Plucking a Few Choice Words

Posted on April 5, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

A Prologue

Dating passages in a hunter hero’s narrative is tricky. The stories sometimes are told out of order and/or without context. Thus, as living historians, we tend to focus on one sentence as our primary justification for including an item in our persona’s world without the proper backstory to flesh out the significance of those few words. Take, for example, this passage:

“I then dressed myself as handsomely as I could, and walked about the village, sometimes blowing the Pe-be-gwun, or flute…” (Tanner, 103)

If you will indulge me, dear reader, I would like to share a love story fit for the silver screen…

The Backstory…

A lady greets visitors at the American Fur Company trading house on Mackinac Island.

“On going to Mouse River trading-house, I heard that some white people from the United States had been there to purchase some articles for the use of their party, then living at the Mandan village. I regretted that I had missed the opportunity of seeing them but as I had received the impression that they were to remain permanently there, I thought I would take some opportunity to visit them. I have since been informed that these white men were some of the party of Governor Clark and Captain Lewis, then on their way to the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean.” (Ibid, 98)

Lewis and Clark wintered at the Mandan village from November 1804 to April 1805. Tanner goes on to say:

“Late in the fall [1805], we went to Ke-nu-kau-ne-she-way-bo-ant, where game was then plenty, and where we determined to spend the winter.” (Ibid)

Tanner then describes the types of gambling and games that were played. He relates one instance where his adoptive family lost a fair amount of property and how they won most of it back. Then a bet was placed:

“We staked every thing we could command. They were loath to engage us, but could not decently decline. We fixed a mark at a distance of one hundred yards, and I shot first, placing my ball nearly in the center [Tanner usually hunted with a smoothbore]. Not one of either party came near me; of course I won, and we thus regained the greater part of what we had lost during the winter.” (Ibid, 100)

By this time, Tanner’s skill as a hunter and provider was known throughout the village, as was his marksmanship abilities. In 1806, Tanner was about 26 years old, single and…

“Late in the spring, when we were nearly ready to leave Ke-nu-kau-ne-she-way-bo-ant, an old man, called O-zhusk-koo-koon, (the muskrat’s liver) a chief of the Me-tai, came to my lodge, bringing a young woman, his grand-daughter, together with the girl’s parents. This was a handsome young girl, not more than fifteen years old, but Net-no-kwa [Tanner’s adoptive mother] did not think favorably of her. She said to me, ‘My son, these people will not cease to trouble you if you remain here, and as this girl is by no means fit to become your wife, I advise you to take your gun and go away. Make a hunting camp at some distance, and to not return till they have time to see that you are decidedly disinclined to the match’…” (Ibid)

Time passes and the next scene begins to unfold:

“…I was standing by our lodge one evening, when I saw a good looking young woman walking about and smoking. She noticed me from time to time, and at last came up and asked me to smoke with her. I answered that I never smoked. ‘You do not wish to touch my pipe, for that reason you will not smoke with me.’ I took her pipe and smoked a little, though I had not been in the habit of smoking before. She remained some time, and talked with me, and I began to be pleased with her. After this we saw each other often, and I became gradually attached to her…” (Ibid, 101)

“…our acquaintance was not after the usual manner of the Indians. Among them it most commonly happens, even when a young man marries a woman of his own band, he has previously had no personal acquaintance with her…it is probable they have never spoken together. The match is agreed on by the old people, and when their intention is made known to the young people, they commonly find, in themselves, no objection to the arrangement, as they know, should it prove disagreeable mutually, or to either party, it can at any time be broken off.” (Ibid)

“My conversations with Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa (the red sky of the morning), for such was the name of the woman who offered me her pipe, was soon noised about the village…” (Ibid)

Tanner’s scandalous actions brought the return of the old matchmaker, Muskrat’s Liver:

“…Old O-zhusk-koo-koon came one day to our lodge, leading by the hand another of his numerous grand-daughters. ‘This,’ said he to Net-no-kwa, ‘is the handsomest and the best of all my descendants. I come to offer her to your son.’  So saying, he left her in the lodge and went away. This young woman was one Net-no-kwa had always treated with unusual kindness, and she was considered one of the most desirable in the band. The old woman was now somewhat embarrassed, but at length she found an opportunity to say to me, ‘My son, this girl which O-zhusk-koo-koon offers you is handsome, and she is good, but you must not marry her for she has that about her which will, in less than a year, bring her to her grave. It is necessary that you should have a woman who is strong and free of any disease. Let us, therefore, make this young woman a handsome present, for she deserves well at our hands, and send her back to her father’…Less than a year afterwards, according to the old woman’s prediction, she died.” (Ibid, 101-102)

Tanner’s narrative cites several instances where illness and disease plague the village, and in one instance, he became very ill. By his telling, he was unconscious for several days and the disease left him nearly deaf. This disease had a variety of similar serious effects on others in the village who came down with it. But let us return to the backstory of this one passage…

“…Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa and myself were becoming more and more intimate…after spending, for the first time, a considerable part of the night with my mistress, I crept into the lodge [Net-no-kwa’s lodge] at a late hour and went to sleep. A smart rapping on my naked feet waked me at the first appearance of dawn on the following morning. ‘Up,’ said the old woman, who stood by me with a stick in her hand, ‘up, young man, you who are about to take yourself a wife, up and start after game. It will raise you more in the estimation of the woman you would marry to see you bring home a load of meat early in the morning than to see you dressed ever so gaily, standing about the village after the hunters are all gone out.’ I could make her no answer, but putting on my moccasins, took my gun and went out. Returning before noon, with as heavy a load of fat moose meat as I could carry, threw it down before Net-no-kwa, and with a harsh tone of voice said to her, ‘Here, old woman, is what you called for in the morning’…” (Ibid, 102)

A returned white captive starts out after game.

Now the Passage…

“I now redoubled my diligence in hunting, and commonly came home with meat in the early part of the day, at least before night. I then dressed myself as handsomely as I could and walked about the village, sometimes blowing the Pe-be-gwun, or flute. For some time Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa pretended she was not willing to marry me, and it was not, perhaps, until she perceived some abatement of ardour on my part, that she laid this affected coyness entirely aside.” (Ibid, 102-103)  

And Then…

So we have this single passage that tweaked my interest a number of years ago. There is, of course, much to say about adding a Pe-be-gwun to a returned white captive’s portrayal. The primary documentation stares us square in the face. But again, as a living historian, a better understanding of the context of a passage sometimes includes a deeper look at what happens after…

“About this time I had occasion to go to the trading-house on Red River, and I started in company with a half breed belonging to that establishment, who was mounted on a fleet horse. The distance we had to travel has since been called, by the English settlers, seventy miles. We rode and went on foot by turns, and the one who was on foot kept hold of the horse’s tail and ran. We passed over the whole distance in one day.  In returning, I was by myself and without a horse, and I made an effort, intending, if possible, to accomplish the same journey in one day; but darkness, and excessive fatigue, compelled me to stop when I was within about ten miles of home…” (Ibid)

“When I arrived at our lodge, on the following day, I saw Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa sitting in my place. As I stopped at the door of the lodge, and hesitated to enter, she hung down her head, but Net-no-kwa greeted me in a tone somewhat harsher than was common for her to use to me. ‘Will you turn back from the door of the lodge, and put this young woman to shame, who is in all respects better than you are? This affair has been on your seeking, and not on mine or hers…now you would turn on her, and make her appear like one who has attempted to thrust herself in your way.’ (Ibid)

“I went in and sat down by the side of Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, and thus we became man and wife. Old Net-no-kwa had, while I was absent at Red River, without my knowledge or consent, made her bargain with the parents of the young woman and brought her home, rightly supposing that it would be no difficult matter to reconcile me to the measure… (Ibid, 104)

Like our own lives, a colorful backstory exists; then there is the present moment; and beyond these few heartbeats there are rewards and/or consequences—the pleasant and the unpleasant of life. Thus, there is more to understanding what it was like to live, hunt and survive in the Old Northwest Territory than plucking a few choice words from within one sentence. But more on that next time…

Experience the whole texture of the past, be safe and may God bless you.

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“Hanging the Bird”

Posted on April 1, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditional woodsman hangs a wild turkey from the cedar-brush camp's ridge pole.

Late in an early November morning, a young tom turkey ventured too close to the trading post hunter. After a short walk back to his cedar-brush shelter, the woodsman hung the bird from the camp’s ridge pole. In the Year of our Lord, 1793, two hills east of the River Raisin in the Old Northwest Territory…

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“Worthy of a Ranger’s Gaze”

Posted on March 25, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

Lt. Lang still-hunting around a cedar point.

Lt. Lang, a member of Joseph Hopkins’ Company of Rangers out of Fort Detroit, held his firelock at the ready as he stalked beside a dense cedar grove. When he approached the easternmost point of the thicket, his gaze fixed on a troubling shape under a distant apple tree. A Daguerreotype image. Fall of 1763, just after Pontiac’s Siege…

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“…the next best choice…”

Posted on March 22, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Two sizable flocks of Canada geese fed in the small pasture the previous night. An hour before, well to the west, the birds cupped their wings. A stiff east wind aided a gentle, almost mystical, descent. The geese took flight after dark with a great clamor of “ke-honks.” The rain showers started about then, too. This was in the fall of 1794.

At the north edge of that flat, grassy field, the ground fell off to a sharp, abrupt slope. The only tree that grew within a hundred paces, a bushy red cedar, stood guard just ahead of where the geese stopped feeding. Well to the northwest a linen and leather clad woodsman hid under a dozen cornstalks, keeping a keen eye on promising knob in a cut cornfield.

A 1794 trading post hunter lies in a cornfield watching Canada geese approach.The first flock of nine circled that knob once, swung wide to the west, then curled back east. That was when they set their wings and drifted into the pasture. There is no accounting for why God’s wild creatures do what they do.

A flood of disappointment and frustration swept over the hunter as he eased his thumb from the domed screw that held the sharp English flint firm in the hammer’s jaw. The second flock flew from the south. Their course never changed; the pasture chosen at least a mile away.

At dusk the woodsman rose to his knees, pushed away the tawny-colored stalks, and staying bent forward, made for the security of the oaks and hickories. A quick walk through the trees, a scamper around the cedar grove and a careful snaking up the valley to a massive, time-scarred oak gained a vantage point for the post hunter to observe the geese. With little twilight left, he sat behind the rough-barked monarch and waited until the geese flew off to spend the night on the River Raisin’s tranquil water.

The lone cedar tree kept weaving its way in and out of the hunter’s dreams that night. First light found him twisted in an awkward shape—half sitting, half laying, struggling against the steep slope—under that cedar’s boughs. Twice he had to get to his feet and stretch aching muscles. The second time the wary backwoodsman stood for maybe twenty minutes. Then two Sandhill cranes circled in from the river.

Soaked from the wet grass and a tad chilly, the determined hunter returned to the uncomfortable abode. A couple minutes later the two cranes angled back to the seven-acre parcel’s north boundary and landed a dozen paces in front of the skimpy cedar fort. The fear of the big geese choosing the knoll in the cornfield evaporated. Blood vessels pulsed as they do when a fine buck, head down and sniffing, wanders near on a well-worn trail.

Geese ke-honked unseen in the distance. Nine birds, grouped five and four, winged low over the western tree line. There was no pretense of caution, no circling, no stretching of necks, no spiraled descent, only a muffled, steady honking.

A quarter mile out the great wings ceased flapping and held firm, outstretched. Gray shapes lost height as they came closer; the black wing feathers looked like long slender fingers. Even with the monarch oak, the flock fell silent. Both cranes stood erect and watched.

The Northwest gun’s muzzle slipped from the sanctity of the cedar’s hug and lurked in the direction of the long-legged cranes, but meant them no harm. An impatient thumb pressed hard on the hammer’s jaw screw. The sear dropped into the tumbler’s full-cock notch as I worked the trigger to avoid the loud “click.” The sharp English flint, now at full attention, awaited the impending order to release the death bees. “A clean kill, or a clean miss. Your will, O Lord,” passed over my lips.

A dozen trade-gun lengths above the pasture, the air filled with loud honks and indistinguishable goose rhetoric. Big black wings began flapping, bodies rose upward, beaks and white eye patches dropped downward. I heard a deep sigh. The turtle sight remained motionless. The firm grip of anxious fingers on the trade gun’s wrist relaxed. In the last frantic wing beats, the flock veered south and landed fifty steps too far into the field, well beyond the smoothbore’s outer limit.

The ke-honking faded into silence. Two geese became sentinels for the flock, each standing erect as the cranes had done. The rest, including the two cranes, pecked at the ground as they walked southward. I rolled on my back, content to listen for any sound of alarm as I contemplated the next best choice…

Understanding the Audience

Taking advantage of a circumstance witnessed in the wilderness classroom is common for traditional black powder hunters. Still-hunting enhances the possibility of finding some types of game, but a still-hunt is not always the best choice for migratory birds. Regardless, the first obstacle is studying the game and selecting a location that has a high probability of at least seeing a backwoodsman’s chosen quarry. The second obstacle is getting close enough to affect a clean and humane shot, given the limitations of the arms used by one’s 18th-century persona.

A recent research project found me rummaging through Alexander Henry’s experiences at Fort Michilimackinac during Pontiac’s Rebellion in the summer of 1763. One of the passages marked in his narrative carries several notations, because of the various aspects of daily life contained therein:

“In going down the side of a lofty hill I saw a herd of red deer approaching. Desirous of killing one of them for food, I hid myself in the bushes, and on a large one coming near, presented my piece, which missed fire on account of the priming having been wetted. The animals walked along without taking the least alarm; and having reloaded my gun, I followed them and presented a second time. But now a disaster of the heaviest kind had befallen me; for on attempting to fire I found that I had lost the cock. I had previously lost the screw by which it was fastened to the lock; and to prevent this from being lost also I had tied it in its place with a leather string; the lock, to prevent its catching in the bows, I had carried under my molton coat.” (Armour, Attack, 87 – 88)

This passage generates a number of questions, and each is worthy of further discussion and research. The phrase, “…I had lost the cock…” catches most time traveler’s attention. The ensuing statements about how Henry tried to remedy the situation and the resulting consequences usually spawn either a moment of personal reflection or an outright debate centered on the harsh reality of wilderness survival.

However, on that occasion my focus centered on the word “cock,” meaning the lever that transfers the force of the mainspring into motion that drives the flint into the steel and thus showers sparks into the powder in the pan.

Once in a while a living historian will mention that my writings do not use the proper 18th-century terminology for this portion of the machine we call a flint lock, but rather the modern name of “hammer.” And further, they point out that the “frizzen” should be called the “hammer,” “steel,” or “battery” of the lock if I am to stay true to character in the purest 1794 sense.

A patient traditional hunter sits quiet behind an oak tree.Conscientious living historians feel a deep sense of obligation when it comes to putting forth an authentic and meaningful portrayal. This is true whether engaged in a solitary pursuit on the family farm or at a noted museum, recreated village or remote area of historical significance.

But there are circumstances when measured compromise overrules blind adherence to period-correct terminology. I believe such is the case when writing for general public consumption.

In my experience, the unique nature of this hobby draws interest from a broad cross section of people. The vast majority of my readers are not traditional black powder hunters—almost half are not even hunters. However, the unique nature of the traditional hunting stories and/or the historical perspective presented in these 1790-era adventures keeps them thumbing through the pages of a print publication or browsing online in search of more exploits.

Thus, it is their basic understanding of the arms of the ancients that drives my selection of words such as “hammer” and “frizzen.” To those “in the know,” such verbiage is incorrect, for some, even a mild form of heresy. But the point of my scribblings is to promote and showcase this glorious pastime to those individuals who will never step over time’s threshold. For them, the next best choice is the best choice.

Think of your listener before you speak, be safe and may God bless you.

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“Wood Duck Morning”

Posted on March 18, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditional woodsman leaving his camp.

A solitary hunter, camped deep in the forest of the Old Northwest Territory, pulls back the flap on his wedge tent after a successful wood duck hunt on the River Raisin. A Daguerreotype image. Mid-October in the Year of our Lord, 1792…

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Delivering Another Fatal Message

Posted on March 15, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

A fair measure of black powder trickled down the bore. The joyous stench of the last shot hung all about; white smoke drifted overhead. Nimble fingers rolled two, dry, brown, red oak leaves, both with their stems broken off, into a sphere a little larger than the Northwest gun’s bore. The wiping stick tamped the wad firm on the powder. There was no need to rush. A plump gray squirrel lay in the leaves and duff beside the trade gun’s hunt-scared butt stock.

An equal measure of duck shot rattled down the warming, fouled barrel. The small, cowhide shot bag with the whittled stopper slipped back into the deerskin pouch, the one adorned with dyed deer-hair cones. A finger stuffed a single leaf—hand-sized, also without a stem and rolled snug like the others—in the smoothbore’s muzzle. Again the wiping stick seated the wad tight, sequestering the anxious swarm of death bees. Its work done, the hickory rod slid back into the ribbed brass thimbles.

On that pleasant October morn in 1796, my alter ego, the returned white captive, adopted and raised by Ziibi Ikwe (River Woman), stepped over a main branch of a downed oak top and disappeared back into the forest’s cover. Precious black granules from the bison horn’s spout half-filled the Northwest gun’s pan. The frizzen eased over the priming. The woodsman’s right thumb fidgeted on the hammer’s domed jaw screw as his back pressed against a rum-keg-sized branch.

A returned white captive hunter watches three fox squirrels on a far knob.A while later, a pair of fox squirrels chased limb-to-limb, two knobs to the northeast, well beyond “Old Turkey Feather’s” effective distance. Nothing moved near the broken-up top, the fort of opportunity that morning. Even the song birds remained scarce. When a third fox squirrel joined the frolic, the time seemed right to abandon the fort and strike off on an impromptu still-hunt.

A slow, subtle, tree-to-tree stalk did little to disrupt the chasing, spiraling and occasional chatter. The commotion tended to add a sense of urgency to crossing through the little valley. When the trio concentrated on romping on the ground, the still-hunt’s pace quickened. Elk moccasins crept up the rise at a brisk walk. The “crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch” of a hopping fox squirrel forced my alter ego to tree behind a gnarly shagbark hickory. “Old Turkey Feather’s” muzzle eased around the hickory’s trunk. The trade gun’s turtle sight hovered in the direction of the rustling leaves. The moment of truth was at hand…

How Much Shot to Carry?

How much shot to carry on a traditional black powder hunt fueled a lively discussion. Opinions ranged from a few ounces to over a pound, and the answers were just that, opinions. The reasons behind the various expressed choices were numerous, too, with no consensus. No one cited historical documentation, and that is where the debate should have started.

In the late 1970s, when I bought the parts for “Old Turkey Feathers,” my love for bird and small game hunting drove the decision to select a smoothbore. Simply put, I wanted the versatility a barrel “without deep scratches” offers. Setting competition shooting aside, more shot has passed through that trade gun’s muzzle than round balls. And in those early years, the potential number of shots expected on a given jaunt to the Old Northwest Territory dictated how much shot to carry, which wasn’t a lot.

One of the best sources for trade values that is close to the late 1790s is the journal and ledger of Francois Victor Malhiot, a clerk for the North West Company at a fur post south of Lake Superior in the trading season from 1804 to 1805.

From Malhiot’s ledger accounts, a Northwest “gun” traded for ten prime beaver pelts in 1804 (Malhiot, 222). A “Double handful of Powder” and a “Handful of shot” sold for one “Plu” each, or “Plew,” as some other traders spelled the word for a prime beaver pelt (Ibid, 216). “Sixty bullets,” or round balls, cost two Plu, or a Plu (or its equivalent in hides other than beaver) bought a pound of round balls (Ibid, 218). As an aside, at thirty-to-the-pound, the average size round ball was about .537.

According to the journal of Michel Curot, a clerk for the XY Company in the St. Croix region in 1803 to 1804, “a Demiard of Lead” (another way of saying “half-chopin” or about a half pint) was valued the same as “30 Balls,” or one prime beaver pelt (Curot, 440).

Out of curiosity, I measured out a half pint of #4 lead buckshot, and it weighed three pounds three ounces. I next scooped out a cupped handful of shot and it weighed one pound, which is more consistent with 30 balls priced at one Plu. I could not get two scooped-out handfuls to fill the half pint measure. However, if a trader poured the shot from a half-pint measure into a woodsman’s cupped-together hands, you would have “two handfuls” of shot. Now, with both hands full, how is a hunter going to put the shot in his pouch or a shot bag?

Curot’s demiard volume comparison muddies the waters more than it clarifies the trader’s practice. To confuse matters more, Malhiot’s accounts show a number of transactions for two handfuls of shot. Did he use a fixed measure and pour the shot into the hunter’s hands, or did Malhiot twice scoop out shot with his cupped hand? In addition, the three pounds of shot contained in a half-pint measure would have been a real bargain from the consumer’s standpoint, which is inconsistent with the general trading policy of getting the most pelts for the least amount of goods.

Likewise, I find no primary documentation for what type or size of container a backwoodsman kept his shot in in the 1790s, especially among the Native American hunters like John Tanner. It is possible that they just dumped the shot into their shot pouch. But traders offered several sizes of shot and some of the old journals specifically mention a shot size when loading for the chase. So did a hunter carry more than one size of shot? In my research, I never paid attention to whether a hunter hero mentioned multiple shot sizes within the same general time frame, and that is an unforeseen oversight on my part.

For convenience during deer season, I carry my seven round balls (that number is based on an entry in John Tanner’s journal: Tanner, 115) in a small cowhide ball bag. When not deer hunting I carry the balls loose in the pouch, which is what I believe Tanner’s habit was. From in-the-field practical experience, digging around in the pouch for the last one or two balls takes a lot of effort and is not efficient from a veteran hunter’s perspective.

I have never carried my birdshot loose in the pouch. “Messy” and “unworkable” are the first thoughts that come to mind for measuring out a charge when the shot is stored in such a manner. But, as a living historian seeking the knowledge and understanding of how our forefathers lived, survived and hunted in the Old Northwest Territory, I shall test this hypothesis through experimentation in the wilderness classroom. That is not the intention of this post—but worthy of future consideration.

Based on the accounts of Malhiot and Curot, I limit the amount of shot carried to under a pound. This assumes some usage after leaving the trading post with a beaver pelt’s worth of shot. I have a drawstring deerskin pouch that contains buckshot, a “half-kidney” deerskin pouch with a branch-carved spout, fashioned after a late-18th-century example, for #4 lead birdshot, a similar pouch for #4 Bismuth non-toxic shot, and a cowhide bottle-shaped pouch for turkey hunting.

On average, I carry about six or seven 1 1/4 ounce charges of shot, depending upon the location of the hunt and/or the circumstances of the scenario. I don’t recall ever running out of shot while hunting, either for a day hunt or a weekend camp situation. Twice that I can remember, Old Turkey Feathers held the last charge of shot, but neither swarm was ever unleashed. And that includes almost forty years of delivering death messages…

A returned white captive, adopted and raised by the Ojibwe, retrieves a plump fox squirrel.In a flurry of heartbeats, a fox squirrel ran across the leaves, eighteen paces distant. The squirrel scampered westward, then bounded up on a gray, barkless tree trunk, sprawled on the forest floor in a gentle arc. The turtle sight followed. When the fox squirrel reached a broken stub just past the log’s center, it stopped and sat upright with its bushy tail curled up its back and over its head.

The turtle sight held tight on the squirrel’s eye. The English flint smashed against the frizzen. Sparks showered. Priming powder flashed.

“Kla-whoosh-BOOM!”

The fox squirrel disappeared in a roiling cloud of white smoke and sulfurous stench. Adhering   to the endless circle of life in the wilderness of the Old Northwest Territory near the River Raisin’s headwaters, the death bees delivered another fatal message.

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

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“Watching Four Canada Geese”

Posted on March 11, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditioinal hunter hidden behind a downed oak in the cornfield.

An old oak toppled in the middle of the field after planting season. Corn stalks grew up through the ruins. With all but a few rows of corn cut, a woodsman hides behind the hulk and watches as four Canada geese approach from the south. Two small flocks landed well out of the trade gun’s range and made gentle, contented sounds as they fed unaware death lurked so close. Perhaps these four will coast overhead… Old Northwest Territory near the headwaters of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1796.

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“Lashing Rafters”

Posted on March 4, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A trading post hunter lashes a rafter to a ridge beam for a fall hunting camp.

A traditional black powder hunter, portraying a trading post hunter, lashed every third rafter to the shelter’s ridge using grape vine. The “brush shelter” served as a central camp for three falls. A heavy oak limb, ripped loose in a spring wind storm, landed square across the ridge and destroyed the camp. Old Northwest Territory, near the headwaters of the River Raisin, mid-1790s.

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