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…
Tag: French Fusil de Chasse
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…
“The Peaked Wigwam at Sunset”
“Snapshot Saturday”
A Time to Reflect…
Friday, 23 December, 1763: Two fox squirrels chattered. Sandhill cranes chortled near the Riviere aux Raisins. A crimson cardinal twittered about as if deciding whether to stay or move on. A solitary Canada goose uttered intermittent “ke-honks” on its way to the river. Orange painted the southern horizon. Patches of gray ice hinted at the… Continue reading A Time to Reflect…
So Many Times Before…
Monday, December 19, 1763: Half-frozen muck crackled. Here and there, pointed skunk cabbage sprouts poked through black humus. Slow and quiet, cowhide moccasins stepped on moss-covered roots and sedge grass clumps. Forty paces into the Riviere aux Raisins’ bottoms, Mi-ki-naak paused beside an east-leaning maple with a “J-shaped” trunk. Decades before, God’s whimsy pushed the… Continue reading So Many Times Before…
“A Few Moments Rest”
“Snapshot Saturday”
What to do, what to do?
Saturday, 19 November, 1763: Two Sandhill cranes flew overhead. One chortled soft, the other trailed behind. The “caw, caw, caw, caw” of a lone crow, winging somewhere south, pierced the dense fog. A fox squirrel’s sharp bark hung heavy on that chilly morn. A branch stub, not cut clean by the tomahawk, irritated through the… Continue reading What to do, what to do?