Rancho Blasto

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.

The Wildcats

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

In a few of my stories, I have mentioned my friend Mark.  He is like a brother to me, and I thought I would tell you a little about him.

I started hanging out with Mark on a fishing trip to Mexico.  His father had invited me to go along, as I had never been on a trip like this before.  There were 18 of us, all fishing in the Sea of Cortez from pangas, a kind of Mexican skiff.  We slept and ate on a mother ship.  In this case, an 85 foot converted shrimper.  All the bunks were located in the open on the top of the ship.

I was partnered up with a nice, but really dull guy.  Mark was with a larger group of guys that I would come to know well.  On the first day out, I caught a fish like I had never even seen before.  It was an 85 pound grouper.  What a fish!  I dumb lucked into it, but it was mine, and I wanted to celebrate.

We returned to the mother ship, and after cleaning up, I was ready to party.  I was soon to be disappointed.  I had just caught the biggest fish of my life, and all that my partner wanted to do was sit in the dark, smoke cigarettes and drink beer.  Shoot me.

I noticed a party was starting up on the far end of the bunk area, so I suggested to my friend we join them.  He gave me some bullshit about them being too rowdy then went back to sucking on his cigarette.  “Screw this” I said, and I walked away from him, heading toward the action.

I walked up to Mark and his friends and said I wanted to celebrate.  They congratulated me on my fish, and Mark offered to make me a drink.  What a drink it was.  He took a 20 ounce plastic cup from his bunk, and threw in some ice he chipped of a block with a screw driver.  He filled the cup to the rim with tequila, vodka, and some crap called Rompopei.   To finish it, he squeezed a couple limes in it and stirred the concoction with a filet knife.

I have been with Mark ever since.  We have been on many adventures together.  Some were good, and some not so good, but always fun.  Mark is a good shot and a great fisherman, but sometimes he can run a little late.

There was one time in particular that affected every duck club in the valley.  Our club was in a long valley with a lake running down the middle.  There were clubs all around it, and at the west end of the valley, there was a large state wildlife unit that had hunting as well.  On Saturday morning there were several hundred guys hunting in this valley.

Our club was located on the south side of the lake.  The quickest route to our club was from the north side of the lake, exiting the freeway you take a dirt road around the wildlife unit at the west end.  The road going around the unit was at a slightly higher elevation than we were at our club.  During the day, you could see the dust from vehicles traveling on the road.

This one particular morning I awoke and noticed Mark wasn’t here.  He didn’t always spend Friday night out at the club.  Most of us did so we could get in an extra hour sleep.  Coming from home, Mark had a 70 mile drive, and we drew for blinds 1 hour before shooting time.

Mark missed the draw.  I knew he had overslept, but he still had time; we had to be in our blinds a minimum 30 minutes before shooting time.  If he missed that, he had to wait for the first pickup time.  Pick up time was 1 hour after shooting time, and every hour after that.

Pick up time was when you went to look for lost birds, or just got out of the blind to take a leak.  My boys always thought it was funny watching several hundred pairs of guys all climb out of holes in the ground at the same time, standing up, and relieving themselves in harmony.

Mark missed the 30 minute limit.  I was beginning to think he wouldn’t make it.  That is when I heard the roar in the distant.  The sound was unmistakable.  It was Mark’s brown truck.

The brown truck, as Mark called it, was a standard cab Ford F-250.  Powered with a 460 cubic inch V8, and a 4-speed transmission, it was a monster.  He and I had been all over in that truck.  From frozen cold Idaho to sizzling hot Baja California, this truck went everywhere, usually really fast.  This morning was no exception.

It was not quite light enough to see, but you could hear Mark tearing down the dirt road.  The big V8 roaring as he shifted.  It is usually very quiet just before shooting time.  The serene moment just before the sun comes up.  Ducks and shore birds making quiet sounds, and the occasional cough from a hunter, or dog bark.  This morning all you could hear was Mark going through gears, and the rattling of gear in the bed of the truck as he flew down the road.

It was fifteen minutes before shooting time.  I had just remarked to my blind partner for the day, that it sounded like Mark was running a bit late.  We both laughed a little imagining Mark at the wheel, jamming gears and cussing his alarm clock.  That is when it happened.

As Mark neared one of the many turns in the road, he down shifted, and the big brown truck backfired.  The huge explosion ripped through what was left of the morning silence.  Instantly every shotgun on the unit started firing.  Then moving to the east, the rest of clubs began firing as the chain reaction quickly moved like a wave through the entire valley.

I looked at my blind partner in amazement.  Everyone was shooting.  My partner was looking at his watch with his mouth open.  We had never heard anyone shoot this early before, let alone the whole valley.  I didn’t think it possible.  No longer could I hear Marks truck, just the sound of ducks getting up and the gunfire bringing them down.

Shooting early is not a good thing.  Not only is it illegal, but it is not cool.  Anyone shooting early is often scorned for the day even if only a minute early.  The idea is that everyone shoots on time.  Mark had set them off this morning, and really early.

I would have loved to see the game wardens faces.  They often wait for that one person who shoots early, then running out to the offender and reading them the riot act.  This morning, Mark had set off something they could only sit there and witness.   Leaving them all wondering what the hell happened.

CJ Cupp

Man Fort is the generalized name we gave to the trailers we all had at the club.  We all had forts as young men.  I know I had several.  These sanctuaries were fun to make and hang out in.  Being all grown up changes nothing.  I lived in my grown up fort on weekends and holidays during duck season, or when hiding out from the wife.

Some forts at the Cazadores duck club were real nice, and some were dumps.  Mark and I had a real piece of shit.  It was an old cab over camper that sat at a slight incline on pallets out behind our club house.  Before moving it to the club, the camper had been in Mark’s backyard for a couple years.  Old Morton had lived in it.  Morton was a guy we both knew that had fallen on hard times.  Mark let him live in this camper in his back yard until he finally had to throw him out.

The camper was pretty nasty.  We did our best to clean it, but it still smelled like Morton.   He had trashed the inside.  The camper was also warped and damaged from years of use.  The entire floor had to be replaced.  It would sink as you walked across it.  So we laid down a bare plywood floor.  We also replaced the table with a cutting board from a sport boat, and used and old pepper tree limb as a leg.

We obtained some odd colored cushions for the bench seats, and an old mattress thrown up top in the cab-over with blankets and sleeping bags.  There were plenty of magazines spread about in stacks.  Hustler and gun magazines mostly, with a few of the better centerfolds taped on the walls.  We had ample supply of liquor and canned food, both for us and the dogs.  Finishing off the effect were boxes of shotgun shells on the counters, and clothes hanging everywhere.

Outside, we adorned the camper with our duck totals written on the back by the door.  We had a pallet with and old piece of plywood nailed to it for a porch, and a boot puller was sitting handy.  For almost a full season, the head of every duck we shot hung in a primitive mobile outside the door.  It was our trophy spike, like we were headhunters or something.  The large cloud of fly’s caused the other members to take action and force us to reconsider our decorating theme.

Mark and I had good times in that camper for the first couple years in the club.  Couple scary ones too.  We were often startled awake in the middle of the night by mice crawling on us.  I remember the first time it happened to me.  I woke up feeling something on my chest, and as I open my eyes and started to move the mouse quickly ran up my neck and across my face.  It scared the shit out of me.

We had other animal problems.  Our dogs slept in the camper with us.  Showing up late one night, I found Mark already passed out on the bench seat we had made.  His lab, Willy, was sleeping on top of him.  I slid into the seat opposite him and woke him up.  Mark cursed at Willy and threw him off and onto the floor.

As Mark and I were talking, Willy started making a rhythmic moan, arching his back up and down with and increasing violence and frequency.  His mouth was wide open, and his eyes were bugging out.  We both knew Willy was about to blow.

When Mark went to sleep, Willy had eaten everything he could reach, including the trash.  Now he was paying the price.  There was nothing we could do but watch.  The dog was between us and the door, and neither of us wanted to get too close when he went off.

Willy let loose a tsunami of composed of chicken bones, M&M’s, dog food, cheese, paper and plastic bags.  It all landed in a huge pile in the middle of the floor.  When he finished, Willy looked up at us with watery eyes and there was a slight wag to his tail.  It was if he knew he did something wrong.  Mark and I were silent for a moment, looking at Willey and the oozing pool of debris spreading across the floor before us.  Mark said it best;”….you fucking dog”.

Mark leaped up grabbing Willy by the collar and ass, and threw him out the back door.  Both of us gagged at the stench.  I was opening windows and vents as Mark set about the vile clean up using a filet knife like a trowel.  Willy was left outside for a couple hours, whimpering apologies to us from outside the door.  Mark did let him back in, but before morning, Willy took a shit on the floor.

Eventually both Mark and I obtained new campers.  The old one was just too far gone and we weren’t helping it get any better.  Our kids were also getting bigger and I think we were tired of the mess.  But we had to get rid of the old camper.  That opportunity soon came our way.

The club had rented a bulldozer for pond maintenance.  We used it to dispose of the old camper.  We dug a big hole, crushed the camper, ran over it a couple times for effect, and pushed dirt over it.  We should have given it a better send off.

Every morning during season when we woke up, we turned the music way up to prepared us for the morning hunt.  Our favorite song was ‘Lump” by the Presidents of the United States.  I think everyone else hated it.  It would have been appropriate to play that song as dirt covered the remains.

My new camper was a big improvement.  Although small, it was in much better shape.  It was also a cab-over design, but this time I leveled it, and put it on a better footing of 4X4’s.  I redid the inside, converting part of the inside making a long bed on one side for me to sleep on.  This eliminated the table, but that didn’t matter as the club now had a picnic table and chairs outside.

Opposite my new bed was a counter and sink so we could clean up in the camper rather than in the club house.  I put in a long shelf above my bed to store my shells, food, liquor, and my half of the porno stash.

My boys had the cab-over.  I got a couple mattresses for them, and installed some shelves.  They had an every growing pile of crap to store.  My dog, Ceniza, slept on the floor in a dog nest in front of the ladder the boys used to get up into bed.

It was pretty nice.  The boys ended up giving the new camper a name.  They had an old sign from a toy box they destroyed and attached that to the outside of the camper, next to the door, “The House of Reptiles”.  It was perfect.

We lived in that camper for many seasons.  It was our Man Fort, a retreat for the boys and me.

CJ Cupp

I am a little sick of politics lately.  Many of you know what I am getting at.  When you stop laughing at it, and at them, it’s time to turn it off.  To change things up, I thought I would tell you about my old duck club.

The Cazadores Duck club was a small group of hunters, only 10 members.  We leased a couple ponds from a larger club in the San Jacinto valley, here in southern California.  My buddy Mark and I were both members of the club for about 10 years.  We had a lot of fun in that club, some of it still a daze.

I will try and pick a subject for each installment, and we’ll see how it goes.  There are certainly more than a few good stories.  For this first installment in the Duck Club Chronicles, I guess the best place to start is with the old club house.

Besides the ponds, our lease also included a house which we used for the morning draw, and of course, parties.  It was an ugly yellow, mouse infested farm house built about 80 years before at the base of a large hill.  It was a single story and had I high pitch to the roof.

The south end had a covered porch over the front door.  On the east side of the house, was a long living room.  It was divided from the kitchen on the north end by a tiled bar.  The back door was in the middle.  The west side of the house had a utility room at the north end, the bathroom, and two bedrooms.

It wasn’t plush inside.  There was no heat, and no hot water.  That was OK since none of the sinks drained.  We had only one toilet, and considering the meals we made, I suppose we were asking a lot from it.  If you had to do some serious business, it was better to drive over to the wildlife unit next door to use the can.  Plumbing aside, the house was mostly dry, and had electricity and running water.

The kitchen stove didn’t work, or at least nobody had the guts to light it.  We did have a working refrigerator for left-over food, beer, and freezer storage for ducks destined for the taxidermist.  We also had a large working chest freezer in the utility room, but it was usually empty.

There was some old dusty furniture to sit on.  A couple old sofas covered with dog hair.  We had an old chair that a couple of the dogs sat in.  We also had an old console TV, but it didn’t work.    We stored our decoys and other gear owned by the club in the bedrooms.

This was our headquarters.  It provided many a good night of partying before the hunt in the morning.  On the walls hung our old bird mounts, pictures of ducks, and old photos of our older members with hair.  The centerpiece of our living room was a large hand painted map of our ponds showing each blind name and location.  Each location had cup hooks to hang your name tags on after the morning draw.

The house was no doubt loaded with asbestos, and lead.  It was always dusty since it was next to a dirt road, and several of the windows were missing.  You could always smell mold, wet dog, and stale cigar.  Just stepping inside probably shortened our lives.  We were allowed to sleep inside, but none of us did.  The county vector control department had tagged it with warning signs saying we could contract Hanta virus.

Most of us chose to use camping trailers rather than risk sleeping inside.  These trailers closely surrounded the house.  There was not much organization in the way they were parked.  Just find a spot close enough so an extension cord and hose could reach the house.  We had these cords snaking into the house through windows or holes cut through the walls to find one of the few working sockets.  The hoses all connected to the water supply at single pipes modified to take multiple hoses.

As you can guess, the power went out often due to overloaded circuits.  I am surprised we never had a fire.  This was a concern for most, but scared hell out of me.  A couple of our more responsible members parked their trailers in such a way, that they could hook up and quickly drag their camper to safety.  I just had a cab over camper laid on some pallets.  Mine was going to burn.

As I mentioned, we had obtained our lease from another duck club.  This was a large club whose members were owners of the property.  They called us “renters” and referred to our cozy little club house, and the surrounding trailers as “the hood”.  The owners had a nicer area up the hill from us, out of the flood zone, and with electricity that was up to code.  I am pretty sure their toilets flushed.  They didn’t like socializing with us too much, and for the most part, left us alone.

One time we arrived at the club and noticed we had had a visitor.  Someone had left the back door open.  Not that we ever locked the place.  The back door didn’t work well, and we had fashioned a rope to hold the door shut to keep raccoons out.  We went inside and looked around, but nothing seemed out of place.  I don’t remember who found it, but in the utility room freezer, was a surprise.

This freezer was usually empty, so this was hard to miss.  On the bottom of the freezer, frozen stiff, was a coyote.  It was laid out on its side, with its front legs crossed, holding a small bouquet of red flowers.  Everyone had to come and see.  We all walked pass in single file, looking down at the dead dog as we passed.  Just like a funeral for an old friend.  We never did find out who had put it in there.  But it would not be the first surprise left for us in that freezer.

Often, when we arrived for the weekend, a quick look in the freezer would reveal frozen rattle snakes, coiled up or stretched out like canes.  We also found rabbits and ground squirrels frozen into different positions.  Some of us joked about ghosts, but we all knew it was drunks from up the hill.

We often found stacks of porno magazines left on the freezer.  Just like the tooth fairy.  Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy looking at a fine pair just like the next guy, but this stuff was different.  It was the nastiest porno I have ever seen.  I don’t know how many of you have ever seen an old copy of “Big Ass” magazine, but I’m scarred for life.   I have to admit though, many of the less nauseating rags ended up being spread around in the various trailers.

The old house was the focal point for our duck club.  A great club for a bunch of guys getting together on the weekends to hunt ducks, smoke cigars, and tell stories.  This is only the beginning of that story.

CJ Cupp