Guest Post by Ol’ Remus
People from deep metropolitan America see woodlands in a peculiar way. Other than a day trip to some attraction, or a weekend at a cabin on the lake, their experience is commonly at a managed reserve such as a state park or other public accommodation where involvement with the Great Outdoors is bounded and wholly optional.
They’ll typically stay in earnestly rustic cabins fitted out with utilities and amenities not materially different from an efficiency apartment, presented in an improbable mix of decors suggesting a mining camp of the old west imagined by a designer of Swiss chalets, or if severely downscale, something resembling the shotgun houses of Louisiana’s unfashionable wards.
When hiking the over-designated “wilderness trails” they’ll caution each other in grave tones against getting separated and lost, as if an unspeakable fate awaits just off-trail. This, where a minor walk in any direction except up would get them to discount gas, snacks, lottery tickets and a cartoony map commending vendors of crafts and local honey.
It is my sincere desire to provide readers of this site with the best unbiased information available, and a forum where it can be discussed openly, as our Founders intended. But it is not easy nor inexpensive to do so, especially when those who wish to prevent us from making the truth known, attack us without mercy on all fronts on a daily basis. So each time you visit the site, I would ask that you consider the value that you receive and have received from The Burning Platform and the community of which you are a vital part. I can't do it all alone, and I need your help and support to keep it alive. Please consider contributing an amount commensurate to the value that you receive from this site and community, or even by becoming a sustaining supporter through periodic contributions. [Burning Platform LLC - PO Box 1520 Kulpsville, PA 19443] or Paypal
-----------------------------------------------------
To donate via Stripe, click here.
-----------------------------------------------------
Use promo code ILMF2, and save up to 66% on all MyPillow purchases. (The Burning Platform benefits when you use this promo code.)
Tersely worded signs along scenic routes and jogging trails feature low level bullying concerning the disposition of trash offset with the promise of personal redemption by recycling, or the care to be exercised when building a fire in the meteor-proof facilities provided, all of which reassures them their welfare, perhaps nature itself, is being actively managed by competent and watchful professionals.
This is the woodlands on terms they’ll accept, those of a valued guest in a picturesque but alien land. Park managers well know what underlies their expectation of convenience and reassurance. Fear. Places like the Ozarks or Alleghenies are their equivalent of East Saint Louis or Baltimore, menacing by day, potentially lethal by night. It’s why they gather ’round in the evening and build Dresden-like campfires and laugh a lot.
It’s not possible to overstate the disorienting effect night has on them in the woods. Perhaps it’s the first occasion their eyes have had reason to become dark-adjusted, conceivably an unsettling experience. The resolutely unadventurous pack a flashlight of such power there’s a felt recoil when switched on, in case they’ll need to attract a rescue helicopter from afar or signal a distant township, I assume.
But it’s not just the dark they fear. It took me a long while to understand why they talk so much. It’s the quiet. Thinking back, the nighttime stillness is often remarked upon by visitors, admiringly, but tentatively so. Their aimless chatter is as if the Great Outdoors had whispered “your move” and they’re struggling to excuse themselves gracefully. It’s understandable, they live a life of obligatory blather, it’s their go-to survival skill.
On the other side, we have the people who live in the hills, often for generations past. They know the woods as a familiar part of their neighborhood. Night holds no fear for them, they rambled and camped at night even as youngsters. They find the urban pilgrim’s anxiety puzzling. In a catastrophic collapse, the street mavens who “head for the hills” with intent of armed aggression will be surprised by their own incompetence and fears.
Moving quietly and efficiently through rugged, heavily wooded country is a skill learned over time. There are no prodigies. Even in daytime, lack of woodcraft or foul weather will see the urban intruder make blunder after blunder until he’s totally ineffective, perhaps incapacitated, almost certainly lost. Discreet night travel at a useful pace is at another level yet, mastered only with practice and an irrational fondness for the idea.
Some city-dwellers work in occupations providing a basic woodland experience: surveyors, wildlife biologists, gas and oil field workers, and so forth, but they’re not likely to be dangerous. They’re more likely to have a provisioned bugout location of their own than rely on marauding, or if not, be an asset to an existing survival community.
Street mobs from the inner city could be a significant threat to “flatland” rural areas near the cities for as long as there are working vehicles and passable roads—the infrastructure is held together with patches and promises as it is—and enough fuel for the return trip. Should they venture into the hills, narrow roads winding through steep woodlands present more places suitable for ambush than not.
However, it’s their long history of creating enemies with ultimatums and violence, their lack of cohesion and disinclination to plan a step ahead that will work decisively against them. To their cost, the word “minority” has a specific meaning older than the rhetoric that’s grown up around it. It’s unlikely they’ll keep their legions of peripheral supporters when gunfire replaces theatre. Uniforms issued at birth will almost certainly become the ruling default.
More dangerous to hill country are immigrant gangs from Mexico and points south, consisting mainly of untrained thrill-killers but mixed with some experienced enforcers of narco territories, smugglers, veterans of jungle-based cocaine operations and freelance criminals from the interior. Here again, their Einsatzgruppen-like violence will work against them, look for repayment in kind, indiscriminate and without hesitation.
The future takes no notice of our expectations. Gangs in post-apocalyptic America may amount to no more than the highwaymen and horse thieves of our past. And it may prove that “an armed society is a polite society”. Don’t bet your life on it. Consider the truth in the classic caution, “if you’re not preparing for the worst, what are you preparing for?”
I’m prepping for dinner. Thinking maybe enchiladas. If the roving killer Mexicans arrive I’m fucked.
Meh, we kill for tamales but you gringos can’t make enchiladas worth killing for. My mom made the chile sauce from scratch, nowadays people go to the Las Palmas Enchilada Sauce can too quickly. And, enchiladas are not stuffed like a burrito, they are stuffed sparingly with ground beef. She fried them in a pan, she didn’t bake them in the oven. Hmm, I wonder how my mom got the fresh diced onions to keep fresh?
Fair enough. I just wish your compadres would sell tamales after church every Sunday, not just once in a while. I never carry cash.
Just let it be…
easy to keep fresh, use a wet cloth/papertowel as a cover
on your glass bowl, then refrigerate until serving
Perhaps yur Mom understood very well the axiom: “growing it is knowing it”?
I already prepared for the wurst, and got the bbq nice and hot. Now am getting the spuds ready.
“Among other definitions, a spud is a sharp, narrow spade used to dig up large-rooted plants. Around the mid-19th century—the first documented reference occurs in 1845 in New Zealand—this implement of destruction began lending its name to one of the things it was often used to dig up: potatoes. Eventually, the nickname caught on throughout the English-speaking world.”
I know, meh.
Have to laugh. I would imagine “sophisticated” urban dwellers are haunted by the film, “Deliverence”.
“Now you just drop them panties. Take ’em off. Looks like we got us a sow here.”
What, and your tittilated by it, Mr. Jarhead?
Aw, come on. We can’t let that pass without a link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gsC4kf6x_Q0
I’m preparing for Gotterdamerung.
Es muss fliegen!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwsPLciYPyU
I’m taking a mental health day. Heard Ron White comedian skit on the radio. He said that someone told him that he won a lifetime of tater tots, and the RW said, ” I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging , but I can afford tater tots .”
Here is the right to remain silent but not the ability, I can relate to the latter!
Peace,
Andrea Iravani
Fuck your “Peace”. Children like you are a pain in the ass. Better grow up…….fast…..asshole.
For wanting peace? Yeah, I know. You’re mouth is the shit-hole. Shit for brains moron!
Atta, girl, Drea! This place is going to the dogs what with the jar-jarheads.
Thanks Anon!!! Or should I say mous?
Suggest you take numerous “mental health days” child. Needed, no doubt.
Thief- Suggest you take an enema to your brains.
Big assumption there if you know what I’m insinuating.
Was told last weekend by a born-n-raised city dweller (also known as a Citiot) that most people she knows are dead-afraid of being 10 miles outside the city.
Something to do with “trees” and “dark” and “quiet” and “slasher movies.”
Suits me just fine, just hope all of them stick to the asphalt jungle and wait for FEMA to bring them food and security.
Less for us hicks to deal with.
For keeping their vehicles hemmed up, there’s always this:
http://www.homedepot.com/s/ecobust?searchtype=text&NCNI-5
Thx for the “citiot” term – perhaps as inventive as “citYzen”. Hope yur already GROUPed/GUNned/GARDENed, PROVISIONed and S-I-M-P-L-F-I-E-D on a portion of inland, elevated, RURAL, arable, UN-encumbered/UN-addressed county dirt. And . . . both organizationally and mentally prepared to “take down” said [desperate] “citiots”/roving gangs that “come-a-call’n”.
Dysmas the fathead is losing this one, Andrea has got him surrounded. Dutchman, you better help out your buddy. https://youtu.be/1INVZ0vOLwk
Prepping : I don’t have a fire extinguisher because I am going to have a fire . I don’t have a supply of Alcholol Tobbaco and Firearms because I’m a federal Agency !
I was however a Boy Scout “Be Prepared”
snarky infighting aside…I love the Wood Pile essay.
I would fear gov drones and flash-bang incendiaries over city folk
wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Gov has a history
of killing for the fun of it…city folk are just looking for safety…
unfortunately, they won’t find it.
” pack a flashlight of such power there’s a felt recoil when switched on”….LO fucking L!
Every Tuesday morning, look for the Woodpile Report, packed full of priceless comments and a weekly wrap up of things going on across the internet.
Back in the day in the Army I heard the tuffiest talking “former gang bangers” freak dealing with boars in Germany and in the dark, squeal like little girls. One brother slept in the mess hall up on the tables and said the pigs will keep the mice away. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep. Of course he was form down south. It is truly amazing how so many so called adults (city folk) are a scared of the dark.