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Whiskey and wood smoke
A trekker’s journal
By Scott Henry , Capt. I.B.W.C.P.
… As we pulled into the parking area an albino doe caught all of our attention as it walked without care across the dirt road 50 yards away. A good sign I thought to my self. On this scout, my fifth, I was accompanied by two members of O.W.R., Al Fine, Steve Els and a member of Ohio Company, 19 year old Jed Wray, an exceptionally skilled young frontiersman, considering his meager years. Al-lum-si-tam, te-ke-nink, Delaware (Lennape) for let us go into the woods. And with that, we left the 21st century and headed into Forbes’ State Forest near Bakersville, Somerset County to an area that we have made camp before, and patrolled the King’s road half way between Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier, as there have been reports heightened of Shawnee activity. We traveled nearly 2 miles, to where we would make camp at a familiar site, near a spring at the top of a ridge. We then dropped packs to reconnoiter the area further, and as no hostile sign was encountered, we returned to camp to see to necessary business before dark. Wood was gathered, bedrolls and shelters made, conversation concerning the formation of the new militia dominated the evenings talk, aided by healthy doses of good whiskey. The sweet smell of tobacco and dinner cooked over the fire filled the air as the sun began to set, and a Great Horned Owl made us all fear for a moment that a war party was near by. After several hours of good conversation, sleep came quickly to all of us, Darkness had fallen hard, and it was near imposable to see a hand before you as the fire had gone out sometime during the night and had to be re- kindled, by myself, from a single ember due to wood wet from the week’s rain.
The morning broke crisp and clear with most of the patriots roused long before me. Coffee, tea and a hearty breakfast of cornmeal porridge and journey cakes was enjoyed by all as we prepared our packs for the morning’s scout. Before leaving camp, all who had loaded their muskets and pistols the night before, did a bit of impromptu target practice on a potato doing it’s best to pose as a squirrel on a nearby stump. Thank God we were not relying on our marksmanship to feed us. We all hiked for a few miles or more over new terrain before we headed towards our iron wagons, stopping many times during the journey to lament over leaving a simpler time and place. A place of wild blueberries picked fresh from the bush for a snack while hiking, bear tracks near a stream and the taste of good whiskey in the company of good friends.
To all who read these words, consider this my invitation to join us in our next adventure!!!
More to come...
Saturday morning, in the early dawn just as camp was beginning to stir, Jed and I went into the fort for water for morning tea. It was cold, with a heavy fog from the Loyalhanna that rose to obscure the road and everything modern with it, the smell of smoke from a few British camps, with soldiers in uniform just beginning to move about. We both experienced one of those glorious epiphytical moments, when the distance between the centuries seems somehow bridged, senses overloaded, the slight tunnel vision, you’re there!
That Sunday, when the French had retreated, Jed, Al Fine, Greg Hope and I, left for Somerset to hunt for 3 days. We hiked 2 miles to our familiar camp site, and after seeing to wood and lunch of jerky, trail bread and tea, we set out for an afternoon scout. That eve, tall tails were told and what little whiskey was left was quickly dispatched.
Morning came and the hunt began in earnest. Greg headed for low ground, Jed hunted along the ridge for squirrels, Al and I headed north through big woods for deer and scout future camping grounds. We came upon a small stream and rock outcropping that looked promising for both purposes, and explored them thoroughly. Beautiful clear water and plenty of good camping spots another mile or so from our usual site.
No sign of any game was spotted so the decision to head back to camp was easily made. We began a slow still hunt along a ridge where larger hard wood and younger growth softwoods met; surely we would see something in such a perfect setting. But my run of bad luck persisted. Nothing. Back at camp, the rest of the group shared the same results. Another “fine” lunch of jerky and tea and we persevered out to hunt until dark with similar results.
About this time we realized that my 21st century water purifier was not working properly due in part to the shallow muddy water in the spring next to camp. I recalled the old spring house a few hundred yards away and we were pleasantly surprised it to be running high with fresh clear water bubbling up through the white sand at its floor. That night was spent trying to come up with a more productive plan, while I prepared a meal of “gruel” for dinner. Rice, dried peas, (more) jerky, a small potato and an onion made in a Backwoods’ mucket, washed down with the aid of a bottle of fine whiskey that I “miraculously” found in my pack.
Tuesday morning came, along with stiff backs from sleeping on the ground for 4 nights, and we headed out before daylight in pursuit of our quarry. Al and I headed west along an old path for some ways until a few hours later we heard a shot from Greg’s direction a mile away, then another. Surely he had scored and the last shot was the coup-de-gras. We waited a short while, and then began moving in his direction only to find Greg heading towards camp. He had come upon a herd of 6 doe including the albino that we regularly see there. Although he had a clear shot at her, he opted to take a shot at another deer, and leave her to grace the woods another day. Sure of a hit he waited before beginning to track her, only to quickly realize the only thing he killed was a fair sized hickory tree as he flinched. Tough to skin and a bitch to drag aren’t they. Turns out his second shot was at second deer while examining his first errant shot. You guessed it, flinched again.
Greg informed us that he must leave soon, so we wished him well and headed back up the mountain to meet up with Jed knowing that he too must leave this afternoon. After he was on his way, Al and I headed out until dark, near the spring house and old overgrown apple orchard. Nothing again.
And then there were two. Al and I finally realized that a bed of leaves may make sleeping on the ground a bit more tolerable. Took us 5 days to come up with this; nothing gets past us! The usual evening routine of gathering more wood, and making dinner, more jerky, (I can’t wait to have a salad!) we settled in for another night, listening to the owls near camp. Thinking to ourselves, Shawnee?!?! Somewhere a good distance away, fireworks rumbled, adding to the evening’s song. Sounds like 6 pounders, Fort Bedford? Or perhaps Ligonier?
Sleep came easily, but only for a time. I thought I heard Al call me in the middle of the night, but couldn’t hear clearly over my snoring. I woke shortly there after to find him trying to restart the fire from a small pile near his bedroll with his musket in hand, and just the light of my tiny candle lantern! “What’s going on?” I asked. “Coyotes, I think, at least 3, right behind me. Didn’t really bother me till I heard one of them growl, and realized the fire was out” was the reply. “I thought I heard something rustle the leaves near me”, I told him. “you should have, it ran right past your head!” Ok, I ‘m awake! Now I know that coyotes, and even bear for that matter, are more interested in what’s in my haversack than me, (maybe they’ll eat the rest of the damned jerky) but it’s still enough, in my 21st century mind, it’s enough to get your heart pounding.
We survived the night, and set out to hunt our way back towards civilization and our iron horses Wednesday morning. We bypassed the parking area and hunted through a large patch of pines near the Boy Scout camp, where Greg had seen the deer the previous day. Part way through, we noticed an exceptionally well constructed brush shelter made at the Y of a huge fallen oak tree. Wedge shaped, 4 feet high, 8 feet wide at the opening, and 10 feet deep. It could have easily slept 4-6 men, and with a fire out front, would have been better than our sparse accommodations. A definite project for the next outing!
We still hunted through the pines, and came across at least 30 other smaller such shelters. Again, we had to pause, in the 18th century. The days hunt provided no meat but was a grand scene.
Whiskey and wood smoke
A trekker’s journal
By Scott Henry , Capt. I.B.W.C.P.
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