Hi Wayne,
As a new ham, having just joined this list and excitedly awaiting my first HF
rig (a KX3), I really appreciate this perspective.
I had considered whether to pursue getting into HF and DX, and what radio in
general could offer over more "instant-gratification" forms of communication
like SMS. What I kept coming back to is the excitement of learning and figuring
new things out, the challenge of making contact, and the human element.
I feel like quick and easy texting has made conversation disposable, I remember
when email was a once-a-day transmission via modem… or you had to write an
actual letter to reach someone… the content of the transmission was far more
considered, precisely because it took time and effort… and I think that effort
made the message even more appreciated by the recipient.
When I was younger, my physics teacher gave me a shortwave radio… I must have
spent hours tuning that dial listening to voice transmissions and strange beeps
and boops. Then I got busy with a career working in computers. I am definitely
a tinkerer and gadget geek.
Fast forward to today, I’ve re-discovered radio, got my license and my VHF/UHF
HT… and I’m still intrigued by those far away signals… who’s out there sending
them, and where are they coming from?
73,
Steve
KM6ZNZ
> On Jul 12, 2020, at 8:07 AM, Wayne Burdick wrote:
>
> 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.
>
> I showed him my station; we talked endlessly about gear. Later, I helped him
> put up a simple wire antenna.
>
> 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.
>
> Within weeks, he'd mastered everything there was to know about this glorious
> new hobby.
>
> Point. Click.
>
> 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.
>
> 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.
>
> I had all but given up.
>
> 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.
>
> 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.
>
> "Why?" he asked. "And how'd you get up here so fast?"
>
> 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.
>
> "So, where are we going?" he asked. We'd been to every overrated
> twenty-dollar burger venue at least twice.
>
> I replied that we'd be going someplace we'd never tried. My kitchen.
>
> 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.
>
> "What's for desert?" he asked. "Isn't there a frozen yogurt place a
> two-minute drive from here?"
>
> 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.
>
> 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.
>
> We'd been poked and scratched but didn't care.
>
> "Doesn't brunch usually end with champagne?" he wondered aloud, admiring his
> wounds.
>
> 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.
>
> My friend accepted the bottle, then tried in vain to remove the cap. Not a
> twist-off.
>
> "Opener?" he said.
>
> I handed him a small pocket knife, an antique without specialty blades. He
> soon discovere
