Today I’m going to share a wilderness survival tip that you can bet they didn’t teach you in Boy Scouts.
In the woods nothing keeps you warmer, happier, and feeling more alive than Bushmoka. Although it may sound like something your Yiddish grandmother wears, Bushmoka is second only to whiskey as the holiest of holy hunting camp drinks.
How To Make Bushmoka
- Start a campfire if you can. If you can’t, do what I do and use Zip.
- Fill a coffeepot with water from the nearest creek. Better yet, send a rugged mountain man to do it for you.
- Put the coffeepot on the most roaring part of the campfire. If you have a grate on top of the fire, great. If not nestle the pot in a flat flaming spot.
- Wait for the water to boil. Depending how good of a fire you built in Step 1 this can take anywhere from 5-30 minutes.
- Take the boiling pot off the fire. Unless you have evolved a burn-proof coating on your hands make sure to wear gloves.
- Forget your inner coffee snob and add whatever coffee grounds you happen to have. If you like your coffee with a kick use at least 4 big spoonfuls. If you don’t have a good relationship with caffeine use less.
- Let it all brew together for 3-4 minutes.
- Slowly add a cup of cold creek water to your pot. This will make all the grounds sink to the bottom so you don’t end up with a mouthful of coffee grit.
- Pour the fresh pot of coffee into individual mugs. Better yet if the individual mugs are labeled with fun names.
- Stir in hot chocolate powder to taste.
Warning: Bushmoka is extremely addictive. Drink with caution.
Once upon a Summer Tourcation our health forced us to high-tail it to the nearest walk-in-clinic …. Which just so happened to be located in the Real Canadian Superstore. Who knew ginormous superstores came equipped with Doctors these days? The alleged Doctor’s office was located on the second floor overlooking the entire store and overwhelmed by the behemoth below me I decided to try and fit it all into a panoramic image. While doing so I was approached by a suspicious manager who accused me of being a spy sent to collect photos for other big box competitors.
Although I will admit my sleuthing skills are unparalleled, I am most definitely not a Superstore spy … But Costco, if you’re reading this, for the right price I’d be willing to sell you the image below of the Real Canadian Superstore’s grocery department.
Click on the panorama to get a better look at the hypermarket abyss.
I read once that anyone who doesn’t take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either. I’d like to think that I’ve been seeing truth in small matters, but truthfully I’ve just had a camera and a lot of time of my hands.
Wasp on a Mirror
With no disrespect meant towards the dead butterfly I found fluttering in the breeze on the side of the highway today, when I was taking its portrait I couldn’t help but be overcome singing a song I have worked very hard to erase from the sound banks of my memory.
Once upon last year my wonderfully kooky pal Heidi was getting married (to see photos of his stag party extravaganza click here). In true Heidi fashion, he chose the 1970s French turned English pop hit Butterfly (by Danyel Gerard) to be his wedding song. He gave a recording of the song to another friend, a musician we’ll call Beardy, who was to play the song at the wedding. I happened to hitch a ride with Beardy to a music festival the weekend before the wedding when he was in the last minute midst of trying to learn the song. We spent a disproportionate amount of the 8 hour drive listening to Butterfly and were subsequently infected with a near fatal case of earworm. As a result, the majority of the festival weekend was spent fighting the compulsion to prance around our campsite interpretive dancing and rabidly howling, “Butterfly, my Butterfly, now I know you must be free. Butterfly, don’t flutter by, stay a little while with me“. If you’re curious to hear the song in question click here.
And, if you’re still with me after that extremely roundabout detour, here is a study of a dead butterfly on the highway:
This is what the cabino I’ve hunkered down in (in Rosebery, that is) looks like at night.
It’s been raining like a bad sally and as a result I haven’t been on a photo walk in a couple days. The almighty Weather Network said I’d be waiting for years for the sun to break and I was getting unbearably antsy so I tucked my camera in my coat and went for a long walk that left me soaked, suffering from a severe case of rainbite, but nevertheless happy.