WHY COFFEE TASTES BETTER FROM A PINK CUP

I love coffee in the morning. Especially cold mornings, when the temperature has dipped, and there is frost on the ground. I love to get up early on these mornings, bundle up in some warm clothes, and sit on the porch sipping my coffee while watching the sun peak over the horizon.

Now I am not talking about super special wonder coffee that has names longer most scientific organisms. While I like some flavored coffee, it doesn’t have to come from a faraway land with a special blend. In fact some of those fancy coffee shops almost take the fun right out of coffee. Take for example Starbucks. If I want a regular cup of coffee I have to choose from the following:

-Latin American coffees
-Africa Arabia coffees
-Asia Pacific coffees
-Multi-region coffees
-Specialty roasts
-Organic & Fair trade

Seriously, all I want is a hot cup of coffee. And don’t get me started on the “fu-fu” drinks:

-Mocha
-White chocolate mocha
-Skinny white chocolate mocha
-Half caf non fat mocha chino with a dash of pumpkin spice full foam
-Sugar free soy latte half foam decaf


What the hell have we come to? In our world of ever increasing technology and our “keep up with the Jones’s” attitudes, we have successfully taken the fun out of the one and only simple pleasure of morning. A steaming cup of coffee to start the day. Is it too much to ask?

The routine is fairly simple in my world. Here is how it works: The night before I reach into the cupboard and pull out a can of coffee. Not whole bean flavored coffee (although some of the flavored stuff is kinda good) that you have to grind to retain its freshness, just plain old Folgers from the red plastic can. Fill coffee maker with water and ground coffee. Set timer, and go to bed. Wake up, walk into the kitchen and pour my coffee, walk out to the porch and enjoy the morning. That is what I love about my morning coffee. Simple, good and starts the day out right.

Now for the kicker: Why does it taste better from a pink cup? Because that pink cup belongs to my mother-in-law and when I am drinking out of it, it means that my lazy butt didn’t have to do the prep work, or even fill the cup. It means “mom” had it ready for me. So thanks mom…….keep the pink cup coming.
That’s it from the porch

David
AAF Staff

Archery......how it effected me!

When I was about 13 years old, my parents purchased an Indian Spirit "compound" bow for me. At the time I had no idea how to shoot it, where exactly to rest the arrow, or what those little pins were. I had an idea that the nock should go between those two black marks, but for the life of me, I could not hit anything. Why did it fishtail like that? How could anyone be accurate with such a thing? After 26 years, the bow is still kicking around our garage.

Last year, the idea of flinging arrows took on new life for me when a friend gave me an old PSE Infinity SR1000. The thing felt stiff, but it was fun to launch arrows and have them actually hit the target. Here was some power and a semblance of accuracy! My interest in archery was reborn. I got as good as shooting 6 inch groups at 25 yards, but I was never confident enough to take it out for a hunt. Hunting - now there was another area where I had much learning to do. I had never hunted in my life, so I knew next to nothing about hunting tactics and the behaviors of the elusive whitetail deer.

Then there was the day I shot a friend's modern day Hoyt. I can't remember the model, but it sure was different. He warned me…………said it would be dangerous, and he said my wife might hate him for it (she doesn't). Knowing the potential risks this venture posed to my wallet and relationship with the woman I love, I went ahead and did it anyway. And I knew in the instant that the arrow left the string that it was time to think about a more modern bow. One year later, I got involved in the online archery community, and I picked up a PSE Axe 6. The 70 lbs felt much smoother and easier than the old creaky bow I had been shooting, and the speed was startling. It wasn't until a friend came over and really looked over my old bow that I learned that I had actually been pulling 80lbs on that old dinosaur. Ouch. I haven't drawn it back since. That same friend then went on to give me an education about archery, shooting form, equipment selection, and hunting tactics. He's been doing it all his life - and he loves to teach. I owe him a lot.

Learning about draw length, arrow spine, FOC, brace height, the release options and types, the arrow types, the stabilizer options, broad heads, the rests... and on and on... has been interesting, stimulating, addicting, and expensive. But for some crazy reason, it's all worth it! I have made new friends, and through their generosity and time, they have enabled me to become an archer.

For some, the goal is making that score in competition. For others, it's that trophy animal or getting meat in the fridge. Those are the obvious benefits. But I'm sure many of you can attest to the benefits of quiet time in the woods, connecting with the primal hunter within, the joy of having a good day of target practice, or getting an A-HA moment where you make a correction and it makes you better in an instant. It is also very rewarding to tinker with the bow to get it more in tune to improve you’re shooting. But most rewarding (at least in my opinion) is to have the opportunity to fellowship with like minded souls, to minister to others with similar interests, or to be a mentor or a student in this sport.

For me, it's a little of all that, as I am sure it is with many of you. There's just something about pulling that string back and letting the arrow fly - something that draws me back to the sport, compels me to sit just another hour out in the cold, or makes me go one more round at the target. It's why I will shoot for the rest of my life as long as I am able.

I would have none of that right now if it had not been for my friends' investments in my life. What drives you to keep going in archery? What is it that you love about it? And who in your life might need you to show them the way? Take a moment and remember when you were new to the sport, and think about how you might share that joy with someone else in the coming year.

Tom Pierce-Ruhland
Archery Addix Forum Member

Africa Three

I was on my third Safari with my good friend and guide Roger Coomber of Vieranas Safaris in Namibia, when all too quickly it was my last day on Vieranas, and it turned out to be the most magical day in my fifty years of hunting.

We had decided to go to an area that was surrounded by a large number of Kopjes (granite boulder hills of varying sizes and height). These Kopjes provided protection from the strong winds, which were creating serious dust storms out on the plains. I had fond memories of this wild rugged place, as it was here that I had shot my wonderful fifty inch Kudu Bull two years ago.

Kudu’s are probably one of the most sought after game in Africa. With their long spiraling horns and regal appearance, these wonderful animals are often referred to as the ‘Grey Ghost’ of the desert, a reputation well deserved with their ability to disappear into the smallest amount of cover right before our eyes.

We were only in the blind an hour, when a huge Kudu bull came in. Roger and I had previously discussed the possibility of a big one coming in, and I had suggested to him, that I was not interested in getting another one unless he was 55inches or bigger, (thinking that I was unlikely to see one remotely near that size). When this beauty walked in Roger started to get excited. His first guess was that he was 53-54 inches. “Very nice” I whispered, but I was still happy with the one that I already had. As the Kudu turned his head, Roger started to get really agitated. “I bet he goes at least 55inches” he whispered, “look at the way those magnificent curls come out from the base; I have never seen anything like him before”. Well I can tell you that really put the pressure on me, almost without thinking, I put an arrow tight in his shoulder through both lungs. After a mad dash, he fell over within eighty meters. Roger and I looked at each other completely dumb founded. Then the adrenalin kicked in. We were bouncing off the walls with excitement. Just as suddenly I stopped and thought, “oh shit” what have I done? I had only recently got my original Kudu from the Taxidermist, and now I had another one on the ground. I had visions of my wife Jan, slowly killing me when I got home. Those thoughts however were quickly forgotten, as I walked up to him. The closer we got the bigger he become, and I started to get the shakes. Roger whipped out his tape measure and with very unsteady hands started to measure him. We could not believe our eyes when the tape stopped at a whopping 58 inches. We were not sure if he would make the top ten bows shot Kudu in Namibia, but Roger said he would certainly be right up there.

We spent a long time admiring the size and symmetry of his horns. “He’s by far the biggest that we have had off this place, in fact he’s the biggest that I have ever seen” Roger said. Word gets out fast in the hunting world, within 24hours Roger had two enquirers from overseas hunters, wanting to hunt a 58 inch Kudu. I kid you not.

While all the measuring and photography was going on, the pickup truck was called in, and with very little fuss the Kudu was on its way to camp. Kudu meat is highly prized over there. In fact I was very impressed with the efficient way all the meat was handled. Nothing is wasted, everything is utilized either by the main camp, or by the staff and their families.

After a quick discussion we decided to stay in the area for the rest of the day, so we settled back in again. We had just finished our packed lunch when a faint movement out of corner of my eye caught my attention. Barely daring to move I slowly, very slowly, turned my head to get a better look. Where only a few seconds ago there had been nothing, now stood two incredibly beautiful Klipspringer’s. These wonderful animals only stand at 56 centimeters (twenty two inches) at the shoulder and weigh in at less than eighteen Kilo’s (forty lbs). Hardly daring to breathe I watched those lovely tiny light brown creatures timidly making their way down to the water hole, ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger. One was a very pregnant older Ewe, and the other a very proud young Ram. After delicately drinking their fill, they tip toed back to the point where they had appeared from, suddenly vanishing as if they had never been.

The spell was broken, and we both started talking at the same time. Not quite believing what we had seen. Sometime later I realized that it had not even occurred to me to pick up my bow. An opportunity lost perhaps, but on reflection, I know that I could not have drawn back on one of those wondrously rare creatures.

Although I have been a bow hunter for more years than I care to remember, for me hunting is only secondary. Getting out there and witnessing nature at its best is the greatest reward. Roger and I had just witnessed something unique. As long as I live I will regard that moment as one of my most memorable hunting highlights. And who better to have shared it with than my PH and good friend, Roger Coomber.

Thinking that the day just could not get any better, it did. At around 4 pm a bruiser of a Warthog came in. He was a real old boy with his tusks worn well down, but with great bases. He had a big gash down one side, and old scars all over his body. He must have felt the weight of the whole world was upon him as he came into drink. Man he had a belligerent attitude. Darting here and there, he was trying to pick a fight with his own shadow. He finally settled down, and while he was quartering away I slipped an arrow through his rib cage. He scorched the earth getting out of there, breaking trees three inches thick, as if they were match sticks. He only went forty five yards and was down; my heart went out to that grand old warrior. He obviously had experienced a very eventful life, which was nearing its end. Roger and I both agreed, better to fall to a hunters arrow than become prey to the Jackals one dark night, as most of them do when they get too weak to defend themselves.

What a day, I could not have scripted it better. There were two very happy hunters that returned to camp that evening, to have a celebratory drink, and to pack for an early start in the morning on the second part of my safari.

A small extract from a story I wrote called Africa Three

Ray Scott
New Zealand
Archery Addix Forum Member

Stray Cats

Here are my views on stray cats:

As I sit on the porch and take in the views of the Oregon desert I am drawn to think of many things: Game management (or the lack there of), poachers, rabbit populations and the effect on coyotes, and of course my never ending passion for upland birds. The last few years have not been kind to my little feathered friends. Whether due to drought, saturated wet springs or depredation our upland birds have been on the decline. And not just on public lands. I am afforded the opportunity every year to hunt a large cattle ranch that goes out of its way to provide excellent habitat for our lovely quail. Thick brush, open fields, gravel roads and plenty of water. I relish the opportunities I have to just drive through and see a blossoming population.

So two years ago when we noticed the populations declining on the ranch we set out to find the source. Like I mentioned earlier, some of it was due to factors out of our control, like overly wet springs. But there seemed to be a decent population of young birds that made it through to summer. Coyotes were of course a factor and we did our best to keep their populations in check, but there was another predator that we didn't expect. Ferrel cats! Seems the high turn over rate of cowboys on the ranch has led to a large number of family pets being left behind when the cowboys and their families moved on. This was a problem we could take control of.

Now before any of you start reporting me to PETA (the bad one, not the tasty animal one) understand that these cats have no legitimate use on our planet. They cannot be re-domesticated and turned into house cats again. They are feral to the core and want to remain that way.

So, how you may ask, will I help with this exploding population of cats? Easy, its called load development! Ever work up a pet (no pun intended) hand-load and wanted to test it on critters for its effectiveness? Feral cats offer the perfect opportunity. While I am NOT advocating taking out your neighbors "stray" domesticated cat, I am an advocate of helping our bird populations with a little "kitty cat fun". LOL!

Spotlight, 204, thermos of coffee and a night of fun. Try it sometime and DON'T post pictures. 204 makes for an ugly cat portrait.

Well that's my view for this week.

David
AAF Staff