No Need for the Hunter’s Prayer

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

Damp, melting snow pitter patted. The constant dripping sounded like a slow, steady drizzle. Hardwoods populate the lower two-thirds of the west slope of the long ridge. An unusual abundance of brown leaves remained on the branches and twigs. White coated each leaf. Now and then a gentle gust increased the intensity of the drips. An occasional glob of snow cascaded through a cedar tree’s lower limbs and dissipated into a fine mist before striking the ground.

At first light a younger deer’s squeaky bleat wove its way through the pitter patters. The sound came from the northwest side of the huckleberry swamp, about where I unleashed the death sphere on the broken-beamed buck two winters prior. The call was not “beeping,” as young does do when they are ready to breed but cannot find a mate, but rather a distressed blat.

This deer moved to the east and called three times at the leaning oak by the standing water. A solid, heavy-throated bleat answered from the snow-covered bushes in the swamp. The hillside returned to the quiet dripping of melted snow. A few crows cawed out by the river, and at one point it sounded like a full-fledged melee was about to break out, but that too sputtered into oblivion.

My lead holder scribbled on a journal page:

“…it is odd to see so many green leaves covered with snow. The mild fall, the lack of frost and the cool, but not cold nights, allowed the oaks to keep their leaves well into November. The understory, which is mostly autumn olive, is still green. Strange, but appreciated…”

A gray squirrel climbing on a scarred oak's trunkA fox squirrel chirped in a cedar tree. Then, to my right, a black squirrel’s head popped from behind a red oak, not thirty paces distant. And down the slope, by a fallen poplar tree, a gray squirrel dug in the snow. That critter bounded to a large oak, scampered up the trunk, turned about and looked to the north. In due time, this little bundle of energy hiked its way up the tree, paused by the long gray scar of a dislodged limb, then perched at the crotch of the next branch.

A tingly right leg necessitated a rump’s readjustment on the wool bedroll. In the midst of a twist to the left, a deer’s ear flicked front-to-back as a brown, antlerless head rose above the snowy crest of the next rise to the south. The deer ambled on, abiding by no trail in particular. When it reached the top of the little knoll, it pawed the ground and nuzzled about some. After looking down the slope, the young button buck moved on with the faint southwest breeze crossing over its hind quarter and up the hill to the makeshift lair amongst four close-growing cedar trees.

A Northwest trade gun, bruised from years of faithful service, rested across a returned captive’s wool-clad legs with the lock and butt stock area tucked under the folds of a thick trade blanket. There was no need for the hunter’s prayer, no utterance of “A clean kill, or a clean miss…” Instead, this innocent tenant of the forest, so unaware of the death messenger’s humble presence, plodded on. As he passed, not twenty paces distant, the infant stag obsessed with checking downhill; never once did he look to the ridge.

To the north, at the red oak that hid the black squirrel, this young buck glanced uphill for the first time. Perhaps it sensed the existence of a benevolent spirit, an older woodsman, captured in his youth, raised and mentored by his adopted Ojibwe parents, who did not need its tender flesh for subsistence. Regardless, the deer meandered on and soon disappeared from sight…

Passing on 18th-Century Shots

Perhaps I, too, do not glance “uphill” as much as I should, in a manner of speaking. Not long ago I retold the tale of passing on two first-year bucks one Sunday morning in mid-December. The year was 1796. The six-point trailed the seven-point. Neither had an inkling danger lurked so close. The pair offered multiple opportunities to accept the death sphere’s fatal message.

I commented on how blessed those two young bucks were to venture by at the wrong time (well, the right time in their lives). I had ten minutes to walk out, make it home and get ready for 11 o’clock church. Once they angled down the slope and started concentrating on the trail that crossed the big swamp, I slipped away.

Now regardless of my reason for leaving in the midst of an 18th-century adventure, the serious chastising that I received added a listener’s perspective to that story. As a result of that individual’s remarks, I think before I repeat the tale of “the blessed bucks,” and that bothers me. The gentleman was dead serious when he stated that I should have killed one or both. I guess he thought I could reload faster than I can. He went on to belittle my writing, then stated “You don’t kill enough game to make hunting with an old-style muzzleloader worthwhile…”

His rant continued, and when it died down I simply answered, “The gun and clothing made no difference. If I had my old, scoped Ithaca Deerslayer, I would not have shot at either buck or the two does that stood to my left. I’ve been passing on deer for thirty years and I’ll continue to do so.”

Over the years, a couple of outdoor writers have gotten after me for not following the “hook and bullet” formula for outdoor writing: the readers always want the writer to tell them about the game they took or the fish they caught. They have little interest in reading about the one that got away, or so the theory goes. There are exceptions, but take a gander at today’s outdoor media and see how many stories you find that fit the later mold—there aren’t many.

And for me, that is exactly the point of my scribblings. I have written many times about how disillusioned I became as a young hunter, because I couldn’t afford the firearm used, couldn’t travel to Valhalla and never saw the “thirty-point buck.” Thus, I make a conscious choice to recount the adventures where none of that happens. Besides, the story from the day before is almost always more of an adventure than the one leading up to the demise of a whitetail.

Among hunters, the common question after the season closes is: “Did you get a deer?” My “no” answer has evolved into, “I had a good season, but I didn’t see a deer I wanted to kill.” It still comes down to a “no,” but a qualified “no,” at least to my way of thinking.

When the kids were still at home, I worked hard to fill my tags with good-sized deer—165 pounds dressed or larger. That meant shooting mature bucks, preferably earlier in the season when body mass is higher. Antler size, being indicative of maturity, helped guide the selection. I doubt either of the blessed bucks would have field dressed out at 120 pounds. After de-boning that’s not a lot of meat for the freezer. One might say I’m a choosy shopper at the wilderness grocery store.

Unfortunately, the epizootic hemorrhagic disease (EHD) outbreak in 2012 wiped out most of our deer herd. Taking a doe is still not a good option, but the herd numbers are rebounding. EHD removed the mentors from the flock, thus the survivors’ habits do not mirror those of the deer pre-EHD. The young bucks of that season went 100-percent nocturnal, and now that they are the sires of the herd, they are even more cautious about being out and about during daylight hours.

Prior to 2012, the mature bucks sometimes moved around mid-day. That was the best time to put meat in the freezer, but that practice no longer works. I saw four bucks all season, the blessed bucks, a first-year buck the second evening of the season, and a good-sized, broken-rack buck that came over the ridge from the river bottom five minutes after shooting hours ended.

A traditional woodsman sitting against a cedar tree and looking downhill.Given my criteria, the opportunities simply were not there this year. We are not going to starve, and I will not kill an animal just to produce a story that fits someone else’s writing guidelines. I don’t need to, because I came away with quite a few memorable 18th-century tales—a new one almost every outing.

One of the highlights was a frantic doe that ran by and knocked dead branches off the boxelder I was sitting at. A gun-barrel-sized branch came to rest in my lap and another grazed my cheek. She was two trade-gun lengths away when she passed. She halted her course about thirty paces crosswind, and offered an easy shot John Tanner would have taken.

On another occasion, a doe walked upwind of me, maybe seven paces distant. Like the button buck, she never glanced my way. And again, in the midst of a still-hunt, I had two does come right at me. I was treed at the time. They veered to the south, not fifteen paces out, stopped and looked back to the knob they just crossed over. I thought for sure a buck was behind them, but none arrived. John Tanner would have killed either one of them, and I could have, too.

I had a great season, even if I didn’t take a shot or put venison in the freezer. As I tried to explain to the gentleman, I journeyed back in time and saw white-tailed deer, even if there was no need for the hunter’s prayer.

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

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“Buffs”

Posted on January 21, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A French woodsman crouching behind a downed tree limb.

The French woodsman paused behind a downed tree top. In the distance, seven furry brown shapes ambled east. When he saw the beasts he crouched, displaying a seasoned hunter’s instinct. “Buffs,” he whispered to his companions, “Buffs!” New France, the last days of January in the Year of our Lord, 1755.

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Thank Heaven for Time Traveling

Posted on January 19, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Geese rose from the River Raisin. Three became nine, then fourteen. The broken string winged south, then swung east. None spoke or looked about as they flew. The bottomland, the gentle west-facing hillside and the white ash tangle held nary a hint of activity, not even a frolicking fox squirrel. A lone crimson cardinal perched on a witch hazel’s upper twig, but remained silent.

A traditional hunter still-hunting through the woods.Buffalo-hide moccasins proceeded on with the evening still-hunt. The earthen path snaked through the oak-leaf carpet and skirted a muddy bog. Admiring the golden tamaracks occupied two pauses, maybe a dozen paces apart. A few steps from being able to see over a small rise, a doe’s ear twitched, bedded one bush inside a barberry tangle, sixty-plus paces distant and upwind.

A linen-clad shoulder settled against a white oak tree. The Northwest gun’s tarnished brass butt plate eased to the ground. The doe spent most of her time glancing away. After fifteen or so minutes of careful watching, I felt this deer was alone.

Like the geese, I chose to swing around this whitetail. My moccasins retreated a bit. My course dropped back down to the edge of the bottomland. The still-hunt continued with the rise acting as a makeshift shield. I could not see the barberries, and the young deer could not detect my stealth. Such was that evening’s wanderings in late-November in the Year of our Lord, 1794.

People Boxes, Owl Perches and Still-Hunts

Sometimes my words miss their mark, not unlike an errant round ball from a favorite smoothbore. The magazine article in question spoke of coming onto a doe during a still-hunt, stopping to observe her, discovering more deer and then taking a seat behind a scrawny red cedar tree as the deer approached. This sequence of events is common to a still-hunt, at least for the historical me, be he a lowly hunter for a backwoods trading post or the returned white captive who won’t abandon his Ojibwe hunting practices.

When a loyal reader says, “I didn’t get it,” this writer cringes and jumps right into “introspection mode,” examining how or why the pen went awry. A part of the problem rests with my assumption that most hunters are familiar with still-hunting, which is not the case.

I grew up stalking and still-hunting, because I didn’t “know any better” when Frank Hubbell described how the Ojibwe woodsmen in the Upper Peninsula stalked deer. I tried the methods Mr. Hubbell told about and they worked—once I perfected my sneaking skills a bit. There is, after all, a learning curve to all outdoor endeavors.

The second obstacle that I often overlook is the cult-like acceptance of lurking in trees or “people boxes,” as Tami calls the explosion of deer-hunting houses. To hear some modern tacticians tell it, strolling through the forest looking for game is an archaic idea with no merit whatsoever. The only possible way to kill a deer is by hiding in a tree or shanty.

Oh, and the “scent boys” are overcome with “the vapors” at the very thought of wandering about field and fen in linen and leather. One local family in particular has a mowed two-track that connects all of their outhouses and owl perches. An hour before dawn, the fellow who drew the shortest straw drives the others around and stops at each deer house or tree stand.

“That way,” the logic goes, “the deer don’t know which stand is occupied and there is no human scent going to or from a given stand.” Really, did I not see a truck’s headlights drive through the field? I suppose a flashing neon sign broadcasting “We’re out hunting”…oh, never mind.

The notion that drives any still-hunt is, “see the game before it sees you.” In the case of the published story in question, I wrote:

“Thirty-five paces upwind an unsuspecting doe’s foreleg moved. An ear flipped. Behind that deer a shiny black nose sniffed…”

This situation presents itself, in varying forms, on many still-hunts. Msko-waagosh, the Red Fox, saw the deer before it saw him, which is the goal of any ramble through the glade. Not only was that day’s still-hunt a success, the circumstance came close to resembling one of John Tanner’s 18th-century recollections:

“…As I was one day going to look at my traps, I found some ducks in a pond, and taking the ball out of my gun, I put in some shot, and began to creep up to them…” (Tanner, 60)

Like Tanner, Msko-waagosh intended to take full advantage of coming up on the deer without their knowledge. At that instant, the returned white captive weighed several options: he could continue on and attempt to pass without spooking the deer; he could continue to stand until the deer moved on; or he could seize the first opportunity and seek better cover. The latter choice offered the greatest probability of remaining undetected.

A number of years ago I found myself in a similar predicament. I came upon a mature doe, bedded thirty paces distant in a light snow squall. As in the magazine article, I stood still for a fair amount of time. Another doe, what looked like that summer’s fawn, rested about ten paces downhill from the first doe. When the opportunity arose, I stepped behind a cedar tree to break up my deathly shape.

The smaller deer looked all about, then tucked its snout under a hip. Its eyes drooped half shut. The bigger doe showed a similar lack of concern as bigger flakes fell. Instead of surveying the hillside every six or eight seconds, this deer kept an almost constant vigil looking upwind, away from me.

One of the first lessons learned for stalking is to “time the animal.” Most deer will check their surroundings with consistent glances up and about. The trick is to learn how often those glances occur, which is the basis of my “every six or eight seconds” comment above. Once that time is established, the woodsman has a better idea of when he or she can move and when to stand fast.

That bedded doe timed out at 20 or so seconds, if I recall. Sitting on a bedded deer is not productive, unless that deer is a buck or one of the group is a buck. I have done that, too, with good success. But on that morning, I chose to continue the still-hunt. It took little effort to back away, angle up and over the ridge and pass those two, which is why that incident is so memorable.

The second option is a little trickier and carries a greater probability of spooking deer. In the above story, I “stepped behind a cedar tree to break up my deathly shape.” Standing in plain sight is not a good choice if one wishes to avoid detection on a still-hunt. Yes, you saw them first, but when they see you ten seconds later, snort and flee, you did not accomplish the goal of the still-hunt. Thus, a part of any still-hunt is choosing a path that keeps the hunter in as much cover as possible.

As easy as it sounds that is not always the case. When caught in the open, with no cover close by, I usually chastise myself for the poor choice of path, and then, at the first possible opportunity, I sit. This turns a two-legged interloper into more of a “bush-shaped blob.” And with that in mind, I often lean forward and move my arms out a bit to accentuate the image. If it is cold and I’m wearing the blanket that helps, too.

To be fair, the “caught in the open” scenario occurs most often when deer are moving through an area. They come into the hunter’s line of sight, pass through and continue on, which works to the still-hunter’s advantage.

A traditional woodsman dropping to one knee while watching a deer.The third option, stopping the still-hunt and taking a stand in available cover, “treeing” if you will, is a natural extension of the notion of seeing the game before it sees you. Instead of sitting in a people box and waiting for the deer to come to you, the woodsman attempts to find the deer. Once that is accomplished, the next concern is getting in position to wait on the deer, and with any luck take a humane shot.

This is the course of action Msko-waagosh took in the magazine article. One reader asked why I didn’t put a popup blind in that location in the first place, another wanted to know if there was a tree stand close by. One chap asked if I had a scent-blocking suit on under the “old clothes.”  In essence, the modern hunters who commented on that 18th-century tale have little idea of what a still-hunt entails and the benefits that can be derived from such a ramble through the glade.

In the end, the historical me returned to the woods and continued on still-hunting right up to the last day of Michigan’s muzzleloading deer season. The folks around the North-Forty kept climbing trees or peering out a thin opening in a people box. Thank heaven for time traveling…

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

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“Morning at Swamp Hollow”

Posted on January 14, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

On that pleasant fall morning, the hunters were a bit slow getting around… Swamp Hollow, three days west of Lake Huron, Old Northwest Territory, 1795.

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“Pipe Tongs”

Posted on January 7, 2017 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

On a peaceful afternoon, Ron LaClair lit his pipe with a glowing coal plucked from the fire with his pipe tongs. Swamp Hollow, Old Northwest Territory, sometime in the 1790s.

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“…at the behest of a lone goose…”

Posted on December 28, 2016 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Light snow dusted a myriad of deer tracks. The comings and goings offered promise, tempered with the knowledge the hillside recorded the past, not the future. Ice crystals clung to mustache hairs. Fingers tingled. A purple raspberry switch tugged at the dangling corner of a red trade blanket. In the distance, at the next homestead to the east, a heifer bellowed. The woeful sound echoed over the big swamp. That cow became an unwanted distraction that evening, in the Year of our Lord, 1796.

Looking out over the nasty thicket, watching the hillside beyond.The afternoon’s circular stalk meandered around the downwind side of the cedar grove, skirted the meadow and then progressed off to the steep, hardwood-covered ridge that overlooked the long expanse of sedge and canary grass. What appeared to be a single downed oak top turned out to be a dead oak that toppled hard against a live one and broke the main south branch. The tangle begged for a sit-down pause before the still-hunt might continue.

The south side of that woodland tragedy seemed like the best alternative for a make-shift fortification. A whisper of a southwest breeze teased a gray rat-tail of hair. A winter moccasin scuffed away ankle-deep snow. The wool bedroll dropped into the nest and after a careful look-see, Msko-waagosh adjusted the folds of the trade blanket that wrapped about his body and sat cross-legged upon the bedroll.

A fox squirrel chattered behind the debris pile. A gray squirrel scampered high up in an old red cedar tree to the south. Two blue jays chased from bough to bough on the far side of the swamp near the poplar trees. Nary a deer ventured close.

Pulled tight, the four-point blanket offered warmth as the temperature dropped and dusk approached. A faint hint of orange crept up from the horizon, signifying time to continue on with the still-hunt. To the west, off near the River Raisin’s open water, a goose called, “Ke-hoonnk, yee-ooonk.” My alter ego chose to wait.

“Ke-hoonnk!” The crisp decisive tone came from just over the far tree line. Not a minute later a solitary goose passed just above the treetops, straight up, winging hard to the east. Long black primary feathers whooshed. Another “ke-honk,” this one resounding in the hardwoods, foretold of imminent good fortune. My nose dripped. My eyes searched for movement. Arteries pulsed. Sore hips scooched side-to-side. An eager thumb fiddled with the Northwest gun’s hammer.

Tiny white snow balls began falling. Some stuck to the blanket’s nap, while others bounced off. The heifer resumed bellowing, but this time far enough north to belie its untimely escape. More geese rose up from the river, or so it sounded. The ke-honking pressed eastward. In time a long string of the wild, long-necked fowls crossed over the hidden lake sequestered in the tamaracks to the north.

“It’s going to be a cold walk out,” the lead holder scribbled on the folded paper. “A magnificent end to daylight—beautiful, yet stark and deadly—peaceful solemnity. I shall sit at the behest of a lone goose…”

Foolhardy Superstitions

The moon grew brighter and visibility ebbed. Off in the distance, a coyote barked. To the west an owl hooted. “Who cooooks for yooou,” it asked. And indeed, the walk out of my alter ego’s wilderness Eden was cold and difficult. The temperature seemed to drop with each step. The wind picked up, and I thought of Jonathan Alder, himself a white captive who returned to the settlements in later years.

Alder was too young to hunt on his own, so he accompanied Big Turtle on a day hunt. They killed a deer, skinned it and hung it, then started back for the camp. Along the way, Big Turtle killed a turkey. When they came to the prairie they had crossed earlier in the day, Alder realized he was cold.

“Presently, we struck the prairie and the difference in temperature was so great that even if I had stripped off half of my clothes in the timber, I could not have felt the cold more intensely…” (Alder, 67-68)

Young Alder began to get numb and “threw down the turkey.” He fell “three or four times in the snow.” Big Turtle recognized Alder’s state of dismay, retrieved the turkey, then turned his attention to Alder:

“…We had about two and a half miles to go before we got to the timber. He took me by the hand and told me to run and he ran with me, carrying his gun and the turkey and encouraging me to hold out and help myself if I could. As soon as we struck the woods, there was so much difference in the temperature, it was as if there had been a blanket wrapped around me…” (Ibid)

The choice to spend the rest of that hunt seated within the confines of that treetop was a conscious one. I knew the walk out would be uncomfortable, but often times, so is the glorious pastime we call traditional black powder hunting, uncomfortable, that is. But that decision was not based on sound reason, rather a foolhardy notion that dates back to my youth—and geese that fly overhead.

Eighteenth-century memoirs are filled with superstitions—and tried-and-true axioms that are based on what appears to be superstition.

“The Indians have a great many superstitions and prejudicial notions about things and one is in regard to the wolf. If all kinds of hunting, you are liable to shoot at game and miss. If an Indian shoots at a bear, deer, or buffalo and misses, he thinks nothing of it, but if he shoots at a wolf and misses, he thinks that the wolf has put a spell on his gun that will last for five or six moons—your gun will shoot wide for about that length of time before the spell wears off. You are liable to miss and lose a great deal of your game in that time unless you un-breech your gun and scour and wash it thoroughly clean…” (Ibid, 95)

In my youth, deer were scarce near the headwaters of the River Raisin. I did not consider this area part of the Old Northwest Territory, at the time. Seeing one doe might be the highlight of the day. Now, after the outbreak of epizootic hemorrhagic disease (EHD) in 2012, my deer hunting has gone full circle, to the point that seeing one deer is again a treat.

By my late teens, I noticed a correlation between seeing deer and the flights of Canada geese. If geese flew close, I saw deer far off, and if geese flew directly over me, deer came in close by. And if a lone goose happened over, then a buck was not far behind. Really, do you have to laugh?

A six-point buck walking in the snow.Anyway, even in those early years, the thought seemed foolish, but it worked a majority of the time. At one point, I suspected the correlation was due to the time of day and the natural movement of God’s creatures, but that did not explain a single goose at mid-day and the nice buck that followed.

As I walked out that night, I realized this notion (notice, I can’t bring myself to use the word “superstition”) was ingrained in my hunting practices. I never gave sitting tight a conscious thought after the lone goose flew over. And yet, the idea was contrary to my plan for the rest of the still-hunt, a still-hunt based on deer movements I had observed over the days previous. In essence, I changed a well-reasoned plan based on questionable conclusions from chance happenings.

In my own defense, on more than one occasion I have observed champion shotgun shooters chase down one errant death bee that spilled out when the rest of the swarm clattered down the bore. It’s called “saving the golden BB,” and it is assumed that that one projectile is the one that will break the bird. Tami laughs at me when I do the same, but it works—especially with wild turkeys! Honest, it does…

And on that evening, a deer never showed up, at least not while I sat tight. I suppose some might think that disproves the theory, but maybe a fine buck wandered by after I left? There are, after all, unexplained mysteries associated with these simple pursuits. The old journals are filled with them, and as living historians, we stumble into plenty of our own. For my part, on that December eve in 1796, I chose to remain in the treetop—at the behest of a lone goose that happened by…

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

Oh, and if you start paying attention to what happens after a wild goose flies over your alter ego in the midst of a deer chase…shame, shame, shame…

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A Time of Peace…

Posted on December 23, 2016 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

Smoke rising from a snow-covered wigwam.

Goose wings swished overhead. A solitary “Ke-honk” echoed over the hardwoods, causing a returned white captive to look up and take solace. The single goose winged west to the remaining silver ribbon of open water that flowed between the icy cut-banks of the River Raisin.

In a few moments, the tomahawk thudded again and again, whittling gun-barrel sized dead branches into campfire-sized lengths. A dozen feet away a thin wisp of white smoke rose from within the wigwam, drifting upward through the opening in the center of the domed canvas lodge. With an armful cut, Msko-waagosh returned to the humble shelter, ducked under the canvas flap and deposited the wood next to the east wall…

Simple 1796-chores foster an inner sense of peace. Such undertakings sometimes come with a healthy dose of reflection and sole-searching. Deer season falling square in the middle of Advent no doubt nurtures a woodsman’s thoughts as the birth of Christ approaches. It is hard to believe that this year is coming to an end, challenging as it has been. But the simplicity of the story of Christ’s birth never fails to offer a deep sense of peace and hope…

“And there were in the same country shepherds, abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord…” (New Testament, Luke 2: 8 – 11)

So from our lodge to yours, may the peace of the Christmas season be always with you, be safe and may God bless you.

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“The French Fort Hunter”

Posted on December 17, 2016 by Dennis Neely: Traditional Woodsman

“Snapshot Saturday”

A French hunter from Fort Pontchartrain du Detroit.

A French hunter from the garrison at Fort Pontchartrain du Detroit pauses in the midst of an afternoon’s simple pursuit. New France near the headwaters of La Riviere aux Raisins, in the Year of our Lord, 1755. A daguerreotype-style image.

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