Jim Borton, aka “Hank.”  I had been acquainted with Doug since about the time of this incident, but had somehow escaped hearing the tale.  (And a  few years after this happening, Doug went on to found one of the best Cowboy Shooting Clubs in existence.)  

 

     And to Doug I say this:

 

     Good job, and congratulations from a fellow Dummy-Flinger!   

 

     (But mine was better. )

 

 

Verducci Hall – The Legend of Arnie J. Suxx

 

 

      For a kid from the Wilds of West Texas, college life was a shifting mix of excitement, adventure, and culture shock.  Spiced by an occasional flash of terror.  Actually, the terror was usually other folk’s experience, for which I may or may not have been a stimulus.

 

     My roommate, the anomalous Ivan Jacob Finman (that would be the REVEREND Ivan Jacob Finman) and I had settled into a slightly unsettled truce.  We each recognized and respected the other’s space, beliefs, and lifestyles.  In this, I firmly believe I was the more tolerant.  But no matter; we survived our first semester at the world-infamous San Francisco State College and then each went our own separate way.

 

     Although we did not run in the same social circles, we did have a bit of overlap in the sets of fellow Dormies we would associate with.   

 

     Ultimately, this led to the memorable episode of Arnie J. Suxx.   

 

     Now, Arnie was very sensitive about his last name.  Proper pronunciation had it rhyme with “Books.”  NOT “Shux.”  Unfortunately, most people who saw his name spelled tragically mis-pronounced it.  When this happened, Arnie would too often react. Sometimes calmly correcting the miscreant, but other times his reaction would be physical.  Consequently, much like the protagonist in the Johnny Cash song “A Boy Named Sue,” Arnie’s reactions too often led to a good thumping.  For much of his formative years, Arnie would initiate the thumping session but would end up being the thumpee.  And, like the Boy Named Sue, this led to Arnie growing up to be a much tougher guy than if he’d been born with a surname like Smith or Jones.  Anything but Suxx!

 

     But fret not. 

 

     You see, Arnie J. Suxx was born of the Reverend Ivan J. Finman’s fertile imagination. 

 

     Somehow, one evening when four or five of us were milling about avoiding study, Ivan just blurted out a creative sentence or two about a fictitious Arnie.  Someone else immediately followed up with a connected observation, and the remarkable collaborative fiction of Arnie J. Suxx was born.  Over the course of several weeks, the story became quite popular and increasingly complex – he was even talked about by students who had no idea he was imaginary.

 

     Arnie’s legend continued to develop.  Tales of Arnie encounters circulated; he was real.  Arnie’s name appeared in graffiti.  Arnie was mentioned in student’s compositions, became a topic of conversation in the student union, and was even cited in a student body publication or two.

 

     Heck, Arnie was getting’ to be famous!

 

     Well, not one to let an opportunity pass, I came up with an idea.

 

     Everyone knew about Arnie’s pugilistic bent… what if he was to have an actual fight?  The others looked at me expectantly. “Think about it, guys!  What if we let it out that on a certain night ol’ Arnie and someone else – how ‘bout Jack Lipska?  Yeah…!  Ol’ Arnie and Jack are gonna duke it out!

 

     Suddenly, everyone became excited, and started contributing to the scenario.  By the end of the evening, we had a plan.  There was going to be a fight… and it was going to take place on the roof of Verducci Hall, our own dormitory! 

 

     Sadly, though, there would be but one survivor of the battle.  For, you see, one of the combatants was going to be thrown over the parapet and was to fall to his death.  Most likely Arnie.

 

     Oh, how cool would THIS be!

 

     And, since it was MY idea, I had the honor of creating the victim.

 

     In this I had experience.  Twice in my younger days I had constructed “working dummies;” this one would be my Pièce De Résistance.

 

     The next day, right after meteorology lab, I set out to gather materials:  Magazines, newspapers, and old clothes and a pair of shoes were contributed by fellow conspirators.  I bought tape, safety pins, wire, and miscellaneous art supplies.  I also bought a fleshy, semi-realistic Halloween mask, a cheap wig, a hat, a box of sandwich bags, a bottle of ketchup, and a pumpkin.

 

     With my construction supplies on hand, I set about first fabricating a skeletal armature.  Bones were formed of rolled magazines, with joints wired in a fashion that allowed them to work more or realistically – elbows and knees would travel to the limits of the joints.  Hands (stuffed, flesh-colored latex gloves) and shod feet would flop just like mine.  The spine was more or less stiff, and the neck had a more or less realistic range of motion.  More or less, ol’ Arnie was shaping up nicely – as I worked, I softly sang:

 

Your back bone’s connected to your shoulder bone
Your shoulder bone’s connected to your neck bone
Your neck bone’s connected to your punkin’ bone
And that’s how we connect dem paper bones…!

Doop doop de doop de doop doop doop!

 

     When the skeleton was finished, I dressed it and stuffed the clothes with crumpled newspaper.  I gave Arnie a muscular chest and arms – that boy had “guns!”

 

     And then, I wired the punkin’ haid to the top o’ the neck bone.  With that secured, I pinned the fleshy mask and wig and hat in place – with baggies of ketchup layered beneath.  

 

     When I looked at “Arnie incarnate” my skin crawled – this was sooo creepy, and it was gonna be sooo cool.

 

     I invited my co-conspirators to our room to inspect the “victim.”  All were very surprised and quite impressed!  We were a GO!

 

     The following morning we fired up the rumor mill – the fight was ON!  This was Friday; sometime after dark on Saturday the two would meet.  As a safety margin, we mentioned a number of possible sites for the scuffle, ranging from behind the cafeteria to the roof of one of the buildings on campus. 

 

     And it came to pass, that about 8:30 PM, Arnie and Jack did meet and duke it out.  On the roof of Verducci Hall.

 

     We recruited a handful of minions to help with the plot.  Everyone had an assignment – most would gather on the roof and root for the combatants.  Two would actually pantomime fighting in the subdued light on the roof.  And most importantly, with watches synched, two people would be stationed in the two-story lobby to feign excitement over the fight on the roof, and to make sure no one was standing or walking in front of the building at the fateful moment.

 

     And what a grand fight it was!

 

     Young men shouted.  Young women shrieked.  Several people made appropriate sounds of mortal conflict.

 

     And, at the coordinated moment, over the side Arnie went.

 

     Accompanied by a cacophonous group shriek of terror.

 

     The guys in the lobby pointed upward and outward through the huge, plate-glass lobby front windows.  The desk clerk, a fella named Milt (who was roundly disliked by all), turned to look. 

 

     Just in time to see Arnie’s fateful crash to earth. 

 

     Falling fourteen stories, Arnie hit with a resounding “SPLAT!”

 

     His body was twisted and broken. 

 

     His arms and legs were positioned at obscenely unnatural angles. 

 

     But the most impressive was his head.  Crushed by the impact with the concrete, his twisted face was lying in a puddle of ketchup blood and pumpkin brains.

 

     Milt’s eyes and mouth were opened in absolute astonishment.  He lurched from his elevated chair, buried his head in his wastebasket and proceeded to deposit his supper, lunch, and breakfast into the can.  Actually, from the description given later by the “lobby guards,” Milt may have deposited several days’ worth of meals. 

 

     Eventually and at the urging of a number of students shouting about his “duty,” Milt made his way on wobbly pins out to the victim.  As he approached, he contributed one last snack’s worth of upchuck onto the pavement. 

 

     When he gazed at what was left of poor Arnie, he began to comprehend.  Only began; it was still quite a shock.  But when he looked up and saw a dozen or more people leaning over the parapet waving and laughing, he figuratively blew a cork.

 

     Milt shook his fist at us and with his too-high voice screamed some reeeally bad words at us.  LOTS of bad words.  Fortunately, we managed to not allow our feelings to be hurt.

 

     With a final fist shake at us (some were sure that fist had a single digit extended), Milt drug poor Arnie’s remains inside.  As the crowd innocently meandered back through the lobby by ones and twos, we were surprised and delighted to see Arnie’s nearly headless carcass on display in a place of honor in a chair next to a giggling Milt’s.

 

     I do believe that boy was so darned glad he didn’t have to scrape up brains and bones he was downright giddy.

 

                                                                                              

[Injun Ryder, SASS #36201L]

On a Fourth of July weekend in the 60's, my uncle, his family and some friends were boating and camping on the Ohio River. At the end of the day, everyone but me retired to their boats (small cabin cruisers) to go to bed. I was in a sleeping bag on a folding chaise lounge a few feet from the Ohio.

 

At about 4am, a large wave swept over me and carried me, in the sleeping bag, out in the river!

 

Instinctively,  I put my arms up and was able to grab one of the mooring lines of the boats. 

 

The wave had dislodged the boats from the banks of the river, turned them around and beached the aft of both.

 

All of the gear that was on the shore, tables, coolers, chairs, food, etc. had been washed into the river.

 

After sunrise, we assessed the situation and were able to pull the boats off the shore and orient them bow first on the bank.

 

I spent most of the morning diving in the river to find our lost gear. Some of it was 20 feet out in the river in 15 feet of water. 

 

The cause of this catastrophe was a barge that was "speeding" down the Ohio that sent a 4 foot wave to the shoreline. It caused major damage to numerous boats that were moored at marinas along the river.

[Cold Lake Kid, SASS # 51474]

That's a "Put on your steel toed boots and proceed to the place of a$$ kicking" kind of story.

But my ancestry includes a lot of "Fight'n Irish' mixed with First Nation.