Tag Archives: Traditional camping

“The Finest British Soap…”

Cinnamon-colored hair rippled. A white tail flicked twice. Green oak leaves fluttered, coaxed alive by a warm, southwest breeze. The doe browsed on lush, belly-deep, dew-laden prairie grass. Yellow spears burst forth from the eastern tree line. Long shadows shrouded … Continue reading

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As Seasons Pass

Soft crunches…a steady cadence…upwind… Msko-waagosh paused. A foreleg stepped with no sound, a crackle, then the left foreleg stepped. An ear twitched. The doe’s head disappeared behind a thick oak tree. The returned white captive, taught the ways of the … Continue reading

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“Crazy Thought Time…”

A Tad Late Tuesday Missive… Three deer matted frail grass. The largest depression rested higher up the hill than the other two—bedding not more than the night prior. “A doe and her fawns,” the hired hunter whispered, his breath drifting … Continue reading

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With Disgusted Relief…

Inquisitive fingers felt splintered openings. Msko-waagosh shook his head in amazement, the sulfurous stench of spent black powder still in his nostrils. Lead shot holes, shoulder-high on the returned white captive, peppered the barkless trunk of a dead red oak, … Continue reading

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Careful Research Opens the Door…

Retaliation extracted a tolerated agony. Thorns poked, prodded and prickled. Mosquitoes buzzed about. The trade blanket, pulled tight as in a winter squall, offered some protection from itchy welts, but the cost was excessive heat, dripping perspiration and dehydration. In … Continue reading

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A Place to Be and a Place to Go

Saturday, 17, December, 1763: Eight Canada geese ke-honked, unseen and to the east. Orange, lavender and yellow marked the western horizon, beyond the Riviere aux Raisins. Snowflakes drifted all about. The air smelled stark and unforgiving. Mi-ki-naak’s nose dripped, but … Continue reading

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Such is the Mystique…

Gusty winds swirled ground fog. The air smelled of late March, not November, yet plain and ordinary. Dark clouds delayed first light. A large cedar tree, not eighty paces from Msko-waagosh’s humble wigwam, served as a temporary lair. The mist … Continue reading

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A Gobbler Dubbed “Black Bart”

Skin stung; eyes watered. The cedar bough bobbed in arrogance, celebrating its humble victory. Trail-worn elk moccasins staggered, then slowed. Thick clouds, coupled with night’s unforgiving abyss, shrouded the moon and stars. The glade demanded a heavy toll on that … Continue reading

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