A Chance for Rabbit Stew

Snowflakes drifted in calm air. The white blanket, laid upon the glade an hour or so before dawn, proved a pleasant surprise. A hint of aromatic red cedar teased the nose. Two square-cut trade shirts, a wool sleeveless waistcoat and a linen hunting shirt seemed proper attire for that mild January jaunt, in the Year… Continue reading A Chance for Rabbit Stew

In the direction whence he came…

Saturday, 17, December, 1763: Frozen oak leaves crunched. Spotty snowflakes whisk about.  Wool-lined moccasins tread light, slow and deliberate.  The still-hunt progressed into a blustery southwest wind that sliced to the bone.   Two years prior, a summer thunderstorm broke a modest red oak high up, below the main fork. One limb came to rest… Continue reading In the direction whence he came…

A Tad Late Tuesday…

Saturday, 23, April, 1763: “Gob-obl-obl-obl-obl-obl!” The tom sounded far off. Elk moccasins whispered down the east face of the ridge. Fall’s oak leaves flexed, but did not crackle. Two steps and a pause…two steps and a pause… The evening air smelled of fresh greenery, with a hint of old urine laced with the tannic aroma… Continue reading A Tad Late Tuesday…

Not Much Changes…

Muffled wing beats rumbled. A reddish-brown blur rose in the grey soup of morning vapor. The fowl dropped into a thick patch of sedge grass, thirty or so paces east of its night roost. Overnight dew drenched each slender, tawny blade of prairie grass. Silver droplets splashed and scattered as trail-worn buckskin leggins crept along.… Continue reading Not Much Changes…

“they purchased me a new gun…”

14th November, 1763: Fog shrouded a crimson cardinal’s “whit, whit, tsu, tsu, tsu, tsu.” Now and again a brown oak leaf drifted through the mist. The oaks still held a fair number of their leaves. Crows initiated their first melee of the day. The air smelled fresh and spring-like with an acidic twinge of drying… Continue reading “they purchased me a new gun…”