Treetops swayed. Gusts whooshed in the barren branches. Winter moccasins, made of buffalo hide and lined with trade blanket pieces, stepped cautious. Red blanket tails, encrusted with snow, flapped against deerskin leggins. Wolf tracks wove in and around the hardwoods, headed to the River Raisin’s bottomlands and protection from the frigid west wind on that bleak Thursday in the Year of our Lord, 1796.

The meager post’s supply of venison ran short; Samuel the Trader expected his hired hunter to remedy that situation. A fox squirrel bounded in the snow, romping from one oak tree to the next. Screaming crows treed to the south; other black demons hollered to the east.

The still-hunt pressed on to the yellow tree, the wound to the split oak now weathered, more gray than sapwood yellow. Moccasins crept down the rise, through the slender white ashes, then across the narrow strip of solid ground to the first earthen mound, dubbed Tamara’s Island. The post hunter’s course followed the west edge, circling deeper into the tangled abyss of snow-covered mucky puddles and wind-tipped maple saplings.

White fluff weighed down the dried sedge grass patch. In the eastern third of that tiny oasis, four yellow birch trees grew in an odd configuration. Two angled in the direction of the River Raisin and the main deer trail that paralleled the river’s course, inside the slash rather than out in the cattails. The third, twisted and gnarly, leaned to the east. The last one, the size of a powder keg, towered straight and tall.

Like gripping hands with bent fingers, tense knuckles and clawing nails, the four root systems intertwined, forming an ankle-high seat above the muck and mire. Years of green moss covered and cushioned the weave. A wool-clad hand dusted away the snow, taking care not to disturb the spongy, unfrozen clumps.

After a careful look-around, the woodsman’s blanket roll settled in place in front of the largest tree, but behind the other three. The post hunter sat cross-legged in the nest. His eyes peered just above the sedge grass, his body hidden from the view of passing whitetails…

Coyotes Morph into Wolves

Coyotes are a problem predator in southern Michigan. Either sightings or notations of tracks in the sand, mud or snow show up in my alter ego’s journal entries. But the mention of a coyote raises an historical issue in an 18th-century, lower Great Lakes narrative: coyotes didn’t exist. If such a reference finds its way into the field notes, it usually gets passed over when the time-traveling adventure makes print.

Wolves traipse through many period documents and there is little doubt they once roamed on the North-Forty, near the headwaters of the River Raisin. The History of Jackson County Michigan contains many references to wolves, penned by the early settlers of the area. One such recollection, written by Reverend Asahel A. King tells of the winter of 1837, the same year Michigan entered the union.

“The wolves used to howl terribly at night. In the winter of 1837 they killed and ate an Indian, near the corner of Tompkins, Eaton Rapids, Springport and Onondaga townships [the northwest intersection of Jackson County with Eaton and Ingham Counties]. He backed up against a tree and fought with his hatchet until he killed seven wolves; then he was overpowered. His hatchet, some of his clothing and part of his body and the wolves were soon found. Many others made very narrow escapes” (History of Jackson County, 199 – 200).

Mrs. M. W. Clapp reinforced King’s statement, not far from the North-Forty, and again, in 1837: “…the wolves and screech-owls would sometimes make night hideous…” (Ibid, 204)

Now and again I address the principle of “measured compromise,” whereby the re-enactor’s mind measures the intrusion of a modern-day circumstance, weighs the significance or danger of the transgression and applies a compromise that nullifies the impact on a given history-based pursuit. The usual intrusion takes the form of a silvery balloon, passing aircraft or crushed soda can.

Coyote evidence presents a different problem, that of a modern forest tenant not fitting into a faithful quest to  experience the texture of daily life in the Old Northwest Territory, two-plus centuries removed. In the case of the coyote, the easiest solution to retelling a wilderness tale is to apply a little “writer’s license” and transform the offending creature into one that existed in the 1790s.

And if that substitution is not acceptable, then my newest fictitious character, that of a primitive hunter and gatherer one generation beyond the Neanderthals, is in deep hooey, too.  In his case, the etchings on his stone tablets depict modern woodchucks. However, when he shares his harrowing hunt with his family around an orange-flamed, crackling fire, he transforms those offending creatures into woolly mammoths, the bones of which are occasionally dug up not all that far from the North-Forty…

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

Silvery dew drops splashed. Wool leggins whisked north. Elk moccasins whispered along an earthen doe trail. That course led to an overgrown wash and a skinny box elder tree that afforded a commanding view of a tiny break between the cedar trees and open prairie grass.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl-obl-obl!”

Msko-waagosh, the returned white captive who learned his woodsy skills from his adoptive Ojibwe family, slid the leather portage collar over his head. The rolled and bound blanket dropped into a grassy nest behind the box elder. The Northwest gun rested across his lap with the muzzle on the left side of the trunk. The air held a hint of fermenting deer droppings mixed with the spring freshness of growing greenery and budding cherry trees.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!”

Two gobblers bantered from the treetops on the hogback ridge, some distance west of the clearing he called “the meadow.”

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!”

Chilly fingers rummaged in the shot pouch, seeking a single turkey wing bone, then reconsidered the quest. A long silence prevailed followed by a lone, muffled half-gobble, “Obl-obl!” from the ridge crest, south of the roost trees.

“The birds are on the ground,” Red Fox mouthed to no one. His thumb traced impatient circles on the hammer’s jaw screw. “A clean kill, or a clean miss. Your will, O Lord,” he continued.

Second thoughts circled about the skinny, box elder. On only two occasions, early-morning gobblers were seen at the east corner of the meadow; more often on the west or south side.

If usual habits prevailed, the gobblers, and maybe a hen or two, should be coming down the ridge’s east face, approaching the crossing trail at the swamp’s narrows. The misgivings won out. The woodsman got to his feet, snatched up the bedroll, slung it over his left shoulder and started off with long, gentle strides.

Hustling moccasins swished into the sanctity of the first layer of cedar trees. Half hunched over, the deathly shape kept to the shadows, then struck a known trail. A mature doe, standing upwind amongst a cluster of red oak trees, watched with perked-up ears. The woodsman’s course reached the meadow’s northwest corner. The doe shook her head and walked off toward the big oak with the broken-down limbs.

Many cedar trees to the south, a favored dead oak stands. Brush about its base was hacked away with judicious blows of a post hunter’s belt ax the year prior.  The right amount of grass, barberry and underbrush circles that tree—enough to hide in and still afford a decent chance at a fanned and strutting wild turkey.

“Obl-obl!” The half gobble came from down the hill, on the meadow side of the big swamp.

The woodsman dug the wing-bone from his pouch, then sucked once. “Arrkk,” soft, subtle, beseeching with a bit of authority. The smoothbore’s muzzle eased in the direction of the last gobble.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!” The tom hollered from the edge of the gully, a different one that started on the north side of the meadow. The response continued, drowning out the short chortles of Sandhill cranes feeding somewhere off to the east. Geese honked in the distance.

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

Twice the tom started to ascend the hill. At best, he would enter the meadow to the east of the gully, closer to the skinny box elder than the favored, barkless oak. Two Sandhill cranes appeared over the eastern tree line, wings set, coasting into the grassy clearing’s center. The birds all but stopped midair, flapped twice and took the usual three or four long-legged steps upon touching down.

A glimpse of bronze feathers slipped through the half-leafed-out barberry bushes to the right of “Old Turkey Feather’s” muzzle. Msko-waagosh squinted. He touched the trigger as his thumb drew the sharp, English flint to attention, avoiding the loud click of the sear bar dropping into the tumbler. A gray head popped up; no red, no snood, no gobbler…

Making a Choice, Hustling Forward

A line squiggled across the journal page, just after the big move to the meadow’s west side. I often do that, change thoughts in the midst of time traveling. When it happens, squiggly lines mark the beginning and end of the transgression. I have other little scribblings in my journal—funky characters, kindergarten sketches and/or strange symbols. They only have meaning for me, the writer. My kids can have fun figuring my methods out, once I’m gone. I don’t plan on leaving notes to explain my notes…

But the intrusion that morning was a notation that I had “completed Msko-waagosh’s shot pouch two nights ago.” The pouch is based on a couple of Odawa examples in museum collections. The bag is not an exact copy, but rather a utilitarian accoutrement that mirrors the general style. “Affixed a temporary strap to the bag…maybe it will bring me good luck.”  

Msko-waagosh used a “loaner bag” when the personification first came to life. Creating a new character is exciting, but a common stumbling block is assembling the clothing, arms and accoutrements necessary to cross time’s threshold in a meaningful manner as an alter ego. I am of the opinion that the best way to develop a persona is to just be that person, now, not later.

As living historians read through a long-lost journal, they become enamored with the author or some other character in the narrative. The interest grows, but they find themselves bogged down with the research and then the assembling of the necessary material goods. Two years, maybe three years down the road they have yet to acquire or make all of the clothing and accoutrements they deem “important to start.” And worse, they never set foot in their 18th-century Eden as their version of the “historical me.”

With time, interest wanes. What goods this not-yet-born person owned find their way to a trade blanket or a forum posting. In essence another re-enactor benefits, so we would hope. In truth the goods hang in a closet, because an existing persona’s broken-in garb gets grabbed first, more out of habit than conscious thought.

There is no right or wrong way to develop a history-based persona, within reason, of course. As knowledge grows, so does the character. That understanding can come from document-based research, from hands-on lessons in the wilderness classroom or from the exchange of information among like-minded individuals—or any combination thereof.

Mixed with this learning is the ongoing process of self-evaluation based on one’s best understanding of frontier survival within the context of a chosen time period, location and life station. Sometimes a discovery requires an immediate adjustment, and other times puzzle pieces must accumulate until a clearer picture emerges. This is the joyous exhilaration derived from living history and traditional black powder hunting. What a blessing!

So on that May morning, in the Year of our Lord, 1794, Msko-waagosh hunted with his new pouch. A buckskin strap attached with a simple thong punched through the back offered a make-do remedy that was a thousand times better than the hand-me-down bag. The pouch at his side was his, a part of the emerging historical me, viewing life through the eyes of a returned white captive in the 1790s.

Taking those first, feeble steps down the path to yesteryear, rather than waiting until the entire persona was fleshed out, facilitated the creative process. In many instances, the hand-me-downs pointed out glaring errors, omissions and immediate needs with respect to the historical record as it applied to a captive who mastered woodland skills under the tutelage of an adoptive Ojibwe family.

Hands-on, wilderness classroom lessons tested each article of clothing, each accoutrement as they became available for use. By the time the permanent strap was beaded, the pouch was an integral part of the person called Msko-waagosh.

Yet, when the woodsman arose from behind the skinny box elder, slung the bedroll on his shoulder and hustled off into the shadows, the new shot pouch disappeared in the switch. Not that it was lost, misplaced or left behind, but rather in the sense that the buckskin pouch flowed along with the move, a part of the persona, a part of the action, a contributing artifact in the midst of a time-traveling adventure.

And what of the gobbler? The hen milled about in the underbrush, then uttered a single cluck, “Arrkkk.”

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

The tom marched up the hill, sounding off as it slipped through the shadows and navigated around the tight-growing cedar trees, much like Msko-waagosh had done over an hour before. A red head with a white pate appeared at the edge of the clearing. The roll of the knob hid the bird’s body. The red snood swung side-to-side. The tip of his spread fan teased and taunted. The tom pirouetted, gobbled and danced some more. His head vanished behind the knoll’s crest. When he stopped yodeling, the hen started walking around the meadow.

There was a silver lining to this display: the long-bearded gobbler never came close to the skinny box elder, either…

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

Ten paces grew to thirty. Cedar tree after cedar tree met rejection. A wild turkey scratching bowl came into view, ahead, to the right of the earthen doe trail. “Three, maybe four days old,” the post hunter muttered in a gravely whisper. White-tipped droppings, not a lot just a few, all curled on one end, lay scattered about. “Gobblers,” the woodsman nodded…again, to no one.

A circular search, executed with the stealth of a stalk on a fine buck, found three more torn up locations, each with the distinct toenail marks of a purple-legged bronze beauty. A dead apple tree stood twenty paces distant. Limbs stretched wide, all devoid of foliage or even tiny twigs bearing some hint of life. Elk moccasins investigated the barren lair, certain of rejection, too.

Now a ways beyond the apple’s drip line two hefty red cedar trees grew straight and tall. A third cedar of the same size, tipped earthward by some calamity, angled on the uphill side of those two. Prospects seemed good. Autumn olive bushes with yellowing, fish-like leaves dotted the ground all about, adding cover, but limiting clear-shot possibilities.

At a prospective spot, the woodsman dropped to a leather-clad knee and gazed about. Bare fingers dusted away duff until a sharp spine suggested an alternative. Standing in disgust, the hunter’s left moccasin soon completed the task. The red-wool trade blanket, rolled tight and bound with the tails of a leather portage collar, settled into the nest.

After an appropriate wait, the single wing-bone call touched the forest tenant’s dry lips. “Ark, ark,” two clucks, soft and sweet, beckoned through the cedar trees. Five minutes later…“Ark, ark.”

“Ark, ark,” came the answer, bold and crisp, uphill to the east. The Northwest trade gun’s muzzle crept in the direction of that utterance. The forestock rested on the leather leggin of the left knee, raised and ready. Arteries pulsed. The death bees waited. Those same dry lips mouthed an almost overlooked prayer: “A clean kill, or a clean miss. Your will, O Lord.”

“Scu-reeeeee…Scu-reeeeee!” To the west of the cedar grove, somewhere out over the expanse of the big swamp, a red-tailed hawk circled, unseen but not unheard. About then, a hint of black herky-jerked through a break in the autumn olive sprigs. The bird pecked along, looking side to side, stopping to sample, then continuing on with no concern. Another appeared, then another, all well beyond “Old Turkey Feather’s” effective distance.

The first wild turkey edged to its left at forty paces, but that adjustment would not help. A modest beard with a slight downward curve came into view. More birds fed their way down the hill, all lacking the curiosity needed to investigate the hired hunter’s four clucks. The birds’ contented manner never wavered, pecking, inspecting and once in a while stretching a neck to look about for danger.  Frustrating…Oh so frustrating…

Clearing my head…

On that late-October morning, in the Year of our Lord, 1796, wild turkey sign, coupled with a careful assessment of the surrounding natural cover increased the probability of besting a fowl. But the flock did not wander within the effective distance of a Northwest gun called “Old Turkey Feathers.” All the wishing didn’t change that fact. Sometimes the glade is a cruel tormentor.

Most living historians share a keen sense of responsibility for getting their given portrayal as close as possible to the available documentation from their favorite bygone era. Unfortunately any historical simulation, especially those that center on traditional black powder hunting, can only approach what life was really like in the 18th century. Generations have come and gone on the North-Forty. The River Raisin has changed course, who knows how many times. The Old Northwest Territory is no more.

As I transcribed that fall wild turkey chase from my journal notes, I re-lived the moments. I heard the hen’s “Ark, ark” and the red-tailed hawk’s “Scu-reeeeee…Scu-reeeeee!” I recalled pulling up my left leg, resting my elbow and swinging the muzzle with a flood of hopeful anticipation. Ah, yes…the first glimpse of a bronze beauty, played out in my mind’s eye like a slow-motion instant replay of a NASCAR bumping.

I pounded the keyboard. My pulse grew stronger—despite knowing the outcome of that encounter, too. And when the words reached the conclusion of that foray, my shoulders sank in an empathetic pity puddle of frustration.

Now, dear reader, please keep in mind that I often select a 1790-era journal entry at random. That was what I did on Monday. I did not consciously pick a frustrating incident. It just happened.

Much to my consternation, when the vignette ended the frustration I felt for that moment unleased the frustrations and emotions of this troubled time we live in. I was sputtering, typing like mad, venting at…well, you understand, I’m sure. I left the desk in desperation, mad at the world, then mad at myself, because I didn’t want to read someone’s rant, so why would you?

Then the reality of “moving on” set in just as it did that afternoon. Life went on in 18th-century America, or New France, depending upon who I am on any given living history adventure. I waited on the birds, making sure there was no chance of detection when I finally got to my feet. That gave me time to think, to reason out my next attempt at bringing food back to camp that evening.

It seems this year’s gobblers are sneakier than last. Why not? That said I’ve had a ball in the turkey woods this spring. Since late April, frustrating jaunts—oh, there’s that word again—have turned into great delights, bringing new insight into my traditional black powder hunts.

The focus of what little hunting I was able to squeeze in last fall centered on re-evaluating each characterization. To get those portrayals off and moving, I used “historical hand-me downs.”

The goal was always the same: make each character unique and different, each with his own backstory, life experience and material possessions. About two years ago, when Mi-ki-naak entered the picture, I began crafting or purchasing separate accoutrements and clothing items that “belonged” to a specific alter ego.

That process got put on hold, but I stumbled my way back on track earlier this year. I am moving on, slow but sure. The cedar log pile, destined for the post hunter’s lean-to, is growing. My thoughts on where to place the shelter are changing, but I’m big on overthinking the obvious.

A forum post on shot pouches led to a telephone conversation. In the midst of quoting documentation and hashing over the comments, I pulled up my outline of James Smith’s captive narrative, Scoouwa. I searched the word “pouch.” For purposes of our discussion, I was interested in Smith’s deerskin pouch, which contained his books.

But the search also found his reference to the “polecat skin pouch, which had been skinned pocket fashion…” (Smith, 30). That pouch had slipped my mind, but offered a solution for carrying Mi-ki-naak’s flint and steel and whatever form of journal keeping I settle on for his persona—he can’t keep borrowing the post hunter’s journal. After researching several similar pouches in museum collections, a case-skinned skunk is on its way. Polecats are not native to this area, but Sir Johnathan Caldwell’s painting shows a skunk-skin pouch. I am moving on…

The same held true with looking at knives. Samuel the Trader’s hired hunter started out with a butcher knife. I couldn’t begin to count the number of deer that knife has dressed and skinned—but it is one of those “shared” artifacts. Well, he gets to keep his knife.

I purchased an English scalper reproduction, not an expensive one mind you, but one that came with high recommendations. I re-worked the handle to match an original I had photos of. Msko-waagosh was thrilled with that knife. I was about to begin an Ojibwe-style sheath, but then the unthinkable happened—the knife would not skin a buck. After all that work, the knife won’t hold an edge.

A package arrived Monday with two new knives forged by Nick Barber. One is an English scalper of a similar pattern as the old one for Msko-waagosh, the other a French boucheron for Mi-ki-naak. Individual sheaths, both showing an Ojibwe or Odawa influence are the next project. In a short while, each of my alter egos will have his own personal knife. No more sharing, no more bickering.

The post hunter wore out his knee breeches two years ago. The patches were threadbare; there was no saving them. In essence, this nameless hired woodsman has no lower-body covering; to complicate matters, that character is not a breechclout kinda guy.

I dug out the new pair the week before the Woods-N-Water News Outdoor Weekend in September, held at the Eastern Michigan Fairgrounds in Imlay City. That was to be my demonstration project for the event. A trip to the local emergency room ended that. I unpacked those breeches yesterday and hope to get the last of the buttons and buttonholes stitched up in the next few nights. The post hunter wants to venture back to yesteryear, too.

So this week’s message is the same as it was that afternoon in 1796: accept the frustrations of life and keep moving on to the next time-traveling adventure…

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

Lines and creases crisscrossed black ice. God’s artistry drew attention to the fragile, frozen skin covering the water that filled the huckleberry swamp. A light touch of snow dampened brittle oak leaves, hushing the noise of each footfall.

“Tu-Tu-Tu-Tu…” an unseen cardinal twittered. Another answered, “Whit, whit, tsu, tsu, tsu, tsu, tsu…”

The morning’s course passed a crooked-trunked wild cherry, stepped around a broken red oak, then paused at a circle of stones, almost buried by two fall’s worth of rotting leaves. That hunting camp had not been used in a decade, perhaps longer. The rocks a distant memory renewed by happenstance.

A fox squirrel dug for an acorn, six or so hops to the south of the red oak with the massive burl. Startled by an unexpected observer, the forest tenant bounded thrice, circled a young hickory, then hung upside down as it gazed at the interloper. A few minutes later, the squirrel ran to a maple, then to another oak. With each change of trees, the grinning woodsman advance the same distance as the squirrel.

This wilderness game continued over the narrow isthmus that divided the nasty thicket from the huckleberry swamp. At the east end, the bushy-tailed squirrel crossed the conjuncture of doe trails that funnels from the west face of the big ridge onto the isthmus. The returned captive again paced off the same distance, about a rod and a half.

Sharing the same caution as the squirrel, the woodsman looked about, seeking any sign of danger, any reason for concern. Casual snowflakes drifted. The air smelled clean and fresh like that of early November. But it was mid-April, in the Year of our Lord, 1795.

This time-traveler from two-plus-centuries hence glanced down. The tip of an antler tine, the size of his little finger, protruded from the oak leaves. He bent down, retrieved the prize and tried to remember which first-year buck sported this small, three-point right-side antler. Msko-waagosh could not remember.

The squirrel paused; its left hind leg a blur of motion as it scratched is midsection. It bounded to a large red oak. The woodsman veered north, remaining four trees distant. The tiny white flakes, drifting as if resisting gravity, punctuated the solemnity of the moment. This was the parting place for the fox squirrel and the wayfarer. The squirrel hopped uphill. The hunter continued on the lower trail that skirted the east side of the huckleberry swamp.

Two dozen paces later, a loud chattering commanded attention. The squirrel spiraled around a tall, slender powder-keg-sized red oak. The tree’s first branching was a good forty feet up. In the crown, an accumulation of twigs marked the start of a nest. A Coopers hawk perched on an easterly branch and spread its wings in protest. The squirrel barked in defiance. The hawk dove. The squirrel ducked behind the trunk. The hawk fluttered in midair. The squirrel chattered. The hawk looped up and came to rest on an upper limb.

Undaunted, the fox squirrel twitched its tail and worked up the tree. The hawk uttered a soft squeak, then dove again. In the flapping of wings and darting and dodging, it appeared the hawk dislodged the critter’s left hind leg. The hawk swooped around the trunk, then settled into a different oak’s thin, outer twigs. The squirrel chattered, then started down the tree. The woodland confrontation was over. The hawk screeched in victory, but flew uphill and vanished over the ridge crest.

And with that, the returned captive stopped leaning against a modest poplar. Shaking his head at the morning’s drama, he turned and continued down the trail.

A Great Time to Outline

The book, Scoouwa: James Smith’s Indian Captivity Narrative, is again sitting on my desk. I started outlining Smith’s recollections in the winter of 2017. While researching trade knives, I realized I had not completed that task.

Between trying to write, the demands of home healthcare and trying to maintain a farm, I have little time for “additional projects.” I scratch my head at the clueless attitude of the Hollywood elite when it comes to all their “new-found time” and “boredom.” It would be amusing if it weren’t so tragic. I have piles of work they could do, but I’m not sure of their competency. Enough of that…

One of my goals for the spring is to regain a grip on my living history addiction, or rather to encourage this passion to run rampant again.

I snuck a side project into this year’s winter clean up on the farm. I’ve spent an hour here and an hour there skidding out some of the cedar trees killed by the utility company’s forestry crew in 2016. Perhaps “killed” is a harsh word. I must confess that I have the soundtrack for “The Last of the Mohicans,” playing as I write this. I feel a certain degree of defiant emotion charging through my veins. I suppose that is weaving through my word choice. So be it. At any rate, there was no reason to cut and remove so many trees that posed no danger to the transmission lines.

Unfortunately, this project got away from me for the same reasons everything else was put on hold. I had a rustic-log furniture company that was interested in purchasing the cedar logs, but that fell through. So now my alter egos get first dibs. Or is that second dibs? No matter.

About half of the trees are of a proper size for construction of a 1790-era lean-to. I have three sort piles with more logs coming. Thinking through the construction details for the trading post hunter’s lean-to shelter brought me back to James Smith. Confused with my thought process, yet?

It is clear there will be a surplus of “cabin logs.” On a trip to the yarding area, the iron mule’s droning engine lulled my mind back to James Smith’s narrative. I recalled, or thought I did, him telling about making a winter cabin with two rows of stacked logs, a propped up ridge pole and rafters.

That evening, when sitting at my desk, I called up the MSWord outline for Scoouwa…  In a matter of seconds, a quick “Find” search sent me to page 45 of Smith’s narrative. I grabbed the book from the shelf and began reading. Now I don’t fully understand Smith’s description; either I’m misinterpreting his words or there is a bit missing. Such is the case with 18th-century missives.

But I’m mulling his winter cabin layout/description as a second shelter for Mi-ki-naak, Smith’s contemporary. I chuckle, because that imagined abode would be a fourth shelter—if I live long enough to complete it. Msko-waagosh needs a new domed wigwam and Mi-ki-naak’s peaked wigwam is shy a few horizontal ribs and a good covering. “You’ll get there, Grasshopper,” I keep telling myself, “You’ll get there…”

A Suggestion for Outlining

I’m big on simple. My outlining process started with John Tanner’s journal, The Falcon… I experimented with the business tools I was familiar with: Microsoft Excel, Access and Word. I settled on MSWord, because the software would do what I wanted, I was familiar with the keystrokes and it was easy to search.

I opened an existing file, “Persona Development,” where I keep tidbits I find while researching. I created a new document and named it “Captive Persona John Tanner Narrative.” I did the same for James Smith’s journal and also for that of Jonathan Alder.

Each outline starts out different, because each editor presents the narrative in a different manner. In Smith’s case, a few lines summarize important points contained in the “Foreward,” “Biography,” and “Introduction.”

An entry in the outline represents a passage that I, as a reader and living historian, deem important. A given phrase or sentence might be unimportant for your portrayal. That is your choice as a researcher.

I do not include the entire passage, only a few brief words that summarize the gist of the author’s observations, followed by the page number where that passage is found. The entries are in sequence as they appear in the journal. I do not group them by subject or any other method. The search function will find all of the words that are pertinent at that moment.

To the right of my tool bar is a section titled “Editing.” Clicking on that choice gives a drop-down menu. I click on “Find,” which opens a sub-window on the left titled “Navigation.” I enter a key word that I think will find the passages that I need, then I hit “Enter.” The word will appear in the narrative window and highlighted in yellow in the text of the document, which in this case is the outline itself. Sometimes it is prudent to search multiple words to find all of the quotes that apply.

For me, as a traditional black powder hunter, the tales of the chase are a priority, even if they are mundane and uneventful. I never know when or where my writing will take a turn, and you would be surprised at how many times a passage that holds little mystique becomes a significant example of the 18th-century, backcountry lifestyle. Second in importance is the material culture: the clothing, accoutrements and yes, insignificant trappings that accompany woodland survival. Personal interactions or other happenings that attract interest are also included.

As an example, the first passage noted in Smith’s journal is:

“Gave the scalp halloo … 21”

Now that doesn’t seem too significant, but added to other captive narratives, the “scalp halloo,” offered upon entering a Native American camp with captives, appears quite often—a “common occurrence” which adds flesh to a first-person portrayal.

“…we found they had plenty of Turkeys and other meat, there; and though I never before eat venison without bread or salt… 21”

This longer excerpt contains words that might be included in a future search, such as “turkey,” “meat,” “venison,” “bread” and “salt.”

“…viewed the Indians in a huddle before the gate, where were the barrels of powder, bullets, flints &c. and every one taking what suited; 24”

Again, a longer observation with many potential search words, unlike “…he borrowed my Bible…64.”

So there you have it, a simple, searchable outline of the daily life of a hunter hero. If you find yourself with time, or if you’re looking for a living history project that will produce future benefits, consider outlining a favorite woodsman’s narrative. You will learn more than you think and have a lot of fun in the process.

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

Sparrows chirped. Cool mist tickled bare skin. A lone crow cawed beyond the hogback ridge. Silver orbs clung to the tips of drooping cedar boughs. Droplets scattered, dislodged by the incidental contact of short cautious steps. Two cardinals bantered, somewhere near the cedar grove.

Each footfall squished on the earthen doe trail. An occasional J-shaped wild turkey leaving added intrigue to the new and old hoof prints. The morning’s course wound around two spreading autumn olive bushes, skirted a broad red cedar tree, then ducked under the box elder with the table-sized scrape that always opened in late September.

Despite growing deafness, the glorious sounds of an awakening spring pumped exhilaration through a humble woodsman’s being. A dozen paces north of the box elder, green mouse ears dotted the barbed, curving stems of a big Rose of Sharron. Rotting deer pellets, a hint of urine and the damp bliss of stagnant swamp water perfumed that corner of Eden.

Dried prairie grass encompassed the base of the rose bush, then, lo and behold, a cottontail rabbit bounded from that miniscule haven. The gray streak bounded thrice uphill, stopping beside the first trunk of the second layer of cedar trees from the big swamp’s cut bank. The rabbit’s glossy eye assessed the circumstance. Feeble hearing detected a faint chorus of spring peepers. “…probably louder, but just can’t hear” the lead holder scribbled. A squish or two on the trail sent the bunny fleeing into oblivion.

Twenty paces past where the maple once grew that was blown to splinters by a lightning bolt four decades ago, the north half of the old hollow oak lay across the trail. A wood duck drake winged tree-top high by the south side of the closest island. A lone, black crow flew to the north, cawing away, but with no response.  

To that point, the early morning scout produced no shed antlers, no gobbles, no bronze beauties—nary a cluck. Cautious footfalls turned the corner, then paused at the earthen delta washed who knows how many years ago into the swamp proper, leaving the large gully that is almost too steep to traverse.

Gurgling water beckoned the forest tenant to the east. The nameless creek flowed around several standing oaks, under moss-covered downed limbs, then snaked out into a thick patch of last-year’s brittle cattails.

To the west, a few dozen paces distant, a hint of white tweaked the wanderer’s curiosity. Scattered wing feathers, a half-chewed breast bone and a radius and ulna, still connected by wispy shreds of sinew, told a grim tale. As a knee touched the tender, greening grass, a gobble echoed up and down the big swamp.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl-obl-obl!”

A primary wing feather rolled back and forth between inquisitive fingers.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl-obl-obl!”

“Ah, near the hidden lake,” the woodsman thought, discerning that in all likelihood this was a young hen, caught and eaten just before the winter snows. The song birds’ twittering ceased, adding to the solemnity of the moment. Again on his feet, the woodsman turned back to the creek.

“Gob-obl-obl-obl! Obl-obl-obl-obl!”

The steep hillside taxed cabin-weary muscles. During a respite halfway to the crest, the lack of gobbling took on a haunting foreboding. “Perhaps those three calls were a requiem for the unfortunate hen?” he whispered. Such is the finality of the glade…

An Exhilarating Wild Turkey Scout

As I stood and gazed out over the swamp, the winding creek and the cattails, a gentle wind broke the morning calm. A deep breath, a sigh and a silent prayer of thanksgiving marked an appreciation at regaining a small portion of “what has been lost” over the last three years.

Even with bad hearing, the distant, rumbling whoosh of wind pressing hard on treetops was unmistakable. In the course of a long minute, the breeze gained strength. Barren oak, hickory and wild cherry tops swayed. Droplets angled earthward. Growing here and there amongst the hardwoods, the hill’s tall red cedar trees whispered, then groaned. The mist transformed into a steady drizzle, cleansing my soul and raising my spirits to a level they hadn’t reached in a long while.

A zig uphill, then a zag down brought this wilderness ragamuffin back to the deep ravine that gave up its sand and gravel to form the swamp delta. After a cautious crossing, the morning’s sojourn circled back to the point of beginning. I was late for work, but scribbling personal wilderness impressions is work, isn’t it?

Even with week-to-week or every-other-day jaunts, the forest hides its secrets well. Each time-traveling adventure holds a surprise or two, but for me, a long absence begins a period of re-acquaintance of sorts. It is during these scouts that I renew my connection to the land, my connection to the wilderness and my connection to long ago.

Spring rains and the accompanying mud kept me out of the woods the first week or two of shed antler hunting season. Now those trips combine with wild turkey scouts. Yes, I have found some sheds, and yes, I have heard and seen bronze beauties.

There are always discoveries, like a coyote-cleaned carcass of an eight-point buck, three red oaks and a wild cherry that came down over the winter and that pile of hen turkey feathers and bones, part-hidden to the west of the nameless creek. But there is freshness of life, too.

Remembrances of the Past

Likewise, there are always remembrances of past seasons, past decades. Some involve hunting exploits, near misses or natural occurrences. For example, noting the maple that was destroyed by lightning as a benchmark means nothing to anyone but me. I’ve told my daughters and wife the story of that tree, but I doubt any of them can take you to that location, let alone recount the tale.  

The same goes for names of places scattered about my wilderness playground. The “Tamarac fen,” “Fred’s woods,” and “yellow tree” all carry meanings and a story or two. The names get passed on to fellow woodsmen, but the origin of the name is cloudy at best. Such was the case for many places in the 18th century. And to be fair about it, the meaning associated with some of those “passed down names” are debated to this day.

If it weren’t for a notation typed on a working map of the North-Forty, many locations would be anonymous, too. Newer names like “Darrel’s Tree,” “Tami’s Island” and “Katie’s Korner” are a case in point. In time these will slip off into oblivion, much like the “Duck Camp,” “Section Oak” and “Overlook Camp”—again, meaningless to all but a humble woodsman.

But herein resides “the connection to the land” that so many seek, but few find. Sunrises and sunsets, bald eagles and chickadees, poison ivy and wild mint all contribute to making each moccasin step a memorable experience. And after a long absence each new happenstance rejuvenates the passion and exhilaration that comes with being a tenant of the forest.

The stinging rain, the huffing wind, the gurgling water, the softness of sedge grass shoots, the smell of rotting deer pellets, and a tiny pile of bleached bones and tattered wing feathers left indelible impressions, but none as strong as the distant gobbles that sung the requiem for the unfortunate hen…

Wander back to the 18th century, be safe and may God bless you.