Can eating your boots sustain you
In times of old and trouble at your door,can eating your leather boots really sustain you through a hot desert,or Mt. snowstorm?Is there some validity here?
Good question. I believe so. You have to stew it like soup, then drink the water. Obviously whatever inner bark or lichen you can find as well. Not alot of calories but it relieves some of the hunger, and might provide some digestible protien and fibre. Wouldn't want to try it. It would also depend on what you've been waterproofing your boots with. Silicon, not so good. Beeswax, a little better. Animal fat or vegetable oil, better, for eating that is.
Someone has to play the straight man.
My Moab Ventilators taste like s... No real nutrients either. After eating you will puke which makes things worse. Now my old Vasque Sundowners will at least fill you stomach.
Ok then,let's kick it up a notch."Bam".your partner has perished,can you eat his boots,the ones you would throw out of the shelter cause they stunk so bad.So bad they should have be burned and thrown from a moving train.
I don't see why not. Boil them first.
Where are you going with this?
It also depends on how the leather was tanned. Traditional tanning with brains and bark and stuff would likely be better than modern chemicals. I would also remove any rubber or plastic before boiling. I don't think you need to eat the actual leather. Better to just drink the broth. Maybe some of the leather if it breaks down enough.
I know some of the men on "The Lost Patrol" in the Yukon ate leather boots in a last ditch attempt to survive, but they didn't make it.
If my partner perished I'd be eating his liver, not his boots
with some fava beans and a nice chianti.....slurp slurp slurp
Maybe you need to dump the water from the first boil. Not sure.
"Here I sit in my cabin squat, wait'n on winters wrath.
Been five months and thirteen days, since last I took a bath.
I'm down to boiling my boots and I've already ate me hat.
Its been a long cold winter, I've only shot, the "cabin rat".
I wait by the window, at each dawning of the day.
My rifle's loaded, my hopes I abide.
It's so dam cold out there, some critters surly wanting inside."
From Cabin Fever
I'm so confused, I'm not sure if I lost my horse or found a rope.
Darn good find Karl,I read that mag too.Originally Posted by kayak karl
Brilliant.
Good book on The Lost Patrol of 1911. Some boots get eaten, but the pages aren't shown here. Perhaps also eaten.
http://www.amazon.ca/The-Lost-Patrol...der_1551928388
"The magnetism of trail life in the North is made up of many things. It is the crack of a spruce tree splitting in the frigid temperature. It is the flickering of candlelight that cheerily illuminates a canvas shelter. It is the startling flutter of wings when a flock of ptarmigan rise from an approaching dog team. It is the silent dance of the multicoloured aurora as it flits across the skies. It is the physical exhilaration of meeting each day's challenge and mastering it. It is the wholesome smell of caribou steak sizzling in a frying pan and setting the saliva to flow. It is the crunch of snowshoes and the rasp of a toboggan as it grates across an ice hummock. It is the comic gurgle of the raven as he hops into camp looking for a handout. It is the sibilant sound of ice expanding and contracting on a nearby creek. It is the fragrant aroma of spruce boughs that permeates the tent at night. It is the sight of a band of caribou wandering spectre like in the morning mists. It is the camaraderie of men helping one another to achieve a common goal. It is the refreshing freedom of the trail."
- From The Lost Patrol: The Mounties' Yukon Tragedy, Dick North
I'm so confused, I'm not sure if I lost my horse or found a rope.
The Bishop that ate his boots:
http://anglicanhistory.org/canada/bheeney/3/7.html
Thursday, October 21st Breakfast off sealskin boot, soles and tops boiled and toasted. Soles better than uppers. Soup of small scraps of bacon and spoonful of flour (the scrapings of the flour bag), the last we had; tired; hands sore; took a long time to pack up. Tied up Mr. Johnson's fingers. Concluded we were in Peel River. . . . Heard children's voices in the distance and then saw houses on left hand about a mile ahead. We stopped and thanked God for bringing us in sight of human habitation.
No boots, but a good story...
Robert Service (1874-1958)
The Cremation of Sam McGee
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.
How it's done...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtZTIwSIuGw
That is freakin funny.Chaplin was a mad man.....
Bon Appetit!I wonder how a Hat taste,I've never had to eat one
HeHeHe.but that could be a thread for another time.
Good find JAK!
I've drank champaine out of a womans slipper. Does this make me one of yall???
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote