Nightly Knife Porn: The Semester begins…

Not for me, but for my kids. With a 2-hour delay because of potential freezing rain. I am ready for them to be back to school and a return to a more frequent posting schedule. Thank you everyone for sticking with us through the holidays. It is hard to write during the day with the kids and my wife around. Not that we didn’t have a fun couple of weeks, but now it is time to get back to work.

Tonight’s featured photo is from Daniel Pica of Screech Owl knives. I grabbed the image from a Facebook post, but you can see more of Daniel’s work in his 5 from the Grinder post.

Now on to the rest of tonight’s photos.

I love this knife. A wooden-handled Damascus dagger. What an odd combination.

 

Simply Beautiful…

 

Classy pocket-dump…

 

Pro-shot…

 

I have no idea about this one, it is either garbage or exquisite… (anyone know Cyrillic?)

 

Love the scales…

 

I think I like my Composite D2 blackwash Leek better than Damascus…

 

That is a cool look, but it is a lot of edge steel in a sanmai blade. Kinda defeats the purpose of maximizing your produced length of cutting edge from the more expensive carbon steel.

 

Kizer and WE do make some photogenic knives…

 

I like a Pops Custom Clip better…

 

 

I want a sheepsfoot Sebenza…

 

Tomahawk Porn…

 

And finally a little sheath-porn for those of you who are into leather…

View this post on Instagram

Makers marks

A post shared by Colton Chapman (@rednoseleather) on

 

That might be a great theme post playing with the knife porn theme. I will keep it in mind.

Stay Toasty my friends.

 

The Cremation of Sam McGee – Robert Service:

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold, till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ’tain’t being dead — it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you, to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear, you’ll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

 

comments

  1. cmeat says:

    twenty five years ago i drug a cardboard box filled with ashes up to the northern tip of lake agnes in the quetico provincial park. there in the campfire before bed i burned it after having scattered my uncles ashes into lake anubis. the particles that clung to the corrugated sent up sparks and, briefly, the rainclouds thinned enough for the aurora searchlights to appear. not the color show, but poignant nevertheless.

    my small sebenza insingo is my favorite edc, despite the fact that it has almost no fidget appeal. the tolerances don’t allow for any flipping. smooth, but frictionful.

  2. Always liked Service. A great post and one to be read and re-read over the years.

  3. ironicatbest says:

    The other night it was so cold in this cabin I felt like setting fire to it. I can understand Sam MC Gee’s wish

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Nightly Knife Porn: The Semester begins…

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