start pushing the buttons around the screen here it is the 2nd button right side that is the mute many stations put a sticker on it

5

I always wondered the same thing. And guns rusting to the point they wouldn’t function.

Would be cool to come across one of those old caches. There has to be hundreds of them out there that were never dug back up.

Heard it was going into extra innings?

https://www.themeateater.com/listen/the-american-west

I like the way yes sir goes about his testing.

You learn a lot more that way.



I don’t do it that way. Haha


All my “testing” is behind a trap, or on a getter head. Being payed to kill coyotes I don’t feel I should be “messing” with them without trying to kill them.

And, that is ultimately the final test anyway. Like yes sir said, the trap changes things. But, you’re going to learn a lot more about just how attractive stuff is without the trap.

Probably thinking they make wet fire breaks to keep the fire from spreading?

Great news, I sure hope things continue to improve for you.

Looking for #1 victor stoploss traps with the square pans ( not a fan of the round pan style). Looking for several dozen . Let me know what you got.

I have one. But its only a single blade knife

The first dog a young man gets of their own is special. There is a special bond created, nearly instantly. It's as if the dog needs the young man as much as the young man needs the dog. I was that young man and Rowdy was that dog. A 9-week old puppy. A white and liver bundle of pure joy and rambunctiousness and understanding. From the moment I picked him up and held him, we had that special bond. There was an instant connection. Almost like flipping a light switch and a dark room lighting up. That was the start of the next 12 years of our lives.

Rowdy lived up to his name. He was always "talking." In fact, at times, he never shut up. He was a busy dog, always wanting to be in on the action, even when there was no action to be had. But we would have plenty of action. Plenty of adventures. We would live in three states and bird hunt in five states together.

There was a Sub-Zero degree duck hunt on the Deschutes River, that nearly ended with search-and-rescue coming to get Rowdy. He had gone out for the second bufflehead out of a double and would not get back in the water from the opposite bank. My friend finally beat the search and rescue team to the river with his drift boat and we retrieved the half-frozen GSP and what remained of my stubborn pride.

Another time, while hunting sharptails in Montana, I watched helplessly as Rowdy ran through the sage brush 25 yards in front of me and off a short cliff. He tumbled 30 feet straight down and landed on his back in some soft mud in a coulee bottom. He immediately stood up, shook the alkaline mud off and took off again in search of his feathered quarry.

All in all he successfully hunted 12 species of upland birds and many waterfowl species. He had drive. He had grit. He had a love of hunting I've not seen in many bird dogs. Rowdy pushed himself to the limits for the birds he loved so much. He had an arterial spray laceration while hunting in the middle of nowhere in North-Central Oregon. An incident that miraculously stopped bleeding after a few minutes of compression. How the blood went from spurting out of his leg with every beat of his heart to completely stopping in a few minutes is beyond me, to this day. He dropped in his tracks in a hypoglycemic seizure after his 40th retrieve of the day while I used him guiding upland hunts on a ranch in eastern Oregon.

Did I mention Rowdy was vocal? Whether it was driving down a dirt road for 30 miles with him singing high-pitched songs the whole time or rummaging around the house "talking" to anything that moved, Rowdy had things to say. It always drove me to the point of going bonkers at the time. I would often turn the music up in the truck, to drown him out, but it never really worked.

As he got older his body slowed down a bit. The once well-oiled gears he had started to turn a bit slower. But his same exuberant personality remained. Rowdy was always young at heart. My girlfriend at the time said he smelled bad. He smelled like a combination of old dog, stale pretzels and salmon, on account of his breath and I absolutely adored it.

The cancer came fast and strong and he didn't suffer long at all. He retrieved the most beautiful drake bufflehead I have ever seen 5 days before I put him down. A bird I have mounted on my wall in remembrance of him. Now that he is gone, I miss his constant "talking." Miss the joy in his brown eyes, clouded with cataracts. The constant wagging of his little white tail. I wish I could have bottled up that stale pretzel scent of his. But the many memories we made together remain. Rowdy still visits me in my dreams. I feel his presence in the wind, alongside my current GSP and I, hunting the prairies of Montana. I gave him the best life I could at the time. But it was Rowdy who gave me the real gift. The gift of a young man's bond with his first bird dog. I hope to see him on the other side. Rest easy, hunt hard Rowdy.

The CPM blade will be knight and day difference to your Walmart knifes and worth every penny.