I do a simple outing every year for my birthday, usually combining a little rabbit or squirrel hunting, nature walk, photography session and cooking lunch. Life intruded, this year, so it was a couple of months late, but it’s always good, whenever.
The feel of the day was different, this time. I have sold my farm, but made part of the deal unlimited access for hunting, fishing and trekking, for my lifetime. I’m also guaranteed that I’ll have the place to myself anytime I choose to go out. Even so, though it was the same place, I was trekking over another man’s property, and it made a difference. I owned the place for thirty-five years, and managed it for the wildlife whenever possible. That will no longer be the case, it will now be primarily a farm, and it will be interesting to see what changes because of that.
Lord, the memories I accumulated while I had it. I’m having trouble letting it go.
I have been honing my shooting kit down to bare essentials, using tow and brown paper for all my wadding, ball and shot, and carrying nothing not absolutely necessary. Well, except for my lucky buckeye and other mystical medicine. All for the flintlock smoothbore, of course. The kit worked well, today, and I’m happy with it. I carried it in my double bag and with my buffalo powder horn.
Temperature in the morning was 22°F, no wind, clear blue sky, a good day to be roaming the Kentucky hills and woods in colonial garb with smoothbore in hand. I hunted rabbits for an hour or more, then hiked half a mile to the very back of the farm where the boundary is a nice little creek. The trail there took me through a big woods lot, so I hunted squirrels on the way. I had seen only one rabbit, no shot, and by the time I reached the creek I decided I had drawn a blank on the squirrels, too. Not so. Standing on the bank of the creek making up my mind where to settle down, I was startled by a sudden crashing as a dead limb fell from a small tree on the opposite bank. I was amazed to see that a big gray squirrel had been on it when it came down, and he hit the ground with a thump, recovered and dashed upstream. I was standing with the butt of the smoothbore on my toe, but I surprised myself by getting off a very quick snap shot, anchoring him. Mother Nature will provide, but you have to be ready. I only got one foot a little wet crossing the stream twice to retrieve him. Rocks are good.
I picked a spot on the edge of the creek which had a log to sit on, and spent the next few hours building a fire with burning glass, charwood and cedar bark, roasting a chunk of venison loin from a buck I took not far from there, boiling some sassafras tea, and toasting some homemade bread. While all that was happening, I threw my tomahawk, shot the smoothbore at stuff and things, took pictures, hiked along an ancient slave fence nearby, and just generally made a day of it. When the food was ready I had loin, bread, sassafras tea sweetened with maple sugar and some 18th-century biscuits I baked for the trip. Life is good.
Sitting there on the log, I wandered through many very good memories from all the years I’ve been roaming this patch of ground. I don’t think we ever own land, really, we just occupy it for a time. I’ve often wondered who had it when that slave fence was built at least one hundred and fifty years ago. Few things in my life give me as much pleasure as knowing I did my best to take care of the place while the responsibility was mine, and I look forward to at least a few more days like this on it.
Too many pictures, sorry.
Spence
The feel of the day was different, this time. I have sold my farm, but made part of the deal unlimited access for hunting, fishing and trekking, for my lifetime. I’m also guaranteed that I’ll have the place to myself anytime I choose to go out. Even so, though it was the same place, I was trekking over another man’s property, and it made a difference. I owned the place for thirty-five years, and managed it for the wildlife whenever possible. That will no longer be the case, it will now be primarily a farm, and it will be interesting to see what changes because of that.
Lord, the memories I accumulated while I had it. I’m having trouble letting it go.
I have been honing my shooting kit down to bare essentials, using tow and brown paper for all my wadding, ball and shot, and carrying nothing not absolutely necessary. Well, except for my lucky buckeye and other mystical medicine. All for the flintlock smoothbore, of course. The kit worked well, today, and I’m happy with it. I carried it in my double bag and with my buffalo powder horn.
Temperature in the morning was 22°F, no wind, clear blue sky, a good day to be roaming the Kentucky hills and woods in colonial garb with smoothbore in hand. I hunted rabbits for an hour or more, then hiked half a mile to the very back of the farm where the boundary is a nice little creek. The trail there took me through a big woods lot, so I hunted squirrels on the way. I had seen only one rabbit, no shot, and by the time I reached the creek I decided I had drawn a blank on the squirrels, too. Not so. Standing on the bank of the creek making up my mind where to settle down, I was startled by a sudden crashing as a dead limb fell from a small tree on the opposite bank. I was amazed to see that a big gray squirrel had been on it when it came down, and he hit the ground with a thump, recovered and dashed upstream. I was standing with the butt of the smoothbore on my toe, but I surprised myself by getting off a very quick snap shot, anchoring him. Mother Nature will provide, but you have to be ready. I only got one foot a little wet crossing the stream twice to retrieve him. Rocks are good.
I picked a spot on the edge of the creek which had a log to sit on, and spent the next few hours building a fire with burning glass, charwood and cedar bark, roasting a chunk of venison loin from a buck I took not far from there, boiling some sassafras tea, and toasting some homemade bread. While all that was happening, I threw my tomahawk, shot the smoothbore at stuff and things, took pictures, hiked along an ancient slave fence nearby, and just generally made a day of it. When the food was ready I had loin, bread, sassafras tea sweetened with maple sugar and some 18th-century biscuits I baked for the trip. Life is good.
Sitting there on the log, I wandered through many very good memories from all the years I’ve been roaming this patch of ground. I don’t think we ever own land, really, we just occupy it for a time. I’ve often wondered who had it when that slave fence was built at least one hundred and fifty years ago. Few things in my life give me as much pleasure as knowing I did my best to take care of the place while the responsibility was mine, and I look forward to at least a few more days like this on it.
Too many pictures, sorry.
Spence
