Cal Fire and this is one of them. No exact location given.
This is the second of the pictures from Cal Fire.
Same shot same time but out in the open.
Eastbound on Hwy 190 at the River Island Golf Course. Black Mountain is dead ahead but you can't see it for the smoke.
We're almost back at the ranch (large white mailbox on the left). Black Mountain is dead ahead.
You can see the fire at the top of Black Mountain. The pic was taken while stopped in front of the rodeo grounds.
This is looking north from Sequoia Dawn. The sun is having a difficult time making it through the smoke.
Same shot as above only zoomed in.
This is Black Mountain seen from eastbound on Hwy 190 approaching the golf course. Much of the area smoke has lifted and now you can see the fire on top.
It’s September!!! If that doesn’t just hose your begonias! If not, I bet it
makes you Cuckoo for Coco Puffs. Anyway, let’s get on with this posting before
another month passes from all the bellyaching.
Wildfire report: you know things are going to be…interesting…when
you are on your way home and you can see flames at the top of the mountains a
few miles east! From what we can tell, a couple of hooligans stole a car, set
it on fire, then pushed it off a cliff a few miles above Springville. That
little stunt seems to be the newest craze in outdoing other stupid criminals.
It occurred at 2:30AM and started a fire on Highway 190 where there is an
abundance of both cliffs and bone dry dead shrubs and trees that had perished
in the recent three year drought. Not sure how long it took to be noticed but,
given the light traffic at that time of the morning that far up the hill, I
suspect that it didn’t give our fire fighters much of a chance at containment
at all.
Smoke: at first there was smoke and it was
annoying. The next day, however, the wind seemed to keep it at bay so things weren’t
too bad but still weren’t optimal. We
could see the smoke cloud in the distance but took no thought about the fact
that it could actually head our direction. After all, Cal Fire was on duty and hard at
it. The next day was worse but still manageable. Today, the fire is ZERO
contained (update: 10% containment) and is not only over the mountain, the smoke
is horrendous! We can hardly see across the street for the smoke!! We had wondered
why the big air attack tankers weren’t flying then it became obvious: you can’t
fly in a mountainous area when you can’t see the mountains (I catch on really
quickly, eh?).
The fire has quickly gone uphill (east) but it
has not forgotten to head south and west (where we are). The folks within a couple of miles of us
probably need not worry but you can bet that no one will be caught napping any
time soon. Here’s the latest from Cal-Fire:
There are mandatory evacuations from Balch Park
Road at Highway 190 (at the north edge of Springville) and from Highway 190
eastward (again, from the edge of Springville). The evacuation included Bear
Creek Road as well. A dear friend of mine lives there and had to evacuate and
it caused her to miss the class reunion that we just had.
The air tankers and helicopters have been flying
when they can. Methinks that Cal Fire’s resources are stretched, though, since
there is another fire south of us and others in the LA area and then at the
north end of the state. We did have a heavy hauling C-130 here but it seems
that the big jet air tanker was pulled from our job to fight elsewhere. Oh,
well.
Check with the above link for updates. I’d love
to maintain updates but am so far behind I’ll likely not be through until
Christmas (*SIGH*).
Chickenin’ Report: Hey! Hey!
Hey! We have tres nuevo pollo peepers! Friend and Brother, Brian Johnson, once
again managed to snag three new one or two day old chicks for us! We made haste
over there to get them and now have them…in the kitchen. Ah, yes. That would be
the same kitchen that Connie the Canner
advised that there would be no more chickening in her kitchen. Silly her. Just
like the last time Brian gave us those cute, cuddly, peeping poopers, she just
couldn’t help herself. Her mothering (chickening?) instincts kicked in and she
embraced the little fuzzy critters and adopted them as her own. The long haul in
raising chicks to hen-dom is upon us.
The Ol’ Flock Master had to
have a long talk with his girls the other day. The huevos harvest has been far
too modest as of late; it’s almost as though someone has ripped off most of my
hens and replaced them with roosters.
Now, honestly, my “Cluck
Speak” isn’t really dialed in. And, I’m guessing that most of you have yet to
download the “Star Trek Universal Translator” software from “Amazon.com” (it’s
a bit spendy so I understand). So, I’ll just translate the best that I can so
you can get the gist of the pep talk.
It went something like this:
“Ladies, you have my heart-felt thanks for your not-so-recent
four-dozen-per-day egg production. But, girls, girls, girls, our numbers have
dropped so low that a kindergartner has fingers left over after counting all
the eggs! However, though the temperature is hot enough to fry chicken….OOPS!!
Sorry, girls!! ….hot enough to reduce your motivation somewhat, something is
wrong here. Production has dropped off like someone has welded your tubes shut!
There are a whole lot of you and a hole where a lot of eggs need to be. Are you
dealing on the side? I mean, just how hard is this gig, anyway?
Plus, you get plenty of fresh
clean water, the best of scratch, crumble, tons of greens, and you even get to
free range! When it’s a real scorcher out there, I even turn on the misters for
you. And, don’t you remember the serenades in the evening times? OK! OK! I know
I didn’t bring my guitar; sorry about that. But, I am…I am… trying! So, how
about some help here, ladies! This is as close to Chicken Nirvana as I can get
it for now!” If there is any compassion in a chicken’s DNA, that should work.
Sure hope I don’t have to
resort to contacting the Kool Klucks Klan chicken rock band for entertainment. Perhaps dancing chickens produce more eggs. I
dunno. Maybe I could paint the coop in mod colors and such and they would think
they are in Hawaii or Cabo San Lucas. All that stuff could get expensive and
the efficacy thereof is in question. Or, perhaps I could get a deal from
Colonel Sanders. Naw. I would just give them away. Reckon I’m just an old softy.
Some folks are brave hearts. Me? I’m just a big ol’ puff heart. My side cook
thinks I can be callous at times, though (especially when it comes to fuzzers),
and calls me “Captain Hoof Hearted”. Oh, well.
What happens when you mix
grandkids with chickens? Well…you just never know. The second week of the
month, the Howden family (six of the eight of them) came over for a visit. Of
course, when you are from the LA area, seeing a ranch is part of the wonderment
of life for young’uns and that day was no exception. The highlight was our
pecking crew who were out free ranging in the back. So, out back we went to
watch “Chicken TV”. They all had a great time of chickenin’ and watching the
feathery flocking friends foraging for goodies.
Some of the braver ones wanted to hold one of the pullets so I grabbed one from the pullet pen where we keep our three latest layers-to-be. Of course, the chicken wiggled and when a chicken wiggles when it is being held by a four year old, the child thinks he's being attacked by a grizzly and flings it far from him. That was OK with the chicken who wanted to practice free ranging anyway. After being passed around between kids and being daintily mauled, we put our little pullet back in her cage. She won't remember a thing.
Some of the braver ones wanted to hold one of the pullets so I grabbed one from the pullet pen where we keep our three latest layers-to-be. Of course, the chicken wiggled and when a chicken wiggles when it is being held by a four year old, the child thinks he's being attacked by a grizzly and flings it far from him. That was OK with the chicken who wanted to practice free ranging anyway. After being passed around between kids and being daintily mauled, we put our little pullet back in her cage. She won't remember a thing.
All the kiddies and oldies had a great time. Then it was “huggies all around” and away they went back to the big city. I have little doubt that they'll be back for more chickening.
You may want to note that we
recently re-introduced a rooster into the fleet of three-toed fertilizer
spreaders. He is proving that he is a real “take charge” sort of rooster.
Though quite young, he seems to have his vocation dialed in and makes for a
super peace keeper amongst the rowdy Rhode Island Reds. I’ve yet to hang a moniker on him but it shouldn’t take long.
I wish I hadn’t gotten rid of
Kenny Leghorn but, c’est la vie. Likewise, our feral roosters were doing a
great job until Gus, the Australian Heeler, played fetch with them. Lessons
learned.
Abbie the Princess Coon Dog:
yep…she done did it again; she treed yet another coon! On Tuesday night, at
about 10:30 PM (thankfully, not at 12:30 AM), we heard our semi-precious (too
many time outs) precocious pooch giving her baying instincts a workout. Thanks
to her highly refined “CDNDS” (“Coon Dog Nasal Detection System”), we knew that
she was on high alert. Out comes the big tactical flashlight (why did I almost
write testicle flashlight?) and out the back door the Ol’ Rancher went with his
torch ablaze.
Our coon doggie was at the
base of the goodly sized Mulberry tree in the back by the barn and whatever was
up there was sure getting a good bawling out! A quick flash with my night light
that can light up an entire neighborhood and bingo! There was a real live
masked bandit parked in our tree. Now, I don’t about you but, it’s been awhile
since I’ve needed a new coonskin cap (and they probably aren’t selling too well
on eBay right now anyway). Plus, you can’t be a good neighbor if you are firing
your .30 cal hunting rifle at that time of night. Since I do want to be a good neighbor,
and since I don’t need a cap, and since the coon was smaller and not a “keeper”,
I decided to just let Abbie wear herself out and let the coon go. That’s
probably what happened since the coon was gone the next day and Abbie napped a
lot.
Fuzzer Report: as learned in
the previous episode, the fuzzers around here are gettin’ mighty brave. The
other day one of them took a bet that he couldn’t sneak up to within about 25
yards of the house. Little did the mangy varmint know that I was waiting with
my Ruger Model 10-22 “Critter Git’er”; it was locked and loaded. Ol’ Dead Eye
nailed the varmint on the first go around. .22 cal bullets are only about 3
cents each but I’m sorta frugal, don’tcha know. I truly hope that he had
pre-paid the bet because it will help pay for his funeral expenses.
In only a few minutes,
another fat fuzzer sat preening himself at about 50 yards out. Obviously, he
had no fear of sitting still out in the open: silly him. It took a second quick
shot but the total funeral bill was doubled rather quickly. The colony would do
well to opt for some life insurance because there’s a new varmint hating
attitude in town and it belongs to me. Fuzzer Fury Ran – 2 – Mangy Varmints –
0.
If that doesn’t just make you do the “Truffle
Shuffle” (all you “Goonies” fans out there….FYI: I met the guy that owned that
house. My neighbor was his girlfriend when I lived in Longview, WA), a few days
later, two rather brave brown buggers entered the kill zone of my back yard.
They had hoped to cop a meal with our chickens who have been tasked with keeping
the back yard free of food (and, boy! Are they good at it!). Brown muncher
number one creeped over to a large patch of fresh greens that I had tossed out
for my girls. Lo and behold if he didn’t present himself fully lengthwise (the
largest target area available). Slowly I turned….step by step….and raised the
Ruger “Fuzzer Buster” to bear; in only a moment, the fuzzer buffet was closed. The
Ol’ Rancher was mighty proud of himself but was he about to get a pleasant surprise.
After a few minutes of
collating pictures for the recent class reunion, it was time for another break.
Hey! I’m not working for the union. I can break when I please! Besides, in the
old days I was concerned about how big my boogaloo was (after all; Wolfman Jack
was always asking us that question). Nowadays, I’m concerned about the size of
my bladder. Break time! So, there!
Moving along….it just so
happens that, on my way to the elimination station, I glanced out the window
only find a second really stupid furry glutton grazing on my hens’ greens. The “Fuzzer
Buster” was at hand (as always) so….slowly I turned….step by step….I plumb
snuck up on the little thief and took aim: no more unwelcomed guests at the
buffet. Wheeew! Two pelts in one day! It’s a dadgum shame that there isn’t a
bounty on these things. I could make a lot of gas money in my spare time……oh.
Connie the Canner and the Ol’
Rancher attended his 50th class reunion on the 2nd of
this month. I must say that it was a nice time and was a very enjoyable
experience. Can’t say that that’s what I expected. I guess I really didn’t know
what to expect other than trying to figure out who all the old people were.
Come to find out, that’s what everyone else thought too.
It was great getting to see
the old gang again. There wasn’t enough time to really sit and visit and get
caught up on everything with everybody. So, everyone settled for hitting the
highlights and latest updates on things. I took lots of pictures but may not
get many posted for now. That may have to wait until the next posting. Not….enough….time.
Everything else is…moving along…and on an even keel. We do have an issue with flooding in the coop but, so far, it’s manageable. The neighbors seem to think that flooding their back yard will make their rocks grow or something. They have a few woodsy trees and shrubs but nothing that warrants two days of flood irrigation. Ugh. I keep my wading boots on all of the time when outside.
There you have it: another
episode of what’s happening at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's
foremost authority (the previous one died), Connie the Canner (world's greatest
side-cook), where things can get…interesting, and where… you just never know.
