a little hunt/trek from the good old days
Mar 29, 2022 9:45:11 GMT -7
Black Hand, Keith, and 4 more like this
Post by spence on Mar 29, 2022 9:45:11 GMT -7
I apologize up front for a post which is waaaaay to long. I am bored, and I get into trouble when I am. This is both what passes for a trek and a hunt, not much of either. It is what it is, and it's what I do, have been doing for a long time. I keep a journal of my outings, this is an entry from just a couple of years after I began reenacting in 1990. Back when most things about the hobby were new to me.
August 15, 1992
I took a solo trek to the farm, Saturday and Saturday night. This was the first time I had been out since the February trip to Arizona. I went in full regalia, with moccasins and weskit. I arrived about 0745, and parked in my small alfalfa field. The gun for the weekend was the Louis Smith .30 caliber flintlock rifle. I loaded it with 35 gr. FFFg, .295 in. ball and cotton patching of about .010 inch, lubed with Wonderlube 1000.
It had rained on Friday night, so the woods and ground were soaked, and the stalking was very good. Rain still threatened, but it never arrived during the trek. The sky was dark and overcast, the wind almost calm, and the woods and fields full of that beautiful morning mist which seems to glow in the early yellow light. I started hunting on the north side of the stream, slipping along the path. Water fell from the trees whenever the wind blew, masking the sound of squirrels moving. At about 0830 I heard a squirrel jumping toward me, knocking water everywhere, headed for a small walnut tree. He perched in the open at about 25 yards, and I took a shot at his head. Misfire. Three in a row. He still sat, so I took out my patch knife and knapped the flint, cocked, set and fired again, this time with a satisfying report. The branch and the squirrel both came tumbling down, but the squirrel hit the ground running and skinned back up the tree in a flash. The branch never moved. That rifle hadn’t been fired in 10 years, so I wasn’t surprised at the misfire.
After 15 minutes of looking I gave up on that one and moved on. I hunted in a circle through the woods to the creek and back with no luck except seeing three deer which coughed mightily at me as I moved along. And a circling red-tailed hawk, screaming loudly at something. Moving up the south side of the little stream to the falls, I crossed over and retraced my path to the walnut tree. When I got close I heard a squirrel cutting on a walnut. He dropped that one, and when he went for another, I saw him move. I didn’t. When he had a nut he come back and perched in the open, facing me nearly head on. I saw that it was a large fox squirrel. I squeezed off a shot at his head, and he tumbled down. I cleaned the rifle, reloaded and went to pick him up, all the while being berated by the gray, which was somewhere in the same tree. I had shot the fox squirrel, a boar that looked pretty old, through the left shoulder and chest, and the ball was just under the skin over the right kidney. When I cleaned it a little later, I found that the ball had split 1/3-2/3 and flattened completely. (I probably need to cut back on the load to 25-30 gr. FFFg.)
Since I had shot my lunch, I planned to do no more hunting, and moved to the horse camp in Keith’s woods. I would have preferred to camp somewhere else, but everything was soaked, and there was plenty of firewood stacked there which would be useable.
When I had camp well set up I started thinking about a fire, and food. Breaking out the fire starting kit, I decided to try starting the fire using my flintlock instead of doing it by hand. There was a live cedar nearby, so I broke off some small dead stuff and laid a nest, collected graduated wood to put near, all hanging pieces, nothing from the ground. I placed some charcloth in the pan of the .30 cal. flintlock, closed it, cocked and set, fired, and sparks showered onto the char, starting a spot. I picked it up, blew on it while folding it into a birds nest of shredded cedar bark from the kit, and in 15 seconds it burst into flame. I laid it under the cedar small stuff, and quickly had a fire. Good to know. Book learning is now personal experience. It would be smart to light a candle stub from that first flame, then you could relax and build the fire at your leisure. As soon as enough coals developed, I put on a pot of sassafras tea to boil, then cut a stick and toasted some homemade bread to golden brown. When I was a lad I had, while on a squirrel hunting trip in Breckinridge county, field corn roasted on a stick like a wiener. That was delicious then, so I decided to try it now. I remembered correctly. Roasted to a golden brown, the corn gets waxy and is better than boiled.
Nice lunch, but the best was the desert. While roasting the corn I heard feet thumping, and looked up to see a young fawn, still with spots, come hurtling past me 20 yards away. She was apparently startled to find me on her path, and forged ahead in fright rather than reversing her course.
Realizing cooking the squirrel would take a lot of time, I decided to start it to have ready for an early supper. I cleaned and cut up the squirrel, put it into water in the pot, with salt and pepper, and found a stable spot in the fire where it would simmer rapidly, and cooked it for 1 1/2 hours. I then added 2 small chopped potatoes and a small chopped onion and cooked it another 45 minutes. Next, I shaved the kernels off a fresh ear of sweet white corn into the pot and boiled that for 15 minutes. By this time the stew was reduced to about 1/3 and was nice and thick. With another toasted slice of bread and cool water it made a very tasty meal, more than ample in quantity. That old boar squirrel was falling-off-the-bones tender, and delicious. Some cornmeal added to the pot would have made it into a country classic. Next time, I will take along some cayenne pepper to liven it up just a little.
While all the cooking was going on I put a leaf on a tree and shot at it offhand, just checking out the rifle. It shot 8-10 times consistently, and I shot it well. I also threw the tomahawk at the woodpile for a while, and spent an hour reading Democracy in America (1838) by Alexis de Tocqueville. Yeah, it was too young to have been in a camp of 1778, but it was too good a book to resist.
While cleaning the pot and my horn spoon, I decided to try making some boiled coffee. Two cups of water, 3 teaspoon of coffee, boiled rapidly for 6-8 minutes made a cup of coffee that was surprisingly good, better than dripped, for sure. About 1630 I hiked to the new pond and shot at a rock for a few minutes, three shots offhand at 20 yards, dead on target center, 1 inch group! Why can’t I shoot that way at game?
Back to camp, another slice of toast and an ear of waxy brown corn about 1800, more reading, then getting the camp ready for dark. I changed the moccasins for the new straight-last colonial shoes and wore them for the rest of the trip, just to break them in. I like them.
About 1900 I hiked to the 9 acre fescue field to see if I could spot the coyote or her pups living in a den there. No coyotes, but two does in the far corner feeding, then bedding down while I watched, standing in the open field 200 yards from them. On the way back another red-tailed hawk, this one flying 10 feet off the ground down the center of the grassy strip. I collected plenty of wood for the night fire, then read until dark, lighted 2 candles to set on my knees and read another hour. About 2130 I heard what must have been the coyote pups, about 50-75 yards into the alfalfa field, growling and playing. Like puppies, but not quite the same.
After fighting fatigue until 2230 I piled 3-4 large logs on the fire and turned in. Using my two wool blankets as both pad and cover, I slept very will until 0745. The temperature fell to 48°. The blanket and ground cloth combination is a happy marriage.
Plenty of coals were left of the fire in the morning, and I easily had a small breakfast blaze going. Boiled coffee, toast, and the last ear of corn made a great morning meal.
By 1000 I had packed up and was pulling out for home. I was sorry to leave, because I had needed this trip, and it worked the magic I needed.
All the primitive gear functioned without a flaw. The clothes are comfortable and natural feeling to me now. Starting a fire with the flintlock will never be a mystery again, squirrel stew is delicious (and tender and easy), toasted bread and corn on a stick are treats, boiled coffee is easy and good, the Louis Smith .30 caliber flintlock is a tack-driver---this was a more than average educational trip.
Spending time in the woods always rejuvenates me, but especially so this time. The cool temperatures, the misty blue air over the rolling hills, sighting all the wildlife all helped me to shed some of the civilization that I find so bothersome after a time. There is no way to explain to anyone how deeply I need that, and how thoroughly enjoyable I find living in the eighteenth century to be. I am really beginning to want a companion on these trips, though. There must be someone out there as crazy as I.
Spence
August 15, 1992
I took a solo trek to the farm, Saturday and Saturday night. This was the first time I had been out since the February trip to Arizona. I went in full regalia, with moccasins and weskit. I arrived about 0745, and parked in my small alfalfa field. The gun for the weekend was the Louis Smith .30 caliber flintlock rifle. I loaded it with 35 gr. FFFg, .295 in. ball and cotton patching of about .010 inch, lubed with Wonderlube 1000.
It had rained on Friday night, so the woods and ground were soaked, and the stalking was very good. Rain still threatened, but it never arrived during the trek. The sky was dark and overcast, the wind almost calm, and the woods and fields full of that beautiful morning mist which seems to glow in the early yellow light. I started hunting on the north side of the stream, slipping along the path. Water fell from the trees whenever the wind blew, masking the sound of squirrels moving. At about 0830 I heard a squirrel jumping toward me, knocking water everywhere, headed for a small walnut tree. He perched in the open at about 25 yards, and I took a shot at his head. Misfire. Three in a row. He still sat, so I took out my patch knife and knapped the flint, cocked, set and fired again, this time with a satisfying report. The branch and the squirrel both came tumbling down, but the squirrel hit the ground running and skinned back up the tree in a flash. The branch never moved. That rifle hadn’t been fired in 10 years, so I wasn’t surprised at the misfire.
After 15 minutes of looking I gave up on that one and moved on. I hunted in a circle through the woods to the creek and back with no luck except seeing three deer which coughed mightily at me as I moved along. And a circling red-tailed hawk, screaming loudly at something. Moving up the south side of the little stream to the falls, I crossed over and retraced my path to the walnut tree. When I got close I heard a squirrel cutting on a walnut. He dropped that one, and when he went for another, I saw him move. I didn’t. When he had a nut he come back and perched in the open, facing me nearly head on. I saw that it was a large fox squirrel. I squeezed off a shot at his head, and he tumbled down. I cleaned the rifle, reloaded and went to pick him up, all the while being berated by the gray, which was somewhere in the same tree. I had shot the fox squirrel, a boar that looked pretty old, through the left shoulder and chest, and the ball was just under the skin over the right kidney. When I cleaned it a little later, I found that the ball had split 1/3-2/3 and flattened completely. (I probably need to cut back on the load to 25-30 gr. FFFg.)
Since I had shot my lunch, I planned to do no more hunting, and moved to the horse camp in Keith’s woods. I would have preferred to camp somewhere else, but everything was soaked, and there was plenty of firewood stacked there which would be useable.
When I had camp well set up I started thinking about a fire, and food. Breaking out the fire starting kit, I decided to try starting the fire using my flintlock instead of doing it by hand. There was a live cedar nearby, so I broke off some small dead stuff and laid a nest, collected graduated wood to put near, all hanging pieces, nothing from the ground. I placed some charcloth in the pan of the .30 cal. flintlock, closed it, cocked and set, fired, and sparks showered onto the char, starting a spot. I picked it up, blew on it while folding it into a birds nest of shredded cedar bark from the kit, and in 15 seconds it burst into flame. I laid it under the cedar small stuff, and quickly had a fire. Good to know. Book learning is now personal experience. It would be smart to light a candle stub from that first flame, then you could relax and build the fire at your leisure. As soon as enough coals developed, I put on a pot of sassafras tea to boil, then cut a stick and toasted some homemade bread to golden brown. When I was a lad I had, while on a squirrel hunting trip in Breckinridge county, field corn roasted on a stick like a wiener. That was delicious then, so I decided to try it now. I remembered correctly. Roasted to a golden brown, the corn gets waxy and is better than boiled.
Nice lunch, but the best was the desert. While roasting the corn I heard feet thumping, and looked up to see a young fawn, still with spots, come hurtling past me 20 yards away. She was apparently startled to find me on her path, and forged ahead in fright rather than reversing her course.
Realizing cooking the squirrel would take a lot of time, I decided to start it to have ready for an early supper. I cleaned and cut up the squirrel, put it into water in the pot, with salt and pepper, and found a stable spot in the fire where it would simmer rapidly, and cooked it for 1 1/2 hours. I then added 2 small chopped potatoes and a small chopped onion and cooked it another 45 minutes. Next, I shaved the kernels off a fresh ear of sweet white corn into the pot and boiled that for 15 minutes. By this time the stew was reduced to about 1/3 and was nice and thick. With another toasted slice of bread and cool water it made a very tasty meal, more than ample in quantity. That old boar squirrel was falling-off-the-bones tender, and delicious. Some cornmeal added to the pot would have made it into a country classic. Next time, I will take along some cayenne pepper to liven it up just a little.
While all the cooking was going on I put a leaf on a tree and shot at it offhand, just checking out the rifle. It shot 8-10 times consistently, and I shot it well. I also threw the tomahawk at the woodpile for a while, and spent an hour reading Democracy in America (1838) by Alexis de Tocqueville. Yeah, it was too young to have been in a camp of 1778, but it was too good a book to resist.
While cleaning the pot and my horn spoon, I decided to try making some boiled coffee. Two cups of water, 3 teaspoon of coffee, boiled rapidly for 6-8 minutes made a cup of coffee that was surprisingly good, better than dripped, for sure. About 1630 I hiked to the new pond and shot at a rock for a few minutes, three shots offhand at 20 yards, dead on target center, 1 inch group! Why can’t I shoot that way at game?
Back to camp, another slice of toast and an ear of waxy brown corn about 1800, more reading, then getting the camp ready for dark. I changed the moccasins for the new straight-last colonial shoes and wore them for the rest of the trip, just to break them in. I like them.
About 1900 I hiked to the 9 acre fescue field to see if I could spot the coyote or her pups living in a den there. No coyotes, but two does in the far corner feeding, then bedding down while I watched, standing in the open field 200 yards from them. On the way back another red-tailed hawk, this one flying 10 feet off the ground down the center of the grassy strip. I collected plenty of wood for the night fire, then read until dark, lighted 2 candles to set on my knees and read another hour. About 2130 I heard what must have been the coyote pups, about 50-75 yards into the alfalfa field, growling and playing. Like puppies, but not quite the same.
After fighting fatigue until 2230 I piled 3-4 large logs on the fire and turned in. Using my two wool blankets as both pad and cover, I slept very will until 0745. The temperature fell to 48°. The blanket and ground cloth combination is a happy marriage.
Plenty of coals were left of the fire in the morning, and I easily had a small breakfast blaze going. Boiled coffee, toast, and the last ear of corn made a great morning meal.
By 1000 I had packed up and was pulling out for home. I was sorry to leave, because I had needed this trip, and it worked the magic I needed.
All the primitive gear functioned without a flaw. The clothes are comfortable and natural feeling to me now. Starting a fire with the flintlock will never be a mystery again, squirrel stew is delicious (and tender and easy), toasted bread and corn on a stick are treats, boiled coffee is easy and good, the Louis Smith .30 caliber flintlock is a tack-driver---this was a more than average educational trip.
Spending time in the woods always rejuvenates me, but especially so this time. The cool temperatures, the misty blue air over the rolling hills, sighting all the wildlife all helped me to shed some of the civilization that I find so bothersome after a time. There is no way to explain to anyone how deeply I need that, and how thoroughly enjoyable I find living in the eighteenth century to be. I am really beginning to want a companion on these trips, though. There must be someone out there as crazy as I.
Spence
