So, it's come to this

Poison gas, tainted food, cinch traps. I've tried them all. Still, the little brown nemesis keeps on a-diggin'. What the hell is going on with ammo supplies? Been a while since I bought lead; I had no idea that .22 shells were as rare as gold. Found a tactical shop with a stash, and bought a brick. Gophercide is soon upon us. Seems as thought he prefers morning digging. No body count tonight. Soon...soon. Brought to you by MacNaughton blended whiskey.

The rowdy hutch

The search for a hutch can best be described as extensive. Case 1: family friends inherit a hutch with their recent farmhouse purchase. Result: hutch disappears into the real estate ether. Case 2: Craig and his list. Result:  mysterious seller invites us to her home wherein advertised hutch resides. Pull up to house front and see on the stoop 6 shirtless thugs sipping 40s and looking menacing.  We drive on. "Seller" continues to beg us - via text message - to come over and view hutch. Nope. Case 3: we respond to Craig's ad and end up buying the above from a lovely farm wife. The house of purchase, however, is large - like a 70's porn mansion - and indicative of nefarious wealth. Multiple white brick fireplaces and shaggy goodness everywhere. Atop a nearby hill, or as we later learn, a remote mountain. Said farm wife was soon to move her family to the city of angels, and was quite elusive on details. Curiosity got the best of us, however, and Google coughed up some of the situation's etiology.

Result:  turns out that the farm wife is married to this guy, Rowdy Roddy Piper of WWF (sorry World Wildlife folks) fame. So, in our dining room, we have a well built Amish hutch derived from an 80s wrasslin' legend. Did he ever leap from atop the container of our China and deliver The People's Elbow? Yes, that's Dwayne's move, but now you know my affinity for all things Rock. Stoked to pull pint glasses from the same shelf that supplied the kilted one with dishware...

Old man engineering

Tooling about the ranger station and soaking in the works of residents second removed. Prior to the property housing an art studio/gallery, the shop, as mentioned before, played host to some sort of repair facility. The place is rife with old man engineering. If the electrical is indicative of what's to come, we are in for an adventure.

Lafayette and the ranger station

In search of an antique hutch, we took a trip to neighboring Lafayette. Numerous quirky vintage shops abound in this hamlet, but none coughed up the desired furniture. Future needs dictate some leaden glass, and an English importer has more that we could fathom. When the first priority purchases are had, we'll be back.

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Literally 300 square feet of rescued windows and panes. Two simple ones for the living room and an ornate offering for the master? Likely.

Love old cash registers, and this one pulled at the wallet strings! Those ornate leaves and florets...amazing.

Well, what do we have here? Never heard of the Big Cat, but after soaking in that piece of advertising wizardry, I'll happily belly up to the cheetah's bar! The marble/quartz pedestal is choice.

The trip wasn't a total bust; this stool was nabbed and placed into the shop. Said outbuilding was once either an auto repair garage, small engine shop, or other 1950s machine servicing outpost. From the outside, it resembles a Forest Service ranger station, and has been named as such. Standing at the rear of the ranger station and taking in the lines of the building, one can easily imagine it placed near a riverside fish hatchery. The Metolius River compound, especially, comes to mind.

 Much work to be done in the interior, but the boats are settling in. Check out that fan, though. The stories that must have passed through its ventilating blades...

Finally cleared off one of the ranger station's work benches. Paired with the stool, this will be a perfect place to sip Old Forester, draw pictures of mountains, and listen to some newly discovered Gabor Szabo. Head to Youtube and find his cover of Some Velvet Morning.

Yellow Wolf

This weekend has the gas station hosting many quality taps. For tonight's offering, the Yellow Wolf double IPA was selected. A perfect compliment to watching the nesting robins travel to and from the nest of cheeping chicks.

No big project pictures to post, but a massive smallmouth was caught off of Ash Island.

Marigold

Marigolds. Do they actually repel beasts of destruction? Wispy, sporadic, mundane...I can't get into them. Wive's tales say that they keep the gophers (more on that later) at bay. They are thirsty and aligned against the general aesthetic. Worth it? Time will tell...

Passing light

Each night brings about a short window in which all must stop and gaze outside. Tonight was exceptional.

The hatch

Taken from a distance so as not to disturb. But...look who arrived! Thirteen fuzz balls for the proud parents. They didn't stick around long; as quails are wont to do, they scurried the youngins off to safer harbors. Hoping to see them in a few weeks.

Time out

Break time. Though the weeds push skyward and the gophers get strategic in their holes, a hiatus is a must. The cutthroat, though, move inland, and it is they I must find.

Success is objective. Three under-size, but sun, albacore fish and chips, and friendly tides spell victory.

Hydrangea

Not a bad place to wind down the weekend.

Sundowner

The neighbors should really clean up their property.

Quail sans oak

Beneath the yellow rose sits mama quail. After laying an egg a day for 13 days, she's setting upon her future brood. Every evening features daddy quail wandering into the property, escorting mama from the nest, and taking her for a cruise of dinner forage. When the meal is complete, he sits upon the garden's high spot, and ensures mama's safety as she returns to the nest. Where he then goes, nobody knows.

The window sill bird guide understates the majesty of the California quail. It mentions a "Chicago" like call and the fact that they are plump and chicken-like. It speaks not to the vigilance of daddy and the steadfast determination of mama. In 13 days or so, these pages should, hopefully, feature images of the quail conga line meandering through the garden.

The above book seems interesting, and will be a target of future thrifting adventures.

By any other name

By far my favorite offering of the property's many aged roses.

Transformative

Filthy. Just filthy. Years of overgrowth have rendered this fiberglass greenhouse useless. An hour of brush N' bleach brought about a minor porthole of light. We plan to overwinter vegetables and succulents, start the majority of our gardens, and try our hands at such tropical wonders as Plumeria. The moldy coating prevented any light necessary for such operations.

A few more nights of brushing yielded minimal results. A borrowed pressure washer - equipped with a low pressure 40 degree nozzle - easily peeled off the remainder of the grime.

Slight problem - the south facing side was already experiencing a dilapidation of fiberglass.  Years of beating sun wore away the resin, and the pressure washer finished the job. A quick trip to the local co-op brought about some new resin. It worked well to coat the exposed glass.  A future layer of poly urethane will sun-proof the coating.

Horned Lark

A tattered Peterson Field Guide to western birds sits on the living room window sill. It recently offered a clue as to the identity of the curious creatures wandering the nearby fields.

"A brown ground bird, with black sideburns, two small black horns, and a black breast splotch. Walks, does not hop."

A noble description fitting for such a regal beast. The Horned Lark, Eremophila alpestris, inhabits open fields, prairies, and tundras, and makes for an entertaining evening with the binocs.

Painting by Audubon.

The Trumpeteer

From our last house, the view was comprised of a crack house and an old man obsessively replacing his lawn with road-grade gravel. The old man would occasionally break to practice elementary holiday songs on an out of tune trumpet.

Saffron blossom

Local winery does right with an intimate display of flash and pinot artistry. Nestled on a former grass seed farm on Laughlin Road, Saffron Fields features an art gallery, intricately manicured gardens, and Prosecco-inspired delights. Yard games for the kiddos, a sandwich cart for the munchie afflicted, and a Johnny Cash-rich playlist make for a mellow wind down to the holiday.

And so it begins

The southward migration to wine country is met with a fierce reminder that ditches are the apex predator around here. Turns out that the towing czar is also a purveyor of growler fills, cheap but amazing eats, and top notch local intel.