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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link=blue vlink=purple><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>Nice story, posted by N6KR, one of the Elecraft founders:<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal style='background:white'><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica","sans-serif";color:#777777'>Jul 12 </span><span style='font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Helvetica","sans-serif";color:#333333'> <a href="https://groups.io/g/Elecraft-KX/message/66816"><span class=hidden-xs><span style='color:#337AB7;text-decoration:none'>#66816 </span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal style='background:white'><span style='font-size:10.5pt;font-family:"Helvetica","sans-serif";color:#333333'>I have a friend about my age who got into amateur radio only a few years ago. Like many of us, he was enthusiastic about the technology. Intrigued with DX. <br><br>I showed him my station; we talked endlessly about gear. Later, I helped him put up a simple wire antenna.<br><br>Then, when his license arrived, he dove straight into FT8 and didn't look back. Within days, he'd worked all states, then DXCC. He'd bag a few rare ones over a light lunch, then pat his laptop on the back and congratulate his software app for its near-mythical ability to extract weak signals out of noise. <br><br>Within weeks, he'd mastered everything there was to know about this glorious new hobby. <br><br>Point. Click.<br><br>In this new world order, those of us who took the longer, slower path to ionospheric enlightenment -- and who still occasionally enjoy making waves by hand -- often fail to explain why. <br><br>I had failed to explain it to my friend. Even as hints of his boredom crept in, creating an opening, the best argument I'd made for trying CW was that he could do it without a computer. Coming in a weak second was the notion that CW was the original digital mode. For obvious reasons, I didn't bother with the classic argument about CW's signal-to-noise advantage over SSB. <br><br>I had all but given up. <br><br>Then, in a moment of delayed clarity, I decided on a different approach. I invited him to a weekday brunch. A bit of an escape. He willingly took the bait.<br><br>On the appointed day, arriving at his workplace, I bypassed the lobby's glistening elevators and climbed the four flights of stairs to his office. I insisted we take the stairs down, too. <br><br>"Why?" he asked. "And how'd you get up here so fast?" <br><br>I pointed out that I always chose stairs, when possible. That's why I wasn't out of breath. We hustled down, jockeying for position, and emerged on the ground floor invigorated by the effort.<br><br>"So, where are we going?" he asked. We'd been to every overrated twenty-dollar burger venue at least twice.<br><br>I replied that we'd be going someplace we'd never tried. My kitchen. <br><br>When we arrived, I put him to work chopping onions and broccoli and squeezing oranges while I whipped eggs into a froth and grated Swiss cheese. We ate our omelettes outside, in full sun and a cool breeze. <br><br>"What's for desert?" he asked. "Isn't there a frozen yogurt place a two-minute drive from here?"<br><br>I had something else in mind. Back in the kitchen, I handed him a water bottle, then strapped on a small pack I'd prepared earlier. <br><br>We walked a mile or so through my neighborhood, admiring the houses' varied architecture, ending up (as planned) at a local park festooned with blackberry bushes. The most accessible branches had been picked clean, but with teamwork and persistence we were able to gather several large handfuls of fat, ripe berries, which we devoured on the spot. <br><br>We'd been poked and scratched but didn't care. <br><br>"Doesn't brunch usually end with champagne?" he wondered aloud, admiring his wounds.<br><br>Not this time. I pulled out two bottles of craft beer that I'd obtained from a neighbor in trade for repairing his ancient home stereo. Carlos had spent years crafting an American pilsner to die for, sweating every detail, including iconic, hand-painted labels. <br><br>My friend accepted the bottle, then tried in vain to remove the cap. Not a twist-off.<br><br>"Opener?" he said. <br><br>I handed him a small pocket knife, an antique without specialty blades. He soon discovered it could not be used to remove the cap directly. He looked at me with a bemused expression, no doubt wondering what I had up my sleeve this time. <br><br>I pointed out that we were surrounded by white oaks, a species known for its hard wood. He got the message, smiled, and began hunting. Within seconds he'd collected a small fallen branch. I watched as he used the knife to fashion a few inches of it into a passable bottle opener. We popped the caps, toasted his new-found skill, and traded stories of our misspent youths.<br><br>"Oh, one more thing," I said.<br><br>I pulled a KX2 out of my pack, along with two lengths of wire. Of course he knew everything there was to know about Elecraft, and me, so he wasn't surprised when I also pulled out the rig's attachable keyer paddle. We threw one wire in the closest tree and laid the other on the ground.<br><br>He didn't have to ask whether I'd brought a laptop.<br><br>We listened to CW signals up and down 20 meters, which was open to Europe at the time. As he tuned in each station, I copied for him using pencil and paper. He'd learned Morse code, but only at very slow speeds. <br><br>After making a contact, I set the internal keyer speed to 10 words per minute and dialed power output to zero, for practice purposes, then showed him how to use the paddle. He smiled as he got the hang of it. Sending the full alphabet was a challenge, but he got there. The KX2 decoded and displayed his keying, providing confirmation. <br><br>We'd blown through his allotted lunch break by a factor of three, so it was time to go. We coiled up the antenna wires, packed up, and walked back. As I drove him back to his employer, we made plans to get together again for a weekend hike.<br><br>I could have just dropped him off, but we went back into the lobby together. Out of habit, he stopped in front of the elevator. Then he looked up.<br><br>"OK," he said. "I get it. This CW thing. It's slow, it's hard to do well, and it takes years of practice."<br><br>"Like hunting for your own food, or carving your own tools," I added.<br><br>"Or cooking from scratch. Or brewing your own beer. Building your own radio. And you use more of your senses. Not just your eyes, but your ears. Your sense of touch."<br><br>I nodded. Listening. Feeling. That was the radio I'd grown up with.<br><br>"Of course it's harder to work DX with CW than with FT8," I reminded him, playing devil's advocate.<br><br>"Is that what matters, though?" he asked. <br><br>A longer discussion for another day.<br><br>"Your call," I said.<br><br>He gripped my shoulder and smiled, then reached toward the elevator's glowing, ivory colored button, framed by polished brass. <br><br>The path most taken. <br><br>Point. Click.<br><br>"On second thought," he said, "I'll take the stairs."<br><br>* * *<br><br>Wayne,<br>N6KR<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>