Eccentric
Mister Wizard
Thanks Jeff.
I'm sure your beverages are of hiqh enough quality for the crowd here. Have Brian and Wes pick you up on their way west and we'll have a grand time when you boys get here...
The Dead of Night, Old Growth spiders in my brain.
- Thread starter RandyMac
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Thanks Jeff.
I'm sure your beverages are of hiqh enough quality for the crowd here. Have Brian and Wes pick you up on their way west and we'll have a grand time when you boys get here...
RandyMac
Stiff Member
I was sorting through a gig's worth of unfinished business, an attempt to get a few things lined up. I started a Foreword, with after thoughts. Then got sidetracked, yeah, I know, hard to believe. The more I work at it, the more things demand attention. There seems to be no end.
RandyMac
Stiff Member
Two boys and the King.
When you grow up in an area such as the one that I did, it's easy to take for granted all the wonderful things that were here.
Until the last two decades or so, I didn't give it much thought. I always figured that what I knew was always going to be here.
I was wrong, many things no longer exist or are severely restricted, some for good reason, others, not so much. There are plenty of things that were done in the normal course of our business, so to speak, that would have us in jail today. Now mind that we were not considered criminals at that time, just unruly or lacking in manners. That is part of it, some of our adventures were things that came with the territory, deeds done the way they had been done for many years. Take this next little tale, it might completely sadden, enrage and cause outcry in today's lace panty world.
Two boys and the King
The spring break was late this year, as normal for our family, my brother and I were packed up and sent away. We didn't know why, we did expect it and looked forward to it. We ended up on the great ranch in the Mattole Valley, which was just fine, even in the rainy weather.
We did chores, played in the barn, explored the work sheds, all the things that 12 year old boys do. One rainy morning our Grandmother said that she wanted a salmon and asked us to go get one. We sprang at the chance, besides, that meant driving the beater Jeep pick-up that was nicknamed the "Bomber" for it's droning old flathead six. The jeep had no brakes, was permanently stuck in low range and enough play to use up a full spin of the steering wheel. In other words perfect for 12 year old boys. We knew the jeep was fun, but what we put in the back was viewed with high anticipation. This fishing trip was different, no fishing rods would be used, no nets, no dynamite, yep, we had us a spear.
Granddad’s spear, made from an old three tine pitchfork with the center tine removed, the remaining two tines were fitted with removable “toggle” tips, fastened to a rope by wire.
The theory being that once the tips hit the fish, they would come off the tines and “toggle” sideways, making them tough to dislodge. It worked, mostly.
Up the hill we went, brimming with enthusiasm in spite of the pouring rain. The road leading to the creek was washed out, no matter, we cheerfully walked the mile and a half, taking turns carrying the 8 foot Pepperwood pole. We just knew that salmon were stacked up in the pool know as the big blue hole. Well, there were salmon there, sleek fast moving Silvers and well beyond our reach, the pool was too deep. After a bit of lunch, we went upstream to the West fork, a pristine stream that flowed from the King Range, no roads crossed it, no-one lived within many miles from it, as pure a stream that can be found. The stream had carved its course through steep terrain, leaving high banks with overhanging trees, deep pools connected by swift flows around boulders. The creek laughed and chuckled as it ran clear and cold. Small gravel beaches on inside bends were shining with rain. This is where we found the King. As with many great events, it was mainly by accident. We had struggled through the wet brush along the banks, couldn’t have been more wet by swimming. We startled a small black bear from its meal of a Silver salmon and watched as it plunged across the stream and plowed up the bank. We waited a few minutes, listening as the sounds of its flight diminished. When our breathing calmed, we continued our search for Grandmother’s salmon. We spotted a couple Silvers, made a few attempts to skewer them and failed. Then came the fated pool, where the great King rested on the bottom. After some discussion, we changed tactics, no more Celtic lunges, a stealthy approach was indicated. With my brother head of me, we quietly waded into the crystal waters, over the knees, to our belts, the waters lapped at our elbows. The spear was slowly extended toward that submarine sized fish. When it was judged that the tips were close enough, then came the Celtic lunge. The tips were plunged deep behind his gills, The King reacted by rearing up off the bottom in a cloud of blood and gravel, then off he went, upstream dragging us with him. I remember the gravel bottom sliding under my feet, my war cry mixed with my brother’s. The son of a ##### came close to drowning us, the King, wounded as he was, had a great deal of power in his element. Neither one of us thought to let go of the pole, the fish was tethered to it after all. We chased him up a riffle into another pool, not so deep this one, it allowed us to try and beach him. Big mistake, the “beach” was a half moon shape, only a few feet in size, backed by a sheer rock wall and fronted by the pool. The King objected to being hauled out and flailed strongly, beating us soundly below the knees, defeating any attempts to pin him down. Back into the water we went, all three of us. Several more minutes of floundering around chest deep, found us back at the beach. Again with the thrashing, not quite the same scale as the first time, but still enough to force us back in to the pool. This charge carried us downstream, toward deeper water, we got him turned, our first directed move since putting the iron to him. We tried a bigger beach this time, success!! No returning to the stream this time, but he continued to fight us. I broke a hefty stick on his head, Bro had at him with a rock, slimy blood glinting with scales was spattered everywhere.
Finally subdued, we prepared to pack out our prize, like native bearers hauling an Impala slung on the spear. The ordeal of the rain soaked brush, the long walk up the muddy road to the old jeep, the now dead battery awaiting us.
The King weighed out at 42 pounds, my brother and I together went maybe 180. We were sore for days. Such was growing up in NW California and we thought everybody did stuff like this.
When you grow up in an area such as the one that I did, it's easy to take for granted all the wonderful things that were here.
Until the last two decades or so, I didn't give it much thought. I always figured that what I knew was always going to be here.
I was wrong, many things no longer exist or are severely restricted, some for good reason, others, not so much. There are plenty of things that were done in the normal course of our business, so to speak, that would have us in jail today. Now mind that we were not considered criminals at that time, just unruly or lacking in manners. That is part of it, some of our adventures were things that came with the territory, deeds done the way they had been done for many years. Take this next little tale, it might completely sadden, enrage and cause outcry in today's lace panty world.
Two boys and the King
The spring break was late this year, as normal for our family, my brother and I were packed up and sent away. We didn't know why, we did expect it and looked forward to it. We ended up on the great ranch in the Mattole Valley, which was just fine, even in the rainy weather.
We did chores, played in the barn, explored the work sheds, all the things that 12 year old boys do. One rainy morning our Grandmother said that she wanted a salmon and asked us to go get one. We sprang at the chance, besides, that meant driving the beater Jeep pick-up that was nicknamed the "Bomber" for it's droning old flathead six. The jeep had no brakes, was permanently stuck in low range and enough play to use up a full spin of the steering wheel. In other words perfect for 12 year old boys. We knew the jeep was fun, but what we put in the back was viewed with high anticipation. This fishing trip was different, no fishing rods would be used, no nets, no dynamite, yep, we had us a spear.
Granddad’s spear, made from an old three tine pitchfork with the center tine removed, the remaining two tines were fitted with removable “toggle” tips, fastened to a rope by wire.
The theory being that once the tips hit the fish, they would come off the tines and “toggle” sideways, making them tough to dislodge. It worked, mostly.
Up the hill we went, brimming with enthusiasm in spite of the pouring rain. The road leading to the creek was washed out, no matter, we cheerfully walked the mile and a half, taking turns carrying the 8 foot Pepperwood pole. We just knew that salmon were stacked up in the pool know as the big blue hole. Well, there were salmon there, sleek fast moving Silvers and well beyond our reach, the pool was too deep. After a bit of lunch, we went upstream to the West fork, a pristine stream that flowed from the King Range, no roads crossed it, no-one lived within many miles from it, as pure a stream that can be found. The stream had carved its course through steep terrain, leaving high banks with overhanging trees, deep pools connected by swift flows around boulders. The creek laughed and chuckled as it ran clear and cold. Small gravel beaches on inside bends were shining with rain. This is where we found the King. As with many great events, it was mainly by accident. We had struggled through the wet brush along the banks, couldn’t have been more wet by swimming. We startled a small black bear from its meal of a Silver salmon and watched as it plunged across the stream and plowed up the bank. We waited a few minutes, listening as the sounds of its flight diminished. When our breathing calmed, we continued our search for Grandmother’s salmon. We spotted a couple Silvers, made a few attempts to skewer them and failed. Then came the fated pool, where the great King rested on the bottom. After some discussion, we changed tactics, no more Celtic lunges, a stealthy approach was indicated. With my brother head of me, we quietly waded into the crystal waters, over the knees, to our belts, the waters lapped at our elbows. The spear was slowly extended toward that submarine sized fish. When it was judged that the tips were close enough, then came the Celtic lunge. The tips were plunged deep behind his gills, The King reacted by rearing up off the bottom in a cloud of blood and gravel, then off he went, upstream dragging us with him. I remember the gravel bottom sliding under my feet, my war cry mixed with my brother’s. The son of a ##### came close to drowning us, the King, wounded as he was, had a great deal of power in his element. Neither one of us thought to let go of the pole, the fish was tethered to it after all. We chased him up a riffle into another pool, not so deep this one, it allowed us to try and beach him. Big mistake, the “beach” was a half moon shape, only a few feet in size, backed by a sheer rock wall and fronted by the pool. The King objected to being hauled out and flailed strongly, beating us soundly below the knees, defeating any attempts to pin him down. Back into the water we went, all three of us. Several more minutes of floundering around chest deep, found us back at the beach. Again with the thrashing, not quite the same scale as the first time, but still enough to force us back in to the pool. This charge carried us downstream, toward deeper water, we got him turned, our first directed move since putting the iron to him. We tried a bigger beach this time, success!! No returning to the stream this time, but he continued to fight us. I broke a hefty stick on his head, Bro had at him with a rock, slimy blood glinting with scales was spattered everywhere.
Finally subdued, we prepared to pack out our prize, like native bearers hauling an Impala slung on the spear. The ordeal of the rain soaked brush, the long walk up the muddy road to the old jeep, the now dead battery awaiting us.
The King weighed out at 42 pounds, my brother and I together went maybe 180. We were sore for days. Such was growing up in NW California and we thought everybody did stuff like this.
ChrisF
ArboristSite Guru
Beautiful story.
Awesome, 
:msp_thumbup:Was the salmon good eating?
:msp_thumbup:Was the salmon good eating?
bitzer
******** Timber Expert
Awesome story Randy!
I have a similar one from when I was 12 involving my 10 year old cousin up north. Man we used to raise some hell at such a young age. This one involved a home-made spear, a club with nails in it, a hatchet, a canoe sneak attack, and shoreline full of spawning suckers that were packed tighter than cordwood.
I will make my way out to your country someday. Its sounds like one hell of a place.
A spider just dropped out of the ceiling and dangled around the screen. I squished the booger.
I have a similar one from when I was 12 involving my 10 year old cousin up north. Man we used to raise some hell at such a young age. This one involved a home-made spear, a club with nails in it, a hatchet, a canoe sneak attack, and shoreline full of spawning suckers that were packed tighter than cordwood.
I will make my way out to your country someday. Its sounds like one hell of a place.
A spider just dropped out of the ceiling and dangled around the screen. I squished the booger.
That's the stuff.
And it has a happy ending...Salmon, yummy!
cpr
Addicted to ArboristSite
And it has a happy ending...Salmon, yummy!
Getting hungry... Leave a big ole' piece in a tub overnight with maple syrup on it (the real stuff, not sold in a plastic bottle). Grill it slow wrapped in foil with some mandarin oranges... Wonderful eatin' and good for ya'!
Only you lucky guys got to have fun like that. I have herd stories of my Grandad bringing huge messes of abalone home, shooting sea lions with the .22 form the warf. Stealing beer form the army base. All kinds of fun stuff. . . All that is a bygone era. . .
The best I could ever do was running around in the woods behind my house with Lucy, my yellow lab, catching crawdads out of a muddy creek with sewer pipes spanning it every few hundred yards. . .
The best I could ever do was running around in the woods behind my house with Lucy, my yellow lab, catching crawdads out of a muddy creek with sewer pipes spanning it every few hundred yards. . .
paccity
Addicted to ArboristSite
ya got to get out there and fish like hell to make up for it.:msp_smile:
RandyMac
Stiff Member
I'm bored, the meds have made my brain feel soggy, my legs wobbly, could someone please tell me a story.
Well, it is a bright and windy day......
Eccentric
Mister Wizard
It's a wierd sunny/overcast/windy/rainy day here. Last night was brutal. Wind and rain up the wazoo. Spent some wonderful time late last night (before the power went out) and early this morning (after the power came back on) shop-vac'ing over 30 gallons of water from my garage floor.
Damn pad in front of the garage is graded wrong. I put a threshold in, but the water seeps under a joint somewhere. I need to get that drainage squared away. Standing in water and getting rained on while running a noisey shop-vac in the dark is no damn fun. Looked up and noticed that some punks egged the front of the garage, and even got a few on the roof. Had homicidal, non-Christian thoughts....
Power keeps dropping out and coming back on. Since the family's out of town, the net is my entertainment. Reboot/log-in. Reboot/log-in. Repeat.....
Damn pad in front of the garage is graded wrong. I put a threshold in, but the water seeps under a joint somewhere. I need to get that drainage squared away. Standing in water and getting rained on while running a noisey shop-vac in the dark is no damn fun. Looked up and noticed that some punks egged the front of the garage, and even got a few on the roof. Had homicidal, non-Christian thoughts....
Power keeps dropping out and coming back on. Since the family's out of town, the net is my entertainment. Reboot/log-in. Reboot/log-in. Repeat.....
Last edited:
We are supposed to be telling stories here. So, you are supposed to read my mind (I am woman) and add something to the story that starts out, It is a bright and windy day.
Like, It was a bright and windy day. The wind was so strong that it turned his gelled hair into a twisted thicket of madness. There was no comb handy, so he smashed it down with a torn and faded Seattle Mariners baseball cap. Not that he liked or followed the Mariners, he simply had an old hat that somebody left behind. It fit well, stuck to the now dust covered gel, and would stay on during the gales of the day.
He tired of the endless, "How about those Mariners?" questioning, He began to think about his shotgun. There, that's a start.
Like, It was a bright and windy day. The wind was so strong that it turned his gelled hair into a twisted thicket of madness. There was no comb handy, so he smashed it down with a torn and faded Seattle Mariners baseball cap. Not that he liked or followed the Mariners, he simply had an old hat that somebody left behind. It fit well, stuck to the now dust covered gel, and would stay on during the gales of the day.
He tired of the endless, "How about those Mariners?" questioning, He began to think about his shotgun. There, that's a start.
8433jeff
Aftermarket connoisseur
The one his crazed ex was holding hostage until he gave her his dog "back". Well, he could find another shotgun, hell, even another ex, but he was keeping this dog.
He knew the gel was a bad idea. But the current Ms. Right Now said it made him look younger, and thats why she would stay Ms. Right Now, until Ms. Next in Line showed up.
This idea of Burt's was another bad idea, couldn't focus at all on the surveillance, trying to keep his footing, balance, and the hippie in his mind and focus at the same time.
He knew the gel was a bad idea. But the current Ms. Right Now said it made him look younger, and thats why she would stay Ms. Right Now, until Ms. Next in Line showed up.
This idea of Burt's was another bad idea, couldn't focus at all on the surveillance, trying to keep his footing, balance, and the hippie in his mind and focus at the same time.
Brian13
Addicted to ArboristSite
I will give it a whirl, no promises though. Before I got into rebuilding saws and other saw related saw related activities, I was into mountain biking.......I know there are not any mountains in Florida, but we make do with what we have. After we found out my wife was pregnant I knew my riding time was limited, which brings me to the beginning of my story. Santos mtb park, just over 2 hrs from my house its the best park I have been to. It was a limestone query at one time and now is one of the largest mtb parks in Florida. Not only is it one the largest, its also the one of the only parks that allow freeride and dirtjump style riding. After getting off work at 0730 I grab my bike and head out to meat Mr. Bones and head of to Santos. Knowing this will probably be my last ride, and it had been a few months since the last one I was excited. Has big plans, wanted to work on 180s and a couple of other tricks. We get there and head straight to the jumps, its been dry for at least a couple of weeks and you could see it on the jumps. Ruts, hard, and cracks littered the faces. Its a slow start, not really feeling the groove. There are three lines of jumps, the beginner line, small to meduim table tops, then the middle line medium set of doubles, and the pro line, medium to large doubles. Each line has about 5 or so jumps in the line, and the middle and pro line had about a 20ft tall roll in, while the beginner had a flat roll in you just peddled into. Not even an hour into the day I stop half way back to the start to talk to some regulars I havnt seen in awhile. My back was turned to the jumps, but I heard someone roll of the big roll in and shortly after heard a yelp. I turned only to see someone had used the big roll in for the beginners line, too much speed on that first jump and it want to buck you, and that is what I am seeing unfold. A walmart mtb bike starting to endo with a kid wearing some 1980s walmart helmet. On a side note, this style of riding is very demanding and dangerous. A walmart bike and helmet is not the best choice as it will not hold up well to that kind of riding. Seen the best of bikes catastrophically fail, and some top helmets split. Back to the story, as I am seeing this kid start to go over his handlebars in the air in slow motion. Kind of starting to look like superman until his face hits the ground, and then he starts to resemble a scorpion. Shortly after kicking himself in the head, he finely came to rest. I am sitting no more than 10 feet away as this unfolded, and before anyone could even move to see if he was ok he let out this wrenched grunt, as if all muscles in his upper torso contracted instantly. I quickly looked to the guy I had been talking to and both of us had that expression OH S*&T this is very bad. And it was as I approach I immediately notice the blood coming from his mouth, and it was then the kid started to scream. I went to the kids head and held C-spine( for work I am a firefighter/emt) and started to ask him some questions. Wasnt looking good, about every minute or so we would start over again, he would ask "what happened?", "How did I get here?", and "I am hurt bad arnt I? My face it hurts I am going to be ugly forever?". It seemed like every minute on the minute this would start over with no recollection of asking these very same questions before or the questions we were asking. Fortunately for me another rider there was in paramedic school and helped me out. From the waist down there was no feeling, nor was there any movement. This is a relatively remote location, but there is access points for the ambulance to get out there, and it seemed like forever, my knees and lower back were burning bent over holding his head as still as possible. At some point I looked up to see where my bike was expecting it to be with my riding partner, but it was still sitting where I dropped it and Mr. Bones was nowhere to be found. Gone like a ghost, vanished nowhere to be found, later he explained that he dosnt do well with blood and had to go somewhere else. Finally the Medics get here and I am relieved thinking someone will take over and I can go on about my day. Didnt work out like that, the LT. decided I was already there and better off to leave me there, knees and back are really starting to hurt this cant be over fast enough and it feels like time has stopped. They hooked him up to a monitor, and started to put him on a back board and somewhere in the midst of this I heard the LT mention trauma alert, means they are going to be landing an helicopter nearby. Finely got the kid on a back board, c-collar on and set and ready to go and I was relived. After-wards we covered the blood up with dirt and continued to ride, with the reminder that one little screw up can hurt bad weighing heavily on our minds. Killed the vibe for the rest of the day. It will be two years this month and I havnt been back yet, kids have kept me a lot closer to home and I have since started on the chainsaw rebuilding for a hobby. Here is a video from my glory days LOL, and this part of the park is where they landed the helicopter. Hope this wasnt to long and boring.
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GpMv0FFI7KE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
cpr
Addicted to ArboristSite
Awash in sweat and the butterflies of anticipation. Afterall, it did take 2 years to construct, 4 hours to drive here and 45 minutes to prepare. Now encapsulated in a cocoon of steel and nomex, switches are flipped, valves are pulled.
A spritz of ether and with a shudder it barks, coughs, then dies… Another shot of goofy gas and a thumb depressed more forcefully, more out of nervousness than anger, and again a shudder wells , seemingly, from within. The rack dispenses straight No. 2 through stainless lines in succession, depositing each shot into dished pistons, decompressed to cope with what is to come. The clatter of pump and thumping valve train is all that can be heard as a cloud of anticipation emanates from the glinting stack of sonic fury.
The menacing rake, fat 30.5s speaking to the power capable, yet from 50 feet away all seems as such a garish poseur. Surely this thing cannot accelerate 50,000lbs. across 300 feet? It’s just
So
Quiet…
For the purported controller of this fickle beast of burden all is not so calm. Eased into position, a cold hook deposited as retainage against potential earnings, the machine is ready. A quick scan of indicators and a green flag…
It is on.
A white knuckled fist clenches a cold rod of aluminum, inching it forward and beckoning more shots of No.2 to be issued into the 504 cubic inch row of 6. Slowly, slowly the ignored tachometer yawns to beyond 3000 while a centrifugally assisted clutch tries to free itself from its kick of inoperability. Dinner-plates of bloodshot concentration witness the boost gauge flicker to life.
For a moment a roar as if emanating from beneath a pile of pillows causes 3000 heads to swivel to attention as a unit never designed for it announces its birth at north of 6000rpm, ignored for 1 that has now snapped to as 4 turbos engulf the roar with a jet-engine’s whistling shriek. Manifold pressures rocket past the lifeline trigger at 45 psi on its way to 200+ all the while tripping a fire hose of water into the intakes without which, the heart of the beast would cook itself down into a shovel-ready pile of wheelbarrow fodder. A black tornado rises as arms and feet flail wildly, outwardly appearing as a seated marionette, struggling to coordinate throttle, clutch and brakes to steer while a paw flails at the now useless steering wheel. All, of course, unnoticed but for the now ravening beast of burden alight.
8 seconds later…
Benches have cleared, jaws speak to the triumph.
Yet one head sits down shielded from view with a sweat-drenched grin of satisfaction…
And a solitary index finger directed skyward.
Mark Ulmer Lost IH 1086 Diesel Super Stock
Chassis by Doc Christensen
Engine by Hypermax
Fuel and Turbos by Esdon Lehn
On board and trackside views from Rock Valley, IA 2009
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xLjHDoK-oRo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qUTT3_01RIg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
A spritz of ether and with a shudder it barks, coughs, then dies… Another shot of goofy gas and a thumb depressed more forcefully, more out of nervousness than anger, and again a shudder wells , seemingly, from within. The rack dispenses straight No. 2 through stainless lines in succession, depositing each shot into dished pistons, decompressed to cope with what is to come. The clatter of pump and thumping valve train is all that can be heard as a cloud of anticipation emanates from the glinting stack of sonic fury.
The menacing rake, fat 30.5s speaking to the power capable, yet from 50 feet away all seems as such a garish poseur. Surely this thing cannot accelerate 50,000lbs. across 300 feet? It’s just
So
Quiet…
For the purported controller of this fickle beast of burden all is not so calm. Eased into position, a cold hook deposited as retainage against potential earnings, the machine is ready. A quick scan of indicators and a green flag…
It is on.
A white knuckled fist clenches a cold rod of aluminum, inching it forward and beckoning more shots of No.2 to be issued into the 504 cubic inch row of 6. Slowly, slowly the ignored tachometer yawns to beyond 3000 while a centrifugally assisted clutch tries to free itself from its kick of inoperability. Dinner-plates of bloodshot concentration witness the boost gauge flicker to life.
For a moment a roar as if emanating from beneath a pile of pillows causes 3000 heads to swivel to attention as a unit never designed for it announces its birth at north of 6000rpm, ignored for 1 that has now snapped to as 4 turbos engulf the roar with a jet-engine’s whistling shriek. Manifold pressures rocket past the lifeline trigger at 45 psi on its way to 200+ all the while tripping a fire hose of water into the intakes without which, the heart of the beast would cook itself down into a shovel-ready pile of wheelbarrow fodder. A black tornado rises as arms and feet flail wildly, outwardly appearing as a seated marionette, struggling to coordinate throttle, clutch and brakes to steer while a paw flails at the now useless steering wheel. All, of course, unnoticed but for the now ravening beast of burden alight.
8 seconds later…
Benches have cleared, jaws speak to the triumph.
Yet one head sits down shielded from view with a sweat-drenched grin of satisfaction…
And a solitary index finger directed skyward.
Mark Ulmer Lost IH 1086 Diesel Super Stock
Chassis by Doc Christensen
Engine by Hypermax
Fuel and Turbos by Esdon Lehn
On board and trackside views from Rock Valley, IA 2009
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xLjHDoK-oRo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qUTT3_01RIg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
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