My father wore a 6" scar on his butt, for most of his life. The scar resulted from a load of rocksalt received in a watermelon patch.
That was still a standard thing when I was growing up in SE Idaho. I appreciate the black/white nature of it. Venture onto someone elses land, first the dogs start barking, then the shotgun goes off. A few welts that stung like hell taught me boundaries and respect for others' stuff. Only had to have it happen once.
Another landowner wanted to keep motorcycles off his land, so he strung a cable across a well-used trail.
