Thursday, 31 March 2011

Crap Outdoors Pt1

File under: 'there's one born every minute, and two to sell him 'must have' accessories.

I saw these in a shop once, only when you've held these hiking-boot-shaped-slippers in your own hands can you know just how crap they are. REALLY! And the money! Shheeesh you could buy a really really good pair of boots that would last 20+ years for the cash they want for them!

The sales copy is stunningly bad too
Hiking is a popular activities among young adults who have enough energy to sports activities. At this time, you need a better pair of hiking shoes, mbt hiking boots can be this one......All these benefits for the people in the sale of MBT shoes far outweigh the higher interest rates Crap.

There's a lot of crap out there - fortunately you have me to scoop it up for you.

SBW

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Field Trial: Muck Boots Review

Stalk 
verb:  pursue or approach stealthily : a cat stalking a bird.
• chiefly poetic/literary move silently or threateningly through (a place) : the tiger stalks the jungle | figurative fear stalked the camp.
noun: a stealthy pursuit of someone or something.
ORIGIN late Old English -stealcian (in bistealcian [walk cautiously or stealthily] ), of Germanic origin; related to steal .

Warm
adjective: of or at a fairly or comfortably high temperature : a warm September evening. 
• (of clothes or coverings) made of a material that helps the body to retain heat; suitable for cold weather : a warm pair of boots.
• Hunting (of a scent or trail) fresh; strong.

Dry
adjective: drier , driest
• Free from moisture or liquid; not wet or moist : the boots kept me warm and dry.

Lot's of people like to stalk in clomp-clomp walking boots, personally I'd prefer a pair of trainers [sneakers] if it wasn't for the annoying way twigs work themselves into your shoes and even the smallest encounter with a puddle leaves you with wet feet for the rest of the day.  The other option seemed to be wellies. I've long hated wellington boots, most of my experiences of having severely cold feet featured the ill-advised choice of wellies. 

Then I noticed a that Ghost Rifle was using a pair of these, and a little searching online suggested that a lot of people who are outdoors all day, every day are wearing them. The Muck Boot has the water repelling property of a wellie, the warmth of a hiking boot, and only the weight of a trainer/sneaker.  Hmmm? So when I got the chance to buy a lightly-worn pair for testing I clicked straight away. Glad I did.

Testing took place over two days stalking Fallow deer in East Sussex. Although we didn't walk far, just over four and a half miles (TBB was wearing a pedometer), we did wade through some very thick mud, and most tellingly, we sat still for long periods of time. My feet remained toasty. They were much easier to sneak around in than walking boots. There are several different sole patterns available - if I'd bought them from new I would instinctively have gone for a chunkier pattern, but no problems at all.

More Soon
SBW




Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Monday, 28 March 2011

Confit de Lapin AKA Knifeless Rabbit




Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hoppin' through the forest
Scooping up the new shoots and
stuffin' 'em in his gob

Along came the Bambi Basher, who said:
'SBW, with the Rigby, could ya bop him in the head?'
I work the bolt and send Little Rabbit Foo Foo a dinner invitation

Little Rabbit Foo Foo
Hoppin' through the forest
Scooping up the vegi's and turning them into protein

Little Rabbit Foo Foo
I've cooked a fair few of your friends
I've got something very special planned for you too

The Confit [con-fee] has always had a special place in my larder and my heart. Meat boiled in fat, pretty much defines YUMMY. The traditional preservation method of south-western France where geese and ducks are cooked in their own fat and can be stored for months or bottled/canned for even longer. My Confit on the other hand has never lasted longer than a meal and a sandwich the next day. This one is seriously easy and delicious, it just takes a long time to cook
 Slice shallots and crush garlic


 Bone out the cuts of rabbit and save the carcass for the stock


Use the cuts to cover the bottom of a solid pan with a tight-fitting (and preferably heavy) lid

Lay the meat on top of the  shallots and garlic (for a little extra umami I added the rabbit's heart)
Pour in olive oil (or goose/duck fat if you have it) until the meat is almost covered

Add some springs of Rosemary. Get the pan hot and then turn down the heat to the lowest possible setting, put the lid on.
I added a glass of this really rank Zinfandel - A reminder that Ex Mrs SBW is not to be trusted in the wine section of a supermarket - to the stock pot with a couple of carrots and a stock cube. In it's defense the Zinfandel did sit well with the shallots adding a pleasing sweetness. 
Once I'd reduced the stock to half a glass I added it to the pan, and that's it. Come back in three hours and test the meat with a fork. 
This is the knife-less bit: if it's not falling off the bone, give it another hour, before testing again.  
You could use the results as the basis for a cassoulet, or serve them with pasta, polenta or mashed potato.


Enjoy
Your pal
SBW


Sunday, 27 March 2011

Venison Carpaccio

First shoot your deer. 
This is the loin or backstrap, the muscle that runs down the animals spine. 
Not having sufficient larder space, instead of hanging the meat I let it stand in the fridge for a week, before marinading it in maple syrup for 36 hours then coating it in ground pepper.
I seared it all the way round in a very hot pan with a little sunflower oil (too hot to use Olive oil) and left it to stand until stone cold.
 Served sliced thinly with a 'drizzle' of Olive oil added just before serving.

Your pal
SBW

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Blood Thirsty Killer On The Bus


True Story: The rucksack is both big and full, it's Saturday evening and the bus is full too.
On a London bus there's a luggage space as you get on, I've wrestled the pack up on to it but there's no way I'm leaving it perched there to fall over so I'm standing next to it. Pretty Girl is standing next to me. The bus breaks and the pack lurches. I catch it before it crushes Pretty Girl. She smiles in thanks and says "that looks pretty serious"
SBW 'Probably weighs more than you, it's got half a deer in it'
Pretty Girl 'Road kill deer?'
SBW 'Nah I shot it this morning"

You should have seen the look on her face!

Gotta love the public
SBW

Monday, 21 March 2011

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt5



Continued from Part 3 and Part 4

Meanwhile back where we started: High Seat - Day Two:

My reverie is broken by TBB's 'pssst' and I go through the High Seat Drill - open the bolt, push the top round (bullet) back down into the magazine, close the bolt over the now empty chamber, apply safety so the bolt is locked shut and now it's safe to climb down the ladder.

We cross the bridle path and are consumed by the darkness of the woods, for about five or six minutes we pick our way up the slight hill. Just as we're reaching the end of the block we're in, part of the herd has decided to go for breakfast and they suddenly start to run past us at only 30 yards. Their way is restricted by a fence which they must duck under, one doe stands still and looks at me. Time slows. The does in front have bottlenecked where they will cross the bridle path so now I'm face to face with an eminently shootable Doe. I shoulder the Rigby, swing the rifle's wing safety down into the ready position and start the flinching - my eyes close as my finger presses against the machined surface of the trigger, I wrench them open, the Doe is still looking at me, I'm 30 yards away and miraculously the point of aim is still on the magic circle behind her shoulder, she tips her weight onto her back legs and presses forward, I squeeze, my eyes stay open. A clean miss.

The Bambi Basher doesn't need to say anything [and being the gent he is, doesn't] the bullet must have passed over her back, at that range the scope's cross hairs aren't a representation of where the bullet will go - I'd have been better off looking down the side of the barrel.

Now in the aftermath, we know only where the deer that remain on our side of the bridle path aren't, we are at a fenced corner ourselves. I sigh. That's why its called hunting.  I hand TBB the Rigby and take a few steps in the direction of the departed Doe herd. I'm about to duck under the fence myself but just obscured from our view is my Doe, lying perfectly dead on the ground.
My shot had been six inches further back than my intended point of aim and six inches high.

I gralloch the deer, [I'm still not sure why we use the Gallic word for gutted] the round had clipped her spine on the way in and exited bellow the point of impact. Dead is still dead and the hunting gods must have been on my side, only one of the deer's stomachs had taken a passing clip leaving a hole less than an inch long, using her blood to rinse out the small amount of snot, bile and part digested grass, I'm delighted to see that apart from the back straps having had a bite out of them, the rest of the meat was good. Together we heaved her into a tree, the foxes would go for the ease of the gut pile [AKA the gralloch] and leave the carcass, with the first Doe cooling in the tree we set off in search of the next one. Which eludes us.


Coming soon
Deer: Nose-to-Tail eating

Your pal
SBW


Sunday, 20 March 2011

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt4

Armed rambling: in Jinx Wood 

Day One: After our trip to the range we head to Chez Bambi Basher. The Tea Lady AKA Mrs Bambi Basher is just giving me a guided tour of forthcoming plumbing works when TBB interrupts "you'll have plenty of time for that later - we're going stalking"

SBW: "275 Rigby - In the footsteps of WDM Bell!"
Mc Shug: "Bell-end more like"

We creep into the woods as quietly as the ankle deep mud will allow, once we're off the bridle way and into the timber things quieten down and start to scout the different blocks of timber. Until I win the prize for biggest stick [trodden on].
There was sign everywhere - McShug points out some Polecat tracks crossing the deer trail

It's a delightful evenings walk, apart from the rifles and camo outfits, there is nothing to distinguish it from a bushcrafters 'bimble'. We meet a herd of 30-ish Fallow does, but once again the only backstop is a farm house so no shots are taken. The Bambi Basher has catered the outing and we sit watching the biggest wild rabbit any of us has ever seen while drinking coffee and feasting on Yorkshire tea cake.

Most non-hunters I speak to seem to imagine hunting as being a very high intensity, all action, kind of activity - I found it very relaxing.

There's more...
SBW

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt1

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt2

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt3

Saturday, 19 March 2011

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt3



Day Two: I'm sitting in a high seat, it's dawn and cool, but above freezing. I'm waiting for a deer, not just any deer but a Fallow; Briton's only deer with palmated antlers. But that's not where the story begins...

I know a couple of other outdoor bloggers, not very well because we don't spend a great deal of time together, but when we do it's always fun. The last time I was at chez Bambi Basher - I did a few little jobs for him, making his drains flow a little smoother (perils of dog breeding init) and getting a sink or two to drain a little faster. Mrs Bambi Basher AKA The Tea Lady said 'you'll be back' but you know how things are, one thing led to another and, before you know it months of passed and I'd forgotten all about the mixer tap in the kitchen and the dogs outside tap leaking.

Then I received an email the gist of which was - 'Have things that go bang, a new hunting ground and leaking taps, when are you coming down?' Being gainlessly underemployed that week I dressed for deer huntin', packed for leak stoppin' and headed for the milds of East Sussex.

If you don't know what East Sussex looks like think Virginia with smaller mountains (in fact no mountains just hills) it's farmland, and ancient woodland and very pretty. Very mild.

Where there is woodland there are deer, where there are grain farms and orchards there are deer.
Fallow a herding deer who are considered both a native and introduced species. Hunted to extinction in pre-history and then re introduced twice, by the Romans and the Normans. Due to reduced hunting pressure and changes to framing practice there are now more deer in England (particularly the south) than at any time since the Norman invasion of 1066. Some fawns are killed by Foxes in the spring but apart from that the most common cause of death for deer is the Road Traffic Accident. Farming and orchards both offer the kind of smash-and-grab feeding opportunity that the Fallow prefers, breaking from the cover of the forest to graze the pasture at dawn and dusk. With so much ground turned over to food production the land can support quite a lot of deer, although it can't support the numbers the herd has grown to. As deer in the UK don't belong to anyone they're considered wild animals, deer management falls to the landowners and farmers whose crops they're eating. The cull period for Fallow Bucks is Aug 1st - April 30th and Fallow Does Nov 1st - March 31st.

Fallow stand in height between the big red deer and the little roe deer, with the bucks measuring just over 3 feet at the shoulder and weighing a little over 200 lbs. The doe is only a bit shorter, but is more lightly built.

Meanwhile: on the edge of the woods:
Still. It's as thought the wind only works weekends and didn't know it was coming in that morning. What sounds like four different woodpeckers sound as though they're winning a head-butting competition with the local hardwoods. Owl's announce the end if their shift. I keep glassing (not attacking people with a pint glass - in the country it means using binoculars) at the tree line nothing sizeable moves, I say nothing moves but as I've now been so still for so long the mumbling creaking organism that is the forest has swallowed me whole. The bobbing of the tree next to my high seat announces the day shift has begun for the Blue Tits. Dawn breaking casts deer-like shadows.

My ears ache for the crack or scuff of a Fallow's approaching footsteps. The rifle sits cold but not inert in my hands. I know there's 'one in the pipe' I put it there myself. When a Fallow comes, if a Fallow comes, it is my intention to kill it. Firing once. The bullet will clip the top of its heart and puncture both lungs deflating them, the loss of pressure rapidly draining the blood from the Fallow's brain. The bullet will have killed the deer before the sound of the bullet arrives at the deer. No sort-of, no it'll-be-ok, no Hail-Mary shots. Just a bullet placed within a 4 inch circle centred behind the deer's front legs, or no shot at all.  This is not the frenetic action of the Battue, there will be no pressured 'snap shots' at a deer on the run. I must sit still until I can hear my own heart beat, ignoring any thoughts of bragging rites and racks on walls.

I once read a hunting story about a trip to Canada in one of the outdoor magazines where the writer breaks from his trophy quest to interview 'old Ben' (or whatever he was called) the outfits talismanic 'old bloke' who would take to the woods with an old service rifle and a bucket to sit on. Old bloke was famous for his day-long still hunts. Not for him the hour-either-side-of-dawn-and-dusk and back to the fireside, needless to say he'd acquired his talismanic status by being a very successful meat hunter. The incredulous journalist asked 'but what do you do all day? "I sit and think, but mostly I just sit".

I envy him: My thoughts run wild. I develop weird email withdrawal symptoms, I have sudden insights into the whereabouts of lost things, my body seethes with itches, aches and pains. Then the thoughts pass, my eyes defocus, my peripheral vision expands, and I'm seeing without looking.

I keep my thoughts corralled in a sombre place. Waiting. If it's possible waiting without anticipation. Just when I think I may be developing mammalian dive response, (the blood has retreated from my extremities, my heart has slowed), and I'm almost tempted to test if I can actually move my limbs for when the time comes, but don't want to break the spell, the radio beeps and I look down to see The Bambi Basher waving to me. Time for a change of tactics.

Day One - It's about velocity:
As previously reported I have a lot of trouble leaving town, getting to the station is like wading though porridge towing a dead donkey. Clients email, buses break down, trains are re-routed via Hades and I make it to our meeting place two hours after my intended arrival time.  TBB meets me at the station eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. "Feeling accurate?"

Bambi Bashers Paradise: his rifle range.
We bounce the little 4WD down the lane and into the coppice, where we set up the shooting bench and TBB breaks out the rifles.
.275 Rigby Mauser and a Full-stocked 6.5 X 55 Swede

As we're setting up Mc Shug joins us - you'll meet him later.
Shoulders looking a little tense Bushwacker?

The flinch: Veritably it doth suck
I thought I'd gotten on top of it, but after cracking my skull last summer I've developed a flinch, my eye closes and my head jerks away from the cheek-piece. I can get 3 inch groups together, but it's proper stressful and very frustrating. No more 'where two holes meet' action for the foreseeable. Bah!

More in Pt4

Your Pal
SBW

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt1

Deer Hunting In The UK Pt2

Thursday, 17 March 2011

Range Time In East Sussex


I'm on safari in East Sussex with The Bambi Basher.
First we got a bit of practice in, unfortunately due to the 'play date' Goofy Girl set up I seem to have developed a bit of a flinch. Opps! Where's a Jedi when you need one?

There's more to tell
your pal
SBW

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Pig Hunting In The UK - East Sussex


I found this tale by John Carver at the most entertaining www.sabotagetimes.com


...The reason we were meeting was to shoot some wild boar.

There are more wild boar where I live (in East Sussex) than anywhere else in England. Thousands of the buggers and they’re all at it like rabbits. As a result there’ll be thousands more before you can say “Pint of Harvey’s”. I squeezed into the double cab, having spotted a space that wasn’t occupied by a chainsaw or a roll of barbed wire and we drove across the field to the edge of the woods. We parked and I walked behind as Al carried a motherfucker of a something bore rifle and I carried a torch. He told me I was gonna be his “light-man”.
As we made our way along a track the evening was drawing in. It was getting darker by the minute. Up another track, down a further track. Across deep undergrowth. After a few moments me and Al found ourselves at the base of a dark green, metal ladder permanently attached the side of a tall tree. You’ll be forgiven for asking yourself what a ladder was doing in the middle of a forest. Don’t worry. The same thought ran through my mind.
Here’s the clever bit. Boar are bloody good at sniffing. Go after them and the last thing you can wear is Brut or Old Spice. They’ll smell fear or fags a mile off. However if you position yourself high up in a tree any aroma you might emit will waft its way high over the heads of your quarry. These country folk are a canny bunch.
Twenty feet up the tree was a “seat”. This is what they call it out here. A metal platform with a metal bench built into it. Not comfortable. Just practical. Al and I climbed up the ladder to the seat. I had his torch. He had his gun. We sat down and settled in behind a wall of camouflage netting.
Al told me not to talk. Not to move. Just to sit. And wait. There’s a lot of waiting in the country.
Al lifted his shooter and looked through the site at an open area. A clearing about 80 yards from our hideout. This is where Al reckoned the Wild Boar might roam as night drew in
Al lifted his shooter and looked through the site at an open area. A clearing about 80 yards from our hideout. This is where Al reckoned the Wild Boar might roam as night drew in. By now it was about 6.10pm. In the last 15 minutes we’d walked and climbed and sat. Now we were ready for action. Quite often people sit and wait and wait and wait. Then go home empty handed. There’s no guarantees. It could all be a waste of everyone’s time. Failing is all part of the fun. Tonight we were in luck. MORE HERE




Off to East Sussex myself - a full report on my return

SBW
Picture credit goes to Beastwatch

Monday, 14 March 2011

Conventional Ammunition Seems Mild


Yes it's one of those 'filler posts' where I repost something amusing or interesting while I'm away from the laptop.

Back soon
SBW

Friday, 11 March 2011

PEAK COFFEE!!!

The sweet black taste of morning AKA: Americano. Battery Acid. Bean Juice. Beans. Black Gold. Black Ichor Of Life. Brain Juice. Brew. Brewtus. C8H10N4O2: (The molecular formula for caffeine). Café. Caffe. Caffeine Fix. Cup of Brew. Cup of Joe. Cup of Jolt. Cupped Lightning. Daily Grind. Day-Starter. Demitasse. Dishwater. Drip. Embalming Fluid. Express Train. Go Juice. High Octane. High Test (after the high-octane gas). Hojo. Hot Stuff. Ink. Jamoke: (Java + Mocha). Java. Jet Fuel. Jitter Juice. Jo. Joe. Kaffe: (Swedish).Kape: (Manila). Leaded. LAS-Legal Addictive Stimulant. Lifeblood. Lifer's Juice. Liquid Energy. Liquid Lightning. Misto. Mocha. Mojo. Morning Mud. Morning Thunder. Mother’s Little Helper. Mud. Muddy Water. Murk. Norwegian plasma. Oil. One's Daily Infusion. Pentecostal Whiskey. Perk or Perky. Plasma. Roast. Rocket Fuel. Swedish gasoline. Tar. The Fix. The Regular. Turpentine. Unleaded. Vitamin C. Wake Up Call. Wakey Juice. Warmer Upper. Zip or whatever you want to call it...

The shortage of high-end Arabica coffee beans is also being felt in New York supermarkets and Paris cafes, as customers blink at escalating prices. Purveyors fear that the Arabica coffee supply from Colombia may never rebound — that the world might, in effect, hit “peak coffee.”


In 2006, Colombia produced more than 12 million 132-pound bags of coffee, and set a goal of 17 million for 2014. Last year the yield was nine million bags.


The Specialty Coffee Association of America warned this year, “It is not too far-fetched to begin questioning the very existence of specialty coffee.”

Wherever you stand on Peak Oil [realists in one pile, la-la-la-I'm-not-listening-'s in the other] here's some very bad news. PEAK COFFEE. Seriously. Yield of the good stuff is down as much as 70%. Imagine life with 70% less coffee! I'm honestly too flustered to know what to do? It doesn't even keep that long in the freezer! What are we going to do?

Your worried pal
SBW

PS The first person to suggest that most fraudulent of products "instant' coffee is banned.

Pic is Cafuerteras by Javier Jaén

Thursday, 10 March 2011

The Most Massively Useful Thing A Bushcrafter Can Have?


A micro fibre travel towel: 
shown in the traditional outdoor blog style, 
with brass and blade [for no discernible reason]

The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels...

"A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with."

The Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
 www.douglasadams.com

All true, great advice, and well worth keeping an eye out for in the sale bin of your local outdoor store.

More soon

SBW

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Unboxing: Spyderco Urban Knife Review

Big, big fan of the Spyderco design aesthetic; some very well thought-out knives at price points from cheap to mid range. If you're spending £25 or £175 the knives represent very good value, (even better value in the USA where prices are 30-40% cheaper) and the choice of steels is enough to satisfy the most anal collector discerning enthusiast.

As ever my choices were determined by:
A, the second hand market (contrary to popular belief there is a limit to the amount I'll spend on toys kit)
B, the time I have to put into watching the second hand market. I've missed a few bargains, this catch was not the spec I really wanted but the price was about what I wanted to pay.

In folding knife design what I really like are 'integral or frame locks' (like the Subcom F) but in the UK this most ingenious of safety features is deemed to make your knife 'weapons grade' and is therefore only permissible with 'good reason' and good reason is to be determined by a costly visit to the local courthouse.
Unit of Measurement .270
As is so often the case, restriction has led to innovation, with many makers seizing the opportunity to provide a 'street legal' knife for our EDC needs. Spyderco have been leaders in this field with the UKPK (UK Pen Knife) and the Urban both being slip-joints i.e held open but not locked open - just like a traditional penknife. Blade length for UK pocket carry is restricted to 3 inches (75mm) and the Urban comes in at 2 and 9/16ths (65 mm) with the whole knife only 6 and 1/16ths (154 mm).

The Urban is made in Japan with VG10 blade steel and G10 for the handle. Although the Spyderco-rati deem the made-in-Japan models to be second fiddle to the USA made knives in terms of finish, as users they are the same.

I already own a VG10 bladed knife (its the centre section of the laminated Fallkniven F1's blade [Reviews here] ) and while it's one of the more difficult steels to sharpen, when you get there it really takes and holds an edge.

I'm going to be using a Spyderco Sharpmaker (review here) to care for it.  I've had the Sharpmaker for a few years now and I'm even happier with it now than I was when I got it. The Sharpmaker sets the angle between stone and blade. As its Spyderco/Spyderco the angle of the stones is 20/20, perfectly set to the blades grind. I'll let you know in part two how easy a blade it is to maintain.

First impressions:
Neat and Petite - Not ideal for slicing a whole ham, but perfect for sausage or biltong
Well Made - The fit is good, all the parts are tight, some of the surface finishs could be better
Excellent Materials - VG10 is a great knife steel, and the handle's G10 is totally uniform
Good Value - Just that little bit nicer than the cheaper knives, almost as nice as knives twice the price.

Looking forward to some thorough field testing

Your pal
SBW

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

I Want One - A Not So Occasional Series Pt19

Now this is seriously cool, and for once not only something I cant afford but something that isn't on sale at all. Hopefully that will change an it'll go into production. I want one!

We've all seen small wood and wood gas burning stoves, we've all seen them with electric fans, but this puppy uses no batteries AND generates electricity to power your gizmos afield!

For More Click Here


More soon
SBW




http://biolitestove.com/Full_Demonstration.html

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

Oetzi: Putting A Face To The Name

Twenty years after his ice preserved body was found the 5,000-year-old "Iceman" discovered on the border between Italy and Austria we can now see Dutch artist Adrie Kennis' impression of what Oetzi would have looked like.

Picture credit and more here

PS This is a really great resource to learn more about Oetzi/Otzi
More soon
Your pal
SBW