The summer before leaving for university, I decided to take a pack trip; you could call it my senior trip, except I had never been in a formal classroom. My goal was to visit my cousins and their gold mining ventures in the Yukon Territory. University didn’t really appeal to me and if the truth was known, I was only attending to fulfill the wishes of my father. If I liked gold mining and there was opportunity in the Yukon: why waste four years in school?
My father agreed to the trip, reluctantly: he maintained I should take a pickup and drive straight there without the possibility of disappearing forever in a thousand miles of bush and mountains, never to be seen or heard of again. I assured him I felt way more comfortable on a horse than in a vehicle and persuaded him that a horse was more my style and it might be the last chance I would ever have to really see the wild country. I promised to start home in the second week of July and to keep a journal, so not to lose my famous sense of time.
That spring we had heavy rains with heavy snow melt, the rivers and creeks were raging between the high water marks of their banks, and I was lunging in the traces while waiting to leave. Crossing rivers and creeks while they are in flood stage is suicide, so I waited in the agony of expectation of an exciting pack trip. I loaded up 40 hot rounds for my 8mm Mauser; they were hot, because I wouldn’t fire my weapon except to kill the odd animal for meat or to bail myself out of a Grizzly encounter. I’d pack a 22 rifle for shooting ptarmigan and grouse, sport wing shooting was out of the question, head shots from 30 feet was the order of the day, my apologies sportsmen, but this was a question of survival and eating well on the trail.
There would be five us on this trip, me, Dallas my saddle horse, two pack horses Florence and Bertha , and Tiger my beloved and battle scarred Catahoula. You may have noticed all my horses were mares. After a lifetime as a horseman, I have come to several conclusions; first off, is that in certain human blood lines, a horseman will appear once in so many generations. There might be many family members who ride, but there will be one who has an uncanny gift for horses and among those will be the occasional mare man: he will have an unexplainable way with horses, especially mares. For mares are the real animal, the animal that migrated four to five thousand miles a year, the animal that will fight to the death while defending her foal, the animal that is considered difficult by most horsemen, who prefer geldings; by definition, the ‘Mare Man’ doesn’t have these problems, he goes about his work with ease using horses that others avoid. A true ‘Mare Man’ can be observed with a mare hugging him lightly, as if he were her foal: not in the rubbing method you so often see, that has people thinking their horse is showing affection, but is really using the human as a scratching post and displaying disrespect towards his rider.
I am one of those ‘Mare Men’: from my father’s side, descended from those ancient Celts that rode across Europe two thousand years ago, from where no one knows, fought Caesar in a series of desperate wars that nearly destroyed Caesar and his legions. Only those that sailed to England and Ireland escaped the Gladiatorial arenas and slavery. At least that is what I have been told by old Irish horsemen who have watched me work and have stared into my green eyes while taking note of the auburn hair.
I didn’t really need two pack horses, but if one of them became lame, I wouldn’t need to leave most of my gear. Each horse would have four sets of pre-fitted shoes with nails. A stall jack and fitting hammer along with a leather apron and basic shoeing tools would take care of the hooves for a two thousand mile trip. If they had to make the last two hundred miles barefoot, they could do it, being a little tender would make them anxious to get shoes on in the future. Cooking utensils, a couple of tarps, (One for a wicki-up and one for a ground cloth) an ax, small shovel, Melville’s ‘Moby Dick’; Hemingway’s ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’; and a so called Complete Works of Shakespeare made up my reading list. I had a coal oil lantern with enough fuel for a few minutes worth of light each night: although in June there was 22 hours of daylight and at night there was usually enough light to see, almost enough to read.
I packed a lot of food, some vegetables, dried rice and dried beans there is less and less edible green food the farther North you travel, I’d be sure to make spruce tea and rose hip tea to maintain an adequate intake of Vitamin C. Scurvy was a serious problem in the early days, it affected Jack London and probably shortened his life, and he was only in the North for one winter. The Northern natives roast the stomachs of Caribou with the grass and lichens inside along with huckleberries or blueberries until they (the caribou stomachs) are ready to explode and then have a feast similar to our turkey dinners. I haven’t tried it, but I would eat it rather than starve.
Eventually the creeks and rivers began to ease up on their rampage and it became safe to travel. I said my goodbyes and headed out on what could have been my last adventure in the mountains, in more than one way.
I used my compass and the government maps that were notoriously inaccurate at the time and headed North. I ate my heaviest foods first, thus I would lighten the load on my pack horses: eventually, I would be eating dried beans, rice and oats; the mainstay of the horse packer, delivering the most nutrition for the weight carried.
The trip was a reaction to the thoughts of desperation caused by leaving my home and my life. When I returned from college in four years, my personal dogs and horses might be gone forever. I might change and never be the same after going to school, I was full of doubt, I enjoyed my life on the ranch and in the wilderness and now it was coming to an end; so that I could be with people who had no concept of life in the wilderness, to me it felt like a prison sentence rather than an education.
In the mean time, I crossed several rivers and came upon an alpine valley with a huge stand of mountain balsam. For some reason I was hesitant to cross this foreboding stand of deformed trees. They were six to twelve feet high with aged thick trunks, probably two hundred years old, dwarfed because of the extreme alpine conditions; their bodies twisted from perpetual winds into patterns that reminded me of flames in a campfire, perpetual bizarre green flames. On the other side of the valley was a barren mountain top like the one I was on, except there was a grizzly digging after ground squirrels or some other little rodent. He was digging very quickly like a dog digging in soft earth, except the ground he was digging in was rock hard and every once in a while a boulder the size of a man’s head would fly up between his hind legs. He was a rare beauty, black (a rare color for Grizzly, although they can vary a great deal) and large with his new fur glistening in the sun and rolling with deposits of fat from the spring grass. It would make a great hide for my room at college and the rendered lard makes the best pie crusts; but I wasn’t hunting Grizzly and the temperatures were so warm the hair might slip and I didn’t have enough salt for the raw hide. Lucky for him.
Horses can smell a Grizzly from several miles away if the wind is right, their nose is good enough to determine which way a Grizzly is headed when they cross his trail, but at this distance their eyes can’t see a Grizzly and the wind was at our backs so they couldn’t scent the bear.
Tiger was keying off my caution, he was sitting to my right and studying the strange stunted forest ahead of us. He was a veteran bear fighter, carried the scars and understood the inherent dangers. Besides the company, he provided protection at night in case a bear walked into camp while I was sleeping and decided to pull me out of my blanket roll for a quick snack. I tie each of my horses to a tree for the night in a perimeter around my sleeping area. A horse wont make a noise if they aren’t threatened, if the bear comes close to them they will scream like a woman, a terrible noise: Tiger would and has fought to the death to give me time to wake up and grab my rifle. I love horses and appreciate their nature and culture, but that is the main difference between a dog and a horse as a friend.
I had about a mile of this green forest of Perdition ahead of me and I wanted to get on the other side with enough daylight to find a good camp with feed and water for the horses; I was counting on the Grizzly deciding I was a dangerous character with three horses and a dog and heading off to tall timber once he stopped digging long enough to catch our scent.
We were half way through when I noticed the hair along Tiger’s back standing straight up and his lip curled in a silent growl. We had company and it might be that Grizzly I saw on the opposite hill.
I heard a low growl coming from Tiger and I put the lead pack horse’s halter rope in my left hand and drew my rifle out of its scabbard with my right hand. Tiger turned just as the horses bolted, I pulled up my saddle horse and the pack horses ran by me on the right, the left pannier or pack box on Florence hit Dallas, my saddle horse hard in the right flank and then the ax laced to the box caught my right leg and pulled me out of the saddle and onto my horse’s neck, in less than the blink of an eye, before they pulled up and circled, they were directly in front of my horse, a movement that released my leg or I would have been hung up on a runaway pack horse or on the ground on my back. Thankfully, I had my rifle out of the scabbard or the stock would have been broken. I kept the horses under wraps while they were lunging and jumping in several different directions. I pushed myself back into the saddle and turned around to see what the Hell was gong on behind me. My future family and leg were obviously bruised from the near disaster, but I didn’t have time to acknowledge the pain or take inventory. The bear had circled behind me and was making runs at us and snapping his jaws with that loud clamping sound like a small bore rifle or a 30-30 firing. He was trying to stampede my horses and doing a pretty fair job of it: Tiger kept the bear from running in and grabbing one of us and all I could do was hold onto my rifle, taking an accurate shot in this wild melee was a forlorn hope. Although Tiger was so mad he was foaming at the mouth, he was in control enough not to run in and fight the bear alone or we would have had the biscuit (as in last supper).
Suddenly, the noise all stopped except for Tiger circling us growling and barking, the pack horses were crowding us and making a nuisance of themselves. I could feel a hitch in the stride of my saddle horse, she was bruised and lame at the very least, I could feel the blood running down my leg into my right lace-up over the ankle moose hide moccasin; the blood was flowing freely, judging by the squishy feeling in that moccasin, the blood scent would excite the bear’s blood lust even more, but we seemed to be alright for the time being.
We had at least a half mile to go, we were moving at a fast walk, if we broke into a trot it would be hard to keep the horses under control if the bear tried to separate us again. If it was just me on a saddle horse, I could make a dash for the open country and dismount to hopefully kill the bear that was making my life so miserable. With two pack horses tied with the second one’s halter rope to the first one’s tail, they would be dead meat if I lost control of them or I could fall and end up as dead meat on the ground in this Mountain Balsam Hell.
My situation was becoming desperate, I had to get out of this Balsam and away from this aggressive bear, the horses were all in a lather from their fear and exertions, and Tiger would eventually make a mistake in judgment, he was continually circling to protect us and had to be getting tired. I was used to having the lead rope for the pack horses in my right hand and the bridle reins in my left hand: my rifle was in my right hand, although I couldn’t get a shot off, the bear had respect for that rifle, he had probably been shot at before, my left arm was exhausted from hanging onto the lead rope of the spooked pack horses; suddenly from the right, the bear charged and started snapping his jaws in between growls or roars. This time the horses broke and I was along for the ride, I watched the trees and tried to pick the best trail with enough room for all three horses. I couldn’t see Tiger, but there wasn’t anything I could do to help him: hopefully, he was tight behind us. If a pack slipped or if a rope came undone, the pack horses would fend for themselves. The horses were running out of control and were no longer responding to me. Normally, pack horses couldn’t keep up with a saddle horse, but Dallas was bruised and the pack horses were scared witless.
We broke cover and stopped fifty yards later. I jumped off and waited for the bear to come out. No bear, oh well, it could have been worse. Tiger’s pads were torn and bleeding from running over the sharp flinty rocks, but the wounds were superficial, he was just footsore. Dallas was bruised and sore, but not bleeding. My calf had obviously been hung up on one of the panniers and either the ax or shovel had cut me.
The realization of how close we had been to a disaster settled when I saw a tall Indian walking towards me with a smooth easy stride and a rifle held in his right hand. His face was a deep brown like a twice baked biscuit, he half grinned said some words that I didn’t understand except for the odd English or French word. Pointing to his chest he said a word that sounded like biscuit, from that time on he was known as Biscuit, he spoke directly in your face and used a series of clucks when he talked, he sprayed saliva without being aware of it and to keep from insulting him, I ignored the desire to wipe my face. With a diplomatic flair using three languages, he said the Black Grizzly was a bad bear that liked to eat horses and the occasional human. He motioned for me to follow him, I had not learned the city custom of not trusting strangers, I followed him into the past, a world in flux.
We walked for a mile or so and came upon a pony with a thick mane and tail full of burrs. He seemed proud of this animal and mounted it with pride. I climbed on Dallas and we rode into his village at about ten pm, there was still a couple of hours of daylight left. He showed me a corral to put my horses with fairly decent feed, so I un-tacked the horses and left them to recuperate.
He walked me over to a portable building, inside there was a White Man with an English accent. It was a medical office, the guy had a nice smile and introduced himself as Gregory. He asked what happened, I wasn’t too proud of my adventure so I told him my leg was bleeding.
He looked at the back of the calf and said it was a long wound, but only needed a few stitches at one end and a good cleaning. I asked him if he had anything for a dog’s paws and he gave me some stuff for sled dogs on the ice. He fixed us a pot of tea and we talked.
He was an immigrant from England who was hoping to earn a stake in life and move on. He was an RN and came out to the wilderness to deliver babies and try to keep these “Northern Niggers” healthy while bringing them into the twentieth century. I felt as if I had a brick had dropped into my belly and felt so sad for Biscuit who was waiting patiently for my treatment.
I was shocked to hear that expression. I thought he would come here because he liked helping these people, but apparently he was only here to make the most money and pay off his college loans the fastest way possible. Although my mother was a native woman that men went out of their way to help and open doors for, Like she was the Queen of England, I was born with green eyes, fair skin, and an auburn color to my hair. Except for a few personality traits and high cheekbones, no one would guess that I had native blood in my veins.
I took an immediate dislike for this man who was in his mid twenties and refused payment for my treatment. I walked outside his office after thanking him and shaking his hand. Biscuit and I walked to his house and sat down to a plate piled high with boiled moose and greasy fry bread. I love the Native people, but their dietary habits and culinary skills are often found lacking. I was hungry, so I ate some of the grey looking and unappealing meat and fought to keep it on my stomach.
I was given a bedroom that was just that, a room a little larger than the bed. I laid there wondering what I was doing with these people and drifted off into a deep sleep. The next morning I wandered into the kitchen and scouted out the food available, if I could start a decent meal before they woke up, they wouldn’t stop me from cooking.
I found enough flour, eggs, butter, blueberries, and bacon to start a decent meal: I didn’t know how many people I was cooking for, so I just started cooking. People of all ages came down when they smelled the aromas coming from the wood cook stove. They began to eat and eat and eat, I made coffee and they drank like they had never had a drink in their life. I was having a good time and the women enjoyed watching my cooking skills, for a teenager, I was feeling pretty good.
After everyone had eaten their fill, Biscuit introduced me to everyone, I called him Biscuit and everyone thought I was hilarious. I was especially interested in meeting his three daughters: they were the real Indian Princess Types, the oldest was about fifteen and beautiful, the others were about 12 or 13 and cute as buttons. I tried to say the oldest girl’s name and came out with Vase, again I was considered a true comedienne, the twins seemed to be named Teal and Seal, this brought more laughter; but the names stuck, because everyone was using my new names for themselves, sometimes without laughing.
Gregory said he was going to town and asked if I had suggestions for their food and cooking requirements. I asked how much they had to spend and he shrugged his shoulders and said whatever. I thought this was a strange answer, but I was bound and determined not to eat boiled moose again, if I could avoid it. I ordered spices, flour, olive oil, vegetables, a large soup pot, a dutch oven, a large skillet with a glass lid, a roasting oven and various ingredients for breads and pies. He said he would be back in two days.
I was shocked, two days, I had hoped to be healed up and back on the trail in two days. Oh well, they liked me and I ordered all the stuff, I better teach them how to cook and use the equipment.
Gregory told me that Biscuit had ordered a pre-made log house and it was waiting for someone to take the initiative and start the construction. I told him to tell Biscuit that I wanted to see the house.
Biscuit walked me behind his house and there were the materials to build a beautiful log house. He showed me the plans, it was obvious that Gregory wasn’t about to assist, so I studied the plans and told Gregory to bring back rudimentary carpenter tools, sacks of ready mix concrete, along with nails and screws and plywood for a foundation.
Gregory then told me that Biscuit wanted me to teach his people to speak like me. I looked at him like he had been bucked off on his head, he said, “They like your voice because you are soft spoken,” he smiled, said good bye and left for town.
I selected a fairly decent location and began stepping off the measurements for the foundation. With the help of Pythagorous, and his 3, 4, and 5 triangle rule, I stuck sticks in the ground that defined a rectangle with right angles for corners, while 20 or so people watched in amazement. I worked until I couldn’t do anything else without equipment and noticed that the people were still watching me.
I held up my hand as if to say stay to a dog and pulled out Moby Dick from one of my pack boxes. I started to read about hunting and harpooning whales when one of the young twins came up with a piece of paper and a pencil. I wasn’t going to get away with anything with these people. I drew a whale and a man in a boat throwing a harpoon into the whale. As soon as I was done drawing the whole group converged on the drawing and began to speak in very excited and animated ways concerning my humble drawing. Eventually, they listened to the story again, but I had to point to certain features of the drawing like the whale and the harpoon while making dramatic gestures, the women would scream and put their hands over their mouths and everyone would break out in insane laughter. Everyone was having a party except me. After repeating the process with several more drawings, I was worn out while they were clamoring for more. For the life of me, I had read Moby Dick several times and could only think of three or four places that seemed even remotely funny, like when Quegqueg put his boots on under the bed, now that was funny to me, but my audience found little or no humor in that passage.
They especially enjoyed the passage about an English fisherman who put his wife in a small dory and deserted her on the ocean in a small dory: another sailor saw the distressed woman, rescued her, and took her home to become his common law wife. Apparently she prospered with the second man and her original man sued to get her back. The court ruled, in the same traditions of our courts, by citing the laws concerning harpooned whales; whales that escape the first whaler are considered free whales and once a whale is free upon the high seas it belongs to no one and since the second fisherman had already harpooned the wife and captured her, she now belonged to the second fisherman. Now this brought the house down, they were literally rolling in the aisles.
In Canada and the US, there are White people who attach themselves to minority groups and encourage them to be perpetual wards of the state. With an Elitist attitude that encourages them to be victims and forever under the protection of these self-serving whites who are actually parasites of other peoples misery.
Native people are as intelligent as any race that has walked the face of the earth; they readily adapt to modern life if given the tools and opportunity. Skookum Jim from the Yukon Gold fields is a perfect example: he was a stone age man who was thrust into a position of power and wealth from a purely accidental find of one of the richest gold mines in history. An unusual and extreme case, but it illustrates the ability of native people to adapt in an extreme and unusual situation.
Liberals with the perpetual ‘Nanny State’ mentality have debauched whole native cultures, their policy is not working! It doesn’t take long on the streets of Calgary, Vancouver, or Seattle; to see a drunk native doing the three steps forward two back shuffle. Yet this man’s grandparents were proud, strong people at least until the compassionate Liberals destroyed their pride with policies that made Liberals rich and debouched Native culture. Defining people who need to live under the blanket of Perpetual Nanny Statism that is characteristic of Liberal philosophy not only applies to Native people, but to the Hispanic and Black as well. Liberals cast these minorities as “Less Than” people who are unable to compete with the Liberal’s self serving vision of the ‘Omnipotent White’: thus in the Liberal perversion of freedom, the minority is forever given the unofficial categorization of the ‘White Man’s Burden’ for perpetuity, at least according to the world vision of the Progressive. Of course the Liberal benefits at the polls by making whole cultures wards of the state and by making whole disciplines in Universities dedicated to caring for people who, with a little organization, could have stopped the westward expansion of the United States and Canada; the concept is preposterous, yet it is happening continuously, the subjugation of whole races and cultures, to consolidate power and control for Progressive Socialism.
A professional horseman for over 50 years, Skook continues to work with horses. Skook has finished an historical novel, Fifty Thousand Years, that traces a mitochondrial line of DNA from 50,000 years ago to the present. The story follows a line of courageous women, from the Ice Ages to the present, as they meet the challenges of survival with grit and creativity. These are not women who whimper of being victims, they meet the challenges of survival as women who use their abilities without excuses or remorse, these women are winners, they are our ancestors.
Fifty Thousand Years is available in paperback and e-book, it is getting great reviews. You can purchase a copy here; Visit me on Facebook.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Dylantheauthor
great SKOOKUM a visual escapade for my imagination i agree of the mentality of some to feel superior and throw their weight on others who are more intelligent than they are but have the graciousness to forgive the tyrans byeand thank you.
Bees, thanks for the commentary; Part 2, will be one to make people cry and laugh. I have several horses waiting on me: so I wont be back to the keyboard until later, but I will watch the comments with my Blackberry. Keep up the fight my good friend, your prose is improving. Your friend, Skook.
SKOOKUM you are a good teacher i look farward for number 2 bye.
Great read Skookum.. Of course I appreciate your closing characterization of the perils of liberalism on any peoples, but especially native peoples… a “soft” racism .. ( or even spoken ). I really enjoyed the journey and description of the trip. Well done and I’m envious. Looking forward to pt II.
Skookum, you are a highly skilled story teller. I loved reading this adventure and look forward to the next installment. Personalizing the characters in the story, and then weaving in the lesson of liberalism & the nanny state is brilliant. Well done!
Skookum.
I love your stories Are these commentaries in a book? If not, you should publish. I’m still relishing the story from yesterday about Frenchy and his mail order bride/
Also looking forward to Part II and more, and more.
Wonderful seeing what life was on the northern frontier.
Hi Skookum. I’ve been lurking on this site a long time, and always enjoy when you post. I thought I’d take a minute to chime in with the other folks who said you should publish these stories and let me know where I can buy a copy. You’ve a great flair for making the people in your stories seem familiar and real, and I’m always left wishing you’d written more. I’m very much a child of the suburbs, and never found much joy in camping, but you make me feel a wanderlust that I know I’ll never get to embrace.
Good luck and good hunting to you. And thanks again for sharing.
Awesome. . .makes for greater appreciation of God, Family, Humanity, Nature, Conservative Values, Love of Country. . .looking forward to Part 2 !!!!!!
I set here at work and I think about the high rise building about a mile away and wonder about what Skookum says about cultural subversion. I drive slowly down Interstate Highway 44 on my way home each day, construction signs are every where and the traffic moving slowly to avoid damage caused deep holes or hidden obstacles. The highway passses right beside the high rise building and I see the signs informing the public where the money to upgrade the highway is coming from. There next to the high rise building is a huge sign flashing pictures of jackpots to be won and winners that have. Obviously, I am looking at a casino . . . the largest complex in the state of Oklahoma . . . I read the sign and think . . . Hard Rock Cafe, London, Hard Rock, Las Vegas . . . Hard Rock, Chicago . . . but then the irony . . . Hard Rock, Catoosa, Oklahoma and all that brings on a wavering of the mind . . . humorous . . . not humorous? Right . . . wrong? Destructive . . . constructive? Needed . . . not? On and on goes this mind warp.
The Hard Rock, Catoosa, Oklahoma is somewhat a misnomer . . . since the owner . . . The Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma chooses to identify the facility as being in “Tulsa, Oklahoma” . . . but everyone local knows that it really is in Catoosa.
The signs indicating where funding for the new highway all say “Funding from the Cherokee Nation” . . . since that is actually where the money comes from. Why? Because the improvements on the highway are required to reduce the traffic congestion caused by the huge number of people that frequent the gaming facility. Oh, and there is another irony . . . Native American Tribes are not allowed to own “gambling facilities” but they can own “gaming facilities” . . . and more vacillating.
What is the greatest injustice done by the invasion of the native peoples culture by the meme of the foreigner. Gambling . . . maybe. Cultural subversion . . . maybe. Alcohol . . . Disease . . . What, when where how is it truly any of these? Maybe it really is the very concept of mind control . . . to cause the vacillation of perspectives . . . on one hand to show that there is a better way . . . then destroy a mans ability to achieve and maintain it.
Does the casino give the native a better chance at living in the world of today or are we just building concrete idols to a lost culture?
TALLGRASS the cherokie nation and other nation indian are very involve also in my place with gaming business and are sucsesful at it too,they will have transportation for their guest and people like them i am also mentioning the bingo games with big prize ,i never went but i heard a lot and i have to admit i would have gone to play my own luck if i had the chance to go,bye
Thank you, all of you. Yes, I am writing a book, each article about life in the North is a chapter. Your comments guide me in the story selections. There are many stories to write; however, writing a political analogy makes the selections more difficult. It is an excellent method to sharpen the writing skills.
With a little luck, I will develop a Skookum series, I love writing about my old friends, the animals, the rivers, horses, feats of endurance and survival in the far North. I have written professionally as a magazine writer, (25 years ago); but most of that was technical and how-to stuff with a little humor now and then, despite the shock and horror of my editors.
I have always wanted to write the adventure material, but I lacked the motivation and confidence to commit: now, thanks to Curt and my friends at FA, I am almost ready to invest in a self-publishing program and to hire a tutor to help me with the technical parts that I am sure await me like thin ice.
No matter what my writing future holds, I will continue submitting articles, at least until Curt says, “enough”.
@Skook. . .Like many others have also said, I’m looking forward to your future published series, The storylines you have shared have such strength — any thought to a writing a screenplay?
Tallgrass, the Indian gaming casinos are an interesting paradox. After subjugation by the “Omnipotent White” (sarcasm added), the minority cultures are left lacking in a state of dependency; except the casinos, with help from organized crime and corrupt politicians, now turn the tables on the “Omnipotent White” and slowly eat away at his fiscal well being like a parasitic cancer. Discounting people like our Don, most people are utter fools when it comes to gambling, like they are fools and weaklings when it comes to illicit drugs. Gambling is like a drug for most of us, sure there are some intelligent people who can make the cards pay for them; but those big casinos need someone to pay the light bill. and that someone is the “Omnipotent White”, how ironic.
Once you have made whole cultures wards of the state and a political party benefits from bestowing “Dependency Status” on the culture or race, it results in a symbiotic corruption that is nearly impossible to stop.
Believe it or not, I think the only answer is for people like you and I to write our feelings and try to illuminate a passage out of the vortex of Democrat Corruption, at least for those who have the desire to break the shackles of Socialism and Cultural Enslavement.
I think the Second Part of this story might illustrate this malfunction a little better.
Nuanda, don’t give up on camping. I suggest going out with an outfitter who does summer trips for non-hunters. There are many in the US and Canada. They love to guide people in the summer. They treat you like royalty.
Actually, I am recalling a story of taking an elderly lady out on a specific trip through the mountains, retracing the trip that she and her departed cowboy husband took her on 50 years earlier, sort of a cowboy and debutante love story. It is such a touching story it brings tears to the eyes of this old trapper just thinking about it.
There are some outfitters who guide people through the most beautiful places in the world, if you don’t do horseback, there are outfitters who do snowmobile trips in the winter. I love the outdoor life and encourage everyone to participate. To realize the awesome power of nature is to stand closer to G-d.
Check it out on the net. Let me know if you have questions!
American Voter, so funny that you should ask, several years ago, a customer asked me to write a musical for Universal. I went to the Used Bookstore and bought several books on ballet and wrote a musical based on a young male dancer and his two girl friends with opposite and diverse personalities.
They said they found it very interesting, at universal, and that it was being considered; they told me that it was being considered every six months for two years, that was almost five years ago.
I think the odds are in favor of the guy who publishes his own material; but I guarantee you, I can write a screenplay. I wrote the musical in one night, at a Motel 6, and worked the next day.
Thanks for the kind words AV. I think the successful screenplay almost always follows the successful book and rarely does the opposite apply.