Ammo Review: Part 3

Q: Can ammoforsale.com validate your existence?

A: Hell yeah!

I’m a blogger. Comparing normal human interaction to blogging is comparing a warm handshake to a freak stapling typewritten rants to telephone poles.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. For one thing, blogging is vaguely anonymous. This suits my desire for privacy and avoids scaring the neighbors. Of course the NSA knows what I had for breakfast but I’m not particularly worried about them; writing about broke tractors and foaming at the mouth about the deficit hardly makes me Tank Man. (Note, I said I wasn’t worried about the NSA, pissed off at them is an entirely different matter.)

For legal and logistical reasons, ammoforsale.com had to know my name and address. Thus I had to overcome a streak of paranoia a mile wide and deeper than the Mariana Trench. Then again… free ammo. Have you ever coaxed a skittish wild animal from a bush by holding out a piece of bread crust? For me… ammo will do the trick. Finally, I called their number. I was still fighting bronchitis and sounded like I’d recently been disinterred.

Ammoforsale.com” Came an almost freakishly cheerful voice.

“I’m looking for [sumdood]” I croaked. No, I’m not telling you who contacted me. Just assume he’s rich, handsome, intelligent, well spoken, and wears a halo. He distributes ammunition, clearly he’s awesome!

With shocking efficiency I was transferred. [Sumdood] picked up the phone immediately.

“Are you [sumdood]?” My voice sounded like a combination of The Kurgan and death.

“Yes. What’s up?” Came the upbeat voice.

Was everyone there happy? I briefly entertained the wish that I was employed at this workplace where everyone simply radiated smiles.

“I am,” I paused, “Adaptive Curmudgeon.”

Several years of blogging and that’s something I’ve never said aloud. Sure it’s not as awesome as saying ‘I’m Batman’ but still, it sounded kinda’ cool. Akin to Jim Morrison claiming to be the lizard king… except with the voice of someone who had slept in a cement mixer… and I wasn’t a stoned rocker.

“Oh my God!” He was enthused. “It’s really you!”

I have never in my life received such a response. I tend to expect less pleasantry. I was ready for: ‘I should have know it would be you’, ‘you again?’, and even ‘fuck you’. Here was someone, an actual resident of earth, that seemed delighted that a croaking lunatic with a six syllable pseudonym was on the phone. The world is full of wonders.

External validation is a powerful thing. I pictured Sally Field babbling ‘I can’t deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me.’ No wonder everyone in Hollywood is a mess.

OK Curmudgeon, calm the heck down and close the deal. Keeping my inner dialogue to a dull roar I said something gruff and remote; “About this free ammo?”

“Oh yeah,” the guy said “what do you need?”

More in my next post.

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Ammo Review: Part 2

Q: Can ammoforsale.com lift you from the slimy carpet of a dive hotel to joyous nirvana?

A: Hell yeah!

I could take ammoforsale.com’s generous offering and do something boring. Maybe review it for accuracy and quality like a real grown up. I’m guessing that’s what they intended. Boring! Instead I’m going to write a story which is only tangentially related. Here goes:

Last fall all hell broke loose in a perfect storm of suckitude. I’d just returned from a trip that had been tiring and unpleasant. Through no fault of my own I’d spent entirely too much time on a college campus. I was reeling from an overdose of Utopian hippie whining and self righteous dipshit trust funders. I needed a break.

Men are lousy at taking breaks. There’s just so much stupid fun stuff to do! Despite being totally exhausted I engaged in a “sporting event”. I won’t elaborate because the first rule of my sport is that you do not talk about my sport. (Go ahead, ask me the second rule.)

I did well, possibly not in spite of exhaustion but because of exhaustion? Regardless I’d pushed myself about as far as I could physically go. A suitable period of rest would have been smart.

Ironically it was home repairs that went for the jugular. A home construction project had gone into sudden death overtime. It was (predictably) over budget and winter was prowling the periphery of my schedule like a hungry wolf. Possibly in an act of mercy, the universe interceded and rain delayed further construction. I did what work I could do in the rain until I realized I was being an idiot. When I climbed down from the ladder I had a ominous tickle in the back of my throat. A wise man would have parked on the couch for a week. You know darned well I didn’t do that!

I decided to saddle up and make a few bucks. I picked up a short term odd job several hundred miles away. My idea was that quality time with my truck would brighten my attitude. If I was going to sit on my ass, I’d do it while rocketing down the highway. You can drink tea and nurse a cold while driving right?

Wrong! En route I came down with an epic head cold that (literally) floored me. As Mrs. Curmudgeon so kindly pointed out, I had it coming.

I tend to “slum it” when I travel. Partly because I’m cheap and partly because it feels vaguely comfortable to me. (Thoreau said he’d rather sit on a pumpkin than share a velvet cushion. I’ll sleep in the dirt to avoid an expensive hotel.) This mystifies Mrs. Curmudgeon who has higher standards and doesn’t mind paying for them.

Since I was very ill (and the the shivery cold rain wasn’t helping) I stopped early for the night. I checked into one of my favorite “dive” hotels. Mrs. Curmudgeon has officially relegated this locale in the “ewww” category. Almost dizzy from being sick, as soon as I stepped in the door, I plopped down on the carpet and lay there. No. I didn’t lie on the bed. I was wearing a wet rain jacket. What kind of Neanderthal would mess up a made bed?

Sometimes, when you’re ill, laying on the cold flat floor is good enough. Sometimes when you’re in a scuzzybag hotel you realize you should have checked into a better hotel if you were going to put your face on the carpet.

Gross! Was this a shitty day or what?

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Have you gone to a doctor yet?” She asked.

“I’m fine.” I coughed.

“Sounds like bronchitis. Don’t be stupid.”

That boat had sailed. I was indeed being stupid and very much wished I’d stayed home. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“You’re off the road?” She was worried.

“Yeah, in that place I stayed last time.”

“Ewwwww.” Her response was involuntary. “Don’t touch anything.”

The carpet was indeed unpleasant. I wondered if I had the energy to get to the shower. I felt the need for decontamination. “I won’t touch a thing.”

“I’m sure they never vacuum.” I could sense her disgust radiating through the phone.

“I know they don’t.”

“You got some guy commenting on your blog.” She changed the subject.

“Yeah.” I was too beat to care. “So?”

“He wants you to review some ammunition. He’ll send you some for free.”

“Free ammunition?” I felt a jolt of energy. Angels descended from the heavens and sung in my ear. The rain stopped. Puppies and rainbows and happy joy joy! This was the best news I’d had in a month!

“Could be a scammer. A Nigerian prince?” She chuckled.

From the carpet of a flophouse, rays of hope poured into my soul. “Free ammunition?!”

“You’re interested?” Mrs. Curmudgeon had missed the epic, colossal, uplifting, import of this amazing opportunity.

“Free ammo!” I repeated. I found the strength to stand up. Maybe I could get some cough medicine and a good night’s sleep. In a week’s time I’d be at the range tearing through gratis brass! With free ammo, all things are possible.

“You want me to respond?” Mrs. Curmudgeon, correctly, guessed I’d checked into a hotel that barely had electricity and wasn’t going to have wifi until the next century.

“Tell this guy that I will review the hell out of anything he sends me.”

“You sure? You’re pretty busy.” Mrs. Curmudgeon knows an overbooked moron when he’s about to take on another ridiculous obligation.

“I will review the living shit out of his ammo. I’ll test it like no man has tested ammo before. I’ll test it for hunting radioactive wolverines. I’ll use it to slay Grendel. I’ll report on its properties in a way that will make Hunter S. Thompson sound like a schoolgirl.”

“Um… you think this guy has read your blog?” Mrs. Curmudgeon was nervous.

“He has made contact. He will get what he has asked for.” I felt strength flowing with every word. I was going to get free shit and a chance to be a massive wiseass! Thank you Lord!

“You know, it might be some guy thinking you’d do…” She paused “…maybe something with a chronograph.”

“Chronographs are for sissies. I will report whether the ammo is suitable for slaying pirates and zombies.” I was ecstatic.

“That poor guy.” Mrs. Curmudgeon sighed.

Glowing from the thought of free ammo, I had the strength to finish my trip. The gravitational pull of free ammo brought me home. I did indeed pull off the highway and go to a doctor the next day. But we all know it’s really the free ammo that cured me and not the antibiotics.

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Ammo Review: Part 1

Q: Can ammoforsale.com improve your life, outlook, and spiritual well being?

A: Hell yeah!

“How can I get something for nothing?” Great thinkers from Aristotle through the guy down at the feed store have pondered this same question. Some time ago, in an avalanche of win, I got something for nothing. I got free ammo! Ammunition comes third on the list of life’s greatest joys; right after sex and bacon.

Of course nothing is free. In exchange for a free sample of crack ammunition, I promised to review their stuff.

I’ve procrastinated. This is clearly proof that I’m an ungrateful loser. Did I make the promise to write a review sometime last week? Last month? Hell no. I promised a long long time ago in a galaxy far far away. How long ago you ask? Well long enough for the Federal Government to amass an additional $942,575,067,152.08 in debt. (I am starting a movement that we should use the Federal debt like Star Trek’s “stardate”.) Oh sheesh, that sounds terrible. Observing the debt is like counting milliseconds. OK fine, it was last year. Only the debt could make a 10 month delay seem small.

My timing, in accepting free ammo, was unreasonable. I was busy. Not that there’s a time when I’m not busy. I’m perpetually overbooked. Sometimes it takes forever before I get things done. It doesn’t mean I forgot, only that time is relative for all men. Luckily I’ve been the recipient of a heaping truckload of patience. For that I’m thankful. Today is the first step of a multi-essay fulfilment of my promise.

Ammoforsale is going to get some airtime from me. They’re going to get it good and hard.

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Ammo For Sale

Whoa, did that get your attention?

Instead of writing about my $25 air gun and the $0.02 pellets I’ve been slinging at an old pizza box I should write the ammo story I promised to write. Here goes:

Last year ammoforsale.com sent me ammunition to review. I know… can ya’ believe it? God loves me! I promised to review their product, point my readers to their web presence (provided I liked the ammo), and also make their teeth white and their coat glossy.

Then, in a tragic display of irresponsibility, I took the ammo hunting and forgot about where it came from. I feel guilty about that. On the spectrum of sins, I’m pretty sure mistreating people who send you free ammunition is on par with stomping puppies.

I heartily recommend ammoforsale.com. Really. I mean it. I’m not saying that just because I’m a greedy yahoo that took their free stuff (though it’s certainly true that I like free stuff), I’m saying it because I’ve been pleased with everything they’ve done. Quality of service? Great. Product? It has all worked for me. Delivery? Excellent and better than my expectations of any internet order. They’re even nice on the phone.

I’ve put a link on the right side of my blog and also a permanently linked page on my header (called, unimaginatively, “store“). Or, in case that’s too obscure, there’s a hint right below:

link to ammoforsale.com

Next week I’m going to tell the story of how I got in the “review free stuff” game and also how I decided to review it like a wiseass (chronographs bore me). For example, some animals were killed in the review process and I described the yucky rug in a dive hotel. Is that not journalistic excellence? I could post a ballistics based statistical analysis but it’s my blog and I like being irreverent. (Irrelevant?)

If you’re planning on buying ammo (and if you aren’t then the terrorists win hippie!) please click over to ammoforsale.com. Tell ‘em the Curmudgeon sent ya. Thanks.

A.C.

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The Quest For Air Superiority

I grok guns. Primer, powder, BANG, venison on a plate. It all makes sense.

However I just bought a cheap old air rifle (’cause “cheap” is a siren song). I don’t know squat about air rifles.

Also, and this is purely my own ignorance, I associate air rifles with toys. Probably because when I was a kid I got a plastic spring loaded wad of disappointment as a present. It made me loathe all non-real rifles from that day forward. Wait wait… put the mouse down and quit typing out hate mail. Yes, I know intellectually that air rifles are totally bitching adult sized powerful instruments of awesomeness and accuracy. Whatever. I’m just sayin’ I’ve always been a “burn powder or it bores me” kinda’ guy. So this is a new concept. Also, I can’t bring myself to ponder air rifles that cost as much as an actual… rifle. If an air rifle ‘aint cheap, I don’t see the advantage. I’m sure I’ll get over it but right now I’m still a Neanderthal. Bear with me

When I hear "air rifle" this is what comes to mind.

When I hear “air rifle” this is what comes to mind.

Now here’s the good part. I spent $25 on it. Less than I’d spend on a pizza dinner. So if it’s just a toy… I can live with that.

First question: What the hell is it? Firearms, by law, have shit carved into them that tell you what you’re holding. Stuff like “Remington Slayomatic, 1972, .280″. Thus telling me who made it, the model, when they made it, and what will make it go boom. This thing I bought, which presumably came from a factory, has no identifying marks on it whatsoever. Why?

I’m posting a few photos in case someone can tell me who made the little beast:

It's fairly solid. If I can't properly target a squirrel with it I'll just bludgeon one with the heavy stock.

It’s fairly solid. If I can’t properly target a squirrel with it I’ll just bludgeon one with the heavy stock.

It's kinda ugly but I like shooting it.

It’s kinda ugly but I like shooting it.

I not knowing anything other than where you insert the pellets and how you cock it, I set out to see if it’s any good.

First discovery. It’ll punch a 7.56 grain pellet all the way into an old barn door. (It’s my door, I’ll shoot it if I want.) I was impressed. Compared to a 40 grain .22 bullet it’s a little weak but if you’re a red squirrel trying to steal my pig feed it’ll jack you up. It seemed adequate.

Second discovery; it more or less hits where you’re aiming. The target on the left is my very first five shots, offhand, at a distance I was too lazy to measure. Based on that unscientific test I’m pretty sure the rifle, regardless of the idiot using it, is capable of punching holes in a golf ball sized area all day long. Cool!

More detailed testing yielded mixed results. This is because I was just foolin’ around and not getting all serious at a bench rest. The wind picked up and I didn’t quit. Nor did I use a bench or even a single stance. I just sent lead pellets flying any way that amused me. This is hardly the way to dial in a perfect sight picture. That’ll have to wait.

Also it has adjustable sights but I have no idea what range one sights in a cheapo air rifle.

Question: what range am I looking for from a dirt cheap air rifle like this?

I tested out ranges from “close enough it’s embarrassing” to “far enough that the pellet took a while to get there”. It seemed like if I stood too far back it might not drop a squirrel?

Also the wind got pretty bad. Being me, I just shot right through the gusts. I’m guessing those little pellets don’t handle wind well because I started to miss by an inch or so. Though it’s good to practice “doping” the wind and it was fun so why not keep shooting?

I kept switching back between flat nose pellets (“wadcutters”?) and pointy nose pellets and ones that were rounded and had “hunting'” written on them. There’s apparently a big difference in point of aim in the “wadcutters”. The pointy nose ones invariably shot higher. (Not a surprise finding, the science of physics is pretty solid on this.) I couldn’t tell “hunting” from “pointy non-hunting” and assume that’s mostly marketing. All pellets were the same weight. I wonder if the sights as they came were setup for a 10 grain pellet?

The end result is that it seemed to aim high and I had a hard time guessing elevation (shooting off hand at random distances) so maybe “bullet drop” is a big deal. But angle seemed solid, provided I could compensate for the wind.

It’s all up from here. I’ve already had $25 worth of fun. Probably when I get the sights settled down I’ll be able to hit a squirrel but only at a shorter range than I’d shoot a .22 and further than I can throw a rock. Fair ’nuff.

Undocumented, uncontrolled experiments suggest that you can keep a guy like me busy all afternoon blasting the crap out of cardboard.

Undocumented, uncontrolled experiments suggest that you can keep a guy like me busy all afternoon blasting the crap out of cardboard.

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Happy Ammo

Recently (following the 2008 rise of a person who’s name must not be spoken aloud lest one be branded a racist tea bagging jackoff)… the price and availability of ammo (and guns) went ape. I blissfully ignored the whole thing. Like any proper homesteading isolationist, I’ve got plenty of firepower to keep the freezer full, the chickens safe, and the zombies at bay. This period of madness and social decay (like the black plague or disco) will pass. Sanity tends to return with time. (One hopes.)

Recently, and against my better instincts, I ventured out of my cocoon. I “interfaced” with gunshops. Holy shit things are weird!

I'm shocked shocked at these prices!

I’m shocked shocked at these prices!

All the bitching about unavailable .22 ammo that I’ve been ignoring. It was real? No shit! “Hoarding” I was told. This is common opinion.

“Hoarding? Hoarding?!?” I ranted “I’ll have none of this Marxist claptrap. If there is a shortage, the price is too low. The solution is to rake us over the coals with high prices good and hard. Eventually all will be well.”

“I don’t buy it.” Quoth Joel. “‘Tis an explanation that stinks to high heaven if you ask me.” I see his point. Is not ‘hoarding’ the go to excuse for people who can’t get their act together and manufacture the stuff we consumers wish to buy? Also the whole “hoard” thing reminds me of people who go around screaming “I DON’T CARE IF EVERYTHING COSTS MORE THERE IS NO INFLATION” until they fall down speaking in tongues and are immediately awarded a Nobel prize.

Even so I wondered why prices were low for something that’s not physically available for purchase. A few days later economic theory panned out. I found .22 for sale. Not a story about sumdood who knows a guy. Not a sold out line item on a web page. It was there; in reality. I had the damn box in my hand! Also the price was friggin’ high (as it should be for the only box for sale in the county.) I’m cheap and not desperate. I chose not to buy anything. (But I was happy to know ammo existed.)

Fast forward several days: I was wandering around a gun show. There’s nothing so life affirming as a diverse American Citizenry milling about with things that’ll make an elite Boston liberal shit themselves. Freedom rocks! So many firearms and I want them all! (In a perfect world I’d buy pistols and long guns by the dozen. Also I’d have abs like rock and excellent hair.) Happy happy guns. I really should get out more.

Being a capitalist straight to the core of my being, I’d grabbed a brick of .22 (new in the box) on the way out of my house. I wandered around the show with it stuffed it in my pocket. (“No I’m not happy to see you but I’ve got five pounds of lead in my trousers. Care to buy it for $60?) Every third booth had .22 ammo; in dribs and drabs. All of it priced rather high and all priced totally uniformly. I could have sold my ammo by simply naming a price a buck lower than the global average for the room. I should have done so. After all how many squirrels can one guy shoot?

Alas, I didn’t sell any of my ammo. I decided I was happy I had it and I didn’t need the cash. Normally I’ll sell anything short of a kidney if the price is right. This time? Nope!

For a guy like me, the refusal to drop my stuff back into the open market for a good profit is as close to “hoarding” as you’ll get.

Wandering the aisles of glittering (and greasy) boomsticks I decided I needed to “adapt” to the current ammo market. Since .22 was a bitch to get I might as well indulge in something funky. I needed another .410. Yep, couldn’t live another day without adding to my collection of small little break open smoothbores. I had it in my hands, the deal was almost done. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw an ugly old air rifle.

The guy selling the .410 saw the look in my eyes. He sighed as I handed it back to him. The .410 is probably sad and lonely now. I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of folks dying to buy single shot shotguns in extremely small calibers. I have no idea why.

I know nothing about air rifles. But I do know that air is free (unless you happen to exhale CO2 near a hipppie working on climate regulation). Also .177 pellets are cheap. Every house should have every caliber of every firearm and I’m a bit light on air rifles. Time to fix that omission.

The negotiation went like this;

“What brand is it?”

“Got no idea.”

“How old it is?”

“Got no idea.”

“What’s the FPS rating?”

“Got no idea.”

“Does it work?”

“Got no idea.”

“I’ll give you half of what you’re asking.”

“Sold.”

On the way home I decided to stop at a store I’ll call Goose Hill. I needed air rifle pellets. I asked the sales drone to help pick out .177 pellets. He handed me a pack of .22 pellets and went back to his busy life on Facebook. You should be able to tazer people like that.

I picked out a 1000 round sample pack (in the correct size). $20. That comes out to 0.02 a round. Cool. Assuming the thing worked I was happy.

I glanced up to the Facebook zombie. “Got any .22.”

He looked like a deer in the headlights. “The stuff on sale is all gone.”

“When did you get it?”

“This morning.”

“No worries. Thanks anyway.”

“All I’ve got is this.” He held up a 100 round plastic box of CCI.”

What’s this? .22 ammo at Goose Hill? He named a price that’s twice what I’d have paid in the sane times before 2008 and 30% lower than the going rate at the gun show five miles away.

I picked up 5 boxes. Did I need it? Hell no. Did I want it? Hell yes.

Is this hoarding? I have no idea.

As a tangential detail I’d like to point out that the guy at the cash register had the most epic afro hairdo I’ve seen in years. If the 1970’s died and went to heaven, they’d have hair like that. I wanted to compliment him but feared I’d sound like a racist nitwit… so we talked about the weather. If you’re reading this afro dude; well done!

As to hoarding: The best I can say is that I regularly buy 500 rounds of .22 in randomly spaced unplanned events. So me buying 500 rounds of .22 isn’t weird. On the other hand , I won’t shoot enough paper and squirrels to use it all up any time soon. I could have gotten by on what I already had. So yeah, by that point of view I’m a dirty rotten hoarder.

On the left is a priceless rarity that I'm hoarding in my secret lair. On the right is a simple purpose of some cheap molded lead.

On the left is a priceless rarity that I’m hoarding in my secret lair. On the right is some cheap molded lead.

Stay tuned for a photo of my “new” cheap old used air rifle which is either a fine purchase or a piece of shit I should have left on the table.

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Recreational Logging

I recently hosed my computer. (Thanks to all for the advice and commentary. I’ll go into detail at some other time. Unless I don’t.) At the moment my online presence is maintained using impulse power and semaphore. I’m OK with that. I’m an adaptive curmudgeon so who cares if the computer du jour is on fire? Also going randomly “incommunicado” is just another day to me. (Note: I said “incommunicado” and not “commando”. There’s a difference!)

In the meantime there’s this:

“The chainsaw did not vanish in a poof of virtual digits and it will be winter soon. I might chuck the whole thing and stack wood instead.”

That’s just what I did:

Firewood is wary prey. One must track the tree back to its lair and attack it when it's not paying attention. While there are other means of hunting, the trusty chainsaw is the moth common method of taking harvestable trees.

Firewood is wary prey. I tracked this tree back to its lair and ambushed it when was not paying attention. While there are other means of hunting, the trusty chainsaw is the most common method of take.

Those silly squirrels! It's a little known fact that small mammals like to implant metal deep inside a tree bole. Grind on some of this junk for a few seconds and your formerly sharp chain is a series of randomly shaped bits of steel suitable only for making smoke.

Those silly squirrels! It’s a little known fact that small mammals like to implant metal deep inside a tree bole. Grind on junk like this and your formerly sharp chain will be a series of randomly shaped bits of steel that won’t do much more than make smoke.

Technology is your friend. A splitting maul is perfectly adequate, provided you've got arms like Popeye and all day to kill. There's a reason God gave us the hydraulic ram.

Technology is your friend. A splitting maul is perfectly adequate; provided you’ve got arms like Popeye and all day to kill. The rest of us have shit to do, bad backs, and a tight schedule. There’s a reason God gave us the hydraulic ram. (Note: This splitter, my friend and trusted companion, has agreed to serve as the protagonist in a series of posts later this year. Really.)

The forest is a deadly place. I was attacked by velociraptors.

The forest is a deadly place. I was attacked by velociraptors.

When the wood chunks are too heavy to easily lift I switch the splitter to "vertical mode". It's important that every wood block be shorter than the stroke of the hydraulic ram. This chunk, from the base of the tree, is about an inch too long.

When the wood chunks are heavy enough that lifting them pisses me off, I switch the splitter to “vertical mode”. It’s important that every wood block be shorter than the stroke of the hydraulic ram. This chunk, from the base of the tree, is about an inch too long.

I protected the heavy steel splitting wedge from unslightly scratches by keeping my thumb between it and a wildly unbalanced block of wood. Note: if you roll a 140 pound block of wood into an area 1" too short you will learn a valuable lesson. Yes, I carry a first aid kit. Also, if you damage a finger on a 27 ton ram and it happens when the engine is off, that's about the best case scenario. (Also, I was wearing heavy leather gloves too. I hate to think what would have happened without them. My hitchiking career would be over!!)

I protected the heavy steel splitting wedge from getting scratched by slipping my thumb between it and a wildly unbalanced block of wood. Note: if you roll a 140 pound block of wood into an area 1″ too short you will learn a valuable lesson. Also, if you damage a finger on a 27 ton ram and it happens when the engine is off, that’s about the best case scenario. (BTW: I was wearing heavy leather gloves so it was no big deal. Without the gloves my hitchiking career would be over!!)

Payload. Payload. Payload. If you've got 2/3 cord of oak in the bed, there's plenty of room for 500 pounds of pig feed. Why else did you buy the big axles?

Payload. Payload. Payload. If you’ve got 2/3 cord of oak in the bed, there’s plenty of room for 500 pounds of pig feed. Why else did you buy the big axles? (Notice the gas can? That’s unleaded for the splitter and it’ll last a long time. The 2 cycle fuel is a little one gallon can behind the feed. I can fell, buck, and split a full cord on less than a gallon, maybe even half a gallon. Compared to inputs like labor, the cost of gas for this kind of work is  almost irrelevant.)

Happy bacon!

Happy bacon!

It takes a little less than two pickup loads to to make this stack... which is a little less than a single cord.

This particular stack is about one single cord in volume. (Equivalent volume to a 4’x4’x8′ stack.) It came from a single small/medium tree (dead and standing). This isn’t the only stack I’ve got but it’s the best one for a photo of “one cord”. I felled, cut, split, hauled, and stacked every goddamn stick myself. It’s a “slow and steady” kind of job. Rely too much on brute force and you’ll burn out. (Unless you’re 19 years old and bulletproof.) A smart fella will do half the pile one day and half a week later. It helps to have good gear but you can get pretty far with a saw, splitter, and a truck. A very old saw, well tuned, is fine. The splitter is optional. A trailer will suffice instead of a truck. (I used the pony trailer that way for years.) The bag in front is 100 pounds of pig feed… gotta’ keep the bacon happy.

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