The Deadliest Warrior: Not a Warrior at All?

Spike TV rarely quickens my heart, but there is one particular show that I do enjoy watching: The Deadliest Warrior. I suppose that it is a guy thing, but seeing a variety of ancient and modern weapons brandished is always exciting. I do like the fact that they TRY to be scientific with their measurements. The fact is that quite often they are not. However, the results are still quite impressive. A blade or bullet can do some interesting things to bone and ballistics gelatin. In the past I've rooted for the Samurai and William Wallace as my favorites, but I have one to top them all now!

I offer for you consideration the deadliest warrior of them all (who is not really a warrior):



Well, okay. Not Roosevelt HIMSELF, but African hunters in general (especially those dashing British army officers). First of all, hunters excel in bushcraft and deception. I would say even more so than most basic military forces. We are sneaky people by nature! Secondly, hunters bear very, very powerful firearms. Oftentimes these firearms are chambered in cartridges that are vastly more powerful than their military counterparts. Finally, the first white hunters in Africa were current or former British army, so they had both military and hunting experience. That is a combination that is dang tough to beat.

A man is only as good as his weapons though, and luckily for the African hunter of say, the 1920's the options were good!

Firstly, I present to you the Webley Mark VI Service Revolver:


Yes, it is old. It is also UTTERLY RELIABLE and fires a quite powerful round, the .455 Webley. How powerful, you may ask? How about a 265 gr. bullet at over 750 feet per second? The famed .45 ACP, of 1911 heritage, fires a 230 gr. bullet at 830 feet per second. That is not bad at all. The Webley also has a lot of other stuff going for it. As mentioned before, it is very reliable and performed excellently in the mud and trenches of two world wars. It also is a break-open revolver, which means the it loads quickly. In addition, there was a considerable amount of accessories for the pistol, including a bayonet, quickloader, and a carbine stock.

Next, I offer you the mainstay, the Lee-Enfield Rifle:


What can one say about the Enfield? Again, it was a British Army mainstay and different versions of it have been in service from 1895 to present. It is capable of considerable accuracy and was used effectively as a sniper rifle. It also has a large capacity for a bolt-action (10 rounds) and by using the "volley-fire" technique one can easy shoot a round per second. What is more, it is chambered in the .303 British cartridge, which fires a 150 gr. projectile at around 2770 feet per second. This approaches the velocity of modern the .308 Winchester (7.62 NATO) round. It was used to kill every imagineable enemy of the British Empire and even elephants by some (See Walter "Karamoja" Bell). What is more, it was even used by the Irish to kill the English. Suffice it to say that if you design a weapon and your enemies decide it is good enough to be used against you then you are onto a keeper.

For extremely close range the African hunter would have a panga or machete.



There isn't much that needs to be said. Whether you are felling trees, enemies, or beheading buffalo, the machete will get the job done.

That brings us to the final offensive weapon of the African hunter. What a dandy it is! I will preface this by saying that there isn't a single specific weapon, but rather a class of weapons that fit the bill. These are the classic British double-rifles chambered in cartridges intended to stop big game. These cartridges range from the .450-400 Nitro Express 3" to the behemoth .700 Nitro Express.



For our purposes I'll take the middle ground and standardize the .470 Nitro Express as the cartridge of choice. The .470 pushes a 500 gr. bullet at 2150 feet per second. That is enough to stop an elephant, hippo, or cape buffalo in its tracks. It is also enough to blow completely through an engine block. This makes it an effective choice for taking out light vehicles. What is more, you don't have to pack around some awkward RPG and can shoot from concealment much more easily. If the .470 isn't enough for you, you could easily go with the .700 Nitro Express, which actually has more energy at the muzzle than the .50 BMG. Either way, you've got a rifle that has loads of power and can be fired very quickly in succession.

Finally, the African hunter would wear a stylish pith helmet:



These helmets were first made out of pith and then later cork. Not only are they stylish, but there can be soaked in water to cool the wearer and can be camouflaged as necessary. It goes without saying that they are super-classy!

Well, there you have it! That is my nomination for the Deadliest Warrior! What can stand against that?

My Addiction

I admit, I am addicted. There is nothing like the sound of a fast-paced Celtic tune to get the blood pumping! I have always loved listening to Bluegrass, but when you hear the original version of the tunes of the motherland it really stirs something in you. I am talking about listening to a song that makes you want to run, dance and fight at the same time. There are very few songs that are able to strike that chord. The two that I know best come from the Irish and Scottish traditions. One is about rambling and life in general, while the other is of the Jacobite repertoire.

If you need a bit of energy in your day may I present to you the best kick possible:

Rocky Road to Dublin, The Dubliners


Donald McGillavry, Silly Wizard

Neither Fish nor Fowl: Well, Maybe Fowl

As part of my Advanced Composition class today we were supposed to write a Villanelle poem. An excellent example of a Villanelle is Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night": http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377 That poem was always one of my favorites! While my work certainly isn't of that caliber I enjoyed writing it. It may not even be a Villanelle, but it's about duck hunting, so it has to be good! :)

The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
A weather-worn barrel with bird-shot sings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

A drake swings wide and circles the pool.
My hands are cracked; the wind bitterly stings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I squawk into the call and sound like a fool.
Snow falls downward like heavenly rings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I am coated in ice, pond scum and drool.
My fortune is great as fate rarely brings
the steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I sit here alone on this rickety stool.
I drop my shotgun and add to the dings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I sip at my coffee and gag 'cause its cool.
A shotgun shell bounces and pings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

Footsteps in the Darkness

Footsteps in the darkness,
how fondly I do recall them.
Guided by starlight, inspired by connection;
a conversation sung to the tune of the melody of the night.
Words. Emotions. Revelation.
The stony path unfolds before me,
but only in small strides.
Summer breeze provides refuge,
summer words relate experiences.
Darkness envelopes me;
I am not afraid.
What it hides I do not consider,
what it reveals I cannot deny.
A word here is worth a saga in the day.
Emotion is liberated,
anxiety is repressed.
Lapping waves absolve all troubles.
The potion of moonlight intoxicates my spirit.
Have I said too much?
A drunkard is always a drunkard,
whether be from moonlight or wine.
Words drift like cottonwood seeds in the dusk.
See them flutter, see them alight.
I cast them gaily,
but they always are given at a cost.
Pride.
Night is the slayer of pride.
May the darkness be eternal;
I have too much to say.

On Rifles & Women

One may ask how it has come about that men’s rifles, both sporting and combat, have been given feminine names. To me, to give them anything but a woman’s name would be absurd. Why is this? Because rifles embody women in every aspect. They come in all shapes and sizes, in differing worth, and in varying degrees of utility. But all of this doesn’t really mean anything. The real reason is that a man can fall in love with a rifle, just as he would a woman. This process (for either rifle or woman) very rarely makes any sense at all. I would contend that there exists not only a perfect female companion for each man, but a perfect arm for him as well. Obviously, tastes vary. Some men don’t mind the rough-edges of a woman who barks loudly, drinks too much, but is always there when the nightfall comes. These men buy Mosin-Nagants, or Kalashnikovs. Then again, there are men that don’t mind if a woman does anything but look stunning; even if she takes all that he has, won’t do anything he would like and stays at home more often than not—just as long as she is the hottest thing in the neighborhood. These are the men that purchase Blasers.

Women and rifles both evoke the most fundamental desires of men. To be free, to share experiences, to behold beauty, to connect. Who has more tales? The wife that lived through the Dust Bowl years and wears the sands of time like haggard jewelry or the Winchester 1894 that rode lovingly in the scabbard of some gaunt Texas Ranger? To be frank, it really doesn’t even matter about appearance, function or value. It is in the minutiae that we find rapture: a crooked smile, a shy glance, a wood-grain, the deep blue of polished steel (or her eyes). When a man ignites a rifle, the rifle ignites the man. The same goes for women. Even a painful retaliation (recoil or revenge) is received with open arms. Rifles, like women, are not always joyful though. Some are cold, distant, and impossible to relate to. These rifles (women) serve their own purpose, not to act at the behest of men. Far too often we love them anyways.

It is also true that most men do not know what they want or need in a companion. Perhaps it would be easier to decide on a rifle? Maybe that is the way to find your soul-mate in the first place. Decide on a rifle; then apply it to life! I sound pretty absurd, I admit. But, in this gun-nut/everything-is-interconnected mind of mine it actually makes sense. I personally have been trying to decide on a rifle for quite some time unsuccessfully. What does that say about me? I am getting better though. Let’s break my choice down to the fundamentals. Form over function, but not taken too far; I would like a rifle with good aesthetic appeal that still gets the job done, but it doesn’t have to be a tack-driver. Classic lines; I want something that bespeaks the days of yore, with taste, panache and a good degree of refinement. I can live without the modern contrivances that make everyone else’s head turn. Walnut and blued steel; again tradition reigns supreme (there is a reason why it is classic). Who needs stainless steel and synthetics when you can take care of a classic and it will look twice as good? High caliber; I want a rifle in a caliber that is powerful enough to do anything, whether it be taking down a Cape buffalo or grizzly, but not so powerful that it trounces me every time I set it off.

Much to the chagrin of my fellow gun-nut buddies I have pretty much decided on the Ruger No.1 Medium Sporter in 9.3 x 74R. This drives my buddy Andy crazy. Why? Because wearing a pink tutu to a job interview would be more practical. The rifle is a single-shot, which means you have to be absolutely certain of your first shot. It is also composed of walnut and blued steel; beautiful, but not necessarily resistant to adverse climes. But is so perfect! It is unbelievably handy and is light enough to go with you all day without it weighing you down. 9.3 x74R is an ancient caliber created by the Germans around 1910 to give their settlers something sufficient to deal with the fauna of the newly colonized African scene. The final world here is nostalgia. I am sucker for the whisperings of colonial Africa; of pith helmets, campfires, thorn-bush fences, and khaki. The Farquharson styling of the Ruger No. 1 and the Alexander Henry fore-end are simply too much for me to take!

I am reminded of the young British soldier sludging through the trenches of WWII, the American boy sweltering in heat of Vietnam, and the mujahideen hiding from a Hind behind a boulder. They all had girls, and they all had rifles. The Lee-Enfield named Mary. The AR-15 named Susan. The AK-47 named Badria. What shall I name my rifle and what adventures will we undertake? If I decide on your name I will let you shoot her!

Life in Creek County Oklahoma

Wishing I Were on the Hillside

The prairie grass dances and tickles my side. I sit on the hilltop and look out over the ranch. The increasingly crisp autumn breeze caresses my face as if to say that I am truly home. I pluck a stalk of Indian-grass and place it in my teeth—the flavor of grain and loam completes my sensory euphoria. I am relaxed in my natural haven, yet contemplative. Should there really be more to life than this? I turn and look towards my home. Smoke from the first fire of the year rises lazily from the chimney. Post-oak. I guess Mom is cold already. I’m not. I am perfect. In this moment my very spirit is satisfied. I see the garden, turned, and brimming with stubble. The fresh corn is gone now, but I can still taste it. An ear of corn, and a diminutive quail roasted over coals. Has anyone ever dined so fairly? My eyes shift; my contemplation broken by movement on the horizon. A nervous coyote steals down the hill and towards the timberline. Are he and I so different? He is better at the game of life than I am. No doubt. Coyotes don’t have to make excuses or meet deadlines; coyotes don’t worry about taxes or getting into grad school. Coyotes just exist. They eat, sleep, love, and live. He melds into the brush before we can connect too strongly and I miss him instantly. I have lost a brother. I want to call for him, but I don’t have the words. Do we ever? I howl anyways. I howl about who I am, how I feel, and what I lack. Whitman and I both sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world. Two doves afflicted by my wail cross hastily over the surface of our pond and alight on the dam. As they flee the sound of their wings makes my heart beat faster; I swing an imaginary shotgun to intersect them and then smile. From the brush I am taught in the linguistics of the wild; a howl emanates from behind a pecan tree. My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I am humbled by his consideration. I dust off my hat and amble towards the oil lamp in the distant window. Life goes on.