January 13, 2026: Death Of A Crackpot
Erich von Däniken, who was perhaps the greatest nut-job of all time, has died. He espoused the theory that ancient civilizations (e.g., the Egyptians, the Mayans, etc.) were periodically visited by advanced creatures from outer space, who gave them the knowledge and tools to build their great structures such as the Pyramids.
The preposterous idea that advanced, superior beings came to Earth (and, by the way, have continued to do so) to give humans advice and assistance was "supported" in his books by the best example of circular logic I've ever encountered. The "argument" goes like this: "The ancient Egyptians could not have erected the Pyramids without help. The Pyramids were, however, erected. This proves they had help. The only way they could get help is from extraterrestrial visitors. Therefore we know that Earth has been visited by extraterrestrials." Makes perfect sense if you are deficient in the ability to think.
Chariots of the Gods came out while I was an undergraduate. Everyone in my class was talking about it, so I read it. It was so ridiculous that I could hardly accept that anyone could take it seriously, but obviously many people who should have known better did. The cover shown here is of the 50th anniversary edition. If the "astonishing photographs" touted on it are the same ones in the 1968 edition, I can assert that they're the sort of muddy, blurry, unfocused pictures used to "prove" the existence of UFOs, also purported to be of extraterrestrial origin. One has to be utterly naive and completely incapable of logical thinking to swallow this bullshit but clearly there are plenty of people who fall into that group. This fantastic nonsense, taken seriously by millions of people, made von Däniken a very rich man. A very rich con man. Maybe he wasn't crazy—after all, his books sold, and sold, and sold, and are still selling to gullible people. It just goes to show you that P.T. Barnum was right when he said that "There's a sucker born every minute, and two to take him."
January 21, 2026: Just When You Thought Guns Couldn't Get Any Uglier...
....Ruger comes up with this hideous creation, the "PC Carbine Packer":
Yeah, yeah, I know it folds, and it is certainly "tacticool" but...it's UGLY. Very, very ugly. It's hard for me to imagine why anyone would buy this.
There's a marginally less ugly variant that Ruger calls the "State Compliant" one:
Because, as they put it:
-
This model ships with a 10-round magazine and non-threaded barrel for consumers in those states which limit magazine capacity and have feature-based restrictions.
But it's still ugly.
February 7, 2026: Back From Florida
Well, we are back from Florida, and have survived to tell the tale. There were moments when I wasn’t sure we would.
Mrs Outdoorsman said She wanted to "...go somewhere warm..." without specifying exactly where. I suggested Cozumel, which we visited in 1991, and at which we briefly stopped on our last cruise a couple of months ago. Somehow Cozumel got transmuted into Florida: I found out later that it was because She was concerned we'd be in an area of military/naval activity. As preposterous as the idea of a US invasion of Cozumel might seem, it put that lovely island right out of consideration in Her mind.
I was subsequently informed that we were going to the Florida Keys, specifically Key Largo, the largest island in that archipelago. We had discussed this as a possibility, even going to the extent of watching the 1949 movie with Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart (cleverly titled "Key Largo"). I hasten to add that the Key Largo of 2026 is nothing at all like that of 1949.
The worst aspect of this trip in my mind was that we would have to fly to Miami. I hate flying: I hate airplanes, I hate airports, I hate the people who work for the airlines, I hate anything to do with the airline industry, and most especially I hate the Transport Sturmabteilung. But there were no other options. Last time we went to Florida (to catch a cruise ship in Fort Lauderdale) we drove thanks to the so-called "government shutdown" which canceled our flight out of Roanoke. That took 3 days (and 3 more coming back) so flying it was to be, take it or leave it. I took it.
We went on Delta Airlines. As anyone who has ever traveled on Delta knows, you must always, without fail, change planes in Atlanta. If you fly from Bangor, Maine to Boston on Delta, you go through Atlanta; if you fly from New York City to New Jersey on Delta, you go through Atlanta. It's the law. Delta's law. Take it or leave it. We took it.
But wait, there's more...because of the impending END OF THE WORLD in the form of a CATASTROPHIC AND UNPRECENDENTED SNOWSTORM that the Weather Channel (a subsidiary of Paranoia Enterprises) insisted on calling "Winter Storm Fern" we left THREE DAYS EARLY. Had to do it, no arguments, the world was going to end from the effects of "Winter Storm Fern" so She changed our tickets and booked three extra days in Miami. Plus three more days for the car rental once we got there. This added something on the order of an extra $2000 to the original already obscene price, but that was the way it was going to be, take it or leave it. I took it.
One thing She did that was very clever was to ask Delta for assistance at the airports. Her knee is tricky and my sciatica makes it hard for me to walk long distances. This meant that when we got to Atlanta we were met with WHEELCHAIRS and rushed from our puddle-jumping Roanoke-to-Atlanta airplane to a real one. We had a tight connection: Atlanta's airport is colossal, big enough that there’s actually a train that gets you from one concourse to another. The wheelchair people popped us into our seats and wheee....we were off at a lively sprint, into the train to the proper concourse and gate. Better yet, at the gate we got to board the plane before anyone else who wasn't a Certified Gimp like us. I will remember that for the next time I’m forced to fly.
All the flights were on time. I'll give credit where credit is due: Delta has the reputation of being on time, most of the time. So we arrived in Miami as scheduled, picking up our rental car from Enterprise's airport site. It was a Mitsubishi "Mirage" made out of aluminum foil and plastic that reminded me of those tin toys I used to get in my childhood, the ones that were made in Japan from old flattened beer cans. The Mirage engine has three, count 'em three cylinders, not 4. As cheap and as sluggish as it was, it got us around, so I will not criticize it any longer.
She had booked us into a "resort" of sorts on the Florida Bay side of Key Largo. But because we were three days early we needed somewhere else to stay until such time as the resort could house us. This turned out to be the "Marina del Mar," a down-at-heels older place that was very conveniently located. It had thoroughly inadequate parking; while the room was large it smelled vaguely of urinal deodorant. It would work for three days. There was a kitchenette whose stove had two of its four burners non-functional; a real refrigerator, two bowls, two small plates (no large ones) and all of four drinking glasses. A couple of spoons completed the inventory.
Key Largo must be the longest strip mall in the world. US Highway 1 runs down its spine (all the way to Key West, of which more below) with insane levels of traffic. This is because it's pretty much the only road there is. Oh, yes, there are side streets leading to residential areas, but US 1 is where the action is. It’s lined on both side with various retail establishments, including restaurants, companies that do plumbing, innumerable businesses related to boats and chandlery, entrances to other resorts, souvenir shops, boat sellers, and so forth. One or two places to buy groceries, which we’d need because we were staying in places with kitchenettes.
Marina del Mar is indeed on a marina. From our window we could look out to see boats, none of which ever moved from their moorings except for a couple of commercial ones. It had a nice little outdoor sitting area with some of the best Astroturf I’ve ever seen, really realistic. I wondered how much it would cost to get it to cover my yard. We actually got to sit there a couple of times.
One boat moored at the marina was African Queen, the actual steam launch used by Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn in the movie based on C.S. Forester's novel. (Bogie keeps coming up...) It is no longer steam powered: there was an outboard motor on the stern. (I hasten to add that the movie ending is NOT the same as the book ending. You'll just have to read the book if you want to know how the story really turned out. Forester was pretty upset about this but having been a Hollywood script writer himself he no doubt wasn't surprised.) I have no idea why this vessel is now home-ported in Key Largo.
Another commercial vessel was a glass-bottomed boat which would take us out to view the wonders of the local coral reef. Florida’s reef system is as far north as coral grows; we booked a passage on this boat for our first full day at the Marina del Mar. This did not work out well. Mrs Outdoorsman is prone to motion sickness. This hasn’t been much of a problem in our transatlantic crossings nor in our cruises with Viking, but that glass bottom boat was a whole—if you will pardon the pun—different kettle of (reef) fish. The sea was moderately rough, the boat (actually a decent sized vessel for the purpose) was heading into the wind. It bounced around and rolled on its way to and from the reef (7 nautical miles each way). She succumbed rapidly, to the extent of needing a barf bag. The vessel—Key Largo Princess II—kindly provided these. Gratis, just keep it off the decks, please.
I don’t get seasick (at least so far I've never been motion sick) so I watched the reef glide by. There wasn’t much to see. You see these Nature Films of the wondrous life on a coral reef, blazingly colorful fish, waving sea fans, yada, yada, yada, but there was nothing of the kind. It was all pretty mud-colored: the coral, the vegetation, the fish all blended together. Plus the boat was moving pretty rapidly so if the commentator said, for example, “Look! There’s a __________ (fill in the species)!” everything was over so quickly I missed it. The return trip was smoother than going out, because then we had a following wind. That trip was a real disappointment for both of us. The next day we decided to go to see Key West. This involved driving. For reasons incomprehensible to me there is no way to take a boat from Key Largo to Key West unless it’s your own boat. You can do it from Miami, but not Key Largo. US 1 (called the “Overseas Highway” in the Keys) runs all the way, crossing something like 40+ bridges to do it. In fact US 1 ends in Key West.
We made the drive without incident, including the so-called “Seven Mile Bridge” span. Key West is an interesting place: had it not been so prohibitively expensive to do so we might have stayed there rather than Key Largo. Mrs Outdoorsman’s desire for “someplace warm” was not satisfied in Key West: temperatures were in the 40’s and the wind blew incessantly and strongly. When we left Virginia I’d worn some warm clothes but they were inadequate for Key West on that day.
Then there was the parking. Key West must make a fortune on parking: I paid FIFTY-SEVEN DOLLARS in a municipal parking lot for the day. That was a comparative bargain, too: commercial private lots were getting more. Key West was once a haven for pirates: it still is.
Ernest Hemingway lived in Key West for a while: naturally we had to visit the home of The Greatest Writer Who Ever Lived (move over, William Shakespeare). I have tried to read Hemingway's stuff but always get a few pages into it and stop. There’s only so much I can take. So I can't really comment on his ability as a writer, nor would I dream of contradicting the miscellaneous literary "experts" who sing hosannas of praise for Hemingway. I can only say that if even half of what Ken Burns’ hagiographic documentary says about The Greatest Writer Who Ever Lived is true, he was an alcoholic, sadistic, narcissistic mentally ill monster and the world is—pardon the play on words—"A Cleaner Better-Lighted Place" without him in it. His prose may or may not be deathless but on the whole I think I can live with The Legend quite adequately, I don't need The Man himself. Nevertheless we took a guided tour through the house—his second or third wife owned it after she threw him out—where the docent told us all we needed to know. We saw his study, his living room, etc. plus many pictures of The Greatest Writer Who Ever Lived on the walls, posing with dead fish, dead birds, dead mammals, and so forth. We also saw his toilet.
He was nuts about cats. It seems he had a six-toed cat (“Snow White”). As he said, “One cat leads to another” so that today there are sixty-one cats on the property, allegedly all descended from Snow White, some of whom have six toes. There are little boxes (a different form of “cathouse” than what we usually mean by that term) scattered around the gardens. The cats take the presence of mere humans lightly. On entering there is a sign that says “Do not pick up the cats” and warns that the property is not responsible for scratches, bites, claw marks, holes in your clothes, etc. There was in fact a cat sitting in the front of the admission booth, steadfastly ignoring all mere humans. Not that I would pick up a cat, I’m violently allergic to them. There’s an entire staff whose sole job is to look after the cats: feed, clean up after them, get the vet in periodically to check them out, etc. What a job!
Another, far more interesting place was Harry Truman’s “Little White House.” This was a Presidential retreat on a former Navy base. Harry was a pretty informal guy when not meeting dignitaries or ending major wars, so there are plenty of pictures of him, including some life-sized cardboard ones, wearing Hawaiian shirts. The piano he played is there. Our docent, a very jovial and expert guy, told us many stories bout Harry, including his threat to punch a critic in the nose for lambasting his daughter Margaret’s musical ability.
Everyone who goes to Key West has to pose with the marker that says “Southernmost Point Of The Continental United States,” which we dutifully did. You stand in line; when your turn comes someone behind you in the line will snap a picture. It’s just one of those things 
that all tourists have to do. At least it was free. (By the way, that is the southernmost point in the continental US, not THE southernmost point in the US. That's in Hawaii. Don't take my word for it, look it up.) Then, having “done” Key West we paid the ransom for our car and headed back to Key Largo.
The weather remained cold, so cold we couldn’t really sit out. Instead we went to a couple of indoor attractions. These included movies about the building of the Key West Railway before World War One; about the massive 1935 hurricane that utterly destroyed the railway; and one about wondrous coral reef life, where we did get to see colorful reef fish from the comfort of a padded seat firmly anchored to the ground. We might have walked around Key Largo but there really isn’t anywhere to walk. Certainly not on US 1. The Overseas Highway is dangerous enough to drive; walking requires a desire to commit suicide. Once or twice we sat out at the resort we’d moved to (they have a little beach) but it was so cold and windy we were quickly driven back inside. I had hoped to go out on one of those boats that take numbers of people for half-day fishing trips but the weather precluded that, too.
We did buy stuff in the biggest local grocery store, Publix. Mostly for breakfast, because we went out for dinner. The prices were far higher than what we pay here, but Publix had everything we needed.
If you like to eat fish go to The Keys. We went to several local restaurants, all of which served seafood. Common species of “eating” fish were mahi-mahi, grouper, yellow jack, hogfish, cobia, and one or two others I forget. There is also conch (which is 
pronounced “conk”). Conch is usually served fried or in conch fritters (balls of stuff with conch embedded in it) or as conch chowder. The best of these places was “The Fish House” at which we dined three times. I like shellfish better than finfish. The Keys have an abundance of shellfish including those tiny "Florida Lobsters" that have itsy-bitsy claws, unlike the real lobsters you get in Maine. One of the interesting things about the Keys is the relative lack of fast-food places. They’re there but not to the extent you might think they’d be in a major tourist destination. Most of the local places are just that. We used the Chamber of Commerce guide to find them.
Then it was back to Miami for the trip home. Driving on the Overseas Highway was nerve-wracking until I figured it out: you can’t turn left, you have to make a “Florida Left Turn,” i.e., you turn right, then find a crossing site and make a U-turn. After a few days we got it sorted out. Thank God for our GPS unit, which we’d brought with us. Without it we’d never have found anything, especially on return to Miami.
As tense as it was driving in the Keys, Miami was a nightmare, worse than Fort Lauderdale. The drivers aren’t as aggressive as in Fort Lauderdale, but the traffic is far heavier, the roads seem to have been laid out by squirrels, and it seems that a turn signal to change lanes is an insult to people behind you, who will never let you move over. Forty-plus years in small towns have spoiled me. I can drive anywhere I have to; I’ve driven in worse places than Miami (not many) but I’ll never drive there again. Our GPS directed us safely to the rental car return, where I was greatly relieved to hand over our tin-plate chariot (with 509 more miles on the odometer than when we started) to its rightful owner.
We spent one more night in a hotel, then took their shuttle to the airport. We got the same special treatment going home as we had on the way out. Our flights were on time; when we got to Roanoke I was hit with the bill for parking our car ($130!!) knocked the ice off it, then headed to the Outback steak house in Christiansburg so I could, finally, after 10 days of eating fish, have a steak.
Gimpy The Deer
Last December we saw a young whitetail buck come up to our sitting room window to eat birdseed. He was a yearling, thin and clearly injured. His right hind leg was not working: he carried it lifted up off the ground, hobbling along on three legs, but clearly mobile. Mrs Outdoorsman said she thought he'd been shot but I, having shot a fair number of deer, was certain that he hadn't been. He'd obviously been hit by a car and suffered a broken hip. That he'd have been shot in this suburban neighborhood was very unlikely, nor was there any blood or obvious wound to support a diagnosis of gunshot. She was unconvinced, even when I told her that deer far more seriously injured than he could live a very long time.
Our lives plodded on, but two days ago he showed up again. He was still carrying that useless leg. It wasn't dragging, it was lifted up but it was clearly viable. There was no evidence of tissue necrosis, no loss of hair. No way had that deer been shot, this was a pretty typical car strike. He wolfed down some birdseed then went on his way to wherever he slept. He was even thinner than the first time we'd seen him.
Yesterday he came again. As before he came in the daytime to eat some birdseed. He then moved to a spot under our living room window on the other side of the house, laid down after noshing on some of our shrubbery, appearing to go to sleep out of the cold wind: it was 20° at the time.
He stayed there all the rest of the day. By the time we went to bed he was still there, not having budged from his spot. I was convinced he was going to die leaning up against our house, so I told Mrs Outdoorsman that if he was still there in the morning I would call the Department of Wildlife Resources. But as of 3:00 AM this morning, he was gone. He hadn't eaten anything else that night. I was simultaneously relieved that I'd not have to call DWR but concerned about where he might have ended up. As of this moment (3:00 PM) he hasn't come back. Maybe he did die somewhere else, but I may never know. The weather is supposed to improve a bit, so perhaps he'll make it after all.
February 8, 2026: Maybe He Isn't Dead
We haven't seen Gimpy the Deer for a few days, but last night someone came to the house and ate birdseed: it was definitely a deer, because there were numerous pellets of deer poop on the ground underneath the table. I put out some more seed, which was immediately assaulted by the half-dozen squirrels who have come to see us as a reliable source of handouts; so maybe Gimpy isn't dead yet. It was 10° this morning so he will need what food he can find. If he gets enough he may make it through the winter after all.
February 12, 2026: Another Deer
I put up my trail camera last night. A deer did come to eat the birdseed—oddly, didn't eat the chopped up corn log I added—but it wasn't Gimpy. No evidence of a limp and it was clearly not malnourished; it was one of the local does. Mrs Outdoorsman is convinced Gimpy—whom she refers to as "our deer"—is dead. I doubt it. The second time we saw him was months after the first. Since I don't have the camera up all the time we have no idea how often he comes.
I Knew I Shouldn't Have Sold My Boat
Here's what DWR has to say:
The New River has long been renowned as a trophy smallmouth bass fishery. The New produced 130 citation smallmouth bass catches in 2025, giving it the #1 ranking in the top waters list. Fishing the New is special as it’s an ancient river system that happens to be the oldest on the North American continent. “Despite a few years of poor year classes in the late 2010s, good numbers of quality fish still remain for anglers to target. And recent above-average spawning classes, especially on the upper New, bode well for anglers as these fish grow to adult size,” said Jeff Williams, DWR Regional Fisheries Manager.
“In the Upper New River, catch rates remain consistent with the previous few years,” added Kristin Chestnut-Faull, DWR Fisheries Biologist. “Areas with a high abundance of fish include Fields Dam down through Ivanhoe. Good numbers of 16-plus fish can be found below Fields Dam and from Austinville to Foster Falls. If you’re targeting the Lower New River, abundance is high throughout. Higher numbers of larger fish (16+”) can be found from Claytor Dam downstream through Eggleston. Year classes in both the upper and lower sections of the river have remained consistent, supplying fish for anglers for the next several years,” continued Chestnut-Faull. Floating the New River is the best way to cover ground when fishing for smallmouth bass. Late winter and early spring give the angler opportunities at catching trophy smallmouth bass!
February 16, 2026: Ice Skating
The Winter Olympics are in full swing, and Mrs Outdoorsman is watching figure skating. When she can't watch in "real time" (as if there were such a thing in the context of the Olympics) she records the events for later viewing.
I'm not terribly interested in Olympic competition: a couple of nights ago we were in a restaurant where the TV sets (you can't escape TV in a restaurant any more) were showing biathlon competition. Now, biathlon ought to interest me because it involves firearms of a sort, but honestly, watching people shoot is about as thrilling as watching paint dry. I have no idea who won, nor do I care. Probably Norway. Norway! I ask you, is there any justice in the world? The so-called "news" networks announce a "medal count" every night, with the Beautiful Talking Heads putting on their Frowny Faces as they announce that Team USA isn't at the top.
As for figure skating, I'll watch for a few minutes if I'm passing through the sitting room, but on the whole I can take it or leave it. There are any number of figure skating events, though I'm damned if I can tell them apart except by how many skaters (either one or two) are actually skating at any given moment. There are "singles" (1) and "pairs" (2) but there are "short programs" and "long programs" and so forth. I lost count of how many variations there are. There's something called "ice dancing," which to my eyes is indistinguishable from all the other figure skating events except in that it seems more dangerous because the girl gets flung around like a bag of apples, and sometimes gets rotated around the guy at high speed with her head brushing the ice.
The commentators go on at length in hushed tones about "triple lutzes" and "triple salchows" (I hope I spelled that right, but I wouldn't know a salchow from a Guernsey cow); this year there's a term I haven't heard before that seems only to apply to ice dancing: a "swizzle" or perhaps a "twizzle." It makes me think of those little sticks used to stir cocktails. The terms "double axel" and "triple axel" make me think of trucks.
I don't care who wins or loses. A couple of days ago a lad nicknamed "The Quad God" (by the press, not himself) who had won one of the numerous previous figure skating events came a cropper in a different one, and thereby failed to—as the vernacular has it—"medal," i.e., he didn't make it even into third place. He'd been the odds-on favorite going in to take it all, but no, he flubbed it like a steeplechase horse that shies at the first jump. This boy was, I admit, a pretty spectacular skater when he was "on", but everyone has an off day.
Predictably, there was an immediate outcry and wail of agony among his innumerable fans, just as there had been previously when the Obviously Superior American Ice Dancers only "medalled" into second place after the French team "took gold" because of a) a corrupt French judge b) skullduggery c) possible bribery (take your pick). Within minutes of that latter decision a petition was launched on change.org to "investigate" the Obviously Biased Decision. As of yesterday there were better than 24,000 signatures on this silly petition. I imagine that will cut no ice (ha, ha) with the International Olympics Committee, but surely it allows all those rabidly indignant supporters of 
the Obviously Superior American Ice Dancers to feel they've done something to correct this blatant insult and injustice to the Obviously Superior American Ice Dancers. So there! Take that, IOC!
The cartoon at left was shamelessly stolen from the hilarious comic strip "Close To Home" by John McPherson. It perfectly epitomizes the world-view of those athletes who make it to the Olympics. Incidentally, it came out three days before Lindsey Vonn skied with a torn anterior cruciate ligament and an artificial knee from previous injuries, at age 41. She has said that her latest injury, which (again) required her to be air-lifted off the slope, won't stop her. I can appreciate the "can-do" spirit and her strong motivation but I have to question whether the win-at-any-cost mindset is entirely rational.
This Olympiad has been going on for a week at least, maybe more. I think there's another week left, though maybe it's another month; who can tell? Heaven alone knows how much money this event costs and how much it brings in to the advertisers, not to mention the TV networks who have the contracts to broadcast the Olympics. Since these people train constantly from the time they can sit up in their cribs, I wonder who supports them financially? In theory Olympians are barred from accepting money lest they lose their "amateur status" (ha!) but someone has to be footing the bills for the custom-made skates, the custom-made costumes, the musical rights, the travel expenses, and so forth. Of course the top winners will go on to fame and fortune in commercial ice shows when they "retire" and no doubt some few will take jobs as commentators during the actual events, activities for which they're no doubt handsomely rewarded. I guess that some of them will endorse various brands and types of gear, as well, which could be very lucrative indeed.
Mrs Outdoorsman watched the goings-on. She chose, of all channels, CNN. The "hosts" Anderson Cooper and some guy called "Andy" (I never got the last name, nor would I have recognized it if I had) stood there in the cold getting drunker and drunker on camera. Well, it's one way to keep warm. Cooper is a native New Yorker and remarked that he'd never been there on New Year's Eve except when he was working. He noted with some truth that no native New Yorker is crazy enough to go. Andy What's-His-Name, after the ball had dropped, immediately launched into a drunken diatribe against the outgoing Mayor, Eric Adams. Cooper, who wasn't quite as blotto as his compadre, was clearly upset about this carrying-on. He tried to shut Andy up but he was so far in his cups that he paid no attention, just kept ranting. This is what passes for journalism in the modern age. 
New York City has probably just committed suicide by inaugurating a "Democratic Socialist" Mayor, an event that I think will delight the hearts of everyone at CNN, and surely Andy and Anderson were celebrating the event. I found it amusing that the swearing-in took place in the City Hall Subway Station, which was abandoned 80 years ago. It seems appropriate that this should be the case, since New York City seems finally to have abandoned common sense. Hizzoner's clever ideas are a smorgasbord of left-wing "priorities", the wish dream of every Marxist Wannabe. If he really thinks that the things he says he'll provide will be "free" he's dreaming. Of course he's not; what he means by "free" is for someone else to pay for them besides the recipients of his largesse, because he's not stupid (he is, after all, a graduate of the Bronx High School of Science). One of his truly absurd ideas is "city run grocery stores." I think perhaps any former resident of the Soviet Union can tell him how well that will work out.
