Special Forces

Check out the magnetic system Navy SEALs use to climb ships like Spider-Man

America’s special operations units have seen a dramatic uptick in the missions sets they’ve been tasked with throughout nearly two straight decades of the War on Terror, but despite some overlap in combat operations, each specialized unit has a specific area of expertise to draw from. The Navy SEALs, as most could assume from their name alone, specialize in water-born operations, and as such, they have a long list of specialized tools in their team rooms for just that sort of work.

While SEALs are often seen in Defense Department footage fast roping down onto the deck of ships from aloft helicopters, the reality of modern combat dictates that such an insertion isn’t always possible. That’s why SEALs don’t only employ quiet, stealthy watercraft — they’ve also got some loud, angry, souped up boats that are perfect for rapidly closing with enemy vessels. The problem is, once you’ve whipped your supercharged jet ski up alongside an oil tanker full of terrorists… how do you get on board? That’s where the incredible tech in the REBS Magnetic Climbing System comes in.

The REBS system is made up of four high-powered magnetic grips, with two designed to capture feet and two intended for use with your hands. The lever operated system is entirely waterproof and dive capable, meaning SEALs and other combat divers can actually engage the system from beneath the waterline to begin their climb up the ship’s hull to the deck.

SEALs put this system on display during a demonstration in Greece two years ago during a joint Special Operations exercise, in which SEALs used specially modified Yamaha FX Cruiser SHO jet skis to approach the USS Porter (an Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer). Once they reached the ship, the SEALS then produced their Magnetic Climbing Systems (MCS’s) and used them to scale the external hull of the vessel, ultimately climbing onto the ship’s deck.

The REBS MCS is actually only one of a number of superhero-like devices American special operations troops have at their disposal. One company called Batelle is hard at work at Batman-style grappling gun, and equipment that literally pulls operators up their ropes already has a place in SOCOM’s tool box.

Here I am testing a similar device in Las Vegas.

America’s special operations forces may have to do some of the heaviest fighting once they reach their destinations, but the truth is, there’s just as much time, thought, effort, and expense put into determining the best possible ways to get them there and back again as well. If this is the stuff that’s shown off in demonstrations, one’s left to wonder just how superhero-like the classified equipment in operational use today may be.

Why do Navy SEALs hate the SCAR?

For many of us from the conventional side of the military (or who never served at all) the FN Scar tends to carry with it a certain appeal. As a rifle designed specifically for Special Operations troops (SCAR actually stands for Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle), it’s hard not to look at the jagged angles of the rifle and bulky 7.62×51 magazines with a sense of envy. There we were carrying around our M4s (or often in my era, M16 A4s) chambered solely in 5.56, baby faced and feeling awfully standard issue, when a group of Special Operations bubbas came strolling by with slung SCARs and the sort of beards that could intimidate a bear. In our minds, everything about that life just seemed better. Better training, better grooming standards, and of course, better guns.

But maybe that’s not the case after all. If you’ve spent some time rolling rounds through a SCAR, you might have responded like I did my first few times firing one: by assuming your issues with the platform must have been operator error. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get to liking the SCAR chambered in 7.62 or 5.56, but because I’d seen it in the hands of so many prolific war fighters, I figured any issues I had with the platform must have been a result on my lack of familiarity with it. Sure, it occasionally misfeeds, it’s loud enough to hurt your ears through cheap ear protection at an indoor range, and I would hate to try to clear a house with such a long weapon (standard barrel)… but it’s hard to shake the assumption that it’s not the rifle that’s the problem, it’s got to be the shooter.

Over the years, I’ve spoken to a fair number of special operations veterans that shared my distaste for the SCAR (but with operational experience to pull from, rather than just being a range cowboy with it like I was), and I came to appreciate that despite lacking in the high speed training allotted to SOCOM’s best, a bad feed is still a bad feed, and provided you’re not putting pressure on the magazine or otherwise mishandling the weapon, the fault tends to fall squarely on the platform, not the shooter, when it tries to cram two rounds into the chamber at once.

So, maybe that’s why I enjoyed this video from Vigilance Elite so much — because it features shooters more qualified than myself nit picking the SCAR in much the same way I have in the past. In the video, former SEALs Shawn Ryan and Jeff Reid put a SCAR through its paces, discuss some of its strengths, and then break down exactly why they do not like the platform. Reid goes into detail about his experiences on deployment with the SCAR and how he (as well as many other SEALs) suffered through repeated malfunctions until he finally decided to switch back to the M4 despite often finding himself in 1,000 meter engagements. In his mind, the added range and accuracy of the 7.62 chambered SCAR simply wasn’t worth the headaches.

Check out the video below:

Feature image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

These are the elite warfighting units throughout history that inspired modern American special operations

It can be said that the need to band together in groups is intrinsic to what makes us human beings. Long before the dawn of civilization, humans gathered together in like-minded groups in order to offer one another protection, defend resources, and share the mental and physical challenges of survival. Forming a cooperative group, or herd, may have been one of the earliest human advancements that would one day lead to the complex societies we live in today. But like today, whenever groups gather, conflict is never far behind.

Warfare, it would seem, was the inevitable result of humans living in groups. When one group had something another needed (or wanted), they sought to take it by force. What started as small skirmishes between tribes eventually grew into major battles between city-states, religions, and eventually, nations. The drive to fight and win wars led to countless technological developments throughout human history, but new and advanced weapons have never been the only element necessary to secure victory in a tribal spat or global conflict. Instead, finding and training the most capable war-fighters has always been a key element influencing who would go home the victor and who wouldn’t make it home at all.

Although modern special operations are, as the phrase implies, very much modern, the roots of America’s most elite war-fighting institutions can be traced back as far as warfare itself. In the Marine Corps, we would often liken the lessons we learned in combat training to those first established by the Spartans. Though our modern lineage might be more comparable to that of the British Royal Marines, our ideological ancestors hailed from another time entirely. The mindset employed by Spartan warriors, perhaps as much as their tactical expertise, set them apart from other militaries of the day—something many could attribute to the Marine Corps of today as well. Similarly, one could draw historical parallels between SOCOM’s specialized units and some of the most impressive, capable, and downright frightening warriors throughout human history.

Helmet plate depicting a dancing warrior and a bear warrior (Norse berserker)

Viking berserkers, recounted in Norse legend as men who would fight with a fury that seemed inhuman, often chose to forgo the chain mail armor of their day, instead adorning themselves with the pelts of predators such as bears and wolves or, often, wearing nothing at all. The bloodlust demonstrated by berserkers in combat granted them a far-reaching reputation, allowing them to sometimes skip the battle completely and instead simply accept an opponent’s surrender based on nothing more than their presence.

Courtesy of dynamosquito via WikiMedia Commons

The Immortals who fought for the Achaemenid Empire of Persia, depicted in the stylized movie “300,” were the special operations forces of Persia’s multinational military machine. The Immortals were designated as such, according to Herodotus, not only because they were the most fearsome and well-equipped soldiers in King Xerxes’ army, but also because their 10,000-strong unit would immediately field replacements for any Immortal who fell to battle or sickness, ensuring the mighty Immortals retained their 10,000-strong moniker at all times.

Rembrandt chose to illustrate the moment of the oath of the Batavia in the sacred grove, as described by Tacitus, Histories IV, 14. Civilis, with crown and sword. (WikiMedia Commons)

The Batavi were a warrior people who served with the Roman military (when not rebelling against Roman rule). Like modern American Navy SEALs, the Batavi gained a reputation not only for being fearsome and brutally barbaric warriors, but for possessing an incredible strength that allowed them to swim across rivers others saw as impassable, all while wearing their armor and carrying their weapons. This tactic enabled the Batavi to attack enemy armies that had used swift waterways as a natural barrier against attack, taking them utterly by surprise.

The classic cliché of black-adorned ninjas sprinting across rooftops may not have been accurate, but the ninja’s reputation for stealth, reconnaissance gathering, and guerrilla warfare tactics is well deserved. Often disguising themselves to blend in with the civilian populace, ninjas trained with a myriad of weapons and prized adaptability in their training regimens. Ninjas were most effectively employed in specialized missions, not unlike modern special operations units.

All of these elite warriors, and countless others, helped form a common fabric of tactics, strategy, and mindset that would one day be employed by America’s elite special operators. Considering that, to a large extent, one can truly credit the breadth of warfare throughout human history with planting the seeds that would later become our modern special operations infrastructure.

Feature photo courtesy of MaxPixel.net

Where does the term ‘operator’ come from?

Operator – someone who operates.

In the civilian world, that could be someone operating an excavator, a wheeled tractor, and other similar heavy equipment. Historically, the term applied to people who worked in the old-school telephone centers and operated the manual telephone switchboards that were necessary in order from someone to call another number.

In the military, conversely, the term operator has come to be associated with troops serving in Special Operations Forces (SOF). A Navy SEAL operator, a Special Forces operator, a Marine Raider operator has become standard nomenclature, even in official communique and statements.

But what’s the actual origin of the term? For many in the spec ops community, an operator is someone who is serving or has served in one of the Joint Special Operations Command’s (JSOC) Special Mission Units (SMU). This would apply to members of the Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, also known as the Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), 24^th Special Tactics Squadron (24^th STS), Intelligence Support Activity (ISA), or one of the other smaller, blacker SMUs.

The office of the U.S. Army Special Operations Command (USASOC) historian, however, posits that the term originated from with the Green Beret community. In support of this claim, there is a document from the late 1950s. Dated April 2, 1959, the document’s headline reads: “The Code For the Special Forces Operator.” It includes 10 provisions to which a Green Beret must abide to. They range from the volunteer and highly dangerous nature of Special Forces – during the Cold War, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alphas (SFODAs) were designed to remain behind enemy lines once the Soviet mechanized onslaught had been unleashed on Western Europe; their role, as it is today, was to organize, train, and lead indigenous forces in waging an Unconventional Warfare (UW) campaign against the Communists – to superb physical fitness, soldiership, and professionalism, among other things.

“I realize,” the document’s sixth provision states, “it is my responsibility as a Special Forces Operator to undergo more intense and more rugged training than is required of the average soldier of the United States Army.”

The document was signed by Captain Albert Clement, 1^st Company, 77^th Special Forces Group (SFG), and witnessed by John Hanretty. The 77^this one of the original Special Forces Groups and the predecessor of the modern-day 7^thSFG.

So, there it is. According to the existing historical evidence, it is the Green Berets who have the claim over the term “Operator.” Does a title matter, though? Not to those who operate.

This article was written by Stavros Atlamazoglou at NEWSREP

Feature image courtesy of the U.S. Navy

Complacency Kills: Lessons from a Delta Force breacher

“THERE’S A FREAKIN’ FENCE OUT THERE. A CHAIN-LINK FENCE!” came the holler from our man in the doorway of the building we were in. That fence was blocking our route to a field just outside, to where our exfiltration help was already inbound. I already knew what was coming next as the assault team leader looked at me. I nodded and started for the door when he called out, “Geo, cut it!” I was carrying what we called a Python Charge or Fence-Cutter. It was really just a great general-purpose explosive charge, powerful as hell, and was a shaped charge, meaning it was a wicked cutting charge that focused all of its burn energy in a concentrated direction. It could cut through all kinds of metal and was perfect for blasting through a chain-link fence. In fact, the measurements of the charge were approximately eight feet long—specifically designed with a fence in mind.

The Python was a linear-shaped charge (LSC) embedded in a long foam strip with a heavy rubber band on top and a wire hook on the bottom. I carried it on my kit, rolled up into a flat disk. I dashed outside with a man covering me as I worked. I whipped the Python to unroll it. I hooked the rubber retainer over the top wires of the fence, and pulling it taught, I hooked the wire hook into a loop low on the fence.

At that moment I thought I heard Major Horton from “Band of Brothers” call out to me, “WHAT IS THE GODDAMNED PROBLEM, MR. SOBEL?”

To which I would reply, “A FENCE, SIR… A… A CHAIN-LINK FENCE!

Major Horton: “AWW, THAT DOG JUST AIN’T GONNA HUNT!”

Different strengths of linear-shaped charge set in flexible foam molds.

The tension of the rubber band helped greatly to slap the Python up against the fence. I did a final check to make sure the Python was facing the right way, because that would certainly suck when I fired it from a few feet away if it were facing me rather than the fence. I grabbed the firing system, an M-60 Fuse Igniter attached to a Nonel shock tube detonator.

M-60 fuse igniters: Just pull the ring outward to fire.

Three seconds was all the delay I had programmed into the firing system. I popped the M-60, announced “BURNING!,” took one large step behind the python, and squatted with my back to the charge and fingers in my ears like a little kid lighting a Black Cat firecracker. I could hear the thump thump thump of Black Hawk helicopter blades approaching when the Python let off an ear-splitting CRACK and a wicked-rude shockwave that pushed me forward onto my hands.

Positive that the sneaky rat bastard Mike Tyson had snaked up and clocked me a good one, I twisted back and gave a gander at the fence. What fence? It was blown open from north to south. You could have driven a Ford Fusion through it without scratching the paint…not that it would have been a big deal with a Ford Fusion. I mean come on. OK, a Lamborghini, then. You could have driven a Lamborghini untouched through the hole the Python left in that fence!

I crouched by the opening, letting my team pass through to the exfil chopper. Each man gave me a “good job” slap to the shoulder as they ran by. A litter team jogged by with the asshat terrorist we had come to remove from leadership. He was strapped down tight, all beat the hell up, and looking totally disenchanted with his current state of affairs. Plus, he had crapped his pants. Every person we ever nabbed crapped their pants. Even general officers. They all crapped their pants.

“Last man!” I was told by the last assaulter to run by. My turn. I raced off to take a seat on the helo. I thanked the creator that we had a decently short flight, because even in a banshee-howling Black Hawk with both the doors removed, I could still smell that clown’s shit pants from where he lay strapped to the litter. I had to grin.

That was a good time. Everything went well—very well. To flip that coin, though, we all know that some of our best-laid plans may take a southern excursion of their own at times. Such was the case with Moses Bentley and the Bentley Blaster (BB) charge he had created on his own.

The BB charge was, in my opinion, more of what we called a “trash shot.” That is, it was just a wad of all of the explosive tailings, odds and ends, left over from making explosive charges. Pieces that wouldn’t really fit into another charge. We would typically take the trash shots downrange and blow them up once a month. I have used the term trash shot to describe a good number of people in my day, too. Perhaps some have used it to describe me?

The next mission called for explosive entry through an exterior door. Think of the front door to your house. It is probably the most no-nonsense, strongest door in your house. All interior doors are likely much lighter and weaker. Moses was the breacher for this target. He was hell-bent on using his BB charge, and use it he did.

We two, Moses and I, crept to the front door while the rest of the team stacked up just around the near corner. I had Moses’ back while he worked, just like my mate had my back at the Python. Moses fired the charge but did an odd thing: Rather than back away from the charge, he turned around quickly and ran around the corner.

The delay on the firing system was five seconds. I cleared the corner with the team as the charge detonated. MY GOD…it was so loud! I thought. I was stunned and flipped around 180 degrees. My ears rang like the Notre Dame Cathedral, and I wasn’t completely clear what I was even doing or even where I was.

An assault team in a stack just around the nearest corner from the blast of the breach point.

As colors slowly returned to my sight I could see now that the front door had not blown up. We had blown up. When Moses turned after firing the charge, his holstered M1911 had hooked the charge, stripping it off the door, dragged it back to the assault team stack, and…BOOOOM!

Moses was upside down, with his body slumped against the wall and his head anchored into the ground, neck bent at an impossible angle. You simply could never have manually placed a human in such a bizarre and morbid pose. Well, maybe if you were Jeffrey Dahmer.

The man behind Moses lay face down with his uniform trousers completely shredded, his bare legs bleeding from a hundred tiny holes. He was getting up slowly. I ran to him and grabbed his shoulder. He looked up at me with a horrified expression.

“Cos!” I said his name. His face changed completely and he grinned and shook his head a bit, exclaiming, “Whew…I’d hate to see what that door looks like now. WHEW!”

Moses had just come-to from his upside-down unconscious state and immediately got into a pissing match with our team leader, Daddy-Mac. “Well, Mos is OK. That’s what he normally does: argue!” Mos would be fine, but he was certainly NOT fine. He was badly burned, with black and red on his pelvis and legs. Some flesh was blown away and he had holes in both legs. His sidearm was destroyed and likely saved his life.

I could see his junk—which was completely disgusting—where his kit and clothes were blown away, and I was vicariously glad for him that he was still intact. He was out of action for weeks but came in occasionally to argue, because that’s what Mos did: argue.

Moses Bentley’s slightly damaged assault uniform.

An in-house investigation performed by The Unit’s master breacher gigged Mos for two faults: The first was the unauthorized use of a non-standard explosive charge, the Bentley Blaster; the second was his failure to follow egress procedure after firing the charge. Remember, he turned 180 degrees and hooked the charge with his pistol. If he had just backed away from the charge once he’d fired it, none of the carnage would have occurred.

The Unit could have let him go for that but didn’t. I’m thankful for that. Mos took his medicine from the master breacher like a man, but only after one hell of a long, drawn-out argument with the guy. Because that’s just what Master Sergeant Moses Bentley did. He argued.

By almighty God and with honor,
Geo sends

From a cartoon book maintained by the author depicting various events in a humorous manner. Depicted here is Moses Bentley himself acting as the explosive door charge.

Ongoing selection in Delta: The first thing you know

(Dedicated to Recon6)

Riiiingggg… riiiingggg… riiiingggg… (this is a sound that phones made in the day, back before we could we could select Poison by Bell Biv Devoe as a ring tone)

Jesus H. Christ, it’s only 0230… and oh-no, there can be only one good reason my home phone is ringing at this hour. I fumbled the phone receiver to my ear upside down.

“Hello, this is geo”

Nothing. I felt the phone cord on top, flipped the receiver around and tried again.

“Hello, this is geo”

“Master Sergeant Hand, what’s the first thing you know?” quizzed the remote voice.

Oh geez… well phuk me runnin’ in the rain in Rio, I thought as I was suddenly wide awake.

“Ol’ Jed’s a millionaire” I replied weakly. And without another word the connection terminated. Time to make the donuts, me thought to meself, and I left the bedroom to collect my go-to-work kit: a heavy nylon day-and-half-pack, a kit bag presumptuously designed, when packed thoughtfully, to maintain you operationally for some 36 hours.

Mine was black and heavy-duty with all sorts of modifications on it. It was hardly more than just a pile of zippers and velcro. In it no two items were ever in contact; every item was isolated in its own compartment. Ridiculous? Yes, absolutely. But once oriented in my mind, I could feel my way through it in the dark to any single item.

I envisioned my bag configured like a RAM board on a computer, with every byte of memory in its own cell, waiting to be called out by motherboard. Once used and no longer needed, the byte was sent back on its residence address line to stand by in its cell until further needed.

A song played in my head, one that would terminate and stay resident in my brain for an agonizing most of the day:

Come and listen to a story ‘bout a man named Jed
Poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed
Then one day he was shootin’ at some food
When up from the ground came a bubblin’ crude
(Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea)

The phone exchange had been a bonafide used in the day to notify an individual to report immediately to the Staff Duty dest for further instructions. It was any fool’s guess what the reason could be. I could find myself peeling potatoes in the mess hall kitchen or have a seat on the next Space Shuttle. The only guarantee is that it would be a mystery… until it was completely over.

Well the first thing you know ol’ Jed’s a millionaire
The kin folks said: “Jed, move away from there”
They said: “Californi is the place you oughta be”
So he loaded up the truck and he moved to Beverly
(Hills that is, swimmin’ pools, movie stars)

I cruised the back forest roads toward the Unit. I was in no hurry. The stage was completely black, save that which my high beams compromised. I just wanted to take my time to see absolutely nothing. But what are the chances my next instructions include catching a flight out-of-state, or even out of the country? Knowing the Unit, they would barely give me enough time to catch the flight. Suddenly I was very much in a hurry, as my gas pedal sank to the floor.

At the Unit, I parked in the usual squadron designated area, but in the best spot closest to the building, since there was nobody there. I turned to give the cars another visual, to see who else’s car might be parked there, and somehow involved in this same operation.

Excluding the cars whose owners I already knew were TDY, I recognized Paul’s car was already there. Hmmm, I wonder where Paul is heading this morning. I would indeed run into Paul under the most unanticipated circumstances.

I fast-paced it down the long spine of the building to the Staff Duty office, all the while wondering what I would be doing next: herding goats in Scotland, screaming out bids on Wall street, teaching spelling to a class of first graders, driving a phony UPS truck, lighting candles at the Vatican?

My answers made me grin because they reminded me of one of those silly tests they give you that is supposed to gauge what type personality you have. I think they are officially titled the “Utter Waste of Time Battery” by institutes of higher learning:

Which would you MOST like to do (circle one)
1. Host a Tupperware party
2. Try to fit a cue ball in your mouth
3. Be in a play about Moses
4. Smash bottles against a school building

Which one would you LEAST like to do (circle one)
1. Be cross gendered and torn by the dilemma that you want to use the mens’ room but know for
a fact that the womens’ rooms will be cleaner
2. Take a pottery class with estranged housewives
3. Pass out towels at a gay bath house
4. Smash bottles against a school building

I always just answered ‘B’ to every question, because it’s not like those tests were ever going to mean anything to anyone ever. I just wrote, “I’m an ass” under my name and turned them in… because I’m an ass. I accept that and freely admit it. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and type it out 500 times just to remind myself that I am not guilty of any pretense.

“Good morning geo” my fellow A squadron brother greeted shyly, playing the game.

“Top o the marnin’ to yeh laddie Patrick!” I returned Gaelic-ly, but thoroughly devoid of any enthusiasm.

Patrick dialed a five-digit number, so I knew he was calling inside the building.
“Principal has arrived,” Pat said over the phone and hung up.

So as to avoid an awkward stare down, I turned my back and pretended to read the commanders policies on issues that mattered to nobody hanging on the billboard in the hall, as I whistled the tune to the Beverly Hillbillies softly. The tune drew eventual cackles of laughter from Patrick and his runner.

“Hey geo” came the voice of our Operations Officer rounding the corner from the spine into the Staff Duty office. He handed me a large envelope with his left hand and extended his right for a hardy handshake of good luck. Without another word he broke gaze and marched out, leaving me to finish the final chorus of Beverly Hillbillies before I bolted back down the spine to my team room.

In the team room, I ripped open the envelope and sorted through the various papers until I found it… an airline ticket. All I wanted to know was what time the flight was. There it was. I had plenty of time. I sat now and sorted through the papers in order, taking in all instructions carefully. I was going to Seattle.

Reading through my instructions, I had time and was able to adjust my kit to accommodate the small piece of the mission as I thought I understood it. Well, this was just a transport leg. This tells me nothing really, except that it’s going to rain on me. I mean, I don’t know if this is a real-world mission that is going to take me overseas for some heinous act of insanity, or if I will be required to smash bottles against a school building.

Preferring the latter, I begrudgingly stuffed a light rain parka in my day bag. I raced through a mental inventory of everything I had in my bag, for fear that I might accidentally leave something in there that would trip the TSA inspectors. I mean, they always raised a brow at my menacing-looking kit and ran it through twice for X-rays… I just didn’t want anything that might get the Bomb Squad alerted, and my day bag blown in place.

Say… this mission sounds like a job for ‘The Shirt’! The Shirt was an ordinary shirt hanging in my locker that had $20.00 bills meticulously folded and sewn into the seams. Only me and my team bro Sam Foster knew about the shirt, and we vowed that whoever got called out on such a mission would be welcome to take the shirt. The missing shirt would also be a way that we communicated to each other that one of us was gone, and why.

The shirt was my first go at failsafe-ing a mystery mission call out. A second attempt, and after much thought, I took to taking several $100.00 bills, painstakingly folding them lengthwise until they gave the appearance of needles. I sewed those into the much narrower seams of my day-and-a-half bag.

If that were not enough, I awoke one night with a sudden epiphany. Yes, yes of course… a child could understand it, a child could! In my agonizing over the best way to failsafe a mystery deployment, I pieced together bits of leaked scenarios and rumors from guys who had been on them. In this particular night, in my sleep, it dawned on me that everything could be taken from me… everything that is, except my SHOES!

You see, the single common denominator in every leaked story and rumor was the fact that you had to walk constantly every day for many miles. For that reason I felt very strongly that they could not possibly take my shoes away! I would soon enough find out that I hit that nail right smack on its steel head.

The next day I pulled threads from the tongues of my hiking shoes, the ones I wore only to and from work, ones that I would be certain to take with me on such a mission. With the threads carefully pulled, I parted the material of the tongues and inserted $100.00 bills in each, ensuring I restitched the threads back in the holes they came from. They looked a flawless product.

Cruising easy to the city airport I wiggled my toes in my most valuable hiking shoes, and gave myself a reassuring nod in my rearview mirror. “High adventure” said I to anyone that would listen. “High adventure, be it potato peelings or Earth’s orbit, it invariably will be high adventure.”

geo sends

Photos courtesy of MeTV.com, SpilnoTV.com, and Wired.com