Rancho Blasto

Every spring a group of friends gather in the Great Basin of Nevada, drawn to the pivots of alfalfa planted throughout, like the swallows to Capistrano.  We will tell people that we come to shoot the ground squirrels, but

really it is for more than that.  We come to share an adventure.

I returned home weary from the long drive and lack of sleep.  I’m beat.  I have chapped lips, and sunburned ears.  My mouth tastes of bad coffee and cigars. Worst of all, my guts are tore up from a nasty burger I had eaten the day before.

On arriving home, I am too tired to go into the details of the week with my family.  I leave a pile of dirty guns, laundry, and gear in the living room, shower and get into bed.  I doze off quickly, my ears ringing with the hum of the road.  If the lights were on, my wife just might see a slight smile on my face.  It was a good time, a real good time.

In the morning, rising slowly, I head for the coffee downstairs in the kitchen.  I pour myself a large cup, and sit down in my chair.  I put my nose to the cup and take a quick whiff.  The coffee smells good.   I throw some Advill into my mouth and sip the coffee to wash them down.

The warm bitter liquid tastes good.   You can’t get coffee like this on the road.  I feel the warmth as it goes down my throat where it will work to dissolve the 800 milligrams of Ibuprophen.  I’m home.

After half a cup, I can feel the caffeine starting to do its magic.  I look up at my sweetheart.  Susan is moving around the kitchen doing who knows what.  I know she wants to hear about the trip, but won’t ask.  She always waits patiently for me to wake up and start the story telling.  800 miles, she knows how the road takes its toll.

My dog, Ceniza, comes up to me now, her tail wagging.  The old girl missed me too.  I start petting her head, but I know what she wants.  She turns around, and I start scratching her ass with one hand trying not to spill my coffee.  I tell her she is a good dog.

Finally, I begin to open up, “I had a good trip babe.”  Funny how all the stories start the same.  Susan listens to me like this was the first time.  She has heard so many stories of my adventures you would think she would get tired of it.  Sometimes I think she is more into seeing my reaction as I retell the adventure than in the specifics.

I had called home all week long.  Mostly, I call to let Susan know that I am still alive, and not in jail.  I do give her updates on the trip, such as the weather, and highlights of the day.  I also call to hear her voice.

As I sip my coffee, I start filling in the details for her.  Things that went wrong, things that were funny, and of course what a great marksman I am.  She takes it all in with a big smile on her face, buying every line of crap I lay out for her.  As I said earlier, I think she just likes to hear me tell the story.  She can see how much fun I had by the look in my bloodshot eyes.

My story telling will go on most of the day as I clear the pile of gear I left in the middle of the floor.  As I get to them, I distribute the souvenirs from my trip, and retell parts of the story for my kids.  Of course my family will tell me what they have been up to while I was away.  Some of those stories are pretty good as well.  Susan and I will laugh and play all day, catching up with each other.  I am a lucky man.  As much as I may love my adventures, it’s sure good to be home.

Mark and I left early on Thursday morning.  His rig filled with guns, ammo, and an ample supply of cigars.  The weather forecast wasn’t good for the drive to Twin Falls, cold and wet, with a chance of snow.  Mark and I

would be traveling north on the Great Basin Highway through eastern Nevada.  I have been over this road many times.  A great drive through beautiful country.  Mark and I have learned to take it easy on this road.  We stay within the speed limit, the Nevada highway patrol are as thick as flies.

We saw plenty of people who ignored the posted limits, many were pulled over to the side of the road, trying to talk their way out of it.  Mostly the speed limit on highway 93 is 70 mph.  There is one particular spot between Ely and McGill were it does not.  It is only 60 mph, but you wouldn’t notice unless you pay real good attention to the signs.  I got caught here a few years ago.

As you enter and leave the towns along highway 93 there is a progression of speed limit signs slowing you down or speeding up.  The signs read something like 60, 45, 35, and then 25 mph going through town.   This slow down is over about a half mile stretch, and go back up the same way to 70 mph when you leave town.

As I noted, I once failed to notice that this stretch between Ely and McGill never gets to 70.  I got pulled over by a county sheriff deputy who, while polite and friendly, didn’t buy anything I had to say.  My lesson was learned, they will never get me again.

While the weather was nasty, the road was open and safe.  The snow at times fell pretty hard, but the state of Nevada had a fleet of plows already stationed all along the highway to deal with any build up of snow, should it occur.  It is nice to see a state doing something right for a change.

Driving along the highway this time we saw more game than in previous trips.  Pronghorn were common and in sizable herds.  Many of the bucks were good size.  North of Wells, the Mule deer were in herds of 20 to 50 stacked in behind a high fence running along the highway.

This was a Mule deer migration route that funneled into a narrow area that makes highway 93 real spooky at night.  Many deer are hit on this stretch of highway trying to get across.  Unfortunately, many those people had to be taken away in ambulances.

The good news is that the state of Nevada is constructing over passes for the deer in this area so they don’t have to cross the highway.  The high fence is there to hold the deer back until the work is done.  When completed, I guess the idea is for the fence to funnel the migrating deer to the overpasses.

Mark and I arrived in Twin falls in good time.  It was raining now, but thankfully the weather hadn’t slowed us down too much.  We drove straight through.  We only stopped for a couple hours in Las Vegas to have breakfast with my son Robert.  Plenty of time we thought.

We made it to the Crazy 8 Motel on Blue Lakes Boulevard at 5:00.  After asking for a ground floor room, we lugged our crap to the third floor.  We met two of our fellow adventurers, Ron and Bill, in the hallway.  They informed us we only had half hour to spare before we were supposed to meet everyone else in our party for dinner.  Damn, we forgot about the time change when we entered Idaho.

Ron and Bill headed for Rod’s house, so we just threw our bags on our beds and followed after them.  We got to Rod’s house and said hello to his wife Laurie.  Always nice to see her, she would be joining us for dinner.

At dinner, Rod informed us there would be 6 of us shooting rock chucks tomorrow.  Rod, our host for this adventure, and Gene, both lived in Twin falls, Ron had come from Kansas City, and Bill had come from Montana.

I really love all these guys.  It was good to see them all again, especially when we had a weekend of shooting ahead of us.  After a good dinner, Mark and I hurried back to our motel and climbed the three flights of stairs to get some sleep.  My dreams that night were of exploding fur balls and smoking brass.

In the morning, the first thing I did was look out the window.  The rain was gone! The weather was completely different today. Blue sky, but it looked like the wind was howling, and I could feel through the glass that it was cold outside.

We all met again at Rod’s house where we picked up Gene, and headed to the Depot diner for breakfast.  I had poached eggs and one of the best sausage patties I have ever had.  After our fill, we made a quick stop at a local gun store for some last minute items.

Red’s Trading Post was a nice store with really good deals.  Mark and I almost bought a couple new guns.  Ahh, but my will power was strong.  I quickly exited the store, my money still in my wallet.  I was proud of myself.

Our group, bellies full, headed off toward a little town called Hagerman to shoot the rock chucks.  A little secret spot Rod had scouted out earlier in the month.  Rock chucks are large rodents.  Some seems as big as toy poodles.  They dig holes in between the rocks and climb up onto them to sun like lizards.

While the high winds would make shooting a little difficult, we were all excited about the good time ahead.  Mark and I had Gene with us.  I have hunted with Gene many times before and was glad we would be together today.  He is lots of fun, and tells some good stories.  Rod, Ron, and Bill were in the other rig.

The spot Rod had picked out for today was a cattle ranch near the Snake River.  Once we got to the spot, the plan was to move parallel with each other on opposite sides of a pasture that was scattered with large rocks, and rock chucks.  With the wind, we would be shooting our center fire rifles today.  Mark using his new Encore rifle in .223, Gene, also with an Encore rifle in 22-250 Improved, and me with my 700 Remington in .221.

Within minutes of getting on the spot, Mark and I managed to “paint a Picasso” on a large rock with four stupid chucks not 20 yards away.  However, most shots would be longer than that, the wind would give my little Fireball hell.  Shooting

was in excess of 150 yards. I sure wish I had a 6mm with me.  I have been getting the “itch” for one lately.  I don’t know how long I can hold out.

We shot the pasture all day.  We stopped only long enough to grab lunch in Hagerman.  Shooting was pretty good.  We laughed and joked all day.  We all made shots we were proud of, and a couple that would be a little embarrassing.

We had to get to Elko Nevada for dinner that night, so we stopped around 3:00 and packed up.  We left Hagerman and headed back to Rod’s house were we picked up his son Steve, said goodbye to Laurie and Gene.  We got back on the road heading south on good old highway 93.  Turned west on highway 80 at Wells, and got into Elko about 6:30 PM.

There at the motel, we met two more or our friends, Denny from Salt Lake, and Kent from Oroville California.  This was their first time joining us for this shoot and I am certain not their last.  After getting settled in our rooms, it was time again to eat.

For dinner we were headed to the Biltoki, a Basque restaurant that has become the official feedbag of our group.  If you have never been to a Basque restaurant, you should go.  Just make sure you take an appetite with you, since no one leaves a Basque restaurant hungry, especially the Biltoki.

We arrived at the restaurant and were met by the final members of our group, George and his sweetie, Gretchen.  They both live in Elko and are two of the nicest people you could ever meet.  George would be shooting with us this weekend.

After a great dinner of too much food, we headed back to the motel to get some sleep.  I don’t know about Mark, but I was feeling the effects of all the road time.  Going to bed sounded like a good idea.  I was asleep in an instant and mostly slept soundly through the night.  The only interruptions were from some intestinal distress my buddy Mark was having.

Morning came a little slow.  No need to get on the spot too early.  It was still cold and windy.  Today we were shooting ground squirrels.  The plan was to go to a big alfalfa pivot south of Wells.  Our group has shot this same spot two years now, it was always good.

We headed for a breakfast spot at a casino in town.  I needed some coffee for sure.  I always enjoy the meals with these guys.  Not only do we become center of attention at whatever place we are in, but the conversation is always good.  Guns, ammo, and what we do with them.  This morning, the conversation was about what we plan to start with.  What firearm and caliber each of us planned on starting with.  Like with golf, you don’t show up to play with only one club in your bag.

I enjoy casually watching the faces on those at other tables as we excitedly go over the details of club selection for the morning shoot.  Some bystanders to our excitement may not be too happy, but more than a few have a look on their face that could only be saying, “I wish I was with you guys.”

After a filling breakfast, we gathered in the parking lot, picking our teeth, and belching.  Rod was still inside getting his thermos filled with coffee.  He has the largest thermos I have ever seen.  The waiter probably used four full pots to fill it.  Finally Rod came out and shouted, “Let’s go!”  We are off to the pivot chasing Rod at 85 miles an hour.

We arrive at the pivot and could already see ground squirrels moving around. These critters are much smaller than the rock chucks.  Having at these little rodents is kind of like shooting hairy hot dogs.

Ground squirrels live in holes like gophers, but are vial little

things that are often cannibalistic.  Many times I have shot them while they are feeding on the carcass of another shot minutes before.

We noticed immediately that the alfalfa is not very tall.  Spring is late this year.  The squirrels will be wary of moving around.  We then broke into smaller groups for shooting.  Each group picked out a portion of the pivot, and we moved our rigs into position.  Within minutes there was gunfire.

Mark and I use shooting bags on his Tonneau cover, shooting off to the side.  Rod has custom fitted sand bags mounted on his mirrors, shooting out to the front.  The rest, either shooting off the hood of their truck, or like Denny,standing on the tail gate, shot off the top of his camper shell.

Mark and I both started with our .17 HMR rifles.  Mark used his Weatherby, and I used my Marlin.  Without the cover of the alfalfa, shooting would be long range.  We aligned ourselves to shoot with the wind so we were able to stay with the little guns most of the morning.   In the afternoon though, we were using the center fire rifles again.

The damned wind just wouldn’t lie down.  It blasted us all day with cold air coming off the nearby Ruby Mountains.  This late spring also kept us from shooting the little squirrels.  If there were any, they stayed underground.

Young and stupid squirrels are always the best part of this shoot.  Like hamster size Meer cats, the new hatchlings stand up in groups looking around at the world with wonder.  They freak out and run in circles after the one standing next to them explodes, covering them with remnants of their buddy.

The older squirrels don’t usually display this carefree behavior.  They rarely stand up at close range, but keep low and run fast between holes.  Squirrels don’t last long making themselves a target.

We ended up the day having a better shoot in the afternoon.  The warm sun that peeked out helped make the squirrels move around.  About 4:00 we packed things up and headed back to Elko.  We were having a special dinner tonight.  Gretchen had arranged a treat for us at the Biltoki.

Back at the motel, we cleaned up and had a cocktail.  Retelling the events of the day and making plans for the next.  Denny had brought with him some homemade “hooch” as he called it.  Made with mashed up apricots and a gym sock, it looked worse than it tasted.  Denny promised to send me the recipe, along with his assurances that it would not make anyone blind.

My favorite meal at Biltoki is the beef tongue with gravy.  I have it most of the time.  Our special treat for dinner tonight was bull and sheep balls cooked with mushrooms and garlic.    Not for everyone, but it was pretty

good.  I think it would make a great burrito with some chilies and rice.  Tonight, we just shoveled it in with a spoon.

After stuffing ourselves again, we retired back to the motel and drank some more of Denny’s hooch until we started to get sleepy.  Tomorrow was the last day.  We all hoped it would be a good one.

On Sunday, after the usual breakfast we again headed for the pivot at warp speed.  When we got to Wells, Mark and I stopped at Bella’s, for some coffee and souvenirs.  What says I love you more to your grown up boys than a hat or T-shirt from a Nevada cat house?  Anyway, the coffee at Bella’s is the best I have had in this part of Nevada.

Morning was a repeat of Saturday.  Shooting was good, but the damned cold wind was still with us.  For lunch we gathered together in the center of the pivot.  Shooting had slowed down, so now we were shooting the shit more than the squirrels.  We also started breaking out the handguns for a little target practice.

After blasting away for an hour or so, it was time to start packing up.  The worst part of these trips is saying goodbye.  But we all have to get home to our families.  Mark and I didn’t have to be home until Monday so we were going to shoot a little more after everyone had gone.  That turned out to be a good decision.

Mark and I had moved back to a corner of the pivot that had been pretty good the day before.  We each lit up a good Nicaraguan cigar and started glassing.  Not expecting much, we were surprised when the wind went

away and the sun came out.  So did the squirrels.  Big ones, and most fun of all, the little stupid hatchlings were now everywhere!  Hundreds of them!  Mark and I took off our sweaters for the first time this trip and had at them.

Mark and I had a non-stop shoot that lasted almost four hours.  At times we couldn’t shoot fast enough.  We stopped only long enough to get another box of ammo and to light another cigar.   It was good, real good.  We were laughing and shooting so fast, we often shot at the same squirrel, turning the little hot dogs into clouds of red and green.  I am only sorry the guys missed it.

Mark and I drive back to Elko each smoking a triumphant cigar, laughing and retelling every shot that afternoon.  To celebrate the end of a good trip, we decided to have dinner in an old casino that looks as if it has not been redecorated since 1953.  We just couldn’t eat at the Biltoki again.  This was a big mistake.

We had a terrible meal.  It was one of the worst hamburgers I ever had.  Looking and tasting like it was made three days ago, mine was better than Mark’s.  His had only half a bun.  We sat there tired and dazed, but we each had a slight grin on our faces, thinking about the carnage we left for the buzzards in the pivot that afternoon.  After we choked down our burgers, we headed back to the motel.  Time to get some sleep; we have a long drive tomorrow.

CJ Cupp

Much has happened since I lasted posted anything.  The holidays were as busy as usual.  The annual Christmas Eve family party was special this year.  Susan and I had over 40 people to witness our son Robert ask his sweetie Ashley to be his bride.  She accepted his proposal, and we look forward to her joining our family.

Before the big party, I escaped for a few days to hunt waterfowl with my son Brian, my good buddy Mark, and his friend Bagel Bob.  We had a really good shoot just south of Redding California.  Shot specks, honkers, wood ducks, widgeon, and mallards.  It was a real good time.

Susan and I went to Mexico for New Years with our friends Leslie and Rafael.  I drank way too much wine.  I think it was Wednesday of the following week before my left eye opened all the way.

I started my horse riding lessons over the holidays.  I really enjoy this latest pursuit.  I also went to the annual SHOT show again.  I have been going since 1983.  I really enjoy seeing my friends and business associates.  My lodge friends also honored me with the Hiram award.  To all of them I say, “thank you”.

Since my last post, politics have sure been interesting.  The winds of change are blowing.  Unfortunately, California is still run by morons, but it would seem the people are waking up to all the crap we are being fed.  One issue after another is being exposed.  Waste and abuse is all too common.

The global warming fanatics have had a series of setbacks.  The elites that attended the conference in Europe were mocked by many of us.  Did they think we wouldn’t notice the hypocrisy of airports jammed with private jets, or the irony of a global warming summit being held while one of the worst blizzards in history raged just outside the meeting rooms?

Now their predictions of doom appear to have been based on faulty and fraudulent data.  The earth-Nazis, and their followers, still remain undeterred in the goal of global control of our economy.  I don’t think they will be successful since there is a growing belief of many, in this country anyway, that the movement is more of a faith based religion, than a fact based science.

Obama has just finished his first year as president.  I feel a little sorry for him.  Nobody seems to want to admit to voting for him anymore.  His performance this last year has not been very good.  He has turned out to be just what I thought, a lefty in way over his head.  He has proven to be an ineffective leader for the Democrats, and as the mayor of Las Vegas put it, “a real slow learner.”

The Iranians and North Koreans are still nuts.  So are the jihadists, the Sea Shepherds, and Hugo Chavez.  With this bunch on the loose, it’s funny that to some, we in the USA are supposed to apologize to the world for our actions.

I should have much to comment on, so stick around; we can all have a few laughs.

CJ Cupp

This last weekend, the Twilight movie came out.  Hell, I don’t ever remeber hearing about a first one.   This new movie is generating a serious buzz that is hard to avoid.  Vampires and Werewolves.  People love these monsters, they seem to love them more in a sexy kinda soap opera.

Well, I had an idea.  Since these new monsters are some new kind of anti-heros, why not have them do something to help humans rather than eating us?

So I was thinking,  what if the vampires and werewolves saved us from zombies?  Cool eh?

They could be like super heroes.  Vampires are already dead, so chewing on one won’t turn’em into zom’s.  Werewolves can’t be killed but with a silver bullet, so unless zombies can reload ammo and learn to shoot, they are pretty safe too.

The humans don’t even have to know the monsters are helping them.  The humans are huddled in a safe place, but surrounded by thousands of zombies.  The vampires swoop in with the werewolves and start tearing the zombies to bits.  They then disappear and the humans come out and wonder what happened.

The reason the monsters want to help is simple.  We humans are the monsters  food source.   They would have no choice but to help.  Reluctant tension of the aristocratic and sexy vampires having to save the lowly humans.   Kinda like guardian angels with fangs.

The humans in my story sure don’t want to trust the monsters, but what choice do they have?  They must survive.  Heck, they could even become friends or something.  They could feed the vampires with blood donations.

Let me know what you think.  This could be fun so  I think I will start writting the story.

CJ Cupp

UPDATE 10 Dec 09:  I have finished part 1 of a new story.  Go see Scavengers!  Let me know if you like it.

It has been a week and the fog is finally lifting.  I think I am too old for this.  A week ago I was in Mexico with the Wildcats.  I drank too much, didn’t sleep enough, it was cold, and the food we ate is still killing me.  Man, I had a good time!

The Wildcats are some friends of mine who like riding dirt bikes.  These guys are not your typical riders.  They are pretty serious about riding, and have the talent and experience to go with it.  I am no way good enough to ride with these guys.  First off, their bikes scare the shit out of me.  I would kill myself in the first mile.

These guys are very experienced.  They take off on 100 mile rides across open territory with only a GPS for a guide.  They carry everything they might need on their backs, and are dressed in safety gear that is at a higher level than pro football players use.  When dressed and ready to go, they look like Klingon warriors ready to do battle with the Federation.

This time, the Wildcats were riding in “Baa-Haa” Mexico”.   Leaving from my friend Rafael’s place north of Ensenada, up into the mountains near Constitution National Park.  I had been asked to join them for the weekend as part of the chase team driving the truck.

In the truck we carried the gas, gear, spare parts, and beer.  We didn’t need to do much, but had to be at a certain place by a certain time.  We were there if necessary to carry a broke down bike, fetch supplies, or heaven forbid, act as an ambulance.  This time was pretty easy, no real problems, so we mostly drank all the beer.

Since the chase team doesn’t ride, we didn’t need to get up early.  This lack of responsibility meant we tended to stay up late and drink a little too much.  It was one of those adventures we could do so.  No need to think straight, no need to be on time.  The rule of the day is just having fun.  Not like when I am hunting.  Those rules are different and I often need a chase team.

It is kind of different to have been on the other side of the coin last week.   When I go hunting, I am just like the Wildcats.  You have to put on your game face.  Get some sleep, and drink moderately.  You have to be prepared for the next day.

Duck hunters also have piles of gear and special clothes.  Although I must admit looking like a Klingon is much cooler than looking like a pile bushes.  And like the Wildcats, we carry everything we need for the day on our backs.  Only occasionally do hunters have a dedicated chase team.  Mostly we look to each other to help out if we get into trouble.

This has happened to me a few times.  I violated the rules and paid the price.  One such time, I went out to the club with my two boys, Robert and Brian, on Friday night for dinner. The boys were about 8 or 10 years old.  They were too young to be shooting, but I would take them into the blind with me.  They loved it and the truth be told, the boys were my chase team.

During season, they looked forward to the club all week long.  When I got home from work on Fridays, both boys, and my Lab, Ceniza, were usually bouncing off the walls ready to go.  They really helped out, not only getting everything ready, but they were also a help carrying all the crap to the blind.  Ok, I admit it; I also enjoyed just having them with me.

This particular Friday night, I met a couple of my club members for a special dinner.  Jules had been cooking snow goose and carrots in his crock pot all day.  Jules is French-Canadian and one of my best buddies in Cazadores.  His cooking was good, but his crock pot creations tended to be real gut bombs.

There were three of us at dinner, plus my boys.  We were joined by another Cazadores member, KK.  He showed up with a bottle of red wine.  That was a good thing as Jules and I only had three bottles between us.

We sat down and dug into the snow goose.  When we were through, the crock pot was empty, the boys were asleep, and the wine was gone.  I staggered back to my camper with a smile on my face, and passed out.

Morning came like thunder.  The alarm went off and the boys bounded out of bed.  I wanted to die.  My head was pounding.  I slid out of the bed and stepped out on the porch.  It was my intention to take a leak, but I don’t remember if I did.  At that moment my stomach turned, and I blew.  I remember thinking to myself, “Wow”.

I puked violently.  I was amazed at the sight of a red arch with orange spots streaming away from me toward my trash can.  God I hate carrots.   I guess I was making a lot of noise because the boys came outside asking me if I was OK.  I did what any father would do, I lied.  I told them the carrots made me sick.

I went back into my camper, washed up, and somehow managed to get ready for the morning blind draw.  I drew Hammer, the best hole on the club.  Figures.   I feel like crap and I get the best draw.

I loaded up the boys, Ceniza, and my gear into the Bronco and headed off for the parking area down by the ponds.  “I am going to feel better”, I told myself.  I should.  I ate a handful of aspirin, and drank a gallon of water.  No problem right?  Wrong.  Half way there, my stomach turned again.

I slammed on the brakes through the door open and puked again.  “Goddamn”, I thought, ‘the shits still red”.  One of the boys said something to me.  Don’t asked me which one, or what.  It was all beginning to blur, and my head was pounding again.  This time the stream had white spots.  The aspirin was gone.

I would have never made it to the blind without the boys.  I got inside, tied up the dog and went to sleep, never even loaded my gun.  Eventually the boys just quit asking if I was OK, and spent the morning looking at the birds and talking to the guys on the radio.  Little bastards told them everything.  Not that it mattered.  The whole valley would occasionally hear me dry heaving all morning.

I think we left the blind about 11:00 AM and head back to camp.  I was feeling better.  My fellow hunters still give me crap about that day, but I never forget that my chase team had saved the day.  I was glad I had them.  My motorcycle buddies had a thing they said that summed up the responsibility each of us has to the other on an adventure.

Pray for the Wildcats.

Occasionally we can all use it.

CJ Cupp