August 2025 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Pa-Pae Meditation Retreat

By Mike Huber

After scuba diving and a relaxing month living in Ao Nang, Thailand, I was becoming too comfortable and thought it was time to move north to experience Chiang Mai and its temples and sights near the Laos border. I didn’t have much of an itinerary, but I had met a pretty cool French guy who highly recommended a Buddhist meditation retreat called Pa-Pae. It was about an hour’s bus ride north of Chiang Mai. Having never experienced meditation before, this seemed like a great opportunity.

I was surprised at how well organized the retreat was. It was adjacent to a small village with its own store and a local restaurants, but otherwise this retreat was in its own world separated from everything else. This was the perfect location to practice meditation. Wanting to experience this retreat even deeper I chose to perform a fast (water only) and not speak throughout the four days (the silence was the world’s loss for the four days).

Once settled into my little cabin on the mountainside and changing into the white pants and shirts they provided, it was time to relax until the evening meditation class. The class would cover the basics of meditation in an attempt for me to clear my mind (never an easy task) and try to find some peace within myself. Meditation isn’t easy for me. It took a lot of work to focus on a mantra or an object within my mind and remove all the static from the outside world.

With there being three meditation classes daily and without speaking, I was able to silence my mind, if only for a few moments each class. In between the meditation classes there were monks who would share their illuminating life stories and also provide answers to the many questions we first timers had. With not being able to speak, the question-and-answer sessions were my only source of social activity.

Our final meditation ceremony was held around a fire pit. This is where I almost broke my silence as the wood for the fire was quite wet (we were in a rainforest, after all) and I had an extremely difficult time pantomiming “get some gasoline to get this fire going!” I did finally manage, though, and the fire was lit. When that evening’s meditation ended, we lit paper lanterns to release into the sky. My lantern in the photo is the one stuck in the tree. Slip away!

Upon leaving I felt refreshed, rested, and almost ready for the next part of my adventure. I successfully completed the classes, my fast, and even my 92-hour silence. Later that evening I celebrated by stuffing my face with some Pad Thai and talking with my mouth full. My next retreat should be one that involves learning proper manners.

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A Tale of Two Bowie Knives

By Joe Berk

Well, maybe it’s three. A little while ago I wrote about a custom Bowie knife good buddy Paul crafted for me. That knife was a surprise gift, I like it a lot, and it fit in nicely with the rest of my collection.

A surprise gift from good buddy Paul: A custom Bowie knife.

Paul then sent a photo of a curly maple Bowie he made for himself, and I liked it so much I offered to buy it. Not so fast, Paul said. He’s keeping that one, but he offered to make another one just like it for me. One thing led to another, and I decided to go ahead with the curly maple Bowie. And then I decided to get yet another Bowie, this time with a white Micarta handle. Paul told me about a block of Micarta he’s had for 40 years, and he thought it would do nicely. Over the years, the Micarta had taken on a beautiful yellow hue similar to real ivory.

Lifelong good buddy Paul with some of his Randalls and a few other toys. I’ve known Paul longer than any other person on the planet.

Paul is an experienced and serious knifemaker, and he is also a collector. He has the nicest collection of Randall knives I’ve ever seen, as well as a bunch of other high-end knives.

Now, on this business of Bowie knives: In the previous Bowie blog (to which I provided a link above), I wrote briefly about the history of Jim Bowie and the knife that bears his name. And speaking about bears, some of you might be thinking about Davy Crockett, a Bowie knife, and the myth surrounding his encounter with a bear. Congressman Crockett’s ursine encounter is but a story; it’s not historical fact. It likely came about as the result of the song, “The Ballad of Davy Crockett.” As our President might say: It’s fake news. There’s no proof it actually occurred. But it’s fun to think about.

My two recent custom Bowie acquisitions are both massive knives. The Micarta-handled bowie has a blade length of 9 3/4 inches and an overall length of 14 7/8 inches. It’s a huge knife with a gorgeous brass guard. It is simply stunning.

The Micarta Bowie. The handle, the brass guard and pommel, the blade, the brass pins, and the Micarta handle make for a beautiful custom knife.

A close up shot of the craftsmanship on the custom Bowie handle. It is an exquisite knife.

Big boys, big toys: Both of these knives are huge. The Micarta-handled knife has a good feel to it. The ruler you see above is 15 inches long.

The curly maple custom Bowie knife is the one that got all this going. When I saw the one Paul had crafted for himself, I had to have one. I absolutely didn’t need it, but I wanted it. I wanted one just like Paul’s, and he came through. It’s a beautiful knife.

Paul does beautiful custom work. You should see his black powder rifles; they are equally impressive. This knife just looks right.

The workmanship on both knives is superb. The guard and the pommel are beautiful bits of aluminum hand filed and finished by Paul. There are a lot of hours in these knives, and it shows.

Curly maple, custom everything: This is a beautiful Bowie knife. The background for this photo and others in this blog is an Ossabaw hog skin. I shot it on a hunt with Paul in Arizona about 10 years ago with a curly-maple-stocked Model 70.

The curly maple knife is even bigger than the Micarta knife (the blade length is 10 inches and the handle is 5 1/4 inches, for an overall length of 15 1/4 inches). Although it’s bigger, the maple knife is noticeably lighter than the Micarta Bowie due to its more slender blade, the aluminum guard and pommel, and the curly maple handle. Both are big, big knives. Huge, actually.

Paul asked for my inputs during the design of both knives, and he kept me posted with photos as the knives came together. It was fun, and I now own the two beautiful Bowies you see in this blog (three, if you count the first one). They are stunning knives, they are built exactly as I wanted them, and they are a magnificent addition to my small collection.

You know, we have bears here in southern California. Lots of them, apparently. One was in the backyard of a home just a half-mile from ours few days ago. Bears, be forewarned. Thanks to Paul, I’m ready.

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A Laminated Mosin

By Joe Berk

The surplus Mosin-Nagant rifles that were everywhere (until Obama was in office) were the best gun deals ever; now, you hardly see them anywhere, and when you do, they go for big bucks. You used to be able to buy a Mosin for $79 at Big 5. I started playing around with them about 15 years ago. Today, when you see one, it’s not unusual for the store to have them marked at $500 (or more).

One of mine is a laminated stock Mosin 91/30, which is not seen too often. I bought it about 10 years ago from Gunrunner’s in Duarte for $239 and stuck it in the safe. Until today, I had not fired it. It’s a Tula (there were two makers; Tula was one) with a round receiver. It was made originally in 1939. After the war, the Soviets refurbed most of them and a very few were fitted with laminated stocks. I’ve never seen another one on the range. It’s a pretty rifle, and I like the look of it. Laminated wood stocks are usually much more stable than a standard stock, so I think that’s helping this rifle’s accuracy.

My laminated Mosin has the usual nicks and dings. The serial numbers all match (stock, magazine, bolt, receiver, and bayonet). The trigger is heavy, gritty, and just God-awful. For the groups you see here, I used my new favorite Mosin load (42.0 grains of IMR 3031 and the PRVI PPU 150-grain jacketed softpoint boattail bullet).

The rifle, I think, shoots well (even with its terrible trigger, and it was pretty windy out there the day I shot the groups you see above). Because I am a cheap SOB, I reused a target from a previous range session with my .375 H&H, so you can ignore the group to low right of the bullseye. With my laminated-stock Mosin, I first shot 6 rounds at 50 yards to see where the rifle was printing (my aim point was at 6:00 on the bullseye). Then I moved the target out to 100 yards and fired another 10 rounds using the same aimpoint. The 50-yard group measures 1 1/8 inch; the 100-yard group measures 2 13/16 inch. That’s not too bad for the first time out, and not too bad for an old guy using iron sights.

My rear sight is already all the way down. I am going to look for a front sight with a taller post (if you know who might offer these, please let me know). The rifle probably has a 500-meter battlesight zero (or whatever the Russians used), and it was probably set up with the bayonet installed (which makes the rifle shoot to the right without the bayonet). I can adjust the windage by drifting the front sight; I can’t lower the elevation without getting a taller front post.

You might be wondering what the bore looks like on this rifle. I can show you:

There are some takeaways from the above photos:

- - The bore is better in some spots than in others.
  - When these rifles saw action in World War II (as this one probably did), the ammo used had corrosive primers. The effects of that are visible.
  - Even Mosin-Nagant rifles with funky bores can shoot well.
  - The bore cleaning copper fouling solvent I use, Patch-Out, does a good job. It works a lot better than Hoppes No. 9. You don’t see any copper in the photos above.

Incidentally, if you’ve never seen the movie Enemy at the Gates, it’s one of the best movies ever (in my opinion). The Mosin-Nagant rifle plays a starring role. The opening scenes are really well done. Take a look:

I’ve written a lot about the Mosin-Nagant 91/30 rifle. I love these old rifles. Here are my earlier posts:

Three Mosin-Nagant Loads
Mosins, Sewer Pipes, and Lunar Landscapes
A Tale of Two Mosins
More Mosin Loads
Cast Bullet Mosin Loads
Mosins, and Enemy at the Gates
NJ State Police Museum
A Tale of Two Old Warhorses
Home on the Range
Stupid Hot 7.62x54R Ammo
Lee Ermey’s Guns Go To Auction
Revisiting World War II
Sniper!
Motorcycles and Milsurps

If you would like to learn more about the Mosin-Nagant rifle, the Lapin book is the definitive source:

The Mosin-Nagant Rifle is an easy and fascinating read. I enjoyed it and I think you will, too.

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ExNotes Review: MidwayUSA Soft Rifle Case

By Joe Berk

I don’t usually buy things with features I don’t need, but I made an exception for MidwayUSA’s soft rifle case. I needed a couple of soft rifle cases because some of mine had worn out (the zippers were tearing on a couple, the inner lining was snagging on the front sight on another, the handle broke on one, etc,). Usually, I spend about $10 or $12 on a rifle case because the only thing I really use them for is bringing a rifle to or from the range. In the past, I’ve purchased them when visiting Bass Pro or Turner’s.

I buy a lot of reloading components from MidwayUSA, so that’s where I went for the cases. MidwayUSA usually ships either the day I order anything, and they have that $100 free shipping threshold. At $26.24, their Heavy Duty Scoped Rifle Case was more than I wanted to spend, but hey, I would only need to order four of the things to get my free shipping. I am a sucker for that free shipping deal.

The cases arrived quickly, and MidwayUSA packaged them well. They arrived in a single large box with plenty of padding. You could have shipped a body in the box (it was that big). Each case was in a separate plastic bag. It’s funny when you think about it: Carefully packing a case in a box to protect it from damage when the purpose of the case is to protect things from damage.

The rifle case itself is impressive. It’s wider than usual and it has heavier padding on the sides. The zippers are higher quality than what I usually see on rifle cases. Inside, there are a couple of Velcro straps to secure a rifle (that’s a feature I don’t need, but it’s a nice touch). The case has a carrying strap so you can carry it from the shoulder (yet another feature I don’t need, but some folks might). There’s an exterior zippered pocket, presumably for carrying ammo. I used it for the Velcro retainers and the shoulder strap, so I guess it came in handy.

I was worried about the case being big enough to accept get some of my longer barreled rifles, but there’s plenty of room. I have a couple of long action bolt rifles with 26-inch barrels, and the MidwayUSA case swallowed those with ease. You can see that in the photo at the top of this blog.

The cases can be had in olive green, desert, or black. I bought the olive green version in a nod to my alma mater (the US Army).

Overall, I give the case 10.0 points (out of a total possible 10 points). I knocked it down a half a point because it had things I didn’t need, but then I gave it a half point back for MidwayUSA’s free (and speedy) shipping. If you are in the market for a rifle case, this is a good one.

Pro Tip: Never store a firearm in a soft case (or a holster) for an extended period of time. The case or the holster will hold moisture and lead to rusting. Take the weapon out regularly and wipe it down with an oiled rag.

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Wrapping Up Patagonia: Part 5

By Bobbie Surber

From horseback trails at Estancia Nibepo Aike to the jagged peaks of Fitz Roy, the crash of Perito Moreno, and penguin-packed beaches at Ushuaia, our Patagonia journey mixed grit, awe, and laughter into something unforgettable.

Where the Wilderness Ends and Ice Begins

Our last morning at the Estancia unfolded slowly, heavy with goodbye. This wild land, tamed into a ranch, had left its mark on me, I knew I’d be back. With a swirl of nostalgia and excitement, we boarded a boat bound for Perito Moreno, the glacier I’d dreamed about for years, stretching broad and blue beneath the Patagonian sky.

The lake whispered under sunlight slicing through the clouds while the cold bit like a sudden awakening. We lucked into front-row seats, perfect for nature’s ice show. Then, out of the mist, the glacier appeared, nineteen miles long, three miles wide, towering like a twenty-story giant barging into the lake as if it owned the place.

Then it happened: a slab of ice, bigger than my first apartment building, sheared off the wall of ice, flipped, and exploded into the water. The boat rocked, someone yelped, and for a moment we just stood there, slack-jawed, like kids watching their first fireworks.

On land, we wandered the boardwalks like rookie tourists, phones mostly forgotten, because how do you capture something like that? Perito Moreno groaned and cracked like an old house in a storm, moving seven feet a day as if it had somewhere to be. Patagonia does that to you, it shrinks your ego and hands you awe instead.

That night, we rode a shuttle back to El Calafate, ate whatever was put in front of us, and collapsed like marathoners at the finish line, ready for the rental car desk come morning.

El Chaltén: At the Foot of Fitz Roy

The road north was classic Patagonia: big sky, endless pavement, guanacos grazing like they invented grass. Then Fitz Roy broke through the clouds, jagged and impossible, like someone Photoshopped a mountain into the sky. Driving into El Chaltén felt like stepping inside a painted postcard, wild winds, raw mountain air, and beauty so sharp it steals your breath.

El Chaltén is barely a town, more like a trailhead with a postal code. Dirt roads, gear shops smelling of ambition and old socks, and cafés held together by determination. Our guesthouse perched up a steep stairway, its walls creaking with the wind like it had opinions. Pilar, our host, greeted us like long-lost cousins and tossed in trail tips along with the town’s scrappy story of origin.

At night, the walls creaked so loudly I was sure they were gossiping about the weather. Pilar swore it was just the wind; I’m still not convinced.

One Perfect Day: Laguna de los Tres

Finally, a good-weather day. No howling winds, no rain, no clouds, just the rare Patagonia morning that feels like a cosmic mistake. We hit the trail early, coffee still buzzing, weaving through meadows and little forests while parrots heckled us from the trees.

The last mile was brutal, steep, rocky, and exposed enough to make me question my life choices. My knee staged a mutiny, Tom’s back grumbled, but when we crested the ridge and saw Fitz Roy blazing in full glory, mirrored in the turquoise lake, every complaint evaporated.

The wind tried to knock us sideways, but we dug in. We laughed like idiots, hair whipping everywhere, snapping far too many photos that still couldn’t capture the scale. We stayed longer than sense allowed, because who walks away from a dream?

The descent cost us dearly. By town, I was hobbling like a newborn giraffe, and Tom looked like he’d been in a fistfight with a grizzly. That first beer? Pure nectar of the gods.

The next day, we didn’t even pretend to hike. We committed fully to rest, ice packs, naps, and Fitz Roy playing coy outside our window. That night, we stumbled upon a tiny café serving guanaco stew. I tried not to picture those long lashes blinking at me from across the table. Failed miserably. Ever seen a guanaco? Long neck, spindly legs, and eyes so big they look permanently surprised, like they just realized they’re on the menu.

Ushuaia

The end of the world felt like the beginning of everything.

From El Calafate, we flew south to Ushuaia, the literal end of the world. The plane dipped over a harbor ringed by jagged peaks, like we’d been rerouted to Earth’s last page.

Our Airbnb perched high above town with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Beagle Channel. At night, we bundled up in blankets, poured red wine, and watched ships drift by like sleepy ghosts.

Where the Mountains Meet the Sea

We hiked Tierra del Fuego National Park, where the Andes finally give up and slide into the ocean. Trails curled through forests and along lazy rivers, ending at Ruta 3, the southernmost highway in Argentina. Standing there felt like closing a book you didn’t want to end, except this one left you with sore calves and windburn.

Penguins, Naturally

Penguins were mandatory, my first chance to see them in the wild. I tried to play it cool, my second failure, bouncing to the start of the tour like a kid handed their first ice cream sundae.

We boarded a boat that bucked like a mechanical bull with abandonment issues. Spray stung our faces as I mentally rewrote my will, just in case.

On Isla Martillo, Magellanic and Gentoo penguins ruled the beach like feathered royalty. Hundreds waddled in tight little lines as if late for a crucial penguin meeting, while others strutted around their burrows, squawking like they owned the place, which, to be fair, they did. A few belly-flopped into the icy surf with the grace of bowling pins, then shot through the water like sleek black-and-white torpedoes. The bold ones toddled straight up to us, tilting their heads with that signature “You’re lost, aren’t you?” look. It was ridiculous, hilarious, and unexpectedly moving, proof you can thrive anywhere if you just commit to it.

Flying Home

Looking out over the Beagle Channel, it hit me: we’d started way up north in Santiago and now stood at the end of the world, the tip of South America.

The trip wore us out and inspired us in ways words can barely touch. Patagonia’s raw landscapes crashed over us like waves, the aching climbs, the relentless rain, the wind that stole our breath, and moments so beautiful they squeezed my chest tight. It forced open parts of myself I’d kept locked away.

Tom was my rock, steady when I stumbled, stubborn when I doubted, always there with a hug, a glass of wine, and that quiet grin that said, “We’ll get through this together.”

From Santiago’s sweetness to Torres del Paine’s jagged towers, across Perito Moreno’s moving ice, up Fitz Roy’s wind-thrashed trails, and finally Ushuaia’s edge-of-the-world quiet, Patagonia gave us more than landscapes. It gave us stillness we didn’t know we needed, laughter we didn’t see coming, and trust built one bruised knee and newborn giraffe step at a time.

We flew home tired, grateful, and just a little different, carrying Patagonia in our bones and ready for whatever wild road comes next.

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IMR 3031 Mosin Loads

By Joe Berk

I recently bought an 8-lb container of IMR 3031 on the theory that the time to buy something is when you see it, and I’ve been researching loads for various cartridges using that powder.

IMR 3031 doesn’t appear too often in modern reloading manuals, which struck me as odd because when I first started playing with things that go bang it seemed like 3031 was an almost universal propellant, good for whatever ails you. So I dug out some reloading manuals from the 1970s, and as I expected, 3031 showed up for a bunch of different cartridges. One of them is 7.62x54R, and I wanted to see if I could develop a decent load for my Mosin-Nagant. I should point out at this point that there’s nothing special about my 1940 Tula Mosin (other than the fact that it’s one of my favorite rifles). In fact, the barrel looks more like a sewer pipe than a precision shooting instrument.

My Mosin-Nagant’s bore. It ain’t pretty.

I loaded the ammo for this test series with the PPU Partizan 150-grain, 0.311-inch diameter, jacketed softpoint boattail bullet. These are relatively inexpensive bullets (they go for around $.30 each from Graf’s, which I guess is cheap by today’s standards). These bullets pop up for sale occasionally, and a while back I bought 500 of them.

PPU bullets. They are relatively inexpensive. Sometimes they go on sale.

Three different 7.62x54R reloads. From left to right, it’s the Hornady V-Max bullet, the PPU jacketed softpoint bullet, and a cast lead bullet. I shot only the PPU bullets for this blog.

My testing consisted of five different IMR 3031 loads to see how they performed at 100 yards. The drill was to fire 10 rounds each at charges of 39.0, 40.0, 41.0, 42.0, and 43.0 grains. I used PRVI Partizan brass and Winchester primers, and I seated the bullets for an overall cartridge length of 2.790 inches with no crimp. Here’s what I found:

The chrono and accuracry results. 42.0 grains of IMR 3031 seems to be the sweet spot.

A 100-yard target group with the 42.0 grain IMR 3031 load.

The sweet spot appears to be right about 41.0 to 42.0 grains of IMR 3031 (the target above is with 42.0 grains). The standard deviation is smaller for the 42.0-grain load with the same group size, so that’s what I’m going with. Recoil was moderate with all loads; none of the loads showed any pressure signs. None of the above were compressed charges. The 43.0-grain load had a smaller standard deviation, but the group opened up and shifted to the left, so I’m going to call the 42.0-grain load good. It’s as good as the groups I was getting with IMR 4320, which had previously been my Mosin accuracy load.

Before any of you out there in the blogosphere get your shorts in a knot about using older reloading manuals, I realize the manual companies (and others who parrot them) advise against doing so. The theory is that the propellant formulations have changed and what the old manuals show as a safe load may not necessarily be so today. I get it. That’s why I start testing at the bottom of the range and work up, looking for pressure signs along the way. The current and the 2007 Hornady manuals do not list IMR 3031 for the 7.62x54R. The 1973 Hornady manual (the first one I ever bought when I was just getting started in this game) shows a max of 44.4 grains with a 150-grain bullet, which is why I stopped my initial testing at 43.0 grains. None of the loads I tested showed any pressure signs and recoil was moderate with all loads. I think the new manuals feature new powders because the powder companies pay for the manuals to include their newest stuff. I don’t think they do it because the powders are necessarily better. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m a cynical old fart.

I should point out that my findings are not rigorous for two reasons:

- I’m not that good a shot, and
- My eyes are not what they used to be. It’s getting increasingly more difficult to get the front sight in sharp focus (ah, to be 72 again…). I do the best I can.

But I’m still out there having fun, and that’s what important.

I’ve written a lot about the Mosin-Nagant 91/30 rifle. Here are my earlier posts:

If you would like to learn more about the Mosin-Nagant rifle, the Lapin book is the definitive source:

The Mosin-Nagant Rifle is an easy and fascinating read.

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Revisiting the 375 H&H Safari Rifle

By Joe Berk

I’m not as good as I used to be. That point was brought home during a recent session with my Remington .375 H&H Safari Grade rifle. I can tell by reviewing a few blogs I did earlier on this rifle. The groups were better. Way better. I just don’t have the visual acuity I used to. I’ve written about this rifle before, and I’ll give you the links for those earlier blogs at the end of this one.

The walnut is what drew me to this rifle. That, and the fact that it is a .375 H&H.

The lumber is straight grained through the length of the stock, and then it explodes in a feather pattern near the butt. This is good stuff.

The view from the starboard side, where the contrasty grain is even better. Life is too short for plain walnut. You can quote me on that.

I’ve owned the Safari rifle for five decades now. I’ve never been on a safari with it, and at this point in my life, I probably never will be. But I can still dream. Capstick, Corbett, Bell, and other professional hunters wrote about their adventures going after things that could gore, stomp, or bite you to death. I like reading those stories. Like I said, I can still dream.

Back in the 1970s, the Safari Grade Model 700 Remington rifles were only offered in two chamberings: .458 Magnum and .375 H&H. Check out the jeweled bolt.

The Safari Grade rifles had a rosewood fore end tip and matching pistol grip accents, with light maple spaces. Classy stuff. Check out the rear sight.

Another view of the rear sight. The Safari Grade rifles had cut checkering, too (no pressed-in or fuzzy laser cut checkering on these rifles).

The front sight on my Model 700. That little bead is a lot harder to see these days than it was 40 or 50 years ago.

I first became interested in big bore rifles when a group of guys I hung around with in El Paso 50 years ago cooked up a cast bullet bench rest competition. They all bought big bore rifles, with the understanding that minor casting imperfections wouldn’t affect the bigger .458 or .375 cast bullets very much. I never lost interest in that concept, although the bullets I’ll write about here are of the jacketed variety.

.375 H&H reloads with 270-grain Hornady jacketed softpoint bullets. The bullets are factory seconds.

The weather at the West End Gun Club was perfect: No wind, moderate temperatures, and the horseflies weren’t out. I set up my gear, put my targets out during a line break, and chatted with my geezer buddies for a bit (being retired is fun). Then I pulled the big Remington from its case, placed it in the rifle rest, set up my Garmin chronograph, chambered a round, and searched diligently for the front sight as I settled in behind the rifle. As the front sight danced in and out of focus, I did my best to hold it at the base of the bullseye (barely visible 100 yards away), and gently put pressure on the trigger. I did the same nine more times, each time remembering the marksmanship fundamentals I learned in the Army.

My first target of the day. Low and to the right. The group was just okay. I’ve done better.

I shot at 100 yards from the bench, and as has been the case in prior outings, the rifle printed a little low and a little to the right (I had to use my spotting scope to see it; there’s no way those little .375 holes would be visible to the naked eye). I thought I would adjust the rear sight to compensate for this, but I had my contact lenses in on this outing and I couldn’t see the screws that lock the rear sight in position well enough to take a chance on loosening them and moving the sight. I’ll do that when I get home. I had my contacts in because I thought I might be able to see the front sight a bit better. Hope springs eternal, but it wasn’t in the cards for me. I shoot open sights pretty much the same whether I’m wearing my glasses or my contacts.

On the next target, I threw in a little Kentucky windage, doing my best to hold the front sight at 9:00 on the black bullseye. It worked. The next 10 shots were mostly in the bullseye, but I had to struggle even more to see the front sight with it partially over the black bullseye. Normally I would hold at 6:00, where the front sight is still tough to see but the contrast against the white background surrounding the bullseye is better. Trying to hold it at 9:00, with the front sight’s little bead half in and half out of the bullseye, was like trying to have a discussion with a left winger. But when I looked through the spotting scope, I could see that I did okay.

A 9:00 o’clock hold and a little luck resulted in this group. I do love shooting my .375 H&H.

My load is mild compared to where you can go with this cartridge. I shoot a reduced load using Hornady 270-grain jacketed softpoint factory second bullets, 33.0 grains of SR 4759 propellant, Remington brass, a CCI 200 primer, an overall cartridge length of 3.570 inches, and no crimp. Recoil is mild for a .375 H&H.

The group size and chrono results, along with those from a single group fired a week or so earlier, are provided below.

It looks like I did a little better wearing glasses than I did with my contact lenses. I think I see better with my contacts, but I guess the results don’t lie. It was a little bit cooler on this second outing than it was on the day I shot previously, and that shows up in the velocity results.

One of my buddies chided me about the Remington needing a scope. I would do better with a scope, but I like the challenge of hitting a distant target with iron sights.

You might be wondering about the factory second bullets. They are usually available from MidwayUSA. I don’t know what makes them factory seconds. It might be the cannelure location on the bullet shank, it might be slight tarnishing, or it might be something else. The factory second bullets are about half the price of the standard (presumably higher quality) Hornady bullets. For my purposes, these are good enough. Maybe I’d get smaller groups with first quality bullets. Maybe not. Someday maybe I’ll test to see if there’s an accuracy difference.

As promised, here’s a set of links for my earlier .375 H&H blogs:

The 375 H&H at 100 Yards
375 H&H Loads
The Remington 375 H&H Safari Grade Rifle

You might recall that we also wrote a few blogs on a cartridge that improves upon the .375 H&H (and that would be the .375 Ruger). Those blogs are here:

A Custom 375 Ruger
A Day at the Range

And to wrap up this blog, while I was on the Midway site I came across a Youtube video about the .375 H&H by my good buddy Larry Potterfield. I enjoyed it and I thought you might, too.

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Patagonia Part 4: El Calafate and Estancia Nibepo Aike

By Bobbie Surber

If you missed any of the first three parts of our Patagonia adventure, you can read them here:

Patagonia Part 1
Patagonia Part 2
Patagonia Part 3

After completing the W Trek in Torres del Paine, we crossed the border from Chile into Argentina, taking a bus from Puerto Natales to the windswept outpost of El Calafate. The transition felt like stepping into another rhythm of life. We checked into a modest Airbnb along the town’s main street, no lake views, no frills, just a place to drop our packs and breathe.

El Calafate charmed us with its unhurried pace and pastel-hued light. Dusty streets and artisan shops hinted at the town’s glacier tourism, while the smoky aroma of grilled meat drifted invitingly from nearby restaurants. That first evening, we savored a perfectly cooked lamb dinner paired with a velvety upscale Malbec, a delicious homecoming after days of relentless trekking.

Before dinner, Tom surprised me with a thoughtful gift: a stunning, authentic wool wrap, in rich shades of red and earthy browns. It wasn’t just the wrap’s beauty, it was the meaning behind it. His quiet gesture felt like a warm embrace, a tangible memory woven into fabric. Wrapping it around my shoulders, I felt deeply seen and cared for.

We exhaled here, not just from the physical effort of the W Trek, but from the mental tension that comes with planning, moving, and always pushing.

Here, things slowed.

As the glow of El Calafate faded behind us, our journey turned inward again, toward Estancia Nibepo Aike, a place that etched itself into memory, nestled within Los Glaciares National Park. Our guide Ana greeted us in town. “This land tests you,” she said firmly, “but it also gives back in ways you never expect.” She told us of a Croatian immigrant who founded the estancia at the turn of the 20th century, braving this wind-swept wilderness to build a life from scratch.

We traveled by truck across the open steppe, the road fading into the endless horizon beneath the vast Patagonian sky. Our arrival felt like stepping into a dream, a cluster of rustic buildings perched near Lago Roca, glacier peaks faintly visible in the distance. I barely reached the bench overlooking the lake before my tears welled up. The stillness, the timelessness, the sheer space to simply be, it all felt profound. As Tom checked us in, a man settled beside me, tapping my leg gently in comfort. “Welcome,” he said softly. Only later did I learn he was the owner, a direct descendant of the original settler, carrying the legacy of conviction and grit.

We stayed for three nights, and each day unfolded in a gentle rhythm. The estancia offered the basics in the best way: no cell service, no TV, no distractions. Wi-Fi was available in the main lodge, but it wasn’t why we came. The meals were hearty and local, Argentine lamb raised and butchered on-site and cooked the gaucho way, over an open flame. We gathered family-style with other guests, sharing bottles of wine and stories, the lake and sheep grazing in the fields providing a calming backdrop.

Days were filled with optional activities: horseback rides through rolling hills and along the lake, hikes into the surrounding terrain, mountain biking on dusty trails, ranch tours, and the unforgettable spectacle of gauchos expertly rounding up sheep with their loyal dogs.

One afternoon, the gauchos rode out across the field in a blur of motion, horse and rider moving as one, dogs darting through the flock like threads in a living tapestry. It wasn’t just skill; it was poetry carved into tradition.

The Land and Its Stories

The landscape here demanded attention, rolling hills that spilled into wide plains, then abruptly lifted to jagged peaks topped with glaciers. Lago Roca shimmered silver under shifting light. Caracaras circled above as sheep, cattle, and horses grazed peacefully below. This purity stripped away all distractions.

I hadn’t ridden in years, but the saddle welcomed me back like old muscle memory. For two days, we explored on horseback, winding down to the lake, climbing along ridges, and crossing open fields with distant glaciers etched on the horizon. At one ridge, the vista swallowed us whole, glacier, lake, and sky meeting in a vast silence that stilled even the wind. In every hoofbeat, I reconnected to something ancient in myself, a love for silence, unhurried motion, and true presence.

Reflection

The W Trek tested our stamina, courage, and determination. This place demanded nothing, and in that quiet, gave everything. Tom and I found ourselves sitting side by side in peaceful silence, the unspoken connection between us stronger than words. We shared the stillness like we had shared the trail, letting something new grow, deeper trust or simply a profound appreciation for our life together.

Farewell to the Estancia

Leaving was harder than I expected. The people, the animals, the rhythm of life, they had become part of our rhythm, subtly and completely. On our final morning, I stood by the fence as the sunrise spilled soft pinks and golds across the hills. The wind tugged at my jacket, and from somewhere out on the steppe, the steady rhythm of hooves echoed in the distance. A gaucho passed by, ready for his day, his wide-brimmed hat tipped slightly as he offered a knowing smile, not rushed, not performative, just part of the land.

We boarded the bus to the boat dock, the first leg of our next journey, a glacier excursion that would begin Part 5. As the estancia slipped from view, my thoughts were still, my spirit grounded and full.

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Indiana Jones Revisited

By Joe Berk

Yes, it really was like that. Somewhere along the Silk Road (the actual Silk Road) in China. I parked my RX3 when I saw the double rainbow, thinking someday I might use the shot in a blog about this adventure.

Almost 40 years ago, I saw my first Indiana Jones movie and it affected me profoundly. I started traveling the world stumbling upon lost empires. Things that have been swallowed by time, as they say. My motorcycle ride through Colombia had some of that. The Baja adventures have a bit of it, too. But none of the rides had more of an Indiana Jones flavor than did the ride across China. That ride was three years ago this month, and I still think about it every day. There were several things we saw in China that would have been right at home in an Indiana Jones movie. One was Liqian. I can best tell you about it with an excerpt from Riding China, the story of the ride with Joe Gresh across the Ancient Kingdom.

Gobi Gresh, aka Arjiu, stopping to smell the sunflowers in China.

The ride in the morning was just like yesterday. We rode the Silk Road at high speed, making great time in magnificent weather. I knew we were going to Wuwei (you could have a lot of fun with that name; it’s pronounced “woo wee”), but that was really all I knew about that day as we started out that morning. Boy, would this day ever be an interesting one!

It was to be a very full day, and Wuwei would be another one of those cities of several million people that seem to pop up in China every 50 to 100 miles. It was a huge city I had never heard of. China is an amazing place, and I was going to learn today it is more amazing than I could have imagined, and for a reason I would have never guessed. I’ve mentioned Indiana Jones movies a lot in this book. Today, we came upon something that could easily be…well, read on. This is going to be good.

After riding for a couple of hours, we left the freeway and entered a city called Yongchang. It seemed to be pretty much a regular Chinese city until we stopped. I needed to find a bathroom and Wong helped me. Wong is a big, imposing guy. He’s a corrections officer supervisor in Xi’an. He has a friendly look, but he can turn that off in a New York minute and become an extremely imposing figure. I saw him do that once on this trip, and I’ll tell you about that episode when we get to it.

Corrections Officer Supervisor Wong. He looks like a mischievous guy. This guy’s command presence was amazing. I saw him stop a car just by looking at it. Here, he’s enjoying the attention in Yongchang.

Anyway, I followed Wong through a couple of alleys and businesses until we came to an empty restaurant (it was mid-morning, and it had no customers). Wong spoke to the lady there, she nodded her head and smiled at me, and pointed to the bathroom. When I rejoined the guys back on the street, several women at a tailor shop (we had coincidentally stopped in front of a tailor shop) were fussing over Wong. He needed a button sewn on his jacket and it was obvious they were flirting with him. Wong seemed to be enjoying it. Like I said, Wong is a big guy, and I guess you could say he’s good looking. I think the women who were sewing his button on were thinking the same thing.

Beautiful young Chinese ladies. Mostly Chinese, anyway. The one on the left is entering my phone number in her contacts list.

Three teenage girls approached us and wanted to know about our bikes. Like many young Chinese, they spoke English (in China, you learn English as a second language in grade school; it is a strong advantage in Chinese society if you can speak English well). They wanted to practice with us. It was the routine stuff (“how are you?” “hello,” and things like that) until one of the teenaged girls looked directly at me and asked, “Can I have your phone number?” Gresh and I both had a good laugh over that. I actually gave her my phone number and she carefully entered it into her phone (and no, she hasn’t called me yet).

I was enjoying all of this immensely, taking photos of the girls, the seamstresses flirting with Wong, and the rest of China all around me. There was something different about one of those teenage girls. I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but to me she definitely looked, well, different.

Yongchang statues. They don’t look as Chinese as you might think they should. There’s a reason for that.

It was at about that time that Sean approached me and said, “Dajiu, do you see those three statues over there?” He pointed to three tall statues that faced us, perhaps 300 yards away. I nodded yes. “If you look at their faces, you will see that they have Roman features.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really see it in the statues because they were too far away, but I grabbed a photo and later, on my computer, I could see something different. But before I looked at the photo, it all clicked for me. That’s what had my attention with that girl. We were literally in the middle of China and she didn’t look as Chinese as her two friends. She looked different.

All right, my friends, I need to go tangential here for a minute or two and share this story with you. Hang on, because this is real Indiana Jones stuff. No, scratch that. I’ve never seen an Indiana Jones movie with a story line this good (and I’ve seen all of them).

More than 2,000 years ago, before the birth of Christ, the two most powerful empires on the planet were the Roman Empire and the Han Dynasty. These two superpowers of their time enjoyed a brisk trade relationship along the Silk Road. Yep, the very same trail we had been riding for the last few days. Between them (in what became Iran and its surrounding regions) lay a smaller empire called Parthia. For reasons only the Romans understood, Rome thought it would be a good idea to attack Parthia. They sent several Roman Legions to war (and to put this in perspective, a Roman Legion consisted of about 5,000 men). To everyone’s surprise (including, I would imagine, the Romans), the Parthians kicked Rome’s butt.

Wow, imagine that. Rome, defeated on the field of battle by the much smaller Parthian Empire. To put it mildly, things did not quite go the way the Romans thought they would.

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All of this severely disrupted trade between the Han Dynasty and the Romans, and nobody liked that. “Why the hell did you do that?” the Han Dynasty asked Rome. “We had a good thing going and you screwed it up.” At least that’s what I’m guessing the conversation went like. You get the idea.

Cooler minds prevailed and the Romans realized, yeah, that was a dumb move. The Romans told the Parthians, hey, it’s over, let’s be friends again. The war ended, the Chinese were happy, the Romans were happy, the Parthians were happy, and trade resumed. All’s well that ends well.

Well, sort of. There was still that matter of those pesky Roman legions that had invaded Parthia. They didn’t come back from that war, and for two thousand years, no one knew what happened to them. The Romans probably assumed their Legionnaires had all been slaughtered. No one knew until an Australian dude and a Chinese guy, both University archeologist types (starting to sound a little like Indiana Jones yet?) put a theory together in 1957. Hmmm, maybe those Romans had not been killed after all.

The Parthians, being bright enough to defeat the Romans, were not about to let the Legionnaires go home and perhaps attack them again in some future war. They didn’t want to kill the Romans, either. I guess they were kinder, gentler Parthians. Here’s where those two Aussie and Chinese archeologists enter the picture. They hypothesized that the Parthians told the errant Legionnaires, “Look, we don’t want to kill all you guys, but there’s no way we’re going to let you go back to Rome. And there’s no room for you here, either. Your only option is to keep heading east. Go to China. Maybe you crazy warmongering Italians will find nice Chinese girls and settle down.” With that, and as one might imagine, a hearty arrivederci, the Romans continued their eastward march straight into the middle of China.

And folks, the prevailing wisdom today is that is exactly what happened (although the prevailing wisdom evidently hasn’t prevailed very far, as I had never heard the story until that morning in Yongchang). In fact, prior to this theory surfacing, folks wondered why the Chinese referred to the area around Yongchang as Liqian. That’s not a Chinese word, and it’s unlike the name of any other Chinese town. The folks who know about these things tell me it is an unusual word in the Chinese language.

Liqian is pronounced “Lee Chee On.”

Get it yet?

Lee Chee On? Liqian?

Doesn’t it sound like “legion?” As in Roman legion?

A Chinese man in Liqian. This guy could be the Marlboro Man for a Chinese cigarette company!

I found all of this fascinating. I saw more than a few people around the Liqian area that had a distinct western appearance, and they all consented to my taking their photos when I asked. They recognize just how special their story is. The Chinese government is taking note of this area, too. They are developing a large theme park just outside of Yongchang with a Roman motif. We visited that theme park, and while we were there, Sergeant Zuo gave a book to me (printed in both English and Chinese) about the place. It is one of the two books I brought back from China, and that book is now one of my most prized possessions.

Imagine that: Roman legions, resettled in the middle of China, in a town called Liqian. And I rode there. On an RX3.

Watch for our next Indiana Jones episode in China. It’s about the lost Buddhist grottos at Mo Gao in the Gobi Desert. There’s more good stuff coming your way. Stay tuned!

Want to read more about the ride across China? Pick up a copy of Riding China!

Nepal Annapurna Trek Part 1

By Mike Huber

You can catch up with earlier parts of Mike’s Nepal adventure here.

With the inability to reach Lukla Airport due to weather my guide and I were feeling defeated as we bounced along the bumpy road back to Katmandu. We each had a couple of beers along the ride to kill the boredom and try to determine what next steps would be. Upon arrival in Nepal I had the foresight to purchase a 90-day visa to be proactive should things go sideways, as they seem to always do.

Upon returning to Katmandu my tour operator Kiran met me at the hotel with a new itinerary. One that would lift my spirits for sure. There was another trek I was contemplating, The Annapurna Circuit. It was a 17-day trek which was more remote than the Everest one. This would now replace the Everest Base Camp Trek. Kiran then added that upon completing the Annapurna Circuit I would helicopter from Katmandu to Lukla as rotary winged aircraft had much less restrictions in terms of visibility. All in all this would fill up a month and a half and allow me to hopefully complete both objectives (Annapurna and Everest Base Camp).

The next day Guyen, my guide and I were on our way on another local bus that would take us to Tribeni Tol, which was the starting point of the trek at a low 738 meters in elevation. The first few days would remain at those low elevation but long days, up to 27k. There were a lot of fires in Nepal and the region we were trekking had the worse air quality on Earth (even worse than New Delhi, India).

Not being much of a hiker and even less of a trekker it didn’t take long before I realized being uncomfortable was part of this hobby. Something was almost always hurting. My previous occupation of falling out of airplanes had me feeling constant pain in my back and constant knee issues. Being used to having pain here or there (or everywhere) I travel with a plethora of medicines. Pretty much a full kit and as needed I reload in countries where most of these drugs are over the counter.

It didn’t take but half a day and my knees were beyond shot. My hiking poles became crutches. It was time to dig into my medicine kit and see if I had anything that could help. A challenge with my med kit is the pills are from literally all over the world so whenever I need something I have to hope there is a cell signal for me to cross reference it and translate it. After tearing the kit apart I found something that I thought may help. It was a powerful anti-inflammatory I picked up in Romania. As I opened the pills they looked a bit odd. They were longer and sorta waxy. Back to the internet I went. As it turns out it’s a suppository. At this point I was in a ton of pain and contemplating turning back as I didn’t want to get into trouble further u the trek due to this injury.

I gave the pills a shot, and with my dinner of chicken momos completed it was time to go to sleep to see if these Romanian anti-inflammatory pills would be able to salvage my trek.

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