A Toll for Re-Living History

Distant clucks teased. Elk moccasins danced around the broken down top of a white ash tree. When the tree fell it bent earthward six or seven red cedar trees with trunks the size of a stout blacksmith’s upper arm. The open sky above this tragedy nurtured an abundance of autumn olive sprigs, most sporting half their summer foliage. It was, after all, the second week of November, in the Year of our Lord, 1796.

The windfall provided a fine vantage point to survey the long sloping hill that led into the cedar grove from the south. No bronze feathered bodies were evident on the ground. The still-hunt progressed with great care and caution. An earthen doe trail offered the easiest course. This trail leveled out well short of the old apple tree. Patches of turkey scratchings from three or four days prior, along with white-tipped droppings, covered the area.

The craggy old apple tree’s outstretched limbs sheltered an open grassless circle, perhaps twenty paces across. Progress slowed as the trail-worn, center-seam moccasins skirted the tree, intending instead to keep to the heavier cover. A ways beyond, two large cedar trees grew at the edge of a raspberry thicket. A similar sized cedar, bent over in an ice storm years before, angled out over the purple briars.

A traditional woodsman hears a wild turkey's call.

On another wild turkey hunt, a soft cluck from down the hill attracted Msko-waagosh’s attention. Sitting cross-legged on a bedroll, the woodsman turns, pressing the leggins into the leaves.

The wool bedroll, bound with a leather portage collar, eased into the space between the two cedars. After looking about, Msko-waagosh, the Red Fox, knelt, then eased back onto the dark-red-colored cushion. A raspberry thorn tugged at the silk ribbon that bound the flap of his blue wool leggin. With its precious prime checked, the Northwest gun’s muzzle settled in the direction of the last cluck. Minutes ticked away as the woodsman scanned the forest floor for any sign of a roaming wild turkey.

Bare fingers explored the front of the deerskin shot pouch. The single wing-bone call pressed between lips damped with an intentional swipe of the tongue. Two breathy draws on the bone’s flatter end sent two soft clucks: “Ark, ark.”

“Ark, ark,” came the reply, uphill to the north, maybe fifty paces away, near a dozen waist-deep autumn olive bushes. Hips scooched to the left. The English flint rose to attention in silence; a gentle finger on the trigger depressed the sear bar as the hammer moved to full cock. The wool-clad left knee rose to meet the left elbow as the tarnished brass butt plate slipped against the returned white captive’s linen-covered shoulder. “A clean kill, or a clean miss. Your will, O Lord,” the woodsman whispered.

As the minutes ticked by, the turtle sight wavered a bit. Thoughts of lowering the Northwest gun erupted, but patience prevailed. The first wild turkey appeared in a scant opening, perhaps forty paces to the north. A second and a third followed, all pecking at the ground, turning side-to-side in search of an evening morsel. Several others flowed down the hill in what looked like a black wave. The lead bird sported a modest beard.

That tom angled to the southwest. With luck, his course might pass within the effective distance of “Old Turkey Feathers.” As the birds fed, none ventured closer. The turtle sight lurked over his back, the death bees anxious. Yet the moment of truth seemed a distant hope, fading with each herky-jerky step…

Honest Wear and Tear

My right hand clutched the trade gun; my left hand was empty as I walked from the cedar grove just before dark. The encounter proved noteworthy, bordering on a pristine 18th-century moment. But alas, a wild turkey would not be gracing the Thanksgiving dinner table.

Now and again a specific aspect of a time traveling adventure sticks with me. Most often a few words scribbled in haste keep coming to mind. On that fall turkey hunt, just a few days before the start of deer season, the notation of the curved thorn tugging at the leggin flap’s copper-colored silk ribbon came to the forefront of my recollections.

When the historical me first sat between those two cedar trees, he saw circular patches of honest wear and tear at the knees of both leggins; the cloth’s woven yarns no longer had any nap. The thorn and silk ribbons received mention on the journal page, the worn knees did not. I suppose in his subconscious thoughts, my alter ego equated the silk ribbon adornment as an indication of the Ojibwe influence, a clear sign the leggins were not intended for a common backwoods hunter of standard upbringing.

As I trudged back around the fallen white ash tree, I chuckled as I remembered Mary Brandenburg’s instructions on how to properly care for the hand-dyed silk ribbons I  purchased from her at the Kalamazoo Living History Show. She spoke of not washing the article of clothing too many times, to be aware hot or humid weather might cause color bleeding, and she recommended dry-cleaning only for the garments. Mary’s advice was based on years of living history experience and was intended to maximize the life of the ribbon.

A traditional woodsman beside the Pigeon River.

Not quite a year after sewing the leggins, the copper- and silver-colored ribbons still looked new and undamaged.

I appreciated her help and guidance, as I wished to make a pair of wool leggins that approached the quality and design of the original pair that belonged to Sir John Caldwell of the King’s Eighth Regiment of Foot, assigned to Fort Detroit. But from the start, I viewed the purchase of the ribbons in the same light as those bartered for from a 1790-era trading post, secured with the intent of using them to bind the flaps of a new pair of wool leggins destined for everyday use by a woodland hunter.

In November of 1796 those leggins had seen two years of hard traditional black powder hunting. In terms of 18th-century use, I estimate that compares to about five months of wilderness wanderings—my version of the “people years” versus “dog years” analogy.

The leggin’s wool fabric is just starting to show signs of wear, as noted on that wild turkey chase. The copper-colored ribbon on the leggin’s front flap is shredded and thread bare. The silver-gray ribbon on the back flap is intact, but soiled with a few thorn marks and a couple of places where the threads are starting to separate. That makes sense, because the front flap takes the brunt of the brush’s abuse while the back ribbon is somewhat protected.

A comparison of wear to the leggin's silk ribbons.

The copper-colored ribbon binding on the left leggin (right) shows the wear and tear of everyday use, while the silver-gray ribbon on the right leggin (left) shows only minor distress.

After a morning hunt, the leggins are damped, if not soaked, to mid-calf at the least. My alter ego tries to take them off before crossing water of any depth, but that is not always possible. The Red Fox sits cross-legged, which grinds the ribbons into the ground, grass or leaves. Sedge grass, cattails and dry, brittle golden rod stems take a toll, too. Snow, ice and swamp muck accumulate on the flaps and who knows how many times thorns, twigs and thistles have grabbed, then released those ribbons.

But such wear and tear is consistent with the historical record. John Tanner was hunting for a trader in the dead of winter. He “started an elk” and pursued it all day…

“…What clothing I had on me, notwithstanding the extreme coldness of the weather, was drenched with sweat. It was not long after I turned towards home that I felt it stiffening about me. My leggins were of cloth, and were torn in pieces by running through the brush…” (Tanner, 64)

To be sure, Msko-waagosh’s wool leggins don’t look as “pretty and pristine” as they did when first sewn. Perhaps they are approaching the point where a “collector” like Sir John Caldwell might not consider them worthy of purchase, or a museum curator, two-plus centuries in the future, might record their collection number and relegate them to box on a shelf.

The Red Fox’s leggins look trail-worn and display a patina earned from the honest wear and tear of countless simple pursuits in the 1790s, east of the headwaters of the River Raisin. There is, after all, a toll for re-living history, for wishing to experience firsthand what it was like to live, hunt and survive in the Old Northwest Territory…

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

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Stepping Through Time’s Portal

Ears appeared first. An eye, a snout, a turn of the head came next. Two large oak trees and several fallen branches blocked the doe’s body from view.  Two hoof-falls brought a head bob and a twitch of the ears as she looked to the east. Three steps, a sniff of the cold December air, then a short advance. With great care and deliberation this woodland creature progressed north along the trail that skirted the nasty thicket.

A yearling doe wanders on a lower trail.The young doe glanced uphill once or twice, but she concentrated her caution on the far knoll. A large scrape remained open at the base of that soft rolling hill, but she showed no inkling to visit. From first discovery, her tail stretched straight back. The wind quartered against her left flank. She whiffed the sporadic breeze with regularity and a noticeable edginess.

Two white oak leaves fluttered to earth ahead of her. She gave them no mind. But from their descent Msko-waagosh, who rested against a thick red oak halfway up the slope, knew she was not far from detecting his deadly scent. She then melted away behind a tall wild cherry tree and a stout maple that did not grow near each other, but aligned by sight. A few steps later, the long white hairs of her rump, matted flat with green diarrhea, suggested a reason for her extreme caution.

The breeze ceased. The doe flicked her nose as she hit the returned white captive’s aroma. Four quick prancing steps and two bounds cleared the scent cone. She neither snorted nor spooked, but rather continued on as if danger did not offend her natural senses. In time she reached the rotting crown of the toppled hickory, the one that used to adorn the crest of the next rise.

Msko-waagosh, the Red Fox, pulled a blanket fold up higher on his cheek and turned his attention to the break in the trees where he first saw the young doe’s ears. His thumb fiddled with the jaw screw on the hammer of his Northwest trade gun as he rethought the whitetail’s approach and calculated where the best shot was in case a buck was on her trail.

Quite some time later, a large doe stepped around the scrape and plodded over the thin strip of ground that separated the two lobes of the nasty thicket. A smaller deer, about the size of the cautious doe, trailed two-dozen deer-paces behind. The pair bunched up about at the break in the trees—again, the point of sighting of the first doe.

The matriarch sniffed the trail to the north; her offspring walked up the slope, beyond the wall of trees, then stopped in the midst of the raspberry bushes. Eight or nine hoof-falls down the trail, the older doe tested the air, then looked across at the knoll. Her ears flipped front-to-back, then side-to-side. After a long pause, she turned westerly and took three steps uphill.

Both deer made their way up the slope, angling northwest. Their paths met not thirty paces upwind of the oak-tree lair. They paused. The savvy woodsman, schooled in his youth by the Ojibwe hunters of Ziibi Ikwe’s band, squinted his eyes as he breathed slow and steady into the blanket. The younger doe raised her snout high and tested the wind. Msko-waagosh smiled, knowing his secret was safe.

The older doe walked on with her head half-hung. The youngster followed. In no time at all the two traversed the hillside, passed over the crest and disappeared. They were the last whitetails encountered that cold December morn, east of the River Raisin, in the Old Northwest Territory.

An hour later, Msko-waagosh struggled to his feet. His leg muscles cramped and his back ached from sitting still so long in the cold wind. He stepped around the oak, avoiding the dead branches that lay scattered on the ground; some tented against the trunk. His thick moccasins eased west, imitating the young doe’s slow progression—he never took more than four steps without a deliberate pause.

In time he came to a small bump in the forest. His progress stopped at the large red oak. He leaned for several minutes, surveying the little bowl-shaped valley and studying the wigwam that sat between two downed oak tops. Satisfied all was well, the walked back to his 1796 hunting camp…

The Natural Aging of a Humble Wigwam

A hint of winter arrived a few days before this traditional black powder hunting adventure. On that Tuesday, the historical me encountered no deer. The highlight of the morning was returning to the woodland ambiance of a wigwam dusted with snow. The canvas was dry the day before. The big, fluffy flakes came overnight, and as the temperature rose, the snow began to melt. By late morning the canvas was damped on the sides and soaked on top.

The returned white captive pulls aside the flap to the snow-covered wigwamUnfortunately, this 1796 hunting camp has not lived up to expectations. Not that there is anything wrong with the shelter, but more so because life has thrown a bunch of curves this fall. Alas, family commitments and responsibilities come first, and living history trails a distant (you can read that as “non-existent”) second.

I logged only five days of hunting in November’s fifteen-day gun deer season. Small game season saw the same dismal participation rate. For the first time in the last twenty or so years, I did not purchase a waterfowl license, and the traps still hang in the old playhouse.

But as always, there is a silver lining to all adversity. In the case of the wigwam, the infrequent visits have accentuated my awareness of the structure’s aging process. Viewed on a day-to-day basis, the gradual degradation of the frame, lashings and cover might have gone unnoticed, but observed on a half-dozen visits spread over three months tells a different story.

On a number of occasions, I have written about the aging of clothing and accoutrements and the need to count the occasional hours of use, compared to the daily use sustained by the 18th-century hunter heroes. Thus, a normal hunting season of wear and tear for me, this year notwithstanding, spread over four-plus months equates to about three weeks in the life of John Tanner. It is a humbling thought when a living historian realizes fifteen years of hard hunting in his life equals one year in a revered woodsman’s life.

Each year I try to establish a period-correct shelter for my simple pursuits. I started the wigwam in October of 2015. This past May I re-applied the first row and finished the hanging of the canvas. The fabric is lower quality, cut from painter’s drop cloths, but I thought it satisfactory for the initial experiments.

Unlike my clothing and accoutrements, the wigwam’s aging is measured in real time, based on exposure to the elements day and night over seven months. The first change was the washed-out graying of the canvas from sun, rain and dew. Dust began accumulating on the bents and bows, then by mid-summer mildew started to grow on this “transient soil”—an unexpected happenstance.

While lying in the wigwam one September afternoon, Msko-waagosh discovered the first small holes in the covering. On closer inspection, it appeared an insect of some sort nibbled—again, not anticipated. Munch marks grew in number out into October, then a thumb-nail sized hole caught his attention, high up on the east side in the midst of a blackish mildew stain. My alter ego suspected this was the first sign of fabric rot, a circumstance he thought would not happen until 1798 at the earliest.

The day after the first snow had melted, the canvas was frozen stiff. The historical me, unfamiliar with such matters, wondered what effect a small campfire in the shelter would have on the canvas. Would it thaw? Would it give off small vapor trails as it dried? Would it make any difference? Time did not permit such a wilderness classroom lesson.

But the questions kept flowing; such is the plight of the living historian. Would the smoke from a daily fire waterproof the fabric? Would it keep the shelter dry and slow the aging process? Did the Ojibwe scrub the canvas when it started to mildew? Did they treat the fabric with anything to its life? How heavy was the canvas they used? How many prime pelts did it cost? How long did it last? Did they keep spare pieces to cover tears or repair calamities? And on, and on…

As responsibilities ease, I hope to venture back to the wigwam with Msko-waagosh on a regular basis. I feel a great loss, and at the same time, a burning desire to regain some of the memories that never were this fall. The original intent was to pull the canvas at the end of December in hopes of prolonging its life for another year. Now I am not so sure that is the best course, especially when I consider the door that has been opened by this fall’s adversity. I suspect there is a wealth of knowledge on the other side, knowledge that is not recorded in the pages of Tanner’s or Alder’s or Smith’s narratives. And all I have to do is step through times portal…

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

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“Winter’s Meat”

“Snapshot Saturday”

Rex Coleman with a fine bison heifer, his family's meat for the coming year. Mecosta County, Michigan, 1910.

Rex Coleman with a fine bison heifer, his family’s meat for the coming year. Mecosta County, Michigan, 1910.

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“First Meat”

“Snapshot Saturday”

Late in the afternoon, Jon Bertolet spied a squirrel high up in a white pine. Radar was hoping to flush a ruffed grouse, and wasn't too happy with settling for a squirrel. Swamp Hollow, in the Year of our Lord, 1763.

Late in the afternoon, Jon Bertolet spied a squirrel high up in a white pine. Radar was hoping to flush a ruffed grouse, and wasn’t too happy with settling for a squirrel, but the tree rat represented a modest supper, first meat for a new fusil. Swamp Hollow, in the Year of our Lord, 1763.

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“First Day Vigil”

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditional hunter sitting behind an oak tree.

The lady of the woods stalked over the hill, then ventured a ways down the slope, choosing a cluster of oaks as her lair. What a joyous 18th-century deer hunt we had sharing the North-Forty with friends and family. Not far from the headwaters of the River Raisin in the Old Northwest Territory…

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“Tending to the Fowler”

“Snapshot Saturday”

Lt. Lang sliding his fowler into a case.

After a hard day spent searching for fowls in shoulder-tall prairie grass, Lt. Darrel Lang slipped his English fowler into its snow cover, then stowed his hunting gear in a humble abode. One of Hopkins Rangers assigned to Fort Detroit, Lt. Lang found himself three days northwest of the fort. His wedge tent resided under a shedding maple, a short distance from the Cass River, the second day of November in the Year of our Lord, 1763.

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“It Sounds Like a Trade Gun”

Black powder rose in the brass measure. The charge tumbled to the breech of the pristine barrel. Excited fingers rolled a few strands of wide-bladed green grass into a ball, equal in size to the hand-cast round ball. An index finger pushed the wadding into the muzzle. The leaden sphere rested on the matted grass. The rammer slipped from the Northwest gun’s shiny ribbed thimbles, turned end-for-end, then guided the wad and ball down the bore. Firm pressure seated the grass and ball upon the powder charge. In a moment, the rammer seated a second, smaller wad over the ball, for safety sake.

Moccasins plodded all of sixteen paces. Once sitting, a thumb over the horn’s spout distributed a thin layer of fine black powder granules in the open pan. With the frizzen in place, the hammer at half-cock, the bright brass butt plate eased to an anxious shoulder. A muffled click brought the English flint to attention. The turtle sight’s base visually rested upon the protruding tang bolt; the top of the blade held steady on the target’s black cross. Eager air exhaled. The trigger crept. The English flint lunged. Sparks showered. Powder flared.

“Kla-whoosh-BOOM!”

White smoke boiled beyond the Northwest gun’s muzzle. The afternoon breeze pushed the sulfurous stench back in my face. I took a deep breath and sighed, then looked downrange. A black holed stared back, sitting in the lower left quadrant, 3/4-inch left of center and 1 3/4-inch low.

“It sounds like a trade gun,” my wife, Tami, said. “And that’s not bad for the first shot. Can I shoot it?”

The Thrill of a Flintlock’s First Shot

Life progressed in slow motion on that fine Sunday afternoon. Each step in the loading process, at least for that first shot, seemed to take forever. To be fair, I was trying to make sure I made no mistakes. After all, I wasn’t shooting for group or to post a 50-5X target. My only concern was testing the function of a new Northwest gun before I began the final finishing.

I said I was only going to shoot three shots, but I had to force myself to quit after five. I was having too much fun. Even after forty-plus years of shooting muzzleloaders, the thrill of the first shot from a new gun, be it fresh-made or well used, is still there, along with the nagging desire to do better on the next shot.

Tami got a little impatient after the third shot, so I let her shoot two shots before I finished. The length of pull is too long for her, plus she struggled getting the sight picture, but her eyes lit up just as much as mine did after her initial “Kla-whoosh BOOM!”

The sighting target with the first five shots.She retrieved the target while I swabbed the bore and wiped down the lock and pan. The barrel showed little fouling. A few black fingerprints on the cream-colored maple stock added some “just-used patina.” Unfortunately, sanding and whiskering will erase the evidence of the musket’s initial test firing.

The third, fourth and fifth shot aligned on the vertical axis, walking closer to the center each time. The end group from that first session was better than I expected: 1 3/8-inch wide by 2 1/4-inch high, centered 2 5/8-inch low and 1/2-inch left. If the new owner uses the same sight picture I use with “Old Turkey Feathers,” this gun will shoot dead on.

Starting with a slab of wood, a barrel, a flint-ignition lock and a few assorted pieces and ending up with a reproduction of a 1789 Northwest gun made by Robert Barnett of London is a major challenge, at least for this traditional woodsman. And this particular gun has involved quite a journey over time, both modern and yesteryear. But that odyssey is almost at an end, and as fate would have it, another waits.

As I ran a dry patch down the bore, I offered a prayer of thanksgiving for being blessed with the skill, dexterity and patience to manufacture the artifacts I need to engage in this crazy obsession with the 1790s. There I stood holding a Northwest gun, the fruit of many hours of enjoyable labor. A while earlier I loaded a round ball cast by my own hands. The shot pouch and most of its holdings I made, with the exception of the brass powder measure and the ball bag slipped under the Christmas tree by my good friend and fellow traditional hunter, Darrel Lang.

And then there are the hand-sewn leggins, breechclout and trade shirts that add texture to my humble time travels. The feel of linen rivals the exhilaration of a new gun’s first shot, at least for me. The gentle scratch of wool under snugged, trail-worn buckskin garters adds to the ambiance, as does the cooling gusts that flirt with the bare skin of an upper thigh.

Like an intricate puzzle, the 18th-century pieces must fit together as elk moccasins whisk along the trails that crisscross both forest and fen. If not, there is little hope of passing through time’s portal, little chance of experiencing daily life in a bygone era.

From moment to moment the emphasis on the three elements of traditional black powder hunting—the historical word, the arm using black powder as a propellant and the simplicity of a fair-chase pursuit—varies. Sometimes a few words from a hunter hero’s written recollections take the fore, other times the one-on-one intrigue of a backcountry woodsman pitting his or her wits against a forest tenant takes precedence, and sometimes the feel of a fine flintlock trade gun is all that is needed to slip back in time.

Unfinished maple and dull metal contribute little to the journey back to the 1790s. Stained stock-wood, browned steel and tarnished brass are another story. But despite that caveat, holding a new Northwest gun, smelling the burnt black powder and seeing those five holes on paper sure do pump up one’s excitement level.

Within the confines of the traditional hunt there is no thrill that compares to that of taking the first shot with a flintlock trade gun of one’s own manufacture. And the joy is compounded when a best friend comments that the gun “sounds like a trade gun.”

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

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“Unexpected Coyote”

“Snapshot Saturday”

Late one morning a coyote inadvertently crossed time's threshold and wandered into Jeff Wacker's 18th-century Eden. River Raisin headwaters, Old Northwest Territory, about 1780.

A coyote inadvertently crossed time’s threshold. The predator wandered into a traditional woodman’s 18th-century deer hunt. A boisterous muzzle blast from the French “D” trade gun echoed in the December forest… River Raisin headwaters, Old Northwest Territory, about 1780.

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