Mima mounds

[Mudwall Gatewood 3.0]

I don't know how many of you have seen mima mounds out west, but they are cool. 

Two years ago a WY friend took me to a section of his property to show me tipi rings, indigenous stones in a circle delineating the outline of ancient Native American dwellings.  The rings were fascinating, but I also noticed these visible raised "bumps" or mounds on the terrain.  He had no idea what they were.  Returning to VA officially bewildered and obsessed on the identification of these oddities, I finally selected an archeologist from the University of Wyoming directory and made a call.  He introduced me to the mima mounds.

As I said, they are darned cool!

http://www.nbcnews.com/science/geologists-digging-mima-mounds-mystery-say-gophers-behind-it-2D11702466

[Dougfish]

I'm all right.....

[Big J]

This is the stupidest article I have ever read!  Not your article Mudwall, but this one.  Didn't want to make a new thread for this article, couldn't find a good excuse to even post it in an existing thread, but still wanted to post it.  Figured you have stirred and derailed enough threads to earn this article a place here.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/12/magazine/12LIVES.html?_r=0

This is how a stash of weapons came into my hands. A few years ago, my friend Elizabeth's brother died unexpectedly in Los Angeles. She and I were both living in L.A. at the time, and I wanted to help her cope. While going through her brother's belongings, we discovered, in an upper corner of his closet, a locked metal box. The key was nowhere to be found, but Elizabeth knew what the box held -- a small collection of handguns that her brother kept for protection.

Elizabeth's brother was gone now, and she wanted the handguns gone, too -- put out of commission. The collection wasn't her idea of a keepsake. I wasn't really interested in them, either. True, I'd been to the indoor shooting range over the years -- with my own brother and with friends -- and each time I enjoyed it. It made me shaky with excitement, and scared, like looking over the edge of a tall bridge. But this wasn't on my mind at the time. I promised Elizabeth that I'd get rid of them. ''It'll be easy,'' I said. ''The police love to get guns off the street.''

I went straight to the Hollywood branch of the L.A.P. D. Leaving the weapons in the trunk of my Volkswagen, I went in and explained the situation.

''We can't take the box if it's still locked,'' the officer in the lobby explained. ''Who knows what could be in it?''

''So you'll let me leave with a trunk full of guns that I'm not licensed to carry?'' I asked. She said yes, as long as the box was locked, and expressed little further interest.

My next stop was a locksmith's in Los Feliz. Straight-faced and silent, the man behind the counter pulled out a crowbar and pried the box open. There were five handguns: a Glock 9 millimeter, a Smith & Wesson revolver, a .38, a .25 and a very tiny pistol, the make and caliber of which I can't remember. The locksmith perked up at the sight of the peashooter. ''It's so cute,'' he said. I laughed, but the open box made me feel vulnerable. So I took the guns and paid a visit to my good friend Mike, who was once a hunting guide in Michigan and still has some old rifles. He asked if the handguns were loaded. ''I don't know,'' I said. The answer, I was shocked to find out, was yes. Mike gave me a quick lesson in bullet removal.

Since the L.A.P.D. hadn't been that helpful, I decided to drive to Glendale, which has its own police force. This time, I hauled the guns in a cardboard box. As I entered the police station, the cop there put a hand on his side arm and told me to drop the box. I did. After I explained my situation, he ran a background check on the firearms: clean. He checked my record: squeaky clean. Then he lightened up -- and tried to talk me into selling him the Glock and the Smith & Wesson, which he told me were worth a bundle.

''But they're not even registered in my name,'' I said, ''and the owner is dead.''

This was no problem, he assured me, because California gun laws were such that if my friend gave me his guns, registered in his name, before 1991 (wink wink), it would be perfectly legal for me to have them. And to sell them.

We exchanged cards, and I left with my cardboard box of handguns. A week or two later, he called to see if I had reconsidered his proposition. I told him no. And his eagerness to have the guns made me hesitant to simply turn them over. I wasn't sure what to do, so I stored the weapons in my garage.

After a while, I got to thinking about the thrill of firing a gun. Every time I'd been to a shooting range, I was fascinated by the power I wielded. I also thought about the protection a handgun would provide. Maybe I should just keep them, I thought, or at least the Glock. This is L.A., after all. But then I wondered, Could I actually kill someone? Maybe, but it would take a real movie-climax moment to finish off another human -- a decision with consequences that could haunt me forever. A lot of upstanding citizens -- including some of my loved ones -- are willing to face those consequences. I'm not, I decided.

But I couldn't have adopted the weapons in good faith, anyway. I'd made a promise to Elizabeth. So one slow spring day I went to the garage, took out the handguns -- and smashed them with a 15-pound ax. I shattered the butt of the .38. I disfigured the barrel of the .25. I chased the Glock and the Smith & Wesson around the garage as they bounced from each blow. My hands began to burn from the repeated swinging. My lower back ached. But I eventually rendered the guns useless.

I put the guns in an industrial-strength trash bag. But then I imagined some kids rummaging around a suburban landfill and finding them, which made me picture the violent opening scene of a made-for-TV movie. So I added garden dirt and poured in some old paint. Then I added more, and I shook the sack and rolled it around. I picked up the bag and threw it in the trash. Then I called Elizabeth and reported that the job was done.


Mike Kessler is the executive editor of Skiing magazine. He lives in Boulder, Colo.

[Michael Toris]

Thought this thread would have pictures of a stripper. Disappointed. 

[benben reincarnated]

Muddy, speaking of dirt mounts, my grandfather took me here as a kid, I still to this day think it was a cool experience:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kolomoki_Mounds


I don't think it is stupid Jacob.  Some people actually really despise guns, a lot.  It is all relative.  I however would have sold them, if I didn't want them myself.

[Big J]

Muddy, speaking of dirt mounts, my grandfather took me here as a kid, I still to this day think it was a cool experience:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kolomoki_Mounds


I don't think it is stupid Jacob.  Some people actually really despise guns, a lot.  It is all relative.  I however would have sold them, if I didn't want them myself.

I understand that some people despise guns part and are even nervous around guns, but smashing your brother's guns to pieces is what I do not understand (then writing an article about it).  Sell them and donate the money at the least. 

[benben reincarnated]

I understand that some people despise guns part and are even nervous around guns, but smashing your brother's guns to pieces is what I do not understand (then writing an article about it).  Sell them and donate the money at the least.

I wouldn't disagree with you, just saying.

I realized he was dumb when he needed to go to a locksmith to get the lockbox open.  I hope the locksmith charged him an arm and a leg for his stupidity.

[Jfey]

In response to that article

[sanjuanwormhatch]

Besides Otis Redding, the Allman Brothers, fried chicken, and the boxer Young Stribling (which I have a not so tenuous connection to), this is the coolest thing about Macon, GA:

[tomato can]

Big Muddy almost ten years ago I was bird hunting out in Hettinger, ND on my friend's father's ranch.  He took me to a top of a hill and showed me the fire rings and holes where the in dans set up their teepees.  Hetinger is very close to some of those buffalo jumps.

[Beetle]

When I was a small child, the mountain train we were on was attacked by a wild band of Indians.    It was unusual because these Indians were not native to the area and their leader spoke English.    I thought they were going to kill my father and steal my sisters.  To this day I have no idea what they were after.  Thankfully some gun toting citizens were on board in the next car and took care of the problem with no harm coming to my family or the other passengers.

This experience haunts me even today.   Those savages got what they deserved and the experience branded me with an acceptance and appreciation for firearms.

[flatlander]

When I was a small child, the mountain train we were on was attacked by a wild band of Indians.    It was unusual because these Indians were not native to the area and their leader spoke English.    I thought they were going to kill my father and steal my sisters.  To this day I have no idea what they were after.  Thankfully some gun toting citizens were on board in the next car and took care of the problem with no harm coming to my family or the other passengers.

This experience haunts me even today.   Those savages got what they deserved and the experience branded me with an acceptance and appreciation for firearms.

The same thing happened to me near Boone