It’s so “Commie,” this scythe I found leaning up against a ramshackle shack in Fedora Bay in the Sea of Okhotsk. Raised against a darkening sky, I kinda felt like I could start a revolution against an evil tyrannical tsar who lived grandly off the broken backs of dirt-poor peasants and waif-like children.
Then, Russian Ranger Rostislav, one of the guys who winters over in this forgotten land, explained they needed this razor-sharp tool to cut a path from one tiny hut to another.
Well, OK. But for that one heartbeat I just knew I could incite hordes of unwashed masses to rise up and throw off the ermine cloak of dictatorship. Then Rosti showed me how to cut weeds with the damned thing.