Category Archives: Skills

The Seasonal Itch

“There are places I remember, all my life, though some have change,” Judy Collins sings with her characteristic soft, seductive voice while strumming her acoustic guitar. The needle point dips into the olive-green silk ribbon, hand-dyed by Mary of Brandenburg … Continue reading

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Trees Don’t Grow Bigger…

Darkness ebbed to an overcast calm. Wool-lined winter moccasins stepped and paused eastward—the object of that crisp November morning’s still-hunt was the nasty thicket in hopes of bringing fresh venison to the pot. Thanksgiving of 1795 was a week off. … Continue reading

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“I Let the Deer Pick Them…”

Water gurgled in the gravelly cut. Two solid days of heavy, November rain filled the swamps. The thicker of the two, the south swamp, appeared higher than the sparser swale hole to the north. A thigh-deep cut crossed the mounded … Continue reading

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Thoughts on “Artificial Aging”

This week’s blog post comes in the form of an addition to “The Basics” section of the web site, and is entitled “A Progression of Age and Use.” As sometimes happens, a simple essay veers in an unexpected direction. In … Continue reading

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Blamed for “Disrupting My Hunt”

“Swip-it! Swip-it!” a contented blue jay, perched on a young cherry sapling’s topmost branch, sang a song seldom heard. In the distance, in the muddy bottomlands beside the River Raisin, a tom turkey gobbled for the first time. My fingers … Continue reading

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Exhausting All Possibilities

The search resumed at dawn. Frost-tipped cedar boughs dotted the steep hillside. Night’s cold, clear sky turned azure, and in a short while, yellow streaks of sunlight crept over the little valley. On that crisp November morn, I made no … Continue reading

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At the Little Bend

Abundant spring rains brought lush summer growth. A warm July night, in the Year of our Lord, 1795, produced a dense morning fog. Moisture dripped from every leaf, every bough, every sprig and sprout. My linen trade shirt felt damp, … Continue reading

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A Thousand Birds

“Old Turkey Feathers’” muzzle parted the prairie grass. A circle of white droppings, not more than a day or two old, stared back. Another roost ring, a few steps to the left betrayed the covey’s habit. My thumb eased the … Continue reading

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