One Cluck on a Warm Breeze…

Posted on May 11, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Bushy gray tails swished. The two squirrels frolicked ten paces off the wagon trail. Elk moccasins paused. The squirrels both sat upright. The one on the left twitched its tail again and again; neither chattered or scolded. The one on the right bounded twice, then the chase was on. Around the old cedar tree, under the autumn olive and over an oak log the pair scampered and streaked. The still-hunt continued on.

At the westward dogleg in the rutted trail, the returned captive ducked under a grape vine, then stepped over a rotting, thigh-sized branch with no bark. Wary eyes scanned the descending slope. The still-hunt progressed. Not far off the ridge crest, a red squirrel navigated through the upper boughs of a half dozen young cedar trees. Dead needles and duff showered earthward. A crimson cardinal twittered away farther down the slope and to the south.

A traditional woodsman clucking on a single wing bone call.Two steps…a pause…two steps…a pause… Canada geese ke-honked on the River Raisin, from the echoing sounds, beyond the lily-pad flats where the channel deepens. A crow cawed, then another and another. A grape vine kinked and curled upward beside a thick red cedar tree. Years before a hired hunter for a meager trading post whacked away the lower branches with a  keen-edged ax, forming a hollow in the tree’s dead, lower branches.

Those same eyes surveyed the hillside, both up and down. Satisfied, just as the hired hunter was, Msko-waagosh dropped his portage-collar-bound bedroll in the forgotten nest, then sat cross legged upon it facing down the slope where three trails exited the big swamp and entered the cedars. A while later, a wing bone call touched the woodsman’s dry lips. “Arrkk,” one soft cluck drifted on a warm, early-May breeze in the Year of our Lord, 1796…

When a Simple Pursuit Takes a Second Seat

That evening wasn’t about killing a wild gobbler, but rather about just crossing time’s threshold and venturing back to yesteryear. Sure, if a wandering, love-sick, long-bearded tom turkey marched over the rise, the death bees awaited. I amazed myself with how still I sat, how relaxed, how at peace I felt.

The doings of modern life fill my days and press on into my nights. All take a top priority, except traditional black powder hunting, it seems. Even my daily writing schedule looks like cheap Swiss cheese—all holes and no substance. The notion of saying “no,” cutting some activity short, or scrapping a “must do,” is not possible, at least not at this time. And to be honest, I played hooky and slipped the bonds of 21st-century life that evening. I had to, for my own sanity and the tranquility of home life.

Yet, despite the frustration, the exhausting efforts, I feel a sense of positive progress on many fronts. What began as two simple blog posts flowered into multi-page postings, but as yet, not completed to my satisfaction—thus this update. I trust regular readers will understand and find the delay worthy of their precious time.

Mi-ki-naak has a new sash coming, after Martin’s Station, maybe. The sheath design for his scalping knife is finalized, the leather chosen, but not cut or sewn. A large powder horn, used but repurposed, hangs over the work bench. The outline of a crude snapping turtle, cut with a knife, adorns that artifact’s body. Two straps for the horn have come and gone, neither deemed appropriate when viewed through his discerning eyes.

The coarse-woven fabric for his outer trade shirt is washed, folded and anticipating a scissors snip any day now. Late one evening a tired hand miss cut the buckskin for his shot pouch—that project needs attention, too. Oh, and a cardboard box containing a plain maple stock with an inlet smooth-bored barrel leaned against the back door yesterday, the start of an English fowler he can someday call his own.

Red Fox binds the rolled canvas pieces that once covered his wigwam.Msko-waagosh’s wigwam is down and the canvas packed away. On his jaunt the other night, he spotted a couple of trees suitable for two bents; he just needs to find a dozen or so more—all a bit stouter than the ones that deteriorated and broke. A different and distinct sleeveless waist coat looms on the horizon, but no rush there. Once he sees Mi-ki-naak’s new sash, I expect he will want one, too. While viewing photos, I discovered his dark brown sash is a shared accoutrement with the hired trading post hunter. This is a minor oversight on my part.

The crusade for “different and distinct” affects all three historical characters.  A few tweaks like these are in order for both of my existing personas. And it has come to my attention that the hired hunter for Samuel’s trading post should have a name; he deserves that. Yet these details are all part of the living historian’s constant process of critical evaluation, to say nothing of the backwoods insight gained through the hands-on lessons of the wilderness classroom.

I haven’t picked rocks on the North-Forty in a number of years—more like a couple of decades, Miss Tami points out. It seems the chisel plow pulled by Scott’s big green tractor worked a bit deeper this spring, pulling up rocks that are not digested well by a combine’s delicate insides. Although my body aches, I have a nice pile of 18th-century cobblestones, and an appropriate stash of larger, flat rocks that will work perfect as foundation stones for a log, half-faced station camp.  Maybe by the fall?

At any rate, that is why blog postings are scant this spring. Dear reader, please bear with this humble traditional woodsman. In truth, that is why one cluck on a warm breeze was all that Msko-waagosh had left within him on that pleasant night in May of 1796…

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

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A Calamity or an Opportunity?

Posted on May 4, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Dry leaves crunched on a sunny April afternoon. “Tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat…” A downy woodpecker’s rhythmic drumming filled the hardwoods east of the River Raisin’s bottomlands. Elk moccasins slipped over the rise and down into the bowl that sheltered the returned captive’s ruined hunting camp.

A wet, heavy snowfall, followed by a stiff northwest wind collapsed the wigwam mid-winter. The west-side bents and ribs broke first. Two lashed-in replacement ribs failed to stem the inevitable demise of the little domed structure. Canvas lay against canvas. The smoke-hole cover remained tight against the square opening, even in death.

A traditional woodsman holds a piece of canvas removed from a wigwam.The Northwest gun rested to the right of the entrance while the gray-haired woodsman assessed the damage. Fingers stiffened by rheumatism struggled to undo the wraps that bound the weathered canvas pieces to the broken cherry saplings that once formed the humble abode. A red-tailed hawk circled to the south. “Scu-reeeeee…Scu-reeeeee!” was that bird’s assessment of the woodland misfortune.

Frustration gave way to the butcher knife. Judicious slices and cuts severed the ties on the inside of the ribs. Msko-waagosh draped the first few canvas squares on the tripod that stood over the camp fire circle. A quick flip with a trailing wind spread the fourth cover on the leaves in front of the fleshing beam. One-by-one the tattered squares and rectangles found their way to that pile.

Simple knots tied a braided rope to each end of a straight branch that was sewn in the loose end of the smoke-hole cover. A clove hitch secured the rope’s center to a long pole. That oak pole adjusted the draft and the wispy smoke column that rose from the fire pit inside the wigwam, and when there was no fire, the cover kept the rain and snow out of the shelter. The smoke-hole cover required extra tear-down time, and once freed, Msko-waagosh set the smaller rectangle to one side.

An empty, oak-leaf and grape vine mouse nest fell from a jumble of fabric. Fortunately, no one was at home—an odd parallel to the demise of the wigwam. Now and again, a leather-clad toe bumped one of the apple-sized stones that circled the inner fire pit. Jagged sapling ends jabbed at wool leggins. At shoulder level, three spear-like remnants of ribs pierced holes in the worn cloth during the collapse. Two in particular threatened like rattlesnakes coiled and ready to strike.

An angry flock of crows cawed to the south about the time the final canvas square flipped in the warm afternoon breeze and settled on the pile. The smoke-hole cover with the branch still sewn in the hem topped the covering as Msko-waagosh dropped to his knees and began rolling the piled canvas. The braided rope wrapped about the improvised roll. The ends of his leather portage collar circled, then bound the canvas for the long journey back to the homestead…

At a Fork in the Trail

A small fire illuminates a wigwam at night.Each slice and cut of the butcher knife brought back memories of that tiny wigwam. On the one hand, I still believe those saplings should have lasted a couple of years longer, but for some reason they didn’t. On the other hand, this minor setback fits into the current state of my writing and of my living history pursuits: I find myself at a fork in the trail.

Taking a step back and a moment to ponder, the trading post hunter’s brush shelter, the one described by Meshach Browning, is gone, as is his duck camp and the canoe-tarp lean-to. The hollow oak that stood over so many “night-fall camps” fell fifteen or so years ago.

In the case of Msko-waagosh, his wigwam is no more. And poor Mi-ki-naak has yet to establish a “semi-permanent dwelling.” Hmmmm…all three personas are homeless—is this circumstance a calamity or an opportunity?

I sometimes engage in time traveling with Lt. Lang, a British ranger serving with Captain Joseph Hopkins’ Independent Company of Rangers out of Fort Detroit in the fall of 1763. Msko-waagosh is a first-person characterization who exists in the mid-1790s, almost a generation removed from the savvy ranger. That disparity in eras has always bothered me.

You see, dear reader, I look forward to sitting against a big red oak and discussing “recent events” with Lt. Lang, traditional woodsman to traditional woodsman. But it is impossible for a conscientious living historian to find total immersion in a moment that exists only across time’s threshold—enter Mi-ki-naak.

The creation of Mi-ki-naak, who is also a returned captive who grew up with his adoptive Ojibwe family, was supposed to be a simple, and I emphasize simple, accommodation for the disparity in time periods. In reality, just the opposite is the case. Researching the 1763 time period is a total restart. In contrast, the birth of Msko-waagosh was an extension of my 1790s documentation—different life stations, but the same geographical region and chosen era. I did not foresee that issue, so again, calamity or opportunity?

Further, to avoid confusion with readers, I decided early on that my two returned captive buddies needed to be two distinct and different people. As I’ve emphasized to Lt. Lang on a couple of occasions, I want the outward appearance of these two woodland wanderers to be different, to the point that anyone looking at the photos of a given adventure can immediately determine which returned captive they will be reading about.

And hidden therein is a tremendous opportunity! Choices always accompany the creation of any traditional black powder hunting persona, whether they deal with the clothing, accoutrements, arms, shelters, or other aspects of material culture.

For example, an individual decides on the style, color, weave, etc. for the trade shirt his or her alter ego will wear, based on primary documentation that supports that characterization. Over time that persona might acquire one or two other shirts, but one seems to define the portrayal best.

These multiple possibilities exist for each item a given character owns, and thus the combinations are endless. From the traditional hunter’s standpoint, a new persona represents a chance to try other artifacts passed over with the first characterization. “Try” is the operative word, because the wilderness classroom tests these choices, and sometimes proves them unworthy for backcountry survival.

At first, the birth of Mi-ki-naak was as difficult, if not more so, than Msko-waagosh. The two shared common clothes, but that mistake, if I should call it a mistake, brought to light the imperative need for distinction, differentiation and clear definition. The trading post hunter (does he need a name?) and Msko-waagosh will undergo some tweaking, with a couple of shared artifacts being appropriated by one or the other of these woodsmen. And Mi-ki-naak will become his own man, too.

The research is taking more time than expected, because all three personas are coming into question, which is all part of persona development for traditional black powder hunters. And as far as semi-permanent shelters go, each will have his own humble abode in the North-Forty—that research is already completed.

So, in the final evaluation, was the demise of Msko-waagosh’s wigwam a calamity or an opportunity? By all accounts a new opportunity…

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

 

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“Grape Vine Lashings”

Posted on April 28, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A trading post hunter lashes rafters to a shelter's ridge pole.

A trading post hunter lashes rafters to a brush shelter’s ridge pole with grape vine in preparation for the fall hunts. Old Northwest Territory, two ridges east of the River Raisin, in the year of our Lord, 1797.

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“Late Morning Walnuts”

Posted on April 21, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A trading post hunter sits at his brush shelter eating walnuts.

After a hard morning’s simple pursuit, the trading post hunter sat in the sunlight munching on walnut meats. The brush camp was new then, but now is only a memory… Old Northwest Territory, two ridges east of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1797.

 

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“Perhaps is the promise of tomorrow…”

Posted on April 19, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Saturday, 29 October 1763:

Five blue jays hollered on the ridge. A silent, chipping sparrow bobbed up and down on a dainty sprig. The ruckus intensified. Blue-feathered blurs darted about like bees hovering around fresh-bloomed posies. The calm, late-afternoon air felt damp, and the splintered red oak smelled of wet hound hair. The crotch of the tree’s east main limb offered Mi-ki-naak ample protection for ambushing a wild turkey dinner.

A wild turkey hen wanders through the red cedar trees.That fall the birds favored roosting in several large oaks up on the ridge to the north, opposite the tamarack swamp. Every few days a small flock of nine bronze beauties pecked their way along the doe trail that bent around the tangle of flattened, curled and broken branches. Deer-hoof prints upon deer-hoof prints churned the earthen pathway; no three-toed, purple-legged tracks showed in the bare sandy soil that Saturday in 1763.

“Arrkkk!” A while later a bird uttered a sharp, solitary cluck to the south, about at the narrows crossing. A red squirrel inched out on the lowest limb of the second red oak to the south. It flexed its tail and squeaked twice, lurched farther out, then began a screechy, scratchy chatter. A second red squirrel answered from a red cedar tree halfway up the hog back’s east slope.

The squirrels bantered on, consuming a passel of minutes. Then leaves rustled, down the hill and to the south. Heartbeats grew stronger, only to ebb to normal when nothing appeared. The noise returned, then stopped. A gray squirrel hiked its way up a tall shag-bark hickory tree.

In a subconscious move, the returned white captive reached to his sash. At the least, he intended to scribble the blue jays antics, the red squirrels chattering and the afternoon’s vexations on a folded page tucked in a split pouch draped over the hand-woven sash. But his fingers failed to retrieve the deerskin pouch, because it simply was never there. Mi-ki-naak shook his head in disgust.

“Kee-honk, kee-honk, yonk, yonk, yonk…” Five geese winged westward. The familiar din faded as the geese flew beyond the River Raisin. An eerie silence fell upon the hillside. The woodsman’s right leg tingled and prickled. He rolled to his left, flexed the numb leg, then changed position on the wool bedroll. The glade slipped into a mediocre state of dismal—not light, not dark, not loud but not silent, either.

Thick, gun-metal gray clouds stalked overhead. A noticeable chill crept down the slope, enveloping the broken-oak palisade. The steady plod of split hooves on crunchy leaves foretold of a does arrival, upwind and to the south. The deer browsed and nibbled every few steps. It stopped beside the fortification, tugged at a twig and pawed in the leaves, all the while unaware death lurked so near.

A supper of dried venison loomed as darkness fell. Roost time came and went as the chill turned to cold night air. But nary once did the seasoned woodsman hear the sound of big wings. Perhaps that chorus of joyous forest noise existed beyond his humble ears. “Perhaps,” he thought as he scrambled to his feet, slung the bedroll over his shoulder and began the walk back to his evening shelter in the dimming light. “Yes, perhaps is the promise of tomorrow…”

Split Pouches to the Fore!

The split pouch after antiquing and aging.Split pouch questions wove their way in and out of several conversations the last few weeks. I’m amazed how one or two accoutrements keep popping into traditional black powder hunting discussions, often as a passing side note, or as a result of research.

When my 1763 persona, Mi-ki-naak (Snapping Turtle), reached for a split pouch that didn’t exist the modern me realized how far I needed to go with fleshing out this newcomer’s being. The mere act severed the portrayal’s bond with October of 1763. “Breaking the mystic spell of time travel” happens often as a new character develops. I faced the same problems with Msko-waagosh, and there is no quick remedy other than patience and careful research.

My other alter ego carries his journal pages in a buckskin envelope. A journal page consists of one sheet of paper folded in half, then folded again in thirds. This folding method yields twelve palm-sized pages, room for 800-plus words, and the written page is easy to set aside or hide when game comes near.

The practice evolved from the British military’s record keeping system called “returns,” where one page is folded in a specific manner and each resulting page is dedicated to the orders or happenings of the day. At the end of a given period of time, the daily returns were bundled together and sent off to the War Department in England. Mark R. Tully explains this method in more detail in The Packet article titled “Notebooks,” a discussion which is best left for another post (Tully, Packet, 16 -17).

At any rate, a journal is a key necessity for any character portrayal when a writer specializes in outdoor stories set in the 1790s or, as now is the case, 1763. Adding the third persona emphasized the perceived need to have each historical entity different and distinctive from the other two. That in itself has caused some problems, partly because I resist changing when I find or develop a hunting method that produces consistent results.

The trick, it seems, is to select accoutrements that match the research with regard to who, when and where, but don’t affect the stalks and still-hunts in an adverse fashion. Developing three different journals does not appear to be that important, but as I found out on that Saturday in 1763, a time traveler from the future soon discovers what he expects to be isn’t always the case.

The obvious choice is to create a different split pouch for the newest returned white captive in my living history family. Adhering to the physical confines of known artifacts, I would make some changes to a split pouch for Mi-ki-naak, based on Msko-waagosh’s trials and tribulations in the wilderness classroom. But realizing the need to be “different and distinctive,” provides an opportunity to explore other period-correct accoutrements and learn how they perform while traipsing through the forests and fens.

John Tanner’s narrative was a guiding light for the development of Red Fox. James Smith’s journal is serving the same purpose for Snapping Turtle. Early in his captivity, Smith witnessed the aftermath of Braddock’s defeat. A Frenchman gave him a copy of Russel’s Seven Sermons, “which they had brought from the field of battle” (Smith, 26). This becomes part of what he calls “my books.”

“They seated me on a bear skin, and gave me a pipe, tomahawk, and polecat skin pouch, which had been skinned pocket fashion, and contained tobacco, killegenico, or dry sumach leaves, which they mix with their tobacco—also spunk, flint and steel,” Smith wrote when describing his adoption ceremony. (Ibid, 30)

In October of 1755, Smith traveled to Lake Erie:

“On this route we had no horses with us, and when we started from the town, all the pack I carried was a pouch, containing my books, a little dried venison, and my blanket…” (Ibid, 40)

Now this pouch had to be of a modest size, depending upon the size of the copy of Russel’s Seven Sermons, plus he refers to “books,” which included a Bible. In this passage he makes no mention of what the “pouch” was made of or how it was constructed—frustrating, but common. The story of this pouch continues:

“While we remained here, I left my pouch with my books in camp, wrapt up in my blanket, and went out to hunt chestnuts. On my return to camp my books were missing…” (Ibid, 43)

In late March of 1756, Smith and his adoptive family returned to the area where the books were lost. While they dug up a canoe stored for the winter and set about making another to transport their maple sugar, bears oil and skins, “a young Wiandot found my books.” Members of the party gathered together to examine the find:

“They called me by my Indian name, which was Scoouwa, repeatedly…they showed me the books…They then showed how they lay, which was in the best manner to turn off the water. In a deer skin pouch they lay all winter…” (Ibid, 54 – 55)

The result of this reading is that James Smith possessed a “polecat skin pouch” and a “deer skin pouch.” For safety, I have always avoided wearing any animal fur when hunting or when traversing the glade during an open hunting season. Thus, the polecat skin pouch is out, but Smith described the contents of that pouch, eliminating it as a possible repository for journal pages.

The “deer skin pouch” is another matter. It contained “my books,” which could include journal writings. In Msko-waagosh’s era, the 1790s, Charles Johnston became a prisoner of the Shawnees. He noted:

“While the Indians were busy with their cards, I tried to begin a journal of my travels. A copy of the Debates of the Convention of Virginia…had been found in one of the boats taken [by the Indians] on the Ohio…now I determined to write my notes on the margins of its pages. With a scalping knife I made a pen of the quill of a wild turkey. I made ink by mixing water and coal dust, and began my journal…” (Drimmer, 196)

Writing on a journal page with a brass lead holder.Finding a copy of Russel’s Seven Sermons and trying to scribble notes in the margins might be fine when viewed in the context of a first-person portrayal in a museum setting, but that solution is unworkable for day-to-day hunts. Carrying journal pages in a deerskin pouch, separate from the shot pouch, represents a viable alternative worth further study.

Perhaps the take-away from this research exercise is that an option exists to the use of a split pouch for Mi-ki-naak. Smith’s “deer skin pouch” satisfies the different and distinct criteria, too. “Yes, perhaps is the promise of tomorrow…”

Give traditional black powder hunting a try, be safe and may God bless you.

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“An Afternoon Pipe”

Posted on April 14, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

An 18th-century woodsman lights his clay pipe with a glowing ember.

In the late afternoon, Rick Evans, an 18th-century backwoods hunter, pulled out a clay pipe, walked to the fire pit and started an ember on the tip of a pine branch. He joined his fellow woodsmen as they told of that day’s adventures. Swamp Hollow in the Old Northwest Territory…

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“Getting to Backcountry Business”

Posted on April 7, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A trading post hunter starts to skin a buck.

In the safety of the station camp, the post hunter began skinning a white-tailed buck. Such was the nature of the backcountry business on that cold December morning in 1797. Old Northwest Territory, two ridges east of the River Raisin…

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Oh, What Fun!

Posted on April 1, 2018 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Two red-winged blackbirds chortled. One perched on a flimsy red willow in the swamp, and the other sang from the hillside, not that far ahead. A distant “honk, honk, honk…” emanated from the east, and a series of “ke-honks” came from the River Raisin, a half mile to the west.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!” rang through the hardwoods that melted into the river bottom, two ridges to the northwest. Dusk approached. Roost time was at hand.

An evening scout in late March.

A daguerreotype-style image of that evening’s scout.

“Ark, ark, ark, ark, ark, ark…” a hen near the nameless creek in the big swamp answered. “Ark, ark, ark, ark, ark…” another chimed in from the hidden bog. This bird’s call echoed up and down the long, narrow swamp. “Utt, utt, utt, utt, ark, ark…” a third hen said.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!”

“Ark, ark, ark, ark, ark, ark…”

“Ark, ark, ark, utt, utt, utt…”

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!”

The wild turkey music continued with birds talking over each other as they moved closer to the roost trees on the big ridge. Footfalls followed the lower trails around the east side of the swamp as a backcountry woodsman searched for shed antlers. The air grew damp and heavy.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!” The boisterous bird, or maybe one of his fellow toms, reached the ridge crest as the clucks and putts in and around the north island moved closer to the swamp’s west cut bank.

“Ark, ark, ark, utt, utt, utt…” The hens’ yelps antagonized the toms, and the constant gobbling from the woods egged on the flock dispersed in the sedge grass and tamaracks.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!” Moccasins crept up a steep slope, slipping and sliding on the muddy doe trail that angled westward. Partway up the rise, a squabble arose between the north island and the creek’s gentle bend. “Utt, utt, utt, utt!” “Ark, ark, pttt, pttt!” “Utt, utt, utt, utt!”

That evening’s ramble paused in the midst of a barberry patch, offering a higher vantage point to listen to the magical sounds of spring. A definite split among the combatants left at least one hen clucking in disgust as she skirted the island on her way east. Another bird putted behind her.

The cedars surrounding the barberries grew dim. Two geese flew overhead, both missing secondary feathers on their left wings. The right bird uttered a short, squeaky sound over-and-over.

Likewise, the wild hens settled on a six-note, steady clucking. One or two just putted as they crossed the nameless creek and advanced to the east slope of the long, hog-back ridge. Up the hill, near the long beards’ usual roost, one choppy gobble after another beckoned the impending nightfall.

The rush of big wings never fell upon the woodsman’s ears. Moccasins whispered around the tips of a red oak’s fallen top. Solitude settled, accompanied by a faint mist. Years of experience traversing that familiar hill lit the way thru the ebbing gray. The evening’s course passed over the little rise, then dropped down to the edge of a prairie-grass clearing. Oh, what fun!

Compensating for First-time Shooters

A small steel sight lashed to a trade gun.A few posts ago I shared an image of a temporary rear sight added to the “Silver Cross,” my wife Tami’s chiefs grade trade gun. The first of my grandchildren began hunting this past fall. He is of slight build, and the modern 20-gauge shotgun pounded his shoulder pretty hard; it kicked him back about 8 inches, to the point he didn’t want to shoot the gun anymore. I told him, and his dad, to be patient, and I would be back in a few minutes.

Even with a 12-inch trigger pull, the Silver Cross was a bit long for him. He watched as I measured a light load, added a leaf wad, tamped it firm, measured an equal amount of #5 lead shot, added another leaf wad and seated the load tight. A running narrative explained the loading process, but I knew repetition was needed if he was to duplicate the load himself.

The hearing muffs bumped against the stock; I brought new ear plugs anticipating that problem. He adjusted his safety glasses, but was reluctant to rest the muzzleloader on the bench, much less shoulder it. Based on the first two shots from the modern gun, his skepticism was obvious when I assured him the recoil would be comfortable. Two musket blasts later, he agreed.

His younger brother insisted on shooting, but he is taller and a little heavier in build. By the end of the evening, the two boys were both busting clay birds with the Silver Cross. The load edged up to the minimum for taking a turkey, but neither noticed. Oh, what fun!

We spent several evenings shooting. The first obstacle, aside from all of the new lessons with the muzzleloader, was the lack of a rear sight. Being “period-correct” is of little consequence when a youth is learning to shoot. I didn’t want to dovetail the barrel on Tami’s smoothbore, so I devised a temporary sight: a strip of steel cut from an old joist hanger, bent and notched, then lashed to the barrel with sinew. That addition made a huge difference in shot placement, both for turkey shot and for round ball.

Fabricating a Temporary Open Iron Sight

A number of readers asked for more information on fabricating this temporary sight. To begin with, the sight needs to be the same width as, or slightly less than, the barrel’s top flat, in this case 13/32-inch.  Using a square and tape measure, I laid out a line 3/8-inch from the edge of the joist hanger. The length is arbitrary, too, but 1 3/4-inch fit the available steel. I started cutting with a hacksaw.

A composite image showing cutting out and bending the temporary sight.

After cutting out the sight blank, all edges were eased off (top). The roughed-out blank with the galvanizing sanded down to bare metal (center). The start of bending the sight’s upright leg (bottom).

The blade wandered some, but I kept the cut outside the line. A few judicious passes with a mill file trued up the blank to a uniform 3/8 inch. A few more strokes eased the sharp edges and the corners. Since the joist hanger is galvanized and knowing I wanted to paint it flat black, I sanded both sides of the steel down to bare metal.

Using the square, I marked a line at 1/4-inch. This was an educated guess on my part as to how high the sight had to be. I was lucky and hit the right height on the first try—experience shooting trade guns had a lot to do with that choice.

A builder could make the bend equal to the height of the front sight, and then file it down after some range testing. I feel it is important to get the rear sight height correct, so my grandchildren can learn to aim with “a standard” sight picture, not one that requires “compensation”—aim right, left, up or down. That way, they can switch from the muzzleloader to the pellet gun to the .22-caliber rifle with ease. Learning with open-iron sights precedes scopes or peep sights.

I clamped the blank tight in the vise at the 1/4-inch mark (or whatever mark one settles on), and hammered it over to “a degree or three” shy of 90 degrees. Using double faced cellophane tape, I set the upright leg of the sight 4 inches forward of the rear of the barrel. Both grandsons can hold a 2-inch group with the pellet gun at 25 yards. The location of the rear sight matches the same location as the rear sight on the pellet gun, measured from the butt plate. To my eyes, both sights look equally fuzzy.

The finished temporary sight painted flat black.The Silver Cross needs no compensation right or left when aiming, or said another way, the front sight lines up with the screw slot on the tang screw when shot from the bench. This is not the case with “Old Turkey Feathers.” Clamping the sight base in the vise, I took a needle file and cut a thin groove in the center of the upright leg of the temporary sight. I sanded the burr from the upright, then took it outside and spray-painted it flat black.

To pad the sight so it didn’t scratch the barrel flat, I added a layer of duct tape on the bottom side of the base. Positioning the sight at the 4-inch location, I started wrapping artificial sinew around the forestock and the sight’s base to secure the temporary sight to the barrel. The base leg did not move, once its entire length was wrapped.

Grabbing the shooting box, I headed to the range to test the sight. The true test came that evening when the grandson’s groups tightened to the point I was comfortable with him shooting at a deer out to 35 yards. I also felt confident unleashing the death bees at a wild turkey. Plus, he said he liked the rear sight better than no sight at all.

Adding a “Peep Sight” to Old Turkey Feathers

A while ago, a long-time reader suggested I should consider adding a peep sight to Old Turkey Feathers. He said he added one to his smooth-bored fowler and it made quite a difference, especially with “these tired, old eyes.”

This gentleman, who is an occasional traditional black powder hunter, emailed the suggestion, complete with “primary documentation” from “D. Thomas,” who was captured by the Shawnees, sold and adopted by an obscure Native American band in the southern Great Lakes, supposedly in the late 18th century. He quoted the following passage:

“…a gun of the Northwest pattern with a peep sight at the tang…”

As any good living historian should, I searched out the narrative in an effort to find the complete passage and study its context. A good re-enactor should not trust second hand information, especially anything posted on the internet or contained in a blog post. The meat of the quoted passage is as follows:

“Around 1855, I acquired an old fowling piece, a gun of the Northwest pattern with a peep sight at the tang, the latter being attached not so long ago by a marksman wishing to improve the piece’s looks or to add to its value…” (Thomas, 123)

To say the least, adding a peep sight to a Northwest gun is not period-correct, but this gentleman raised a good possibility for range work. However, I had a hard time following his description for the peep sight. I tried my best to decipher his explanation. In addition, he said he attached his peep sight using the tang screw, which on his fowler ran from the top of the tang down to the trigger plate. Unfortunately, the Northwest gun’s tang screw runs up from the trigger guard and is threaded into the tang. I didn’t think I wanted to make a longer screw, then stack on a nut to hold a sight of whimsical origin.

So, taking the wilderness classroom experience gained from adding the temporary sight to the Silver Cross, I decided to lash a peep sight to the barrel. I scrounged around and found the only peep I had, which was tucked away in a corner of the muzzleloading cabinet. The color concerned me, but if it worked, flat black spray paint could fix that issue. I used double-faced tape to hold it about 4 inches from the breech end of the barrel and started wrapping it with artificial sinew. That process proved a bit messy and time consuming.

Once secured, the first observation I had was that my eyes could not see the front sight, even with the aid of the newly-added rear peep sight. But I persevered and decided to take Old Turkey Feathers to the woods and see what developed in the wilderness classroom.

That night, when the turkey music erupted in all its splendor and magnificence, was the first outing for the new peep sight. I was not impressed, and have since given up on the idea of using such a contraption on Old Turkey Feathers. I’ll live with tired old eyes and a fuzzy front sight, thank you!

A composite image showing the "peep sight" in use.

Enjoy your April Fool Day, and as I said, don’t believe everything you see in a blog post!

Did I mention that this is my April 1st blog post? Since Easter and April Fool’s Day fall on the same Sunday, I thought I would wait until after church to post this story. Oh, what fun!

Give traditional black powder hunting a try (wink, wink), be safe and may God bless you.

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