More on Rattlesnake Chaps

From an email to a friend...


Subject: chaps

Probably thought you'd never see the subject line above from me, but you did ask about what kind of chaps I wear. I assumed you meant the bird-hunting ones.

Here is the kind I use…nothing gets through them, not even prickly pear at Mach 2.0. That first year glorious year in San Fernando I wore just my regular brush pants on the first day and my legs felt like they were full of shrapnel from an airburst of German 88mm guns.

My knees in particular took some hits and my right knee swelled up from a Granejo sniper shot to the outside, just beyond the wimpy cordura on my totally inadequate brush pants.

However, the next day was Coturniz Heaven because my Rattlers Brand Snake Chaps were on the job and eventually my green-thorn impregnated basket-ball sized knee began to loosen up after about the 6th hour of pounding the ground while I sated my blood feud with our nefarious quarry.

http://www.rattlersbrand.com/snakechaps/originalrattlerschaps.html

Here they are at Bass Pro
http://www.basspro.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?storeId=10151&catalogId=10001&langId=-1&partNumber=47887&hvarTarget=search&cmCat=SearchResults

I think the key is the thick weave cordura (1000 dernier-I have no idea what that means, it just sounds cool, despite being of French origin. I think it has something to do with the thread count and density of the fabric).

Maybe some seasoned brush busters in Texas can give you some other brands or tips, but I know that since one of the Mexicans was asking me for my chaps they are the real deal. There might be a lighter weight solution that works as well, but I just wear them now with a pair of carhart pants. The chaps themselves are heavier than brush pants, and you can sweat in them, but they turn the thorns and there are few things worse than hobbling along with 48 prickly pear spines in your knee cap, scraping on the inside of your pants every time you take a step.

Besides, the heat generated from the Carhart-Snake Chap-Snake Boot combo keeps the hammies and the calves loose and ready to rock and roll for the next assault on Cactus Mountain. An added bonus is that the 48 pound per leg combination of snake boot and chap turns my gelatinous stems into fat-free rippling cords of steel while the un-chapped rest of my body pushes into the 30% body fat realm.

My snake boots have a heavy leather boot foot to them and anything above the ankle is doubly protected by chaps & boots. And after seeing that dang rattler last year I am thinking of going 100% coverage head to toe 1000 dernier cordura, even my skivvies.

A Cordura Banana Hammock would probably induce some serious chafing, but I am not real fond of rattlers with baseball sized heads zapping me in my privates either. Risk vs. Reward brother. Come to think of it, I might add a cup to my repertoire of protective gear…there's no way I want a giant Rattler hitting me in the Jimmy and once he gets a feel of my Johnson, decides to make Sweet Snake Love with it.
I
am forwarding to Big Bad Bill the W'Fer in case he wants to go all Georgia Wussy on the cactus this year too. If you dudes from Texas want to tough it out in blue jeans and regular brush pants, that's fine but I don't want to hear any whining when your sac is impaled on a Mesquite or your knees look like you lost a bar fight with a 200 pound Bobcat on steroids.

I don't mind admitting to being a pansy when it comes to thorns. The worst thing we have here is called Cat Claw Briers, wickedly curved, 3/8 Inch talons of the devil. But we have nothing that approaches the length of some of that thorny crap you guys call brush. My first purview of quail habitat in Mexico made me think I was looking into one of those Biohazard trash cans full of hypodermic needles, and once I waded in after it looked like everybody else was going in without blinking, it felt like it too. The bird boys were yelling Oishe Oishe, El General was barking at us to stay in a straight line, and I had run full speed into what felt like a bed of nails in a torture chamber.

The only thing that kept me from screaming like a little girl and crying like a baby was all the quail rocketing out of that infernal combination of foliage and some shred of pride that welled up out of my deep recesses to be regarded as a man among men. Texas Men. Men that tackle brush wearing blue jeans. Either you all have no feeling in your lower extremities, aren't smart enough to realize you are in pain, are insanely motivated to pursue quail like madmen, or have some Matrix like trick up your sleeves to weave through the stickers unscathed.

I'll keep wearing the chaps.