A Time to Reflect…

Friday, 23 December, 1763:

Two fox squirrels chattered. Sandhill cranes chortled near the Riviere aux Raisins. A crimson cardinal twittered about as if deciding whether to stay or move on. A solitary Canada goose uttered intermittent “ke-honks” on its way to the river. Orange painted the southern horizon. Patches of gray ice hinted at the tiny creek’s course, hidden in the sedge grass.

A young doe plodded through a tight-packed clump of red cedar trees that grew at the edge of the big swamp. Her damn followed. The creamy-tined spike measured the pair’s progress from a stand of poplar trees that grew on the west side of the wide fen. A sharpened lead, secured in a brass holder, scribbled the scene on folded paper.

Anxious legs tore tangled sedge grass as the spike made his way to the east bank. The doe and her summer fawn walked the earthen trail north, then east. The little buck pursued. The three passed. A fox squirrel barked. A Sandhill crane chortled. The pencil ceased writing. Mi-ki-naak paused, then reflected…

A Time for Fond Memories

Michigan’s muzzleloading deer season falls during Advent, a time of preparation and great anticipation for the celebration of the birth of Christ. On that evening, I stepped over time’s threshold and found myself thinking back to a hunting camp sequestered in the pines and hardwoods of Swamp Hollow.

Mi-ki-naak did not attend that simple pursuit, the post hunter did. That early October evening was mild and pleasant. A full moon rose above the tree line. A central campfire blazed away, and a handful of hearty 18th-century woodsmen gathered to share the harrowing tales of another day in the forest. A peaceful tranquility fell upon the lodges in that tiny hollow.

The post hunter slept on two blankets beside the crackling fire. The majesty of the universe shone down through the pine boughs. For me, that night is an enduring pristine memory. And as so often happens, I reflected on the shepherds and Luke’s telling of the Christmas story…

Woodsmen gather around a campfire in the dark of 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)

May the peace of the Christmas season be always with you, be safe and may God bless you.

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So Many Times Before…

Monday, December 19, 1763:

Half-frozen muck crackled. Here and there, pointed skunk cabbage sprouts poked through black humus. Slow and quiet, cowhide moccasins stepped on moss-covered roots and sedge grass clumps. Forty paces into the Riviere aux Raisins’ bottoms, Mi-ki-naak paused beside an east-leaning maple with a “J-shaped” trunk.

Decades before, God’s whimsy pushed the tree hard, leaving its westerly roots exposed. The three largest looked like gaunt fingers grasping and clawing at the earth in great desperation. The returned white captive knew this lair well. He pulled the trade blanket, the one that was once white but now dyed a forest brown, about his body, skootched back between two of the fingers and sat upon the raised seat formed by smaller, tangled roots. The evening sun was a finger above the far tree line.

After looking about, the woodsman checked the French fusil’s prime. As was his habit, he attempted to place the smoothbore across his wool-covered legs with the lock tucked under the blanket fold that passed beneath his right shoulder. The forestock bumped the root to his left, skewing the barrel skyward at an awkward and unacceptable angle. He huffed, a bit upset with himself for not recalling this problem. His hips moved to the right a bit. The long fusil’s barrel found its way to a somewhat bare spot on the root, a place where he had pulled off moss the fall before.

The bottoms remained quiet, almost too quiet. A red squirrel twittered, spiraled around a powder-keg-sized yellow birch, then glared at the interloper. The chatter turned confrontational, leaving little doubt this forest tenant intended to spend the night in the leaning maple tree’s upper reaches. Fur and fluff bounded from yellow birch to a dead ash to another yellow birch. From safe perch to safe perch, the red squirrel circled Mi-ki-naak. In time the woodsman heard tiny claws scratching bark on the maple at his back.

A French fusil's long barrel rests on a moss-covered maple root.Throughout this woodland comedy, a lone goose ke-honked from the sand flats at the river’s bend. For whatever reason, the seasoned hunter glanced down. The fusil’s barrel and forestock stood out in stark contrast to the bright green moss that covered the exposed root. And yet, this implement of death appeared as just another harmless branch scattered about the tangle of tipped trees and fallen hulks.

Orange and lavender streamed from behind the far tree line. A barn owl hooted from the direction of the huckleberry swamp. “Hoo, Hoo…Hoo, Hooooo…” came the familiar cry. “Hoo, Hoo…Hoo, Hooooo,” deep and crisp in tone as if to ask: “Just who are yoouuu…”

Above the tree tops, far out over the river proper, two geese winged hard. The sky was a dark grayish-blue, the geese mere black silhouettes. Three times they circled, each time descending more, silent, beautiful, expected. One of the birds above uttered a single “ke-honk;” one of the birds below answered, “honk.” Cupped wings floated against an orange backdrop.

Near dark the owl hooted and a hen mallard began quacking. Seven more geese flew south, following the Riviere aux Raisins’ murky-brown waters. With little pretense, these birds dropped straight down, disappearing in the charcoal-colored abyss of the hardwoods on the far bank. At dark, nine Canada geese arrived, ke-honking all the way in.

Nary a deer ventured out of the bottoms that night. Dried jerk would suffice for an evening meal as it had so many times before…

Beginning a Humble Wilderness Abode

The last two years have been challenging, to say the least. In such situations, the “must do” list sees a daily shuffling, and carry-overs stack upon carry-overs…big sigh…yes, that was a second big sigh you heard… It is little wonder that all three of my personas are 18th-century, homeless vagabonds.

On the positive side, the knee has gotten stronger with each outing, and I have spent an almost normal number of days searching for fresh venison. In looking back, I realize that this entire deer season has been devoted to fleshing out Mi-ki-naak. “Old Turkey Feathers” has not made it out once. For me, that is a huge surprise.

There is much more to do, and there always is for the traditional black powder hunter. A key element in the positive progression of any historical persona is the constant learning and evaluating process that accompanies attempting to re-live the past. This self-scrutiny is both a blessing and a curse, a source of great exhilaration and humbling frustration. As past posts have reflected, the development of the third persona, Mi-ki-naak, set in the fall of 1763 in the Lower Great Lakes region, has focused my thinking on the pluses and minuses of the other two characters from the mid-1790s.

As regular readers know, I try to establish a fall hunting camp for each of the characters. In 2016 and 2017 the emphasis was on Msko-waagosh, the Red Fox, and his domed wigwam. Over the years, the trading post hunter has occupied a number of camps, and a couple of those abodes still existed when Msko-waagosh began gallivanting around the North-Forty. Yes, the post hunter played second fiddle, but he at least had a fixed place in the wilderness. The untimely destruction of Msko-waagosh’s not-so-old canvas wigwam in the sequestered valley was a setback, magnified tenfold by the events of this summer.

Hope hides in the midst of calamity. With two returned captive personas, I did not want to create two domed wigwams. Not only is this confusing for the re-enactor, but it is also confusing for readers trying to figure out who is where and when. Again, out of confusion emerges historical clarity.

The People of the Three Fires: the Ojibwe, Odawa and Potawatomi used similar shelters in the 18th century peninsulas that became Michigan. John Tanner speaks of staying with different bands. In reflection of this intermingling, Msko-waagosh uses an Odawa-inspired shot pouch. The one made for Mi-ki-naak follows this same lineage.

The interpretation of primary historical documents varies, but there is solid evidence that these Native Peoples had two styles of wigwam, one domed and the other peaked. Eighteenth-century paintings and illustrations reflect both structure types. So why not engage in experimentation in the wilderness classroom with one shelter of each style? That solution seems simple enough.

The Development of a Housing Plan

By early August, I envisioned a lean-to station camp for the post hunter, a domed wigwam for Msko-waagosh and a peaked wigwam for Mi-ki-naak. With the inception of that plan, I knew I would be lucky to get one shelter completed, and I was right.

The post hunter still had the “duck camp,” and all that shelter needed was a new cedar-brush covering. Msko-waagosh’s wigwam was gone, but the camp area was still intact. A quick-up stick shelter would suffice there. (To add insult to injury, a buck has used the south leg of the fire pit tripod for his personal rubbing post.)  Mi-ki-naak had nothing.

Although kneeling was a still a problem, I began collecting cedar poles the third week in October. A week or so later, fourteen pealed poles leaned against a modest white oak on the Snapping Turtle’s new homestead, a gentle knoll that overlooked the Riviere aux Raisins’ bottomlands.

Snapping Turtle places a cedar pole on the peaked wigwam.The winter fury hit that weekend. The unusual arctic cold and accompanying snow was described by many veteran hunters as poor for late-December, much less early deer season. Just making it out and back for a 1763-era simple pursuit was taxing and sometimes life-threatening; the discomfort made worse by Mi-ki-naak’s scanty wardrobe. Spending time on the peaked wigwam was not possible.

Then on that glorious December afternoon in 1763, Mi-ki-naak found time to begin his peaked wigwam. The sun was bright and warm, the air a balmy 38-degrees. The wind was calm. After a bit of trial and error learning the peaked wigwam’s frame took shape. The next phase would have to wait. Following in the moccasins steps of the hunter heroes before him, a compelling desire to chase white-tailed deer overtook the need for immediate housing. And like so many times before, an alter ego’s moccasins crept off into the bottomlands of the Riviere aux Raisins…

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

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“A Deer’s Ear Twitched”

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditional woodsman eases to a ridge crest in a snowy forest.

Hoof-prints in the snow disappeared over the ridge crest. Wool-lined buffalo-hide moccasins eased uphill. A deer’s ear twitched, offering a glimmer of hope for the trading post hunter. With great caution, the stalk continued… Old Northwest Territory, a half mile east of the River Raisin, in the Year of our Lord, 1792…

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“The Search for an Evening Meal”

“Snapshot Saturday”

A traditional woodsman stands behind a snow-covered log.

By mid-afternoon, the hired hunter for a backcountry trading post settled for stalking fox squirrels in hopes of securing an evening meal. Old Northwest Territory, early February in the Year of our Lord, 1792…

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“A Few Moments Rest”

“Snapshot Saturday”

A British Ranger removes his bedroll and places it next to a large oak.

On a warm April morning in 1763, a British Ranger pauses for a few moments of rest beside an old oak in the forest land west of Fort Detroit. Little did he realize what great mischief would befall he and his fellow rangers but a few weeks hence. Pontiac and his warriors entered the fort on May 7th, with less than friendly intent…

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What to do, what to do?

Saturday, 19 November, 1763:

Two Sandhill cranes flew overhead. One chortled soft, the other trailed behind. The “caw, caw, caw, caw” of a lone crow, winging somewhere south, pierced the dense fog. A fox squirrel’s sharp bark hung heavy on that chilly morn. A branch stub, not cut clean by the tomahawk, irritated through the trade blanket and linen shirts.

That red cedar tree grew a third of the way down the east face of the hog-back ridge. Three older cedar trees loomed to the south, and the largest of all stood four trade gun lengths to the east. All its lower branches died years ago, offering obstructed vision of the lower trails while breaking up the returned white captive’s deathly shape. Beyond the trail at the base of the hill, the grayish tint of a heavy frost, intermixed with patches of Thursday night’s snowfall, provided a better view of the big swamp’s sedge grass.

Light snow covers a doe trail.The long-barreled French fusil rested on the wool trade blanket that covered Mi-ki-naak’s red wool leggins. The still-hunt to that ambuscade cut the trail of a flock of turkeys. The woodsman expected to hear the birds cluck from their night roost, but that was not the case. Besides, the smoothbore’s breech held a solitary death sphere. Fresh venison was the immediate concern.

“Jay! Jay! Jay!” A blue jay screamed to the southwest. The hillside’s silence amplified the warning cries. One sentinel’s voice became two, then three, then more. A blue jay flew north to south, winging hard just above the mid-hill doe trail, no doubt intent upon joining the morning’s first ruckus—the first such melee heard in three days of hard hunting. “Perhaps a deer,” Mi-ki-naak thought to himself.

Keen eyes gave up on the southern hope and returned to watching the close-by trails. Ten minutes passed. A leaf crackled. A hoof scuffed. “Crunch…crackle…” The hoof-falls sounded distinctive, faint, yet not cautious or concerned. A small twig snapped. The deer walked on to the north, uphill and behind the cedar palisade, skirting the downwind side of the experienced woodsman. Sixty paces distant a white tail flicked side-to-side as a lean rump angled down the hill.

When it was well above the eastern tree line, the sun cut through the thick fog. Light spears plunged into the slope’s east face, but afforded little warmth as they struck the dark-dyed wool blanket. A pleasant hour passed. Nary an antler tip appeared. Hungry and disappointed, Mi-ki-naak rose to his feet and adjusted his blanket. With fusil in hand, his footfalls eased on to the north in the wake of the solitary doe.

What to do after an unsuccessful hunt?

Like it or not, all time traveling adventures must come to an end. At some point in the day, moccasins, regardless of which character they belong to, must cross over time’s threshold and return to the 21st century. After that particular sojourn, I slipped the fusil de chasse back into its buckskin sleeve and headed for home.

It is odd how experience and habit take over simple tasks. A recent question in the comment section of a Snapshot Saturday post brought that to light. Joe asked the question:

“What to do when you’re unsuccessful? Seems a huge pain to load the morning of the hunt, then use a ball puller or worm to pull the charge and shot/ball after an unsuccessful hunt. What’s your normal procedure? Obviously if you’ve fired your gun, you probably ought to clean that night. Boy what of the unfired gun? Just dump prime? Are there concerns (other than simple safety) with leaving a charge in the gun? Moisture/corrosion/etc?”

The answer to that question, rather those questions, is not simple. I spent some time thinking through the best way to answer, based on my own experience, and that is what this answer is, my experience. I’ll try to walk through my process and attempt to make it easy to understand the basis for each choice/practice.

Safety

The first consideration is always safety, for the living historian, his or her 18t-century hunting companions and his or her family members.

When my daughters lived at home, I discharged the load in “Old Turkey Feathers” at the end of the hunt, without exception. Being teenagers and on into college, they often had friends over, and I didn’t want a loaded gun in the house, modern or muzzleloader.

Where muzzleloaders are concerned, the definition of “loaded” can be confusing. The 2018 Michigan DNR’s Hunting Digest defines “unloaded” as the nipple uncapped and the hammer down for a percussion gun, or the pan free of priming, the frizzen up and the hammer down for a flintlock (page 19, Note). In either case, there is still a charge in the barrel.

I’m not comfortable with a charge in the barrel, and here is why. I once witnessed a noted bird hunter shooting sporting clays with his double flint shotgun. The first clay in the report pair was a standard disc thrown from downrange that dropped about ten yards in front of the shooter. He waited, and obliterated that settling bird. The second bird was a midi flying right to left, about 10 yards in front of the station. The shooter swung on that bird, his pan flashed, but the barrel did not discharge. In one swift motion, he pulled the frizzen into place and re-cocked the hammer. The gun snapped, then went off, breaking the bird about two feet above the ground. “This gun sometimes does that,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I can’t tell you how many pheasants I’ve killed with a flashed pan…” Yes, Virginia, a flintlock can go off with an empty pan!

Time of Day Considerations

In the 1980s and 1990s, I thought nothing of ending a hunt, unloading (dump the pan, frizzen up, hammer down) and walking back to the truck in the dark. Most nights I would arrive at the pickup fifteen to twenty minutes after the close of shooting hours. The majority of the time, I parked in one of three locations. Each location had a large, dead stump (I guess all stumps are dead) in a safe-to-shoot area. My habit was to prime and dump the round ball into a stump, which was twelve to fifteen yards from the truck. I discussed this practice with our local MDNR officer, and he saw no problem with it. If someone questioned the “late shot,” I had a fresh hole in the stump to “prove” what I did. Remember, this was twenty-plus years ago.

However, I no longer dump a load after shooting hours close, thanks to the advent of cell phones. A number of years ago I walked into an outdoor store and one of the customers was complaining about a neighbor shooting at waterfowl after hours. In the middle of his rant, he pulled out his cell phone and played a time-stamped video from about ten minutes after waterfowl shooting hours closed. The screen showed the neighbor’s pond and there was no question there were two shots, even though you could not see the muzzle flash, what was shot at or who did the shooting. Now the neighbor could have been hunting other game within legal hours, but how do you prove that? And was it even “the neighbor?”

In today’s world, guilt by cell phone or social media video accusation overrules due process in the realm of public opinion. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard, “He’s always shooting after hours.” It’s not worth the hassle or the risk of tarnishing other traditional hunters with a bad impression.

Round Ball Loads

Prior to the close of shooting hours, I simply discharge the round ball. I case the gun, transport it to the eastern property line, and fire it into a box elder stump wedged up against the south wall in a gully. This keeps the muzzle blast away from most hunting areas and confines the “thunder” to one specific location, limiting the possibility of spooking game.

After shooting hours close, I pull the round ball at home at my work bench. Please remember that I load shot and round ball with leaves and grass as wadding. I no longer use a patched round ball in my smoothbores, and haven’t for five or so years. My current practice is to load with a wad over the powder and over the death sphere for the best accuracy.

An oak leaf wad caught on the gun worm's spirals.Each persona’s shot pouch contains a gun worm, a spiral wire that looks like a cone-shaped spring. When screwed to the bare end of the ramrod, the gun worm corkscrews into the over-shot or over-ball wad and pulls it with ease.

On occasion the gun worm will dislodge the round ball from the over-powder wad, but most times it won’t. The ball tends to create a pocket in the wad which holds the ball and wad firm over the powder charge. If it won’t work loose, I use the ball puller. The pulled ball ends up on the far edge of the bench, along with many others, waiting to be recycled the next time I fire up the lead pot.

Some living historians with a British persona load using the standard military rolled paper cartridge with a round ball in one end. After dumping the powder down the bore, the paper cartridge is inserted ball-end first so the empty paper that held the powder charge faces the muzzle. When the charge is tamped firm, the paper forms a wad over the ball. A gun worm will usually catch the paper and pull the ball out with it, making removing the load easy and simple.

And on rare occasions, I hunt squirrels with a .40-caliber Dickert rifle. I almost always discharge that load, because the small diameter of the ball coupled with the added diameter of the puller tends to wedge the patch and ball tighter in the rifled bore. If I have to pull the load, I dribble about six or eight drops of cleaning solvent (one part Murphy’s Oil Soap to two parts 90-percent Isopropyl alcohol) down the bore, let it set for a few minutes and then pull the ball. Plain water will wet the patch, but the soap in the cleaner makes the moist patch slippery. Once the ball starts to move, I do not stop pulling until it is out. I have used the same method on rifles up to .58-caliber with similar results.

Shot Loads

Back when I loaded with over-powder, fiber and over-shot wads, I would keep a loading rod in the truck with a ball-puller attached to pull the cards. With the over-shot card out, I would pour the shot into my hand and return it to the shot bag. This is a hold-over practice from when I first started hunting with Old Turkey Feathers. I only owned three pounds of #4 shot, and I was trying to be frugal. Non-toxic bismuth for waterfowl is another matter. Each charge averages over a dollar per shot—pull it and save it!

With leaf and/or grass wadding, the gun worm removes the over-shot wad. Sometimes I will pull the over-powder wad and dump the powder out, and at other times I’ll prime and discharge the powder load. I didn’t worry as much about the muffled “WHOOSH!” as the loud “BOOM!” This choice depends on location, what seasons are open and whether or not I’ve already fired the gun. There have been several instances where I wanted to see what the wads looked like after a day of hunting, so pulling the wads is a matter of wilderness classroom learning.

Every Muzzle Loading Gun is Different

I usually preface answers to loading/unloading with this statement: “Every muzzleloading gun is different.” A traditional black powder hunter has to learn what his or her favorite arm needs in the way of care and feeding. I’ve shot Old Turkey Feathers for 40 years. Those four decades have been filled with trial and error lessons, and I am still learning.

For example, I am now paying careful attention to Mi-ki-naak’s fusil de chasse. This trade gun was made in the 1980s, but it is “new” to me/him. A common trap many traditional hunters fall into is assuming what works for one smoothbore will work in another. Sometimes that is true, and sometimes it is not. None of us want to confront the moment of truth and find that that assumption is incorrect, especially when a fine goose wings away when it shouldn’t.

Old Turkey Feathers is a very forgiving smoothbore. If the first load in a clean bore is discharged, all that is needed is three or four damp patches to get her ready for the next day. The next morning, before reloading, I run a damp patch down the bore. Based on my experience, I can determine what condition the bore is in from that patch. Nine times out of ten the patch is light gray with no signs of rust. I load as I normally would.

A traditional woodsman turns at the sound of the crows.If I don’t make it out the next day, after about four days the patch shows surface rust. I take the time to run a few more patches down the bore, then load as usual. When plans change, as they often do, I take a few moments to run an oily patch down the bore. The damp patch before loading reminds me that I took this precaution, and from looking at the patch I can tell if more are needed.

By comparison, if I shoot a number of shots, say two back-to-back rounds of quail walk, Old Turkey Feathers gets a thorough cleaning. If I try to get away with the “one shot” method of using a few patches, the bore shows a mix of fouling and a hint of surface rust the next day—thus the need to “know your gun.”

In the case of pulling the load and pouring the black powder out of the barrel, I run a couple of damp patches down the bore, just as I would if I discharged the load. Quite often the first patch brings up a few grains that remained stuck to the breech plug. If the second one is clean, I stop. The next morning, before loading, I run a damp patch down the bore and examine it. Again, nine times out of ten there is no problem and I commence loading.

Carrying a Load Over to the Next Day

A fair number of muzzle-loading hunters leave a load in a clean gun for several days of hunting. I don’t recommend this practice, first for family safety, as stated earlier, and second, because of the risk of damaging your gun’s bore. And then there is the cringe-worthy comment we’ve all heard at the beginning of the sport shooting season: “I left my muzzleloader loaded during deer season and just discovered it…”

Black powder is hygroscopic, meaning the granules attract and absorb moisture from the air. On high-humidity or rainy days, I usually pull the load and change the powder halfway through the day. This habit is a result of mistakes from years ago. Early on, I left a load in a rainy day, and when I went to discharge it, I discovered a bore filled with black, gooey mud. Lesson learned.

Being hygroscopic, a black powder load might gather moisture that the hunter is not aware of. If left overnight, the load will not produce the same breech pressures as a fresh charge and thus performance suffers. I have heard stories on the shooting range about folks who left a charge in a gun “for a day or so,” which turned into a week or more. The gathered dampness in the powder created “fouling” that began rusting the bore. Again, it’s just not worth the hassle or risk of potential damage.

For those of us that load with compost, leaves and grass for wadding, this same characteristic of black powder will pull moisture from damp leaves or a ball of green grass. For that reason, I pay careful attention to how “wet” the leaves or grass feel. When natural wad material displays any amount of moisture, I change the load mid-day. If not, you will hear and feel the difference, followed by a queasy wrenching of one’s stomach.

Moisture and Condensation

The forums and campfire conversations abound with discussions regarding condensation and/or resulting moisture from bringing a muzzleloader that has been outside in the cold into a warm environment. Horror stories abound, as do glowing reports of no problems. In the end, this topic falls in the category of “know your gun.”

When I return from a hunt that involves rain, snow or chasing in a wet glade, I always wipe Old Turkey Feathers down with a towel after pulling the load and swabbing the bore. The gun then returns to its deerskin, slip-on case/sleeve.

In the late 1970s, a living historian wasn’t serious about the shooting side of the hobby unless he or she had a hand-stitched deerskin case for that prized muzzleloader. I’ve used canvas, wool and oil-treated sleeves, along with zip-up padded gun cases. I have noticed condensation or moisture with all of them, but not with the deerskin. Again, this is my personal experience and my preference based on my observations in Lower Michigan. That may not be true in other climates or locations.

The Northwest gun's pan flashes and the main charge roars.The “know your gun” adage requires a certain amount of trial and error on the part of the traditional hunter. The best advice is to experiment in the wilderness classroom prior to a critical moment of truth. Whether pulling a load or dumping it off, the time to make a decision regarding any of the areas I’ve touched on is well before opening day.

For example, when I talk about dumping a load and using a couple of damp patches for a “light cleaning,” I base that statement on experience and careful observation. If you have a new-to-you rifle or smoothbore, load it and fire one shot. Give the bore a light cleaning, then put it in the gun safe. Use whatever method works for you as a reminder (cell phone alarm?) and run a patch down the bore eight hours later. Repeat at bed time, then the next morning. What did you discover? Repeat this lesson several times to confirm your result. Now you have a guideline to go by. However, be willing to make changes the minute the results change or don’t meet you hunting needs.

Everyone’s method is different. There are no right or wrong answers to the questions posed. I hope the comments help, Joe. And dear readers, thank you for your patience…

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

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“Considering the next ridge”

“Snapshot Saturday”

A returned white captive considers crossing the valley to the next ridge.

Saturday, 19 November, 1763: Mi-ki-naak, the Snapping Turtle, paused in late afternoon and pondered whether to continue the still-hunt for venison to the north or cross the tiny valley and search to the west. Experience, coupled with the unseasonable snow, kept the backcountry woodsman away from the cutting winds in the bottomland surrounding the Riviere aux Raisins.

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Snapping Turtle is Hunting…

Thank you for asking, and yes, we are fine, and attempting to get “caught up.”

For the second straight year, life has thrown us some pretty sharp curves. I never could hit a curve ball. Trying to keep a half-dozen or so eggs in the air all at the same time is difficult at best, then someone decides to add an egg or two and…well, that leads to an inevitable messy clean up. And I can’t juggle, either. This year, the blog seems to be the egg most often missed—or dropped. I apologize for not keeping up, but I had little choice in the matter.

Sometimes in this hobby, progress plods along slower than we would like. But the goal of every traditional black powder hunter is a quality portrayal, not quantity, or at least it should be. Despite setbacks, Mi-ki-naak, the new persona from the fall of 1763, now possesses enough of the basics for 18th-century daily life to step back in time with reasonable meaning and authenticity.

The Snapping Turtle looks to the south. Swamp muck dapples his red wool leggins, the silk ribbons of his breechclout show a few briar snags, his hand-woven sash (new this fall) has stretched a bit, a greenish-gray linen shirt covers a white, ruffled trade shirt, he possesses his own shot pouch and large powder horn with a crude snapping turtle engraved. I’ve already discovered one or two oversights missing from this returned white captive’s woodland ensemble, which I find exciting.

Currently, fresh venison is at the top of Mi-ki-naak’s list. He’s spent a few days afield with a British ranger from Capt. Joseph Hopkins Company of Rangers, but neither has unleashed a death sphere—yet. And when a hunting companion is not available, Mi-ki-naak plunges into the wilderness by himself.

The hunter orange silk scarf (required by Michigan’s hunting regulations for deer) is the only item that is not distinctive to this character, but there is a “work around” coming, I think. He has his own wool trade blanket, originally white with a black stripe, but dyed brown with walnut hulls to better blend into the forest—even when the glade turns white. Oh, he has an Ojibwe-style peaked wigwam started overlooking the Riviere aux Raisins. Available time, again…

Msko-waagosh, the Red Fox, with a wild turkey in a snowy landscape.Msko-waagosh time-traveled to 1796 this fall, too. The unseasonable snows and frigid cold of early November proved a bit challenging, but this experienced woodsman still brought wild game back to camp. I can’t wait to share the story of the “snow bird.”

Unfortunately, his wigwam no longer stands in the hollow, thanks to heavy spring snows and a blustery wind. What a disappointment. Is there a pattern developing here with these characters and their shelters—falling limbs, heavy snows?

A new, light-green, wool sash replaced the hand-me-down, overlooked from the Red Fox’s creation. His shot pouch has been cleaned out and careful attention given to making sure each item of clothing or accoutrement is distinctive to his 1790-era existence. Reconstructing the dome-shaped wigwam is not possible this fall. A temporary brush shelter was planned, but the weather did not cooperate. There is still time, but…

The trading post hunter feels neglected, so a new pair of broad-fall breeches needs only six more buttons and button holes. I’ve threatened to take them to the woods and sew while waiting on a fine buck. I just can’t come up with the time to finish this project. I’ll probably outgrow them. The old ones wouldn’t come clean, then the legs shredded; there’s a story there…

Again, this character will get his pass-alongs back. Some will be kept and others repurposed. As I have written, the arrival of Mi-ki-naak afforded time to re-evaluate each persona and the end result is positive. His shelter is on hold, too. I sat at the edge of the sedge grass in the river bottom a week ago and just started chuckling as a doe and her summer fawn approached. It seems all of my characters are homeless woodland wanderers, and not one has a complete set of clothes.

Emails and comments to musings, mostly Snapshot Saturday postings, always bring ideas for blog posts to light. Please bear with me; I have a list that I will get to, I hope. It seems nothing is certain anymore. Miss Tami just said the cold drizzle is subsiding. Mi-ki-naak has a great desire to head back to his forest home. So for now, instead of me writing, the Snapping Turtle is going hunting!

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

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