“Kla-whoosh-BOOM!” The round ball thudded when it hit the mark. ‘Pathfinder’ smiled as his smoothbore settled from his shoulder. “That’s how it’s supposed to be done,” Ted Jayson said with a smile. After hunting all day, the woodsmen camped at Swamp Hollow found time to engage in an 18th-century shooting competition before the evening meal…
“Breakfast comes with a traditional hunting tale,” Ron LaClair said as he told of how he took the white-tailed doe. After the story, LaClair sliced the backstraps into steaks and fried them in a dab of bear fat over an open fire. “It’s a shame people gotta eat like this,” Norm Blaker said with a straight face and a twinkle in his eye. Swamp Hollow in the Old Northwest Territory…
Leaves rustled. Quiet followed. The acidic aroma of fallen oak leaves perfumed that October afternoon’s woodland hush. Three delicate crunches coaxed the smoothbore’s muzzle uphill. The turtle sight paused at a gnarly shag-bark hickory tree festooned with muted gold foliage. Two pops and a solid crunch betrayed the fox squirrel’s approach. But alas, the tangle of downed limbs, grape vines and arching raspberry switches concealed the evening meal’s exact location. Milkweed tufts drifted from the edge of the sedge grass.
Tiny claws scratched on harsh gray bark. The tip of a furry, auburn tail twitched past where the first main branch joined the hickory’s trunk. Another burst of solitude… Impatient fingers brushed away dirt from the stretched knee of the dark-blue wool leggin. Four stick-tights clung to the copper-colored silk ribbon that bound the leggin’s front flap. The woodsman’s thumb returned to the trade gun’s lock and traced lazy circles on the jaw screw.
A blue jay winged low, then swooped to an upper twig of a nearby red oak. That forest sentinel looked east to the big swamp, gazed beyond the massive oak top that hid the returned white captive, then glanced at the ridge crest. The bird’s blue-feathered headdress rose and fell as it surveyed the glade. Never once did those black eyes look at the squirrel or foretell its location.
Minutes piled up. With a mighty, head-high leap, the fox squirrel left the seclusion of the golden hickory. It slipped under the leaves, popped up and bounded three times. With an abrupt jerk, it turned about and began pawing at the earth. Dirt flew, but only for a second or so, then off it ran in the same direction from which it came. And in that instant, the evening’s menu returned to a scrap of venison jerk, broken walnut meats and tepid water. Such was the forest fare on 22, October, in the Year of our Lord, 1796…
When I first started writing about traditional black powder hunting, a black powder magazine editor brushed off an article query with a statement that anyone who shoots black powder and owns primitive clothes is a traditional hunter.
Being new and wanting to represent the hobby in a true and factual manner, I set out to find out if his wisdom was true. That quest took over two years, and his opinion proved to be wrong. That discussion and the subsequent research led to the birth of this blog and a host of magazine articles presenting traditional black powder hunting as an alternative to modern reliance on today’s refined technology.
Recently I had the opportunity to converse with a veteran traditional woodsman. He said he attended a timeline event here in Michigan and told me all about the day. He said he entered into a conversation with a living historian we both know of who maintains a blog dedicated to the past.
In the course of the discussion, the living historian said he did not recognize my friend and did not recall seeing him at the re-enactments he, the blogger, regularly attended. After listing several events, it became apparent that the two traveled in different circles with different time periods and interests. Then the traditional woodsman asked, “Have you been to the woods lately?”
We both laughed, because we have both made that statement who knows how many times. In most instances, the meaning is lost on the listener, and we have come to accept that. Once in a while someone will ask for clarification, but most often not. We recognize that traditional black powder hunting is a solitary undertaking—a living history venue where the participant simply disappears as he or she crosses time’s threshold.
There is no organized re-enactment for traditional black powder hunters. There is no well-trimmed path to what once was, no full-color self-guiding brochure, no yellow arrows painted on brown boards, no cordoned off viewing area, no rustic benches. In the majority of cases, the trek to yesteryear is a one-on-one undertaking with no fanfare and no spectators.
Yes, there are events that feature re-enactors who portray hunters from various time periods. But portraying a longhunter, for example, and re-living the life of a longhunter are two very different journeys. The first occurs within the confines of a viewer friendly historical environment, the second “in the woods” complete with mud and stick-tights, scrapes and bruises, yet unscripted and unfathomable in nature.
On a cold November evening, I pulled Msko-waagosh’s red, wool trade blanket from the back seat of the truck. I draped it over the shoulders of a chilled family member. A few minutes later she remarked with a bit of surprise in her voice how she could feel the wool warming her body. When she went to fold the blanket to return it, she asked about the stick-tights embedded in the blanket’s weave. I laughed and told her Msko-waagosh’s blanket had participated in many 18th-century adventures—re-enactments in the woods.
Not long ago, I overheard a conversation at a living history event. It seems a gentleman who portrayed a longhunter sat around the campfire with an expensive, museum-quality wool blanket wrapped about his body. At the time, the blanket flapped in the breeze from the edge of his dining fly to “air out the smoke smell.” He was sharing how he planned to hang the blanket in his garage when he got home and was bemoaning the possibility of taking it to the dry cleaners to “get rid of the smell.”
I did not mean any disrespect, but I chuckled to myself. My friend, the traditional woodsman, and I take every opportunity to add smoke smell to our blankets and clothing as that beloved aroma is one of the best cover scents in the forest for deer hunting.
And upon further examination, that living historian’s outfit looked clean and well-laundered. The cut of his clothes was period-correct with a fair amount of hand-sewing. His accoutrements were from recognized artisans of the first quality. It was obvious he had done his research. There was some honest wear and tear, but no blood stains, no cuts or tears, no patches, no over-stitching, no dirt or grime or stick-tights.
I remembered being chastised at an outdoor show because the rump of the trading post hunter’s knee breeches carried mud stains and a reasonable amount of soiling. The side-seam was pulled apart a bit, a couple of button holes were frayed and the back of the thigh had a palm-sized patch. And that is just one item taken from the complete “kit” of a given history-based character.
As living historians, we all strive for the best possible time-traveling experience. We seek to drift around the bend and come ashore in our own personal Eden. Some do so within the confines of an organized museum-like setting, while others, like my friend and I, slip away and seek the solitary existence of life in the woods. Such was the forest fare…
Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.
Tami smiled. Discussions about “Uncle Jerry’s Cadillac” have been a part of her family gatherings for over four decades. The story of how Uncle Jerry acquired the car was always the same: the car was a gift from General Motors to a union executive. Uncle Jerry did odd jobs for the gentleman and admired that Cadillac. He hoped to own it one day, and did.
There were other tales of high adventure driving the ’59 Sedan De Ville. In the 1970s, Uncle Jerry added a clamp-on bumper hitch and towed a trailer heaped full with his and Aunt Barb’s possessions to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The clamp-on side mirrors are still in the trunk, but the bumper hitch is lost to eternity.
In her own special way, Aunt Barb shared fond recollections of Sunday trips to church, then out to eat followed by an afternoon drive. In the early 1990s, Aunt Barb oversaw the professional restoration of Uncle Jerry’s Cadillac, which took over a year. When the ’59 Cadillac returned to “bright and shiny,” Uncle Jerry babied it, but didn’t drive it like he did with the rust and dings of an active life. After he passed away, Aunt Barb moved the car from the garage to a heated warehouse. She talked about the Sedan De Ville for a while, then forgot about it.
I realize this is a bit of a departure from romping through the 18th-century glade. But then again, swinging open a heavy, all-steel sedan door and taking a whiff of the aroma of the Buddy Holly and Bill Haley era does rival the captivating scent of drying oak leaves and wild mint. One has to settle in to that big, cloth-covered bench seat, grip the large, slender steering wheel and take in the view out over the massive hood of a ’59 Caddy at least once in this life. A couple pumps on the gas pedal primes the carburetor, a turn of the key and then 390 cubic inches of a long-forgotten Detroit V-8 roar to life with a gentle shake of the entire chassis. Touring the open road in a ’59 Sedan De Ville is time traveling, too.
Uncle Jerry’s ’59 Sedan De Ville is now part of Aunt Barb’s estate—the prime beneficiary is her church. As per her wishes it’s time to pass this historic piece of Americana on to another owner who will love it like Uncle Jerry did.
Dear reader, if you have a desire to step back to the glory days of American manufacturing excellence, or know someone who does, please respond to or forward my email address. Put “Uncle Jerry’s ’59 Cadillac” in the subject line. The ’59 Sedan De Ville is appraised at $32,800.00 (not including a trunk full of additional parts and a shop manual), and Aunt Barb’s personal representative is asking $29,500.00. The car is located in southern Michigan.
Travel back to the Golden Age of Rock ‘n Roll, be safe and may God bless you.
The buck was close, eighteen paces distant. The shot calculated and true. The death sphere “thumped” in agreement. After a reasonable wait, the trail led downhill, then south through the cedar grove. “The buck is down,” the Lady of the Woods stated as she approached with her chiefs-grade trade gun cocked and ready. A cherished memory of November, 1795, deep in the Old Northwest Territory, east of the headwaters of the River Raisin…
A wild turkey tried to sneak behind a hired hunter for a backcountry trading post. The Northwest trade gun’s English flint jumped to attention. The smoothbore thundered. Fire belched. White, sulfurous smoke filled the air. The woodsman got to his feet and approached the lifeless bird that would become his next meal. Old Northwest Territory, three ridges east of the River Raisin in the late 1790s…
A traditional woodsman’s bedroll rests against a red cedar trunk. A round ball’s hole, shot clean through a stout grape vine, adds a new narrative. As the boiling cloud of white stench drifted over the sedge grass of the big swamp, the 18th-century adventure of that overcast November day took an unexpected turn. The hole was just the beginning of the tale. Old Northwest Territory, a ways east of the River Raisin’s headwaters, in the late 1790s…
A Lady of the Woods paused beside a red cedar tree. With great caution she made her way into a tiny valley and sat within a downed tree top. But alas, the flock did not pass through that sequestered hollow on that bright November morn. Old Northwest Territory, two ridges east of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1797…
