The recent discussion of "how you know you're doing QRP" reminded me that I
had written a poem several years back (unforgivable doggerel, to be honest)
that clarified the issues in my mind. To be specific, the poem addresses
a questionable practice you might call minimalist outdoor QRP (my favorite
kind.
Apologies in advance: many of you have seen this before. Still, with so
many new QRPers on the block (and on the internet) I think it's worth the
risk to post it as supporting evidence in the current thread :)
7.3,
Wayne
N6KR
* * *
Q.R.Oscar and Q.R.Pete
by Wayne A. Burdick, N6KR
It happened in September, on a cold and stormy day;
The mother of all contests was now nearly underway.
Before the day was over, ears from Bonn to Surinam
Would hear a battle rage between two different breeds of Ham.
Oscar, a distinguished man of wisdom (and of wattage),
Lit his pipe and surveyed his substantial shortwave cottage.
"Let the games begin!" he cried, aglow with pride and power;
And with a grin he swung his twenty-ton rotating tower.
Not far away a man named Pete crouched low inside a tent,
His sleeping bag was soggy and his penlight made him squint,
Yet as he worked he smiled, twisting wires, tweaking pots,
And soon his rig was bristling with two hundred milliwatts.
Just after zero, zero, zero, zero (UTC),
Both men tuned up on twenty and they listened carefully,
But neither could believe his ears, and both began to pray:
On 14020 they heard "DE Zed-A-1-A".
Now Oscar moved up five Kc with dignity and class;
He gripped his paddle deftly and prepared to pound some brass.
The heterodynes were screeching, hungry birds caged in a zoo,
But he could snag Albania in one call--maybe two.
Pete took quite a different tack. He scanned for open space,
Listening to the bedlam with a frown upon his face;
He tugged his random wire to improve its ERP,
And finally he found a place to sign "slash QRP."
Well Oscar's monster, fire-breathing signal was the best,
But Zed-A-1-A knew him, and felt sorry for the rest.
With this in mind he listened for the meager and the brave,
And ignored the QRO boys (who began to rant and rave).
Soon the DX station heard a wimpy "QRP";
He fired off a "599" and waited patiently.
But Pete was eating trailmix, now, and feeling quite dejected;
Being called by rare DX was not what he expected.
Oscar heard the call and moved in closer for the kill,
Yet when he thought his turn had come the Q-so lingered still:
"So how much are you running?" "A quarter watt or less."
"A homebrew rig?" "My own design, or mostly, I confess."
"Well I'm a QRP fan, too; good attitude to foster,"
Then ZA1A signed and said, "OK, it's your turn, Oscar."
On Sunday Pete packed up his gear, his low-watt mission done.
(Birds who'd perched upon HIS wire would live to tell their young.)
Pete surveyed the hills and fields, a wondrous sight to feast on;
Then he stuffed himself into his trusty, rusty Nissan.
And Oscar? He had ruled the night with clear, demonic vision;
Slicing QRM with his unleashed atomic fission.
But near the stroke of twelve, he cut his drive by two dB,
Then worked some rare DX and said, "Not bad for QRP!"
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