Recent events indicate a hostile party of Indians are lurking in the Robinson Creek area. Several unattended cabins have been burned in the past two weeks and in a decidedly grim turn of events, a Mr. Thompson was found scalped near the mouth of Stoner Creek two days before Christmas. His body had been struck through by several shot and his possessions taken. Several of the able-bodied men have volunteered to fan out and look for sign. If an encampment or likely trail can be located, an attack will be organized...
I left the settlement well before daylight. Sneaking into these woods under cover of darkness has proven a good strategy in the past and as numerous tribes frequent this area, I'd rather be in position early rather than later. Sitting in hide or moving quietly from tree to tree are my favored methods for the hours around first light. Anyone breaking camp or beginning their move through this isolated forest at this hour tends to make enough noise to prevent my being caught unawares. The plan was to make a series of loops, in something of a cloverleaf shape, just west of the Acton homestead. My primary goal was checking the area for sign that might indicate who had been passing through the area and as always at this time of the year, keeping an eye peeled for game.
The morning was quite cold. Enough so that my facial hair was forming ice and exposed fingertips soon went numb. The ground was extremely noisy underfoot if great care was not taking in choosing one's footsteps. It took quite a long time for me to slip into place. Lack of sleep and enough gear for an extended scout did little to help my progress. I carried with me a single blanket on my tumpline, a haversack with a cooking pot, some dried vegetables, a bit of corn meal, a handful of jerky, and a small water gourd. My .54 Blue Ridge longrifle and shooting pouch were carried in addition to my 'hawk and belt knife. The extra gear normally wouldn't accompany me on a one day scout, but I wanted to be prepared if some development led me into a longer stay in the forest.
Sunrise found me resting behind a log just off a footpath I'd found on an earlier scout. I sat quietly as the skies began to gray, just listening and trying to adjust my eyesight to the changing light. The creek was still running a bit high from the great storms we had last week. The high water and sub-freezing temps made me very happy my scout would not require crossing the creek today.
The "peet" of a hen turkey sounded from across the creek to my left. I shifted my position as slowly as a vine growing around the log, or at least that's how it seemed. I was no longer cold as the threat of enemy contact sent blood coursing through my veins. Was it just an old turkey, or was it a warrior calling some signal to another of his party? My eyes scanned the far bank for any sign of movement. It would be easy letting the mind wander to the horrors awaiting a captive of the hostiles, but I chose to focus on the fight. Thumb resting on the rifle's cock, I mentally rehearsed the shot: draw to full cock, set the trigger, align the sights, touch the front trigger and watch a dead enemy fall from beneath the cloud of smoke. Pour the powder, one, two, three seconds, as the remaining braves hesitated and then ran toward me. Spit the ball in my mouth right down the bore, bumping the buttplate on the ground to seat it as I stood up. Splash powder toward the pan and slap the frizzen closed as the first brave neared me, only to fall in a hail of smoke, fire, and ball. Drop the rifle, drawing 'hawk and knife as I jump the log...
The old hen's head bobbed out from behind a thicket. She made her way on out of sight to some important destination known only to her. I sat trembling behind a log in the cold gray forest, never happier to see a hen turkey.
After my heartbeat stilled and the turkey had gone well on her way, I moved along to investigate another known creek crossing. It was so cold that I experienced a few bouts of uncontrollable shivers. Not good, as that makes the longrifle essentially useless as anything beyond an expensive and poorly designed club. I would welcome the warming sun when my route finally led away from this secluded bottom land nestled against the base of a large ridge, but that would happen much later in the morning. For now, I focused on the job at hand and touched the 'hawk in my belt. A little shivering wouldn't diminish its effectiveness by much.
Tracks at the crossing were few and had the look of someone unfamiliar with the forest. Probably one of the new settlers struggling to find game. It's always a struggle when they fight against the forest, wandering through as they would a market back east. Looking at the slipshod tracks, I could only think that this poor fellow would either adapt to the forest or he would die out here and there was really no way to tell which. Only Providence and time hold that answer.
Along the way, I saw several deer sneaking to their beds, squirrels coming out to start their day, a raccoon hurrying home, and several rafts of ducks numbering between ten and twenty or so birds. Were I hunting on this day, I would've needed help carrying my bountiful harvest home!
Moving along, the ridge line began to play out. The sun was already up but from my position, the world still appeared dressed in its nightclothes. The cold seemed to be drilling holes into my bones. Chuckling to myself, I considered the fact that prime will go damp and fail to fire and then considering that my prime might actually freeze in the pan. Ongoing checks showed this to be a needless concern, as my prime remained viable throughout the morning.
The big trees in this area are a joy to behold. The axe has already diminished the great forests back east but for now, the old sentinels stand mostly unmolested. I wonder how numerous the big trees were before the settlers began arriving here? I wonder if any will be left in a hundred years?
I finally reached the point where I would turn from the ridge and move beyond the grasp of its bone-chilling shadow. A cold, crystal-clear branch runs into the main creek here, and I've gotten much use from its bounty. Beaver use it heavily to pass between the main creek and their flooded swamps to the north, and the waters teem with fish in the warmer months.
[youtube]V4UDX-lX7xc[/youtube]
Even at this late time of the year, beaver activity is ongoing. I see the tracks and slides all upon the banks, along with their incessant gnawings. This area was flooded just last week, so the piles of chips must be only a few days old. If the hostilities ever end, I may come back to this little branch and set traps for the beaver. Perhaps I'll put up a cabin nearby and live out my days in this secluded area's natural splendor. Perhaps I should focus on the task at hand to ensure “my days” extend beyond this one!
Although small, this stretch of simple water warrants respect. The water's clarity is extremely misleading, in that what one interprets as being only a few feet deep is actually much deeper. This particular hole is a good example of that, being approximately eight feet deep where you see the large flat stone just above the shadow.
A great rootwad lying in the branch bears witness to the natural forces that pass through here from time to time.
To be continued...
I left the settlement well before daylight. Sneaking into these woods under cover of darkness has proven a good strategy in the past and as numerous tribes frequent this area, I'd rather be in position early rather than later. Sitting in hide or moving quietly from tree to tree are my favored methods for the hours around first light. Anyone breaking camp or beginning their move through this isolated forest at this hour tends to make enough noise to prevent my being caught unawares. The plan was to make a series of loops, in something of a cloverleaf shape, just west of the Acton homestead. My primary goal was checking the area for sign that might indicate who had been passing through the area and as always at this time of the year, keeping an eye peeled for game.
The morning was quite cold. Enough so that my facial hair was forming ice and exposed fingertips soon went numb. The ground was extremely noisy underfoot if great care was not taking in choosing one's footsteps. It took quite a long time for me to slip into place. Lack of sleep and enough gear for an extended scout did little to help my progress. I carried with me a single blanket on my tumpline, a haversack with a cooking pot, some dried vegetables, a bit of corn meal, a handful of jerky, and a small water gourd. My .54 Blue Ridge longrifle and shooting pouch were carried in addition to my 'hawk and belt knife. The extra gear normally wouldn't accompany me on a one day scout, but I wanted to be prepared if some development led me into a longer stay in the forest.
Sunrise found me resting behind a log just off a footpath I'd found on an earlier scout. I sat quietly as the skies began to gray, just listening and trying to adjust my eyesight to the changing light. The creek was still running a bit high from the great storms we had last week. The high water and sub-freezing temps made me very happy my scout would not require crossing the creek today.
The "peet" of a hen turkey sounded from across the creek to my left. I shifted my position as slowly as a vine growing around the log, or at least that's how it seemed. I was no longer cold as the threat of enemy contact sent blood coursing through my veins. Was it just an old turkey, or was it a warrior calling some signal to another of his party? My eyes scanned the far bank for any sign of movement. It would be easy letting the mind wander to the horrors awaiting a captive of the hostiles, but I chose to focus on the fight. Thumb resting on the rifle's cock, I mentally rehearsed the shot: draw to full cock, set the trigger, align the sights, touch the front trigger and watch a dead enemy fall from beneath the cloud of smoke. Pour the powder, one, two, three seconds, as the remaining braves hesitated and then ran toward me. Spit the ball in my mouth right down the bore, bumping the buttplate on the ground to seat it as I stood up. Splash powder toward the pan and slap the frizzen closed as the first brave neared me, only to fall in a hail of smoke, fire, and ball. Drop the rifle, drawing 'hawk and knife as I jump the log...
The old hen's head bobbed out from behind a thicket. She made her way on out of sight to some important destination known only to her. I sat trembling behind a log in the cold gray forest, never happier to see a hen turkey.
After my heartbeat stilled and the turkey had gone well on her way, I moved along to investigate another known creek crossing. It was so cold that I experienced a few bouts of uncontrollable shivers. Not good, as that makes the longrifle essentially useless as anything beyond an expensive and poorly designed club. I would welcome the warming sun when my route finally led away from this secluded bottom land nestled against the base of a large ridge, but that would happen much later in the morning. For now, I focused on the job at hand and touched the 'hawk in my belt. A little shivering wouldn't diminish its effectiveness by much.
Tracks at the crossing were few and had the look of someone unfamiliar with the forest. Probably one of the new settlers struggling to find game. It's always a struggle when they fight against the forest, wandering through as they would a market back east. Looking at the slipshod tracks, I could only think that this poor fellow would either adapt to the forest or he would die out here and there was really no way to tell which. Only Providence and time hold that answer.
Along the way, I saw several deer sneaking to their beds, squirrels coming out to start their day, a raccoon hurrying home, and several rafts of ducks numbering between ten and twenty or so birds. Were I hunting on this day, I would've needed help carrying my bountiful harvest home!
Moving along, the ridge line began to play out. The sun was already up but from my position, the world still appeared dressed in its nightclothes. The cold seemed to be drilling holes into my bones. Chuckling to myself, I considered the fact that prime will go damp and fail to fire and then considering that my prime might actually freeze in the pan. Ongoing checks showed this to be a needless concern, as my prime remained viable throughout the morning.
The big trees in this area are a joy to behold. The axe has already diminished the great forests back east but for now, the old sentinels stand mostly unmolested. I wonder how numerous the big trees were before the settlers began arriving here? I wonder if any will be left in a hundred years?
I finally reached the point where I would turn from the ridge and move beyond the grasp of its bone-chilling shadow. A cold, crystal-clear branch runs into the main creek here, and I've gotten much use from its bounty. Beaver use it heavily to pass between the main creek and their flooded swamps to the north, and the waters teem with fish in the warmer months.
[youtube]V4UDX-lX7xc[/youtube]
Even at this late time of the year, beaver activity is ongoing. I see the tracks and slides all upon the banks, along with their incessant gnawings. This area was flooded just last week, so the piles of chips must be only a few days old. If the hostilities ever end, I may come back to this little branch and set traps for the beaver. Perhaps I'll put up a cabin nearby and live out my days in this secluded area's natural splendor. Perhaps I should focus on the task at hand to ensure “my days” extend beyond this one!
Although small, this stretch of simple water warrants respect. The water's clarity is extremely misleading, in that what one interprets as being only a few feet deep is actually much deeper. This particular hole is a good example of that, being approximately eight feet deep where you see the large flat stone just above the shadow.
A great rootwad lying in the branch bears witness to the natural forces that pass through here from time to time.
To be continued...
