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Learn more at Canada.ca.com. A message from the Government of Canada. It's shoulder season and the snow drifts are gone. That means pro-corn bowl season is back.
Your Minnesota Timberbeasts have blood in their eye, and they're primed to let fly. Get your tickets and claim your seat. Not a side in the league, our beasts can't beat. The Timberbeasts are ready to sit high atop the league standings again in the 2023 season.
Will you be in the house for the following tests? May 15th against the Salt Lake pride groups. May 22nd against the Sun Prairie Corn Kings. June 2nd against the KO Cup Colonel's.
Three beasts claws to the first 100 fans through the gates. And June 16th against the Mandan Mallers. Stick around after the game and enjoy the free concert by the DD's. The other midwest's sixth favorite Beige's tribute band.
And that's just the start of beast season. Saks will fly into the snowflops. The beer and soda are always cold, and the meats are sizzling on the grill. And this year's home crowds will be tempted with an upgraded concession hub, now offering cabin country charcuterie's Porter Cheddar Brass, as well as smoked white fish and fried smells from Al the Arbor Mister.
Summer's here in all-wheel deer. The Timberbeasts and professional cornhole fever. Catch it. From the glow of St.
Paul's number one, welcome to another edition of Cabin Country. Give us the time and we'll take you out of the traffic and away from the levee. Let's find the place where the looms call out among the unlit waves, where the wind sighs among the Norway pines. Pull up a dock chair, have a severe coffee and get a line in the water.
This is Cabin Country. Now here's Bjorn Lloydstead, and I'm Fudd Klugman. With another Woodland Escape. Bjorn, you've told me that you've been having a recurring dream of some images we've heard of before on the show.
They have made their appearance without a doubt on the show. We visited this year. Your old parents cabin, you had many times. In the early eighties, I think it was right.
Yeah, I was sold in the early eighties, and the new owner decided, let's make it go away through the wonders of a controlled fire. Oh, yes. With the Crossley Fire Department in attendance gave them a good opportunity to ride a turn. To burn it.
But it hasn't let go of your memory. It is apparently put down roots in my psyche without a doubt. Sticking around for good. I'm not going to tell too many tales here, Fudd.
It's taken the form of many dreams over the years. Some of them get real weird where it's sort of familiar, but things are very different. But recently, the stuff that haunts your dreams. It becomes a little more difficult to know, am I dreaming this or is it real?
It's very hard to explain. So if our listeners would care to revisit some of what I've continually retold and occasionally wept over. Oh, yes. I have a tale here in the Grand scheme of Northwood's tale telling a bit of a cabin country dream.
Or was it? All night. Just about every other night. These dreams are becoming frustrating.
They've taken on different phases depending on the night. Kruder Tom Petty said it best, I think, when he sang, God, it's such a drag when you're living in the past. Some of these dreams are now taking on a frighteningly realistic feel, Fudd. I'm no longer asleep and knowing it.
I'm aware of dark, pain, happiness, actual feelings, sensations in these dreams. The lake is in front of me waiting for me to grab a lawn chair and my reel and trundle down the steps to the dock. You know, in past dreams, the lake has gotten shallow and wide. This guy's gone semi-twilight, my mother's still there at the cabin, strangely enough nodding with uncertain assurity.
When I ask, are you still with us? And do we still own this cabin? That's a real glow of a real happiness. The shack is still standing.
The dagger to the past is still a reality. I exhale a loud breath of relief as I head past our old clothesline strung between oaks and think about mowing this untended lawn. A new owner hasn't taken ownership and burned the cabin to the ground. The sandy road going towards the point still runs past fishing shacks and the new year arounders with permanent professionally done signs.
The invasion of modernity has not yet hit the woods surrounding Daggett Pine Road. The old tumble down Pioneer log cabin is still across the road from the house with the outbuildings and the trained raven named Bandit. There are still open prairies and stands and maples and pines. There are wildflowers blooming and aspens filling the woods across the road.
These dreams have become less common. Newer, more realistic dreams have invaded my world. I gotta be honest, I'm not sure at this point when I'm dreaming, when I'm awake. I've come down the curving road around the massive wooded bog on the left.
The beavers are still dam building and dropping verches and aspens in the woods. All the old signs are still on the posts as I head to the dead end section of Daggett Pine. A sense of belonging and hominess that already has an almost alien feel to it. Something's still not right.
I reach our driveway in the new day's sun. Gone is the invaders three car outbuilding. Gone is the interlopers asphalt driveway. The dirt road still goes up to the cabin.
The cabin with the open deck and the resorts trash collection road still cutting through the backyard. Our young and growing trees from the power company are still too small to be called trees. The dock is out in the lake and four sections along with the dog leg left section. The boat lift is up with the Larson tri-house sitting out of the water.
The ass can is hooked up to the 50 horse Johnson. There are fish in the live well. Small yellow ceramic coffee mugs are sitting on the glass table of the deck. I can see into the cabin through the screen door.
That gaudy multi-colored shag carpeting. The antler racks with the ball caps and the fishing hat sang in from the horns. The old zenith TV screen is still gray and white and pink on the TV stand near the can. Showing an episode of Virgil Ward as I peer through the screen door.
This person owning the cabin at this point can't care or understand why I so badly do care. I stand apparently too long for comfort when the current owner comes to the door. The woman says, can I help you? It's a woman in a pair of older Levi's and a light green windbreaker on the other side of the screen door.
The screen door that used to have a green frame but has acquired a coat of maroon paint. I stand tongue tied and self-conscious. I'm really not sure what to say. Hi, you're still hanging under that grey and pink TV.
We weren't sure how long we could keep watching pink and grey television. That's all I can think of saying. She responds, hmm, I wonder what I should make of this situation. Do I know you?
I respond, I'm sorry. Of course not. My name's Bjorn. I used to spend my summers up here in this very fishing shack.
My folks bought it around 1972. She says, well, okay, my family bought it about 1992. We loved it. Still do.
Does it pass muster? I wasn't sure, but I didn't think she believed me. I guess I couldn't blame her. I needed a shave.
I was wearing a pair of ripped up old jeans, a pair of lawn mowing running shoes, and a battle-weary lead Zeppelin t-shirt. Not exactly an ad for modern lake home living. Theme music caught my attention. Were they running repeats of old Virgil Ward shows?
How the hell was that on TV? Why in the world did some new owners keep that old malfunctioning zenit that they could afford a lake place? Something here was a bit off. The vaguely wondering look on her face and the raised right eyebrow gave me a reason to think that she wasn't exactly believing my tail either.
This current wave of disbelief was something familiar from the past. I looked at her with some seriousness. There are four scuff marks on the floor under that shag carpet where the bed franklin stove used to stand. The duck theme played on the wall covers the stove pipe exit.
I'd add put that there when we removed the stove. The bed frames built by the old fishing camp owner are basically nailed to the floor. They're unmovable. That fold-out kitchen counter-extension is still not level when anything of any weight is put on its surface.
I'd add built that for my mom. She always said that kitchen was too small. There's a scorch mark on the light fixture in the bathroom where lightning entered the shack. It was a storm in 1976.
Blue at the light bulb and scared the hell out of us. We left it as a reminder. It takes about three minutes for the pump house to start providing clean smelling water. That pump house has made a blandex.
My dad and I built it. If you look in the bookcase in the left side bedroom, you're going to find a mark from a hunting knife. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. I believe you.
Why wouldn't I believe you? You don't have to prove anything to me. Look, I left your face. I responded, hey, I'm sorry.
I relived this scenario many times in my... Well, I'm guessing this is somewhat hard for you to understand. Why is this man standing here looking at my property? Strange.
I get it. I wouldn't trust or believe me either. You looked at me. I have no reason not to believe you.
No, I don't fear you. Do you want to look around? Do you like to see the inside of your childhood cabin? I thought for a minute and I responded.
Really? You wouldn't mind? Hey, if you're okay with it, I'd love to see the inside of this place. I've been in this cabin since 1983.
Thank you. Not at all. You look harmless. Come on in.
I hope you see what you're hoping to see. After thanking the woman again, I'm insisting I was just having to walk down memory lane. I walked through the old screen door. Still made the same thing, wouldn't clack to close.
It was like stepping into a movie set. The old's in the TV. The Gas Stove circa 1955. That old refrigerator.
The new owners hadn't replaced the multicolored shag carpeting that Dad had bought on sale at that big lumberyard and brainer. Wow. Even Mom's mismatched the roll rocker was still on the floor over the shag carpet. I never did understand why she did that.
The Space Age 60's clock was still on the pine paneling behind the TV. The table next to the rock are still holding copies of old Wild West and Lappity magazine and outdated Field and Streams. I walked near the small kitchen and glanced through the pocket door that served as the entry to my old bedroom. They still had the old comical deer hunting plastic ads on the wall.
A gimmick gift from the bait stores in the 1950's. Above the small ad for Ad Analysis bait was a plastic picture of a deer driving a vintage car through the woods with two hunters at it bagged tied to the trunk. Morbidly funny I always thought. These signs were still nailed to the wall near what had been my huge pine frame bed.
I looked on the floor of the small kitchen and saw in one foot a space between the stove and the fridge, 12 pack of died Pepsi. It was clearly a paper bag wrapped around a jug of Windsor. On looking over my bedroom door opening I saw the antlers on which were all the old fishing hats we bought on trips up to the cabin. These new not so new owners were either really strange.
They hadn't bothered to clear out all our old stuff. I noticed now my ears were ringing. My vision was going grey and I seemed to be kind of fading out. I asked if she minded if I sat down.
I stirred for my reverie to realize I was on the couch in the main room. Things appeared to be kind of an vintage Hollywood Technicolor. There was a smell of pipe and cigar smoke in the cabin. Dad had stopped smoking his pipe in the early 1980's.
This was out of character. I shook my head to try to clear my thoughts and I was looking for the lady of the house to apologize for my loss of consciousness. This was embarrassing. She was nowhere to be seen.
There were two men in the cabin. One was on a wooden chair at the table. Table now had no tablecloth on it. He was looking at a map and drawing on his pipe.
He had a fishing hat on his head and a vest over a sweatshirt. A gent was in the kitchen frying fish in a skillet. The cigar was glowing in an ashtray. They were talking about the time it would take tomorrow to bring the boat as far as lower white fish.
Could they get an extra tank for each boat in the resort home? Feeling somewhat awkward, I just sat and listened to wondering when they'd noticed I was on the couch. What had happened to the woman at the chatting room? The floor was now bare wood.
The carpet? Gone. The knotty pine paneling looked newer and somewhat freshly varnished. There wasn't a zenith TV.
Radio stood on an end table in the room. There was the Franklin stove and was back, but somewhat new. The exhaust pipe attached to the wall. There were the antleracks, there were no fishing hats hanging from them.
I heard a voice outside. The men did not notice me. I stood up slowly. They would appear they couldn't see or hear me.
I walked to the screen door. I quietly pushed it open, walked out on the original set of wooden steps. Our deck was not here. The man yelling in at the two chaps in the cabin was busy cleaning wall eyes.
The cabin was no longer marooned with white sprull sod trim. The structure was yellow, with green trim. I looked down the hill towards our dock. Gone.
There was a two-section rough-hewn dock to which two vintage fishing boats were tied. Motors on the transins were old. When motor had a tail-tailed rounded housing, the outboard from the 50s. The other had the recoil pull starter on the top of the motor.
Wow, I thought that is one old outboard. All I could think is, why are these guys? What the heck is going on? The fish cleaner appeared not to see me either.
I slowly walked closer to it. His clothes were vintage. His pack of smokes was on the stump near his fish cleaning station and looked like something I'd seen in old magazines. I walked back towards where the pump house should be.
It wasn't there. Their cars were parked in the grass behind the cabin. The Studebaker commander from the name of the chrome on the front quarter panel and a shiny beige Pontiac chieftain. Pontiacs seemed like it was fresh off a lot.
What the hell was going on here? The trash collection road separated in front of the property from the back was looking to be in continual use. In fact, here came what I knew to be a Ford Model 48 pickup. A bit rusty, but still soldering on.
I vaguely recognized the man behind the wheel as a much younger version of the old gentleman we bought the cabin from. He was stopping behind each cabin and dumping their trash into a larger bin in the back of the pickup. He yelled at the fish cleaner about what the fishing was like today. I heard him yell, sure.
You can have extra gas cans. More white fish. Yeah, it's a bit of a haul, but the biting is good. Sure.
Hey, you fellas have a good night. He got back in the cabin and continued with his resort trash. From the look of things, it was probably the early 1950s. I couldn't be seen by anyone now.
I realized I was an unseen observer. The truck and driver finished collections at the end of the cabins and headed off into the woods on a small road cut back into the oaks and maples. I heard the screen cabin door slam shut as one of the men from inside came out to oversee the cleaning of fish and BS for a while. He popped the cap off a cone top of your can and stood watching.
Drawing out a cigar amidst the comments and guffaws. The sun was getting lower and the lake was lighting up gold. I couldn't help but notice the lack of docks around the lake. The lack of boat traffic.
I shook my head in disbelief and walked slowly towards the bank that led towards the lake. Maybe 10 docks up and down the shore. Both sides of the lake. Finally a familiar sound.
The puttering of a small outboard engine. A shiny new aluminum boat was making its way in the direction of Little Pine Lake. A man in a fishing head at the tiller. A pipe between his teeth.
A guy's cleaning fish didn't seem to see him. He turned the tiller of what I was guessing to be about a five-horse outboard and did a slow arc closer to the near shore. He slowed the progress of his boat and trolled almost at a standstill right past me. He had no lure in the water, no rod in his free hand.
As the boat puttered past me, he made direct eye contact with me and nodded slowly as a plume of pipe smoke escaped his nose. He held up his free left hand and wave and turned the boat back towards the middle of the deck. The solitary fisherman twisted the throttle back to full speed and puttered away towards the distant channel. The series of miles and waves in his wake.
My ears started to buzz again. I lowered myself onto the lawn and sat down with some care. Eyes going great once again. I could still hear the men talking about how many they'd haul into my lawn on the bigger lake.
I awoke on the couch as the cat had just landed on my chest. A few cautious steps and then she jumped back down on the floor. I could hear the buzzer of the dryer going off in the basement and I recalled that my wife had asked me to fold that low. I guess I'm so used to having these realistic heaven dreams now that it doesn't shock me anymore.
I'm no longer waking with a sense of melancholy or deep loss. I just chalk it up to another creative mind film from long, long past. I get off the couch, down the steps to the basement and realize I have a stranger to go into the furnace room. I'm at a loss as to why this needs to happen but my feet are leading me there so I follow.
I have a fishing net attached to the wall of the furnace room. To that net I've attached a number of vintage lures from an old tackle box I was given by a good friend from the past. Ironically, that good friend enjoyed the whole thing. I had the cabin a few times for fishing and several small projects.
I was compelled to look at this wall display of good memories. It was there with the spoons and stick bait lures hanging from their hooks by the net. Right next to the old resort laundry bag I still had from the cabin. The bag was found in my bedroom up at the cabin and still had the name of the resort stencil on it.
I still had it decades after the cabin to disappear. I smiled as I looked at the last relook a wildwood resort and then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. Among the daredevils and meps is a new trophy. A red-eye-wheeled spoon I never owned.
I'm hanging off one of the hooks. The old key to a Pontiac. Hmm, I wondered myself. There are times with these dreams where I swear I'm crossing into something truly different but completely real.
The smell of old metal remains on my hand after I replace that car key on the treble look of the loo I've never seen. I've been asked many times to remove this outdoorsy monument to the past from our basement. Remove it or maybe move it to the garage with tackle boxes and rods. This amends it for me.
This collection stays next to the resort clothespin bag. It just kind of feels right. The appearances don't fright me. They make me smile.
I better fold that laundry before the wrinkles set and I need to iron laundry too. Greetings live from the Chain of Lakes area in beautiful Minnesota. The original home of the outdoors lifestyle. Fud and Bjorn, it's time for the weekly check-in from the broadcast home of KCCN Radio.
I'm live here at the corner of Burl, Ken Jensen, ready to bring you the latest updates for cabin country. Let's go first to Ted Bostwick reporting from Holland Wall Eyes, Baiton Tackle on the edge of town. What's the local weather looking like Ted? Well Bob, the day is looking seasonally appropriate.
Low 80s and the AM, Angling Prime Time, and low 90s and cloudy yet again for evening anchors. We were a humid early in the week, and we may still be feeling a steam this weekend. Continual stickiness of the weekmaries all since thunderstorms, so anyone heading out in the water should keep that in mind. The weather of Hopper, high and top Holland Wall Eyes is going around today and linking.
When that means warmer temps for today and a real possibility for precipitation into the night. Sunrise today, Bob, was beautiful and took place at 5.53 AM. While this evening sunset will begin around 8.30 PM, probably from the hind-clob cover. What's biting today around the area Ted?
The Chain of Lakes area is seen somewhat of a decrease in the Wall Eye Hall, but, and frequently ornery large mouths also become bashful. Short casting with jitter bugs, realistic rubber worms, or colorful jigs seem to be meeting with limited success. Spinner baits are bringing luck for the trollers out there, Bob. Maybe up the ante with the addition of a plastic leech or a pork rind.
With a relaxation crowd, blue gills and other pan fish are cooling in the deeper waters, and the heat seems to have curbed their hunger. Drop anchor, add a bobber, or set a depth on your line and cast a bobber off the dock. Be patient, eventually everyone's gotta eat, right? Her and favorite pan fish locales include the friendly confines of Loon Lake and the quiet waters of the often overlooked island lake, plenty of fish from pumpkin seeds to black crappies have been reported.
But the state fish, Wall Eyes will still lunge at blue, purple and black rubber worms, and it's not necessarily a bad idea to attach a spinner on top of the rake. Does the heat and humidity index appear to drop a bit when you're out there on your tracker, Ted? I'm not sure, Bob. It's thick wherever you drop your anger right now.
It's surrounded by water. Yeah, it probably works at least on a placebo level. Beat's mowing along, right? Ah, and what baits are currently for sale at Wall Eyes, Ted?
Well, Bob, we've got bait holding tanks full of most minnows. Rassies are plentiful this summer. We always have a refrigerator full of high-season crawlers. You can always pick up a jar of scented baits, Bob, and they won't let you down.
The leeches are plentiful in the fridge, Bob, waiting for you. And remember, we always have a wide range of flavored and scented plastic baits. Good fishing to all. This is Ted Bosch, who's signing off from Holland Wall Eyes bait and tackle.
Thanks, Ted. Remember that the range is open for the summer trap shooting tonight at the White Pines Regional Owls Club if the fishing isn't what you hoped. Bring your own ear protection. The fish-fry season is up and running as well.
Many establishments across cabin country are offering bass, pan-fish and walleye, usually in an all-you-can-eat format. We'll save you a seat in several ramekins and tartar sauce. A reminder, too, that crackling jack pines is one of the many establishments that will fry your catch for you if you bring it in. They always offer those classic fish-fry sides like slaw and twice-quick fries.
Oh boy. That'll wrap things up at this juncture. Thanks for listening, and we'll be back again soon with another Channel Lakes area report. Until then, this is Bob Nesterfell signing off.
Tonight, Terrible Tim Torgerson hears the retelling of a late-night visit from something we'll call Wabasha Red Eyes. The logbook of Tim, Terrible Tea, Torgis. It was muggy and hazy in the early morning. The trucks exhaust seemed to stick to you.
On human mornings like this, everything sounds dimmer, muted. Get in the truck. Put a reminder on my phone to ask the garage about recharging and repairing the non-functioning air conditioning. This could be a long-out summer.
The Wabasha Caves, where I'm supposed to go with this early pre-dawn Thursday. Noise is reported. Lights seen by area locals. Not like car or truck lights, but shimmering floating globes.
Not near the dance club entrance, near the semi-sealed-off cave entrances. Away from the club. People in their imaginations. Are we all six-year-olds on a sleepover?
Good Lord. The comments at the front desk are interesting, and a truly minnesota sense of the word. Our desk dispatcher had a bit of a smirk on her face as she told me the background info on the first stop this morning. The music.
Almost audible. But non-stop to the neighbors ears. Where was it coming from? And why are we hearing it at 3.30 in the morning?
Not loud enough to really hear, but loud enough to be in annoyance. Floating lights in the trees. Swamp gas. Ball lightning.
Not likely. The muted but alarmingly present reports of what sounded like guns. Several shots, according to the locals. People claim they could hear it on dalos and Colorado streets.
Some reports coming in from far away as congress and george. Really. The warning part was that the sounds weren't deafening but omnipresent. They could be heard but were not so loud that everyone in the neighborhood heard them.
Those who did hear them could not stop hearing them. There is no going back to bed and forgetting about it. Like hearing a mosquito in the tent. And then the lights.
Flickering. Wavering. Floating amongst the black shadows. Alright.
Wabashaw street caves. On the bluffs. So time to take the long, curving down road to scent of Ohio. The sun isn't up yet, but the pre-dawn bray is starting to lighten.
If the floating orbs are still wavering through the trees, I won't be able to see them soon. Why is it that these sort of paranormal things only seem to happen at night? A call from HQ. Tim, we've got a request for you to stop by the lot at Herring Island.
The homeowner would like to describe last night's events. You're close, right? Yeah, I'm almost to Plato. I'll hit Herring at Lot next.
I'm guessing they'll be the only ones there so I won't ask how to recognize them. Why the lot at Herring Island? Well, I never concerned about what their neighbors might think. I think they're also early birds and we're happy to have something to do as far as I can tell.
Let us know what you hear. Good luck. Okay. These are always interesting situations.
Retirees. This early on a Thursday morning. That's all that makes sense. Yet more light arises.
Burning the mists of the Mississippi. I pull into the lots at Herring Island and I see two people sitting in an idling sedan with the parking lights still on. They seem to notice that my truck is a park's truck and wave me over. Good morning.
What brings you out so bright and early this fine day? Just to soon not use my name if you don't mind. The noises. The lights.
We reported them. I'm guessing we weren't the only ones. Kept us up all night. So I heard.
What can you tell me about them? Where would they have been coming from? This is all new to me. The desk didn't have much for me.
We're just thingless. The noises and the lights. They were barely perceptible. Yet once you were aware of them you couldn't block them out.
The knowing. Frustrating. Kind of sounded like old record album music from the bygone times. And then the lights.
Worthy lights. Wavering. Flowing. Some of them disappearing.
They sure weren't cars. We're not far here from the airport but they weren't from aircraft. They were near ground level. Then they'd be near the treetops.
Mostly near the ground though. So strange. And then the sounds of those shots. They had to be gunshots.
They were almost too quiet to be gunshots. I'll be the one to add a layer here that you may not have heard about yet. Do tell. I'm not the kind to sit back and cower when my block is in danger.
I grabbed my 38 and I got in the car. I started prowling the block. Sir, I'm not sure where to start on my explanation of what a bad idea is. I've heard them all bubs so don't you start on me too.
I'm licensed to carry. Enough said. That's not where I'm going here. I started a quiet slow cruise towards where I know I heard the music and the shots coming from.
In my head I figured it was maybe a block away. I kept the car generally in drive idle if you follow me. No noise. It was rolling along.
I'd find these jerks. I had my cell phone ready to dial the cops too. But probably your best choice was to call the police first. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I've lived near the river flats now for 40 years. I know how things work around here. Used to be a security guard myself. I understand that when I want results I have to take matters into my own way.
I don't have any hands. God ugly. I'd make the call. Don't you worry about that.
Anyway, closer I got to where the noise seemed to be coming from. The more it seemed to shift further and further away. I started picking up a little speed and with the windows down listening to more concentration at each block. Before I snapped out of it I was near the caves dance club.
But as I kept listening I could tell the noise had moved again. Just kept moving down further into the trees. There's some black openings in the hillsides. There's caves.
The old cave openings. There's a lot of them, you know. Mr. Krasner.
I'm Joe Krasner. Mr. Krasner. Can I call you Joe?
Yeah. I'm not lost. Steel bars, concrete. I feel like the majority of those caves mild have been closed off.
That's where I'm going off, sir. There was that music I followed. It faded as I neared the end of the street where the brush and the trees get thick and there's plenty of cave entrances. I see maybe one or two more of those glowing circles near the base of the trees and then the music stopped.
And then I seen him. Him. Sir, you haven't mentioned anyone you ran into. I didn't run into him.
I couldn't even get near him. I was now about half a mile from home. I was down on the flats here. On those trees the harder I fixed my eyes I swear I seen a guy in a suit and I had.
Outline of a guy. Music was gone now. No more lights floating around. Just this big shadowy outline of a man and what looked to be a fedora.
He didn't hardly move. As I leaned forward in the driver's seat and I looked out the window I noticed those eyes. They seemed to emerge from the black outline of that head and appeared to be shadowed by the brim of that phantom fedora. Those eyes were glowing red.
No pupils. Kind of faded in and out. I'd see the eyes. Then I wouldn't.
It was at that point that I guess I raised my 38. I wasn't even aware I was doing it. Shadow man faded out. He was gone.
I snapped out of it and I was gone too. I didn't peel out or anything but I headed for home. I'd seen enough. What the heck was up with the gunshots?
Hmm. Joe can you give me the time that all this happened again? This is a lot to wrap my brain around. I'm not even going to mention what they're going to say to me back at the office.
The time this went down and one more spin of what you saw. I don't want to misquote you when I fill in the report. The old guy went out to tell me that around four o'clock he'd started his neighborhood prowl with the shootin' iron. I really wish people wouldn't be taking matters into their own hands and with a gun yet.
Anyway in the slowly dissipating blackness of four o'clock a.m. he saw glowing orbs. Heard distant big band music. Heard distant gunshots.
And saw the dark outline of a man in period clothing and fedora standing back in the trees near sealed off cave entrances. Then the figure's eyes began to glow red until they flicker out and he disappeared. End of scenario. Good Lord.
The elderly couple pulled out of the lot after the woman of the house insisted on a stop for coffee. I'd never hear the end of this. Do I report it? Of course I do.
I was dispatched to the scene. Couldn't pretend it didn't happen. This was the wildest tale I'd been told by a local in a long time. The chief would want to know what I'd responded to as well.
Who or what was the specter? A trick of the light or lack of light rather? An under slept senior citizen seen things and apparently he had to be. Just like the rest of his neighborhood and several other neighborhoods.
He wasn't alone. Maybe this gent was telling the truth. Maybe this was a ghost. The fedora and suit would make one think of a prohibitionary gangster.
Lord knows we've heard those tales from people who frequent the caves and the areas surrounding the caves. There's the ongoing tale as well of the prohibitionary mobsters who get into a shoot-em-other. In the caves, over a card game. An insult.
A love interest. I'd never hear the end of this. I took one last look around the area as I passed what appeared to be the end of the woods near the caves. Box elder, aspens and volunteer mebles.
The birdock plants were already three to four feet tall. Many acocleber will be stuck in dog fur and pants legs again this fall. A fair amount of trash tossed from cars too. Sure it'd be nice if people gave a damn about this land of theirs.
Well if nothing else this was more interesting than relining park trash cans after picking up the trash. I'd love to say I couldn't wait to hear what the chief would say when I report this. But no matter how this was received, it would come out with a fair ration of ribbing for my colleagues. Wabasha Renai's.
The logbook of Tim, Terrible T. The gas station podcast network encourages you to join us at the PUBS every Thursday at 9, weekly episode of Botland of the Boggland Bug, a weekly program that is intended to help the home brewer and home distillate. Boggland Bug is a self-proclaimed micro distiller of forest peen spirits, and constantly as a batch of northwoods beer, ale or no alcohol tiple at work in his outgrowings. Boggland Bug loves to throw some prohibition-era humor into this weekly podcast amidst the hints, suggestions, encouragements and straight-up distillers hacks that are intended to make your home brewing experience a positive way.
This week, Boggland Bug will discuss the not-so-new craze of homemade kombucha and equally enticing topic of switches. Boggland's discuss making the most out of the early summer's crop of Juneberry and how to create a wonderfully fresh switula out of the resulting simple syrup and some high quality video. Our GSPN host will show us the process for making a Northland kombucha out of a wetland and forest gem called the Labrador Tea, fragrant and plentiful. Labrador Tea makes a delicious kombucha, as does Sweet Gail and Black Cat Raspberry, and Wild Strawberry.
Bogg's list goes on and on. We'll all have to tune into Bob Van Bug, who will supply us with the do's and don'ts to help you create a beverage with a preferable flavor and freshness you can only encounter in the north woods of the upper Midwest. Bob will also walk into both the creation and flavoring steps needed for success with this week's drinks. There's also the possibility that Bob will also entertain the listeners with the chorus or missing verse of On the Trail of Loght and Pine, if you're lucky.
If you're home distill or are brook, you owe it to yourself to join us every Thursday at time for a following up with Boggland Bug. And don't forget to check the breakthrough level while you're at the club. And now back to Bjorn Lloyd's head in Fudd Clubman in cabin country. I'll show you what I'm passionate about with Petri's head and I'll show you how it's a good hammer.
Please give your blood. That's not pretty good, does it? Phil got a hammer, his tank kind of puts on. That is very nice and fresh.
And our folks, it's time to say good night. We sincerely appreciate your patterned and hope we've succeeded in bringing you an enjoyable evening of entertainment. Please drive home carefully and come back again soon. Good night.