Tag Archives: Dennis Neely

My Mouth Grew Dry

The soft cluck left little doubt. The faint “arrkk,” uttered in the forest’s somber stillness, fixed my attention on the crest of the ridge to the east. A yellow maple leaf whipsawed side to side. Others followed. The morning’s wispy … Continue reading

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Mind if I Look?

“Do you mind if I take a look?” a traditional woodsman asked, lifting the leather strap of my shot pouch from “Old Turkey Feathers’” muzzle as it rested against a white oak tree. “I’d like to see what you carry.” … Continue reading

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“What if” Cogitations

Deer flies swarmed. Mosquitoes the size of hickory nuts lit on the back of my left hand. I could not swat without tucking the Northwest gun under my armpit, and I presumed the little beasties knew that. That morning, in … 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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“Never Been Outdoors!”

Stars sparkled in a moonless heaven. Wool-lined moccasins whisked through the fluffy snow. Years ago an ice storm tipped a good-sized cedar tree to the south, just shy of the ridge crest. I paused there to adjust the four-point scarlet … Continue reading

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Forting Up

The hand-hewed stair seemed steeper, the uneven steps higher. Progress proved slow, the staircase being narrow and confining. Trepidation marked each moccasined footfall. A knowing silence fell upon the twenty-five souls, each pondering the fort’s fate, and his or hers, … Continue reading

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North of Laughery Creek

The Laughery Valley tortures flintlocks. The summer heat and high humidity are mostly to blame. The same conditions that foster a gorgeous array of lush spring vegetation humble the flint and steel ignition of my beloved “Old Turkey Feathers.” Spent … 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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