Deer Management in our Mountains

Some of the questions I get constantly, Longspur, how do you grow and keep so many bucks on your property? How often do you kill a mature buck? What are your secrets? Well, I am going to try to break it down to the simplest forms for you. Can you implement some of these and have success? Possibly. If you implement these steps and follow through to the maximum I will guarantee that you will have an encounter once each hunting season with a mature buck. Closing the deal is up to you.

The first thing I do when I go out on a consulting trip is look for these things.

1.) Food

2.) Water

3.) Cover, safety areas

4.) Supplemental Feeding

5.) Timber type

Let’s start with food. This is the number one concern in my book. When looking at food sources in West Virginia I am also scanning the timber type. A deer stomach is like a wood stove. It operates at its most efficient with a good mixture of plants and provides feed. Deer are browsers first in our state. If your seeing deer in wide open fields constantly that tells me your woodland areas are not providing enough palatable energy producing browse. You can not grow deer in a state park setting! If your land is filled with majestic hardwoods and you love hiking and bird watching on your property then deer Management may not be for you!

Your best friend in this case is your local logger and your personal chainsaw. You need some cuts that allow regeneration to occur on your property. You will need to remove at least 60% of the canopy to stimulate growth. Funny thing most people don’t realize, a good little 10 acre clearcut has more digestible protein value in it after year 2 of regeneration than a clover field! A clover field costs you money to seed and maintain, while a clearcut does two things. It puts money in your pocket for future deer management projects and it provides a safety zone for your deer.

The next thing I look for after I look the timber over is your supplemental feeding program. This is not baiting! I am talking providing the deer with at minnimum 9 months of extra digestible protein. On my properties I use a mixture of soybeans and corn. My lease is a large timber company property. I do not have the luxury of putting food plots out, so I use feeding stations. These are permanent areas set near cover. The deer do not have to travel far for this food source. On our acreage I have 5 feeding areas spread over 650 acres. Recently I have been playing with Grandpas Special Feed Mix out of Charleston, WV. Great product.

Can you accomplish a feeding program with just corn? Yes. It isn’t the ideal setup, but any extra provides the deer with a energy boost. Bucks after the rut and does developing their fawns need this. Can the deer survive without it? Yes. They have for thousands of years but they will hold to your property with more consistency.

Minerals are important. I like Lucky Buck minerals. I recommend 1 lick per 100 acres. I also recommend your licks are near a water source (200 yards at most). I refresh minerals around March 15, July 4 and August 15.

Also, NEVER place a mineral lick or feeding station near a property line. This is what we call common sense.

The next thing I always discuss after food, water, cover is safety. What kind of safety are you providing your deer? Our lease has areas that we never go into. Of the 680 acres probably 400 acres is no go! No stands, no hunting. Nothing. Over the years this has provided our deer with a place to be safe. After 15 years every buck born on our property knows and feels this safety. They may wander and leave to set up a territory off our land but they always come back with the rifles cracking. Once back they use the feeding stations and the natural browse to regenerate.

You can grow mature bucks in West Virginia if your going to walk all over your property and push the deer to your neighbors. You must set stand sites and hunt only there. You must have preplanned ingress and egress to these sites! The days of deer drives are over on your property if you commit to this. But Longspur I only have 15 acres! Who cares. Make it the best 15 acres around and your bucks will stay there. These tactics work on any size property.

Longspur, my neighbors shoot everything! No, NO THEY DO NOT!! This is just unsound reasoning. Are you going to lose bucks to neighbors? Yeah sure you will. However this is deer hunting and the deer belong to the collective people of the state. They are not yours. One of the best tactics I have is just showing neighbors my trail cam pictures. This is the quickest way to an education! If they see your hunting a 140 inch buck, heck maybe they will too. If they happen to kill one you might gain a neighbor that wants to co-op with you for deer management.

Another suggestion I make to my hunters on smaller tracts, Archery hunt only! Also you must limit the amount of hunters on a piece of property. Your family and friends will get over it but if your trying to build your piece of heaven then they will accept your style of hunting in the future.

A couple other points and I will leave this go for your comments and questions.

Rut Timing – this is when you will get 70% of your opportunities at mature bucks. If you are going to take a “rutcation ” in the great state of West Virginia you need to start on the calendar with Veteran’s Day and count three days before thru three days after. These are the hottest 7 days of the year for big bucks! Don’t fall for rut timing calendars and all that crap. The secret is Veterans Day!!!!!

My last point is we need to work harder in this state at creating landowner relations and deer management co-ops. You can put together some small tracts of land and work collectively as a team to manage deer. Just remember, your neighbors idea of a trophy might be a 2.5 year old 8 point, that’s ok. Start somewhere find common ground!

Also get out there if you don’t have land and go talk with a farmer or landowner. Make an appointment. Dress neat and explain to him in detail why your deer management plan will be beneficial to his property and his farm. Be courteous and don’t give up on the first “no”!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pennsylvania Bird and a pile of morels

West Virginia turkeys have been tough and uncooperative and the plight of the working man has hit me with not so much time to get after home turf birds. So it was with anticipation that I looked towards the Pennsylvania opener. A state that I had hunted before but had never killed a big Keystone Gobbler. I had done my scouting well and had gained permission from a friendly farmer in Washington County. I had used Cuddeback trail camera to help me pattern the birds and just to see what this farm held. The camera idea did not disappoint! Longbeard after longbeard showed up on the sd cards!

I arrived at the farm and was not disappointed to hear birds gobbling upon the slam of the truck door! I hurriedly headed up the mountain and set up my Avian X strutter and breeding hen. I then settled against a white oak and listened to the birds and morning come to life.

I was shook to reality by two gobblers sounding off at the bottom of the mountain towards my truck. I peered down the woods line and saw two strutters 500 yards away. I turned my gun barrel down hill.

I called lightly and non agressive as I knew the gobblers could see my decoys. They slowly started my way gobbling and strutting.

As I was fixed on them a gobble boomed behind me on the ridge break. I turned my head slowly and say a big bird about 60 yards away, strutting and spitting and drumming for the dekes.

I slowly turned the ole Longspur slayer barrel his way. I kee keed on my Hen O the Woods call real lightly. All the birds lit up. Mr. Big just didn’t want to budge if that ridge! The two birds below me boomed their gobbles and I turned my head to see where they were. They had closed the 500 yard gap to 200 and they were running hard right for my decoys. I turned my barrel very slowly back to cover the decoys. It was a great decision! At 50 yards the two younger toms started purring loudly as they ran. Big ole ridge boy got all excited and decided to run down the mountain and what ensued next was just plain turkey hunting ecstasy. All three birds met at the strutting decoy on the run and they gang tackled him like some of Joe Pa’s old Penn State linebacker crews!

They flogged and tossed my decoy and started on each other! I quickly picked out Mr Big from the ridge and I pulled the trigger. He hit the ground flopping. The other two started on him. I let them have their jollies of beating on a former foe then I walked out and to gather my trophy.

Now I didn’t get my nickname longspur because I just run out and check beard length! I always look at sours first. As I grabbed him I was very surprised to see that my first ever PA bird had no spurs! No bumps but just an enlarged leg scale where the spurs should have been! Imagine that. First time in my many years and holding hundreds of birds of seeing one with no spurs. I picked him up and headed off the hill. He had a 10 1/4 inch beard and weighed 20 pounds and 14 ounces.

I headed south and I picked Chrissy up and we drove to Weston, WV and went mushrooming. I tell you, Chrissy is an amazing woman. She’s a good turkey hunter and a superb shroomer but best of all she’s my best friend.

We hunted the mountains hard and Chrissy started spotting them. She pointed out several as I negotiated the ATV over some log roads. We looked at every slip, below gas wells and on the disturbed areas on the downhill side of the log roads. Together we found new patches and right at 400 big yellow morels! What a Saturday!

Texas Rios Part 3 (and a little pig)

The last sunrise in Texas was bittersweet. Chrissy, Jasi and I had made good friends and we were enjoying hunting big mature birds that respond and decoy.

Our mission for the rest of the hunt was to get Jasi her first turkey. It was the day before her fourth birthday and I was wanting her to have success. She had faithfully hunted with me last year while myself and mom killed three easterns in front of her. She had practiced by shooting two raccoons with her .22 and a squirrel with her little Rossi .410 in Maryland. Chrissy and I decided that she was big enough and mature enough to handle the task at hand.

I had settled on the Browning TSS shells in number 9 shot. They pattern well and they turn a .410 into a 30 yard gun. My goal however was to call one right into her face which would allow her to shoot him in his face.

We started at what had been our lucky tree for the hunt. We could hear a bird gobbling about a mile away, we tried like heck for an hour with no response. I quickly made a command decision and we packed up to drive 10 miles to the other side of the ranch.

We quietly walked into the next spot which I scouted the first day. I had seen a live oak near a ranch road intersection that just looked like a strut zone. Turkey tracks, droppings and some drag marks had confirmed that.

I quickly set the avian x full strutter and breeding hen up. As I walked to the tree, Chrissy told me she heard a gobble about 500 yards away. We sat up and I put Jasi on my lap in her shooting position. I called on my Longspur Hen O the Woods call. Sure enough I heard a double gobble from a long ways away. I really got loud and excited on this bird. He gobbled hard and started moving our way.

Little Jasi was being a trooper. Face mask on, gloves on and snuggled into Dad’s lap.

I continued to hammer this bird hard. He loved the sweet cutting that my custom call was making. He closed from 500 yards to 100 yards in just a couple minutes. At the 100 yard mark he hit a brick wall. He hung up and held tight. 10 minutes turned into an eternity with Jasi sitting still, much better than I ever did even when I was 20 years old.

I cut hard at him. He gobbled and low and behold two birds gobbled behind us a good 200 yards away.

Chrissy’s eyes got big as she asked me “now what?”. I explained to her there could be nothing better than this. I told her it probably would be a race to the decoys.

Sure enough he gobbled just a bit closer. I was whispering to Jasi where she could shoot, where her window was at. It wasn’t long before I heard the pfffffftttt of a spitting bird. Another few seconds went by and I saw glimpses of a strutting bird. The next thing you know a beautiful strutting Rio was 30 yards out and spitting and drumming hard for the Avian X strutter.

I helped Jasi with the hammer on the Rossi and whispered to Chrissy, “ whatever happens, don’t let him get away.” I have learned over the years to anticipate a first time miss with kids.

I sighted behind Jasi and she looked to be on the birds wattles as he closed the distance to 20 yards. I whispered to her that she could pull the trigger when ready. CLICK!!!!! The Rossi has a bar safety and I forgot to turn it to fire!!!! I saw Chrissy flinch and she said “now what?!”, I told her to hold off, the bird didn’t even know anything had happened.

I turned the safety off and went through everything again with Jasi. She sighted and I gave her the go ahead. BOOM! And with that Jasi dropped her first turkey!

I cut on the call real hard and set Jasi to the side. I picked my gun up and tried to entice the two birds behind us to come in and flog their brother. No such luck!

We all made our way to JasiBug’s bird. She was excited and very elated. I told her to show me some spurs. She showed me the 3/4 inch spurs of a two year old. I told her to flip him over and let’s look at his beard. As he strutted I knew he had the heaviest longest beard of our birds. She flipped him over and geez!!!!! This bird had 4 beards!! She killed a quad beard bird for her first one ever! I was in total amazement. We had managed over the last 48 hours to take 3 Rios. A double beard and a quad. Two birds with longspurs. What an amazing trip.

We took plenty of pics and hurried back to the ranch. Our new friend, Justin, was taking off for home in Minnesota and wanted to see Jasi’s bird.

As we crossed the ranch, I looked out in the distance and saw wild hogs! I hit the gas and closed the distance. I slammed the truck in park and bailed, grabbing my 870 as Chrissy handed it to me. I racked three Kent #4’s into it.

Pigs started scattering and I shot at a 30 pounder! Direct hit but she kept going so I fired again! Squealing the pig kept going. I sent a third round downrange!! That little wild oig kept going! I quickly went to my trusty pocket knife and grabbed her by the hand legs and pulled her out of the mesquite and with a quick stick finished the job! Holy crap! What excitement! I thought for sure I could knock down three smoking size pigs and ended up with just one! Tough critters for sure!

We loaded up and went to the ranch. We took more pics and skinned a pig. We had filled Cory’s walk in cooler up!

We cleaned up and went on one more hunt. We sat at the same tree and Jasi fell asleep across Chrissy’s lap. Wouldn’t you know I called in 5 hens and a Jake right to the decoy! If Jasi wouldn’t have been so tuckered I would have let her have a go at her second Rio of the day. Chrissy and I just smiled as we allowed the young Jake to walk off. We had an adventure like you wouldn’t believe and we were blessed to take 3 birds, a buffalo and a wild pig. So many memories were made and we vowed we would return to Archer City, Texas. Home of Larry McMurtry and Lonesome Dove, also home of new friends and of course the Rio Grande wild turkey!

Texas Rios and a Bison (Part 2)

The alarm went off early and the camp coffee was started on Day 2. Forecast called for a high in the 80s and a 20-30 mph south wind in the afternoon. We knew that we would have to get it done on the morning for turkeys with the incoming wind. The monkey was off my back as Chrissy had taken a bird. I was personally concerned about how hard these Rios were going to be. The group before us had only killed one Jake with a rifle while they were hog hunting.

We decided to go back to the same tree that Chrissy killed her bird from, this time instead of facing north we would face a creek and roost trees to our south that was a half mile away.

As the sun cracked the eastern sky, those beautiful thunderous Rios started tuning off. I hit them with my Longspur Hen O the Woods call. The main gobbling bird hit the ground and continued to gobble hard. While he was gobbling in the background, I spotted a bird to my right sneaking through the mesquite. I got Chrissy lined out and she prepared for a shot. Unfortunately, this bird was a silent sneaker and when he saw the full strut decoy he walked off.

As he was walking off a bird hammered behind us! Chrissy couldn’t move because she was pinned.

Luckily the tree we were against was wide enough to cover me as I slid down the tree, rolled over on my belly and peaked around. I could not see him!! There was a slight rise between me and him. I pushed myself backwards behind the tree and readied to stand up. Of course my old body at that point decided to send cramps through my calves!

I forced myself up slowly and carefully and peeked around the tree. Sure enough at 45 yards stood a beautiful Rio longbeard in all his glory. He was spitting and drumming and what seemed like an eternity he stood in one place. Luckily for me the big boy behind us was closing the distance. He couldn’t take it anymore and broke his mini hangup and came the last ten yards I thought I needed. I leveled sights, pulled the trigger and he went down in a rag doll heap. That bird NEVER flopped.

I immediately sat down and cut hard. The big boy gobbled right back at us and was closing the distance! Shortly he was in sight. He put on a show for me at 65 yards but Chrissy and Jasi could not see due to the terrain. After ten minutes of being hung up he faded away. I told Jasi to run over and retrieve my Gobbler. She arrived at the bird and pulled his legs up, she immediately informed me that he was a Longspur, and sure enough there were the most beautiful 1 1/2 inch spurs I have seen on a Rio. Those spurs were long, straight and sharp!

We took some pics as the wind picked up steam. As we pulled back into ranch yard the gusts were hitting above 30 mph with a steady 20 mph wind. We knew that turkey hunting the afternoon was going to be a wash as Rios tend to hit cover in gale force winds.

Our host Cody wanted to know if I wanted to go after my second objective of this trip a try. I had planned on hunting a bison on the ranch. Texas being Texas the main ranch itself was a high fence operation ( 90% of Texas is) that specialized in Quality deer management, African plains game, Aoudad sheep and of course bison.

I quickly donned my 1760 western Virginia frontiersman clothes and was ready. I dearly wanted a chance to hunt bison the way Kenton, Boone and great great grandad back the line, Jesse Hughes, has done when first venturing into our great state but that wasn’t to be because of ranch rules on dangerous game and blackpowder longrifles. In its stead I took my lever action Marlin 1895 .45-70 Government. Also, Cody was extremely wary of these beasts as they were not tame cattle. If they smelled you, they ran. If they saw you, they ran. If they heard you, they ran. These bison could also hide in the Texas brush like you wouldn’t believe. We took the mule (Kawasaki type) and hit the brush. We hit high spots and fields glassing until spitting bison. I was going for one of the 3-4 year old barren cows and we were being picky. Cody brought along a couple of his guides and they had rifles with them. I assured them that I would get the job done and make a kill shot. Cody was not being rude however when he informed me that every hunter he has says that. I at least talked him into letting me make the stalk on my own.

We saw all kinds of animals but the bison were alluding us. We saw some beautiful axis deer that were tempting but I had to keep focused on my life long object, American Bison.

We finally spotted them and the cow we were looking for. Of course they spotted us and took off. Cody dumped me out and made my stalk. I entered the mesquite and went a couple hundred yards, nothing. I walked back into the sendero and everyone in the mule was pointing to the other side of the woods. Apparently when I entered the mesquite, I was winded and the animals crossed back and hit the brush on the other side of the road.

I quickly took off in their direction and it wasn’t long until I saw legs about 85 yards ahead of me. I flipped my sights up and settled to a rest on the nearest mesquite tree. I finally found the cow again that I was hunting. She facing me dead on and not giving me a shot. A few seconds seemed like an eternity until the cow whirled to run, I held low behind her leg and just as she began to gain momentum I fired. She dropped. I levered another round and ran towards her with tears in my eyes. Such a big animal required a coup de grace but probably wasn’t needed. I had finally accomplished a lifelong dream. Little Jasi came through the brush with Chrissy and was just amazed. Everyone was extremely happy. Cody was thrilled that I dropped her with one shot as he regaled me with stories of wounded and charging animals from years prior. I knelt for a prayer and admired the beauty of America’s animal. She would provide us with over 300 pounds of meat ( 800+ pounds on the hoof), a beautiful robe and I will honor her with a European mount. Texas was treating us well, it seemed to be the only hunting question remained would be if Jasi would get her a Texas Rio with her .410 for her 4th birthday? That’s another story to be told very soon…………

Texas Rios -Part 1

Jasi, Chrissy and I pulled out of our house and started the long drive towards Archer City, Texas. On Day 1 we covered 8 hours of driving time to my Mom’s just north of Nashville. We stayed a full day there hitting the Bass Pro in Nashville and relaxing having some family time and going to my nieces gender reveal/birthday party. We then returned to Mom’s and had some grilled steak.

The next morning we headed out and made the 11 hour drive to Archer City. In the little town of Lindsay, Texas we made our first stop for some Texas BBQ. I ordered sliced beef and sausage.

Arriving at the ranch well after dark and wore out we hit the sack and got a good nights worth of sleep. The next morning, Cody Beasley the rancher here, took us around and showed us the area. He gave us very disappointing news that birds were henned up and not responding well over the last weekend for his first group of hunters. In fact those hunters only killed a Jake with a rifle at a feeder. ( Perfectly legal and accepted in the great state of Texas)

As we drove the ranch we saw only 1 lonely longbeard and 3 coyotes, making me wonder where are all the Texas Rios. Also, Cody informed us that the coyote population had exploded and had really trained the turkeys to not gobble.

After a quick lunch we hit the brush, keeping in mind to watch out for Rattlers, scorpions, lone star ticks and a myriad of other creatures, bushes and cacti that can inflict serious damage on the human condition.

Our first setup in the 78 degree afternoon sunshine made for a nice napping area for Jasi. After a couple hours of only hearing myself call and only having one hen respond we pulled stakes and drove eight miles across the ranch to another setup.

As we approached the gate, Chrissy pointed out a big strutter on a pond dike. Hopes soared a little higher for the afternoon!

We let the bird work his way off into the mesquite before pulling through. We hurriedly found a place to park and gathered our gear. We walked about a thousands yards out a sendero when we finally hit a spot that set off my super power of Turkey senses. ( think Spider-Man)

We sat up our decoys and small leafy blind and got cozy against a live oak. Turkey droppings both fresh and dry adorned the ground all around us. We were definitely in a turkey hotspot.

After about a half hour of calling on my Longspur Hen O’the Woods mouth call, a lone gobble sounded out to our left and behind us.

Within seconds Chrissy, Jasi and I could see a good bird approaching. Chrissy got lined out and with me whispering “now” in her ear she made a good 35 yard shot. Jasi and I carefully sprinted to the bird with Chrissy walking carefully over.

We celebrated and took pics. Our first day on the northern plains of Texas was a success, so far driving halfway across the country has been an adventure and well worth it, we shall see what day 2 brings……..

Uriah Gandee and the Tory Camps

I am the 7th great great grandson of Uriah Gandee and famed frontiersman Jesse Hughes. I am also the 13th great great grandson of Sir Lord William Howard, High Admiral of the Fleet, Ambassador to France and the Great Uncle of Queen Elizabeth the First of England. I hope you enjoy the following story. The jail break is a true story, it may not have been orchestrated by Uriah. The collapse of the cave is true. Uriah helping to lead the Tories in raids is also true. The attack in this story is fictional. Uriah went on to become the Sheriff of Randolph County, Virginia after the Revolution.

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1777 was a cold year and one of bloodshed in the east and in the middle ground. The war in the east has brought our hopes down as defeat after defeat has mounted.  My name is Uriah Gandee, son of Jacob Ganther of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My older brother, Samuel Gandee sits in a Harrisburg gaol charged with desertion. His death warrant was signed by General George Washington himself. Samuel is a good man with a wife and children as I have. He does not deserve to die just because he is tired after giving the last 12 months to the cause of Liberty.

My father Jacob has requested the good Reverend Muhlenberg write a letter of appeal to General Washington. I do not think the letter will do any good. The officers are hard on us enlisted and do not care wit whether we have families or not, we are just numbers in their ranks. I have determined to set my brother Samuel free and have thought carefully ahead the moves about to be made.

I have gathered my wife and my two boys together and have outfitted them well with provisions and horses. They will be picking Samuels wife and his daughter and son up also. They will also take Samuel’s mother-in-law with them and they will head for the frontier settlement of Romney on the Southern branch of the Potomac. They will await there at the cabin of our friends the Welsh family of Hughes. As soon as I can free Samuel, we will make our way to Romney and together with the family we will head into the interior of the middle ground. We will not be accursed by this terrible war any further. One in the Shadow of the great rocks of the Seneca tribe we will search out the group of Tories and Seneca Indians that rumored to be living there. We will make a life in those mountains.

Two days before Samuel was to be hung, I scouted the jail and realized that only one guard was used on the night time shift. I sharpened my German dirk, made by a jaeger craftsman 150 years prior. That piece was sharp enough to shave hair, the point could go into flesh with little pressure.

I made sure we had two fast horses in the stable of a friend. The stable was within three hundred yards of the building being used as the continental gaol. There was plenty of food, two muskets, two .68 caliber saddle pistols and cavalry sabre with the horses. I made sure my soldier’s boots were well oiled so as not to creak as I made my stalk on the guard.

I made my way to the backside of the building. I made sure to dress in my continental best so that anyone passing and seeing anything would just think I was the guard. I crept up the side of the gaol and pulled my dirk.  The young corporal was sitting against the wall with the lock of his brown bess under his cloak from the weather. I walked to him and swiftly covered his mouth and shoved the dirk deep into his chest. His eyes flared with realization of his impending death. The life blood drained from him warm and sticky over my hand and handle of the dirk. I quickly drug him to the back of the building and came to the front with the key to the lock.

I swiftly opened the door startling Samuel. “If you wish to keep your life, you best hurry with me!” Samuel swung his woolen cape on and we retreated from the building quickly. We made our way the three hundred yards to the stable where the horses were kept. We quickly mounted and headed across the countryside avoiding roads where Continentals or British soldiers may be patrolling. We headed hard due west for two days trading our two horses and the saddle pistols for two fresh horses on the Maryland border. We turned South crossing the Northern Branch of the Potomac and we rode into Romney five days later. We had no encounters with any of the armies.

In Romney we took the time to rest an over night at the home of the Hughes family. Our wives and children were over joyous to see us and knowing that Samuel was alive they were ready to head into the Virginia frontier to begin our new life.

We changed from the soldier attire to linen shirts with long woolen blanket shirts. We wore leggings made of wool of blanket and breechclouts. This was the dress of the frontiersman and the native. Hughes made sure we each had tomahawks in our belts. We all mounted, thanked the kindness of our Welsh friends and we followed the Southern Branch of the Potomac.

Hughes had drawn a map of how he understood the country to our south. Somewhere near the village of Moorefield we were to take the Northern Fork of the South Branch and ride the valley until the valley closed in watching for a tight pass with spectacular rock ledges and cliffs. We then should start watching for signs of the Tory Camps. This area would allow us to be from the weariness of war that seemed nonstop in the east.

We took our time riding to the south. The country was unbelievable. We passed through a narrow canyon just south of Romney. The mountains came to the river and the trail was narrow and right on the rivers edge. Large sycamores stood bare against the steep uprising grey rock cliffs. After leaving the canyon we came into a wide valley that lead into Moorefield. This small village was just a handful of homes with a blockhouse. We skirted wide as we understood that the Moorefield village was full of patriotic zealots. We continued on another full day ride before encountering what we perceived to b e the northern fork that Hughes had drawn out. After a half-days ride up this fork the mountains began again to rise steep from the river banks, some areas being sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet.

Within the next day as the weather soured and a cold north wind blew heavily down the valley, we were desperate for meat and for warmth for the women and children. We rode up a small side stream to the east of the North fork. We still had not encountered the Tory Camps. As we rode up this small stream we came to an overhang of rock with a cave big enough for the family to stay in. Everyone in the party helped at once to gain wood for fire. The temperature had been brutal cold for weeks. All ground was frozen and large formations of ice hung from the rock ledge. Samuel and I determined to head out in the morning and look for deer or elk for meat.  That night we built a large bon fire in the mouth of the cave. While the temperature was very much below freezing on the outside, we kept that cave warm enough to strip off our woolen long shirts.

The morning brought brutal cold temperatures and Samuel and I headed out. We took three horses. Two for riding and a third to pack any game we may bring to the gun. We knew we would have to get close with our muskets. Effective range being half of what a good Lancaster rifle would be.

We went further south on the North Fork hoping to run into the Tory camps. About 5 miles from the temporary camp we had set up we rode up to a group of large stag elk that were not afraid of our horses. We rode to within one hundred and fifty feet of the herd. Samuel and I both fired at one time a large stag. The balls staggered the beast but he still retreated with the herd a good quarter of a mile before he toppled.

We quickly skinned the elk before the hide and meat froze. We also did not want to contend with the large wolf packs that were rumored to frequent this area. We pushed on south. We saw smoke rising from a mountainside near a large rock formation. We carefully approached and hailed the camp. Two big warrior Seneca Indians walked out carrying menacing looking clubs. They relaxed when we explained to them that we were looking for the Tory camps and that we were wanting to move our families in and contribute to the camps. They pointed us to the east up into another large valley that was within sight of their camp. We told them that we would ride back and feed our families and return upon the first warmer day that was fit for women and children to travel. We left them with some choice cuts of the stag and we began retracing our way to our camp.

As we approached our camp, something was not right. No smoke was lifting from the ledge. The face of the rock looked different! We hurried our mounts up and sprinted from them. The whole face had collapsed. We could here a muffled voice! God they must have escaped!

We started moving rock and digging in the freezing soil with our bare hands. I started slamming my tomahawk into the frozen soil. We started to uncover a ghastly scene. The foot of Samuel’s boy John was sticking out and was the cold of death to the touch. We heard more moaning and we worked hard to just get enough to uncover and be able to find that my wife Elizabeth was the source. I could not reach her. We got her to come to enough to whisper to us that she had tons of rock on her. None of the children, Samuel’s wife or mother-in-law had made it out. All were dead. With all my determination I could just feel the tips of Elizabeth’s fingers through the hole. She told me that she loved me but that the whole cave was sitting on her. She asked me in her quiet voice to stay with her until she passed. I laid on that cold ground all night until the rising sun brought no more answers to my quivering voice. Samuel and I had lost all that we loved and cared for in this world.

As I replaced the soil and rocks, Samuel made a wooden cross from some of the fire wood and the raw hide of the elk. We were in shock. All we could figure is that our large bonfire had heated the rock ledge and that caused the collapse in the bitter cold.

Damn Washington! Damn this war! If not for the death warrant on my brother, we would not have had our families in this country at this time. This war was the cause of their death! I told Samuel my feelings and he agreed that we should be in Lancaster now in our old homes, enjoying brandy and rum. Singing songs by the fireplace. The war for Independence had stolen our families.

The next morning we decided to ride on to the Tory camps. We were a melancholy pair as we rode into a circle of small cabins later that evening. We were met by Jacob and Isaac Brake, John Claypole, John Mitchell and George Wilkins. We explained to them who we were and about the tragic events of that last few days. John Claypole offered to take us in. He explained to us the situation here at the Camps. All these men had families here totaling over thirty people. Down the stream were several Seneca and Mingo Indians. All worked together to hunt meat and share. Claypole wanted to attack some of the Virginia settlements in the spring that were loyal to the Continental cause. He deeply believed that England was still our sovereign. Samuel and I talked it over and agreed to join the raids in the spring. We were war weary but the cave incident had turned our hearts against the Continental cause.

After a few days of staying with Claypole. Samuel and I retreated into the higher country to find some land we could claim as our own. We came upon a fine valley where a stream entered a large cave and appeared to sink into the ground. We decided that this would be a fine place to live out the winter.

It was a warming day in March when John Claypole came to the Sinks to greet us. Samuel and I had been making sugar from the tapping of maple trees, a very smoky and time consuming process. Claypole wanted to know if we would like to go on a raid into the Shenandoah river valley. That a small camp of continentals had set up a militia camp there and were still wintering. We decided to go.

We made the plans of how the attack would go down. I, along with one of the Seneca warriors would leave a couple days before the rest of the party and scout the lay of the land. We would circle back after four days and catch up with the men and brief them. I learned much of woodsmanship from my Seneca friend. Cold Wolf showed me how to use the ridge trails of the area to make time traveling, he disdained the river trails calling them the roads of the whites. We carefully made our way over four different mountains before dropping into the Valley of the Shenandoah onto Big Bull Creek. As we made our further to the north we finally located the camp of the miltia. These were not the green continentals but were mountain boys from Virginia. It would take a carefully planned out raid to catch these unaware. 

Cold Wolf and I circled and scouted the camp and gathered the intelligence needed. We then retreated to our upcoming party as planned.

It was determined that we would circle the camp on the first clouded night. We would operate in the total darkness of the night and we would try to use knives and tomahawks to dispatch as many of the camp as we could. Cold Wolf and another brave would handle the sentrys.

Two days went by before we received the cloud cover we looked for. That same day a contingent of ten militia soldiers left the camp and marched to the north leaving the camp undermanned. We counted the hours down until dark and we moved into position. Cold Wolf would whistle like a whipper will upon the dispatching of the sentry’s.

About three of the clock in the morning the whistle came. Those of us in hiding came swiftly and quietly into the camp. I swiftly stuck the nearest soldier with my dirk while slamming the next one in the head with my tomahawk. No sound of alarm was raised! We swiftly killed fifteen militia men. We quickly built up the campfires, gathered their horses and loaded them down with all the provisions we could carry. I personally came away with a beautiful Lancaster long rifle in a larger caliber, looked to be .45 or .50. We took tents, mess pots and anything we deemed we might need. We allowed our Seneca brothers to take scalps so that whoever discovered our doings would blame Indians and maybe raise a fear on the frontier.

Our group quickly retreated over the mountains to our camps. The women and couple men that had stayed behind greeted us joyously and helped us unload the bounty that we had took from the militia camp. We realized now that the Continentals would be looking for us and that we would need to continue to raid to help the Tory cause and to keep our camps in provisions. I, Uriah Gandee, once a Continental Soldier and now a Tory, had lost so much yet now with a longrifle in hand and a vast wilderness to my west knew that a future would be built in this middle ground ………

Haunting of the Blue Chevron PART 1

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Haunting of the Blue Chevron

PART 1

The colorful cane was pulled from the oven and carefully the chevron beads were crafted from these long sticks. The Venetian artist turned out several hundred of these a day, these beads were bound for ship that would head for France, there they would be traded for goods that the Venetian kingdom needed to sustain their people…….

The French Voyageur carefully slid his canoe onto the north eastern bank of the Missouri River. As It came to a stop several Sioux warriors and their families met him with smiles and greetings. Business began as a trade blanket was laid out and many goods were laid out including an amazing string of blue chevrons. A big warrior seeing these immediately started offering many pelts for this string. Finally a deal was struck and the warrior gave up two bull buffalo robes, ten beaver pelts and three very soft tanned antelope. The warrior walked around showing off his new necklace after the trade…..

The Sioux warrior fell to the ground, his skull crushed from the blow of the warriors war club. The Crow warrior kneeled and deftly removed the scalp with a wet popping sound. His eyes then fixated on the amazing string of blue chevrons. He took these as his own and hung them around his own neck and continued on in the fight.

The warrior, Sliding Otter, killed two more Sioux in the brief but violent encounter. Even though he gained 4 horses from the battle and three scalps, he was mesmerized by the beauty of the blue, heavy chevrons he acquired.

After several days of riding the small war party arrived back near their village with the Wind River Range looking down upon them. The story of their success was soon echoed throughout the camp. The old Shaman, Blowing Feathers came shuffling forward. He immediately went to Sliding Otter and started chanting and sprinkling sacred tobacco to the four winds.

“ The bead necklace as an evil to it, it must be destroyed!” Sliding Otter steppes back from the Shaman. “I take it off for no man!” The Shaman began chanting again then collapsed to the ground. Slipping into a convulsive trance. As he was revived he began to speak. “ The beads hold evil in them, the souls of those that have made and have worn them are trapped within. Great destruction is held within. Disease, famine and murder are held within. The Great Spirit has sent me a message to you Sliding Otter that only you can contain these evil forces. The beads must always stay around your neck, even in death, for these forces not to be released on our people or any people!”

Sliding Otter crept along small marshy stream. He was tracking the moose that he had glimpses in the alders. As he stealthily moved along this tributary of the Yellowstone river, he did not realize he was also the hunted. A young Blackfoot warrior was on his trail.

Sliding Otter just kept getting glimpses of the large musky smelling bull. Sliding Otter kept watching the small eagle feather tied off on his bow that was a great indicator of wind direction. He was less than a hundred yards now but needed to close the distance to at least twenty yards.

A slight rustle sound behind him made him turn instantly. Just as soon as he did, a very sharp flint tipped arrow sunk into his stomach taking his breath away and slamming him back. The Blackfoot warrior rushed him with a yip. Even with the mortal wound Sliding Otter pulled his tomahawk and the two fought hand to hand.

The Blackfoot slid under a hard swing by Sliding Otter and the two locked up snarling face to face. Sliding Otter’s strong grip won over and he threw the Blackfoot to the ground. He swung his tomahawk striking a glancing blow off the Blackfoot’s shoulder.

Sliding Otter took advantage very quickly of the Injured Blackfoot and hit him with a death blow to the base of the skull. The Blackfoot warrior did not move anymore.

Sliding Otter assessed his own wound and knew he was going to die. He cut the fletched end of the protruding arrow off so that he could walk easier. He started back towards his village growing weaker with each and every step.

Sliding Otter had not gone more than three miles when he started looking for shelter. He knew that his time was near and that he needed to just lay down and close his eyes. He stumbled up a rocky creek bank and found an overhang that had partially collapsed. He crawled into the small cave like orifice and laid down in a fetal position and passed out. That night Sliding Otter’s pain left him as he died in the quiet. The Chevron necklace still hanging about his neck. As his soul tried to leave to go to the Great Spirit he was pushed back hard. A voice then came to him “ You must stay with the string of beads forever. They must never be awakened and if they are, you must return them to their place around your neck!”

Sliding Otter’s soul lingered around his earthly body. The days passed into moons. Then in the spring a large avalanche occurred atop the mountain above the overhang bringing tons of rocks and trees and snow down the slope. The debris completely buried the overhand, a place that should never be found again, forgotten to time ……

Dr. Pete Poseki was bent over the archeological site with a small pick and brush in his hands. He was carefully removing a light sandy soil just above a stream.

Dr. Amy Lighthorse if the Wind River Reservation Antiquity Preservation unit and Matthew Ward of the Smithsonian were watching over his shoulder.

“Why are you digging here Doc?” Quipped Matt Ward.

Dr. Pete looked up and explained, “ since the two boys from the reservation found the horse skeleton here with a piece of two hundred plus year old beaded bridle strap, Dr. Lighthorse just figured this would be a good place to possibly uncover some artifacts. “

Dr. Poseki kept chipping away and brushing the crusty sand away. As he cleared about three feet of the sandy sediment he started hitting a hard rocky surface. He had a couple assistants from the University of Wyoming bring him a heavier pick, shovel and a large push broom.

The whole dig was being photographed and documented thoroughly. Dr. Pete was transcribing meticulous notes into his iPhone. As he reached another layer he began to uncover tree bark and the outline of a log.

The students quickly moved in and took pictures. They carefully started prying on the log it began to give little by little. The trio carefully wedged it up and Dr. Pete took his flashlight and looked under it.

“There’s a cavity here!” Pete exclaimed. “ It looks to be a good size room and I can see a man sized bundle or something laying on the far side. We will have to order a telelift out here to help lift this log!”

The team retreated to the canvass canopy that was being used as makeshift office. Amy Lighthorse called an equipment rental dealership in Rawlings. “It’s going to be a good four hours before they get here.”

Pete pulled himself a cold bottle of water and began talking to Matt. “If this is a burial ground, the things we can learn about the early Crow civilization will be greatly increased, the knowledge will be priceless! The only thing that has me baffled is that the Crow almost a hundred percent of the time used scaffolding and ridge top burials. “

The two university students quickly grilled up some pronghorn back strap from a good buck Dr. Pete had shot last fall. As they all started eating and surmising about what was in the chamber, a semi truck pulled up in the valley floor on the dirt road. Kip, the older of the two students went down and signed for the telehandler and helped unload it.

After the heavy lunch and everyone rested in the shade of the canvass, Dr. Pete jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “let’s get to work!”

The telehandler was fired up and carefully moved into position. Dr. Pete and Kip carefully cleaned around what appeared to be a petrified tree. They took their time removing each layer of sand and earth, careful not to disturb any artifacts. The sense of urgency was high but the restraint shown in meticulous work was even greater.

Kip carefully ran two, four inch straps around the petrified tree then the telehandler was moved into position. The rpms increasing as Kip powered it up and started the lift.

Pete was on his hands and knees in a precarious position. Half under the log, directing the lifting, Pete was clearing debris as the handler lifted the tonnage. Dr. Lighthorse and Matthew Ward stood watching with tensely.

“ Doc, I have to catch a flight tomorrow morning out of Salt Lake, what’s the chances of this being finished. “ Quipped Ward. “We are almost there, we will just lift this log and go in and catalog the site, then set the log back into place.” Dr. Pete responded as he anxiously dusted sand away with his brush.

After about another hour of intense inch by inch work, Pete had cleared enough sand and the handler lifted the log to about 36 inches above the ground, there was finally enough space to enter the small cavern like room.

Dr. Pete made his way in first. He helped Amy in then Matt. Kip followed leaving the second intern outside just in case anything should go wrong.

Dr. Pete made his way slowly across the dusty floor. He had the others stand by the door so as not to disturb any artifacts. It took him twenty minutes to get to the bundle.

“Amazing! This is not a burial site! This warrior died here. He is completely preserved, in fact I would say he mummified. He must have curled up in here and this overhang was sealed by an avalanche or slide shortly after he died. His weapons, his clothing, all his belongings are perfectly preserved. Dr. Lighthorse, I would dare say this is the best preserved burial site in the lower 48. Oh my God! Look at the chevron bead around his neck!”

Dr. Lighthorse made her way over to Pete. “Pete, I have never seen anything like this! Amazing!”

Matt Ward was taking in the whole room. His eyes couldn’t leave the blue strand of chevrons. “Pete, how much would a strand of chevrons like that go for?” Pete looked oddly at Ward and counted. “ There are at least 20 large beads on that strand, each bead being worth at least a grand each, not to count all the smaller ones that are three to five hundred dollar beads, with that said the value of these is not measurable. There has never been a full strand like this ever found!”

Dr. Pete and Dr. Amy worked side by side cataloging and taking pics of everything. “His skin feels alive. “ Dr. Amy noted. “This truly is the greatest find in the history of our people!”

Dr. Pete straightened up and gave the plan. “We are done for this evening. We will close this back up tomorrow so that this warrior can continue his sleep.”

“And leave all this valuable artifacts and history in the ground? This needs totally excavated and this dudes body and accouterments need displayed in the Smithsonian and shared with the world!”

“No!” Both Dr. Pete and Dr. Amy tersely both replied to Matt.

“We will put everything back the way we found it, this warrior will be honored and respected.” Pete explained. “Now let us retreat out of here and grab dinner.”

As they started to the entrance Kip finally spoke. “Dr. Pete look at the shadows on the wall. I have been watching them when we came in here. There’s four of us and there continually is five shadows.”

The hair on Pete’s neck stood up. “Let’s get out of here and have dinner.”

After dinner of elk steaks and campfire baked potatoes everyone started making there way to bed. Pete poured himself a good amount of dark Caribbean rum in a glass and added some ice and coke to it. “Matt, what is your plans? You leaving tonight?”

“ I am going to grab a couple hours of sleep Doc and then hit the road for Salt Lake. I will not disturb you all. Make sure you send me pics and a full report so I can write a good article for the Smithsonian blog so the American public can know about this find.”

Pete nodded and finished off his rum and coke in a big draught. “Well Matt, good working with you on this project, I am hitting the sack. I am exhausted and it’s going to be a full days work tomorrow just to put everything back the way it was.”

Thirty minutes later everyone was asleep except Matt Ward. He carefully got out of his bed and quietly went to the cave opening. He quietly and carefully crawled back under the log. He turned the flashlight on his phone and crawled over to the body. He carefully removed the heavy chevron necklace and slipped it into his hoodie pocket and he retreated, crawling out and going straight to his rental SUV and heading out for Salt Lake.

In the cavern Sliding Otter’s body started quivering. His eyes opened and he sat up. The leathered skin started to regenerate and soften. Sand fell from his hair. He crawled to the opening and exited. He began a slow sliding walk towards the summit of the mountain. Each step away from his centuries long cradle making the earth shake.

“ Earthquake Doctor!” Yelled Kip from the canvass tent. Pete sat straight up from his nightmare he was having. The earth was shaking in the most violent earthquake he had ever experienced. “Everyone stay where you are! Our camp is safe out here in the open!” He bellowed the order.

The hillside above the cavern gave way sending an amazing amount of tonnage down the mountain covering the telehandler and cavern in tons of debris. The quake lasted for five minutes then subsided.

“A quake this long is unheard of!” Dr. Amy exclaimed. “ The site is destroyed! So is the telehandler.”

“We were going to cover it back up this morning anyways, I guess Mother Nature did it for us and we got to experience first hand how that Crow warrior came to be entombed. “ Pete replied.

On the summit of the mountain above them Sliding Otter dig into his parfleche and pulled out a flint and steel. He ignited a ball of dry grass tinder, carefully blowing on it he started a fire. He took a small pouch of tobacco out and prayed. Spreading tobacco to the four winds. He then sprinkled some in the fire. He sat and closed his eyes. His veins began filling with fresh blood. The wrinkles left his face. The decaying smell of death on him was being replaced with tobacco and wood smoke. He was fully regenerating to his former self while he sat in prayer waiting for a vision.

The jet landed at Reagan international airport in Washington, D. C. some fourteen hours later. Matt Ward shuffled off. What an exhausting few days! His hand in his hoodie pocket feeling those beautiful chevron beads. He had to have those from the first time he saw them. As he sat on his suitcase on the curb waiting for his Uber, two young kids watched him intently as he fingered the beads. He smiled at them and the attractive twenty something mom that was with them. “Would you like to touch these? They are very old and belonged to a very old Crow Indian from Wyoming?”

The little girl and boy, ages 5 and 3 walked over and touched them and smiled. The bright blue really caught their eyes. The mom walked over and conversed with Matt and held the bead string as well, Matt’s Uber pulled up. Matt said goodbye and jumped in.

Matt varied on a conversation with the 22 year old Georgetown law student that happened to be his Uber driver. He allowed the student to hold the chevrons and told him his version of the history of the beads with a smattering if truth and facts Dr. Pete had told him. The driver pulled the Escalade up to the front of the Smithsonian and dropped Matt off……..

The next morning in a suburban Virginia subdivision a twenty something Mom awake feeling fevered. She glanced at the clock and realized that it was ten in the morning and the kids had not woke her up. A little rush of fear went through her as she rushed down the hallway and opened the door to the kids room quickly. A scream came from her pox marked face as she saw the little girl and boy laying on their beds covered in pox marks and a pool of blood coming from their mouth and nose as they stared at the Wall with diced eyes of death………

The Georgetown law student had went to the micro brewery after he signed off of Uber. He met up with a bunch of his millennial buddies from school. They drank a few rounds and were talking about their day.

A man in his early thirties came in and they recognized him as Jason the Secret Service dude who protected the President. He was a regular here every evening.

The student started feeling ill after his third draft. He started to slump in his seat feeling like he was running a high fever, he felt if he could get to the bathroom and just throw some cold water on his face. He tried to stand and the freshman Goth girl that was hanging out with them pointed at him and screamed as he fell to the floor. Pox lesions had suddenly appeared on his skin as he collapsed. The secret service officer ran over and started doing CPR.

He compressed the student’s chest and then went to give a rescue breath when he started vomiting blood and leaking more blood from his eyes and nose that had a putrid rotten smell. The secret service man backed off stunned…….

Matt Ward was laying in pool of his own blood on the sidewalk of Massachusetts Avenue. He was heading for Union Station to catch the Metro home. The fever had hit him and collapsed dead with the blue chevron string in his hands. The young African-American teenage boy and his white cohort were kneeling and looking at the dead man. “ He stinks man! Just grab that blue thing in his hand and let’s get the hell out of here before we are tagged with this!” They hurriedly grabbed the chevrons and ran into the night………

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Tiskelwah Chapter 4

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Chapter 4 A Man named Butler

The giant stood there staring me down. Boggs hurried around me and went into the cave to the cook pot. I could smell some kind of meat a boiling over the fire. My stomach was a turning inside out. I hadn’t really ate good cooked food in days.

” Boy, you kin go in there and eat after we talk a minute. Now where did old Boggs dig you up at?”

I looked at Butler and filled him in on the whole story. He stood there a shaking his head and listening to me intently. “Yer was lucky you wasn’t scalped and to try to swim the New this time of year your either tough or stupid. Now, me and old Boggs is here tomahawking some land for claims and we are waiting on a few more fellas a coming down from Fort Pitt to Trap the winter.”

” You got a lot to learn before you go off on your plan to go git yer sister. My opinion is you stay on and learn a mite from us and also you learn some trapping to help us out. You can also select you a homestead and claim to tomahawk yourself, a boy with no parents needs be landed at some point. ”

We went in to the fire and we ate. It was just boiled bear with some salt but it was the best meal I ate in weeks. While I was eating old Boggs and Butler was a talking.

” Hey boy, Boggs tells me when he fixed up your shoulder that your back scarred all to pieces. What got a hold of you? ”

Well, I looked them both over and told the story. ” I don’t tell this story that much because to me it embarrasses me that I didn’t listen to my Pa. My Pa had told me not to go down to our lower spring, he had been seeing catamount tracks down there and he was a wanting to get that cat killed before it got myself or my sister. Well now the idea of killing that cat burned in me. I wanted my Pa to think I was the hero. So that evening I took my rifle and stole real soft through the woods down to the lower spring.”

” I get to the lower spring and I sit and watch for awhile and I don’t see the catamount anywhere. After about an hour I gave up and crept on down to the spring. I get down below the big sycamore that marked that spring, I saw the big cat tracks there in the mud but no cat. I was thirsty so I set my rifle up against the tree and got down for a drink. That’s when I saw the reflection of that big panther air born flying for my back. Well I braced myself and drew my knife. The cat hit me and sent me a rolling, Tearing my back to shreds as we rolled.”

” Now I came up with this here dirk in my hands and went toe to toe with that cat! My Pa came a running but when he got there I already had that panther down and bled out and he about did the same to me. I never did live that down with my Pa and to the day he called me Cat or Catamount.”

Well Butler just sat there and stared at me for a minute then he slapped his knee and laughed. “Reckon we better not call you boy anymore, any man that kills a panther with his knife and hands earns his name!”

“Cat, tomorrow you and me going to go over the mountain and hit the old Elk River and push up to that stream they call Big Sandy creek, I want you to set a water line for beavers and such and maybe tomahawk some land. You can also learn somewhat from me as we go. ”

Well after that dinner and talk I hit the sack at about three in the morning Butler woke me for a turn at watch. While I was watching I got my pack ready and gear arranged. After the first rays of daylight we took off up the creek and hit a run. Butler called it Clover run after a couple Buffalo meadows at the head. We dropped into Two Mile creek and before another couple hours we hit the Elk. Butler had a dug out canoe hidden there and we took off upstream against a decent current. Butler said that Big Sandy creek was a score of miles up the stream. We took all the rest of the day getting there and pulled in the mouth a little after dark.

The next morning we started up the Big Sandy. ” I been up this stream to the mouth of another crick where the pigeons roost by the thousands and thousands. That’s as far as I been, we can push on as far as this canoe will take us but I do want to hunt and Trap that big Pigeon creek first for a few days. ”

Simon Butler was amazing! He could paddle a canoe like no other. His 6 foot 5 inches and almost that wife across the shoulders was a build for this kind of work. He could sneak the woods like any Shawnee, maybe even better and he could shoot his rifle almost as good as me. The only thing rifle wise on me is he could load a patched ball while on a full run, I could not do that.

It was the third day out and Butler had sent me up a stream we called Little Pigeon to its head. I was a looking down on another valley that seemed to run into Big Sandy creek further on. I was enjoying the view watching for an elk to take down when suddenly all the spring birds around went quiet.

I blended down against a log and started watching for the intruder when suddenly I was surrounded by 4 braves and an older Indian.

” Do not fear, I am Buckangehelas, I am a chief of the Delewares and you are hunting in our lands.”

Well I had done it again. I got myself cornered but the realization that the Chief had spoken to me in English hit me!

“Chief, I am only hunting what I need to eat and if I should find a place to rest and build a home, I would seek your permission first. ”

Buckhangehalas stared at me, ” If you only seek enough to live and just enough of our game to sustain you, then meet me and my braves here tomorrow at dawn and bring the great giant Bahdler with you, let him know that we are only hunting and seek no war with you or him. ”

And just like that they melted into the forest and I headed back to our camp on the Big Pigeon.

When I got back into the camp Butler was skinning a beaver he had caught in one of his water sets. I told him about the meeting with the chief. He questioned me hard if I had said anything about his camp at the mouth of Campbell’s Creek. When I assured him that I hadn’t, he said we should get move our camp, get some rest and go meet Buckhangehalas.

We hit the trail before dawn at a run. We silently padded through large rhododendrons in the cool April morning. I can’t understand hear turkeys gobbling all around me. The mountains were coming to life after a long winter.

We slowed down and went into a stealthy approach. We did not want to walk into an ambush. As we neared the meeting point I could already see the chief and his braves standing in the new dawn.

As we approached, the Chief reached out his hand to Butler. ” Bahdler, why are you in my hunting ground? Are you here to kill the Deleware children? Are you here to take from hungry mouths?”

” Chief, I am just looking and hunting, planning on moving along myself, now the young fellow here may stay but he has a mission to go get his sister that was taken by Chief Plugy the Shawnee.”

Buckhangehalas stared at me hard. ” I trusted a white man once. He took my son Mohonegan away from me. I hunted that man for years and killed him. I understand the loss of family, you Rogers will stay and hunt and I Buckhangehalas will give you piece of land for you to stay and care for, I, Buckhangehalas will show you how to live here, I will dispatch two of my braves to my Shawnee brothers and find your sister. You may live here as long as you learn our way of the land.”

I looked at Butler and he shrugged his shoulders, ” sounds like to me Cat that you got yourself a pretty good offer. You can stay with me but my reputation with the Shawnees won’t help you with your sister. We would have to fight a bloody war to get her, we may get killed trying. I think the Chief makes a good offer. You even get some of this land here to call yours!”

“Boggs and I are going to head to Caintuckee soon and you can learn this country and be a valuable man to this country.”

Well, I thought about it for a minute. ” Chief, I will stay and learn. There is much that you can teach me. I will stay until we hear from your braves about my sister.”

Just like that I was handed off from the greatest frontiersmen in the mountains to one of the great Chiefs of this western Virginia frontier!

The Last Day ( For love of gobblers)

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Each year in spring in these mountains of West Virginia, there is a last day of spring Gobbler season. Some years it’s a day of last minute, desperate tactics (but safe). Some years (such as this) it’s a time for reflection.

I never celebrate to the fullest, overjoyed with glee, for while I may have had an “epic season”, there are those that are accomplished that had a tough year.

With that said this year was special. My three year old Jasi was along and and witnessed three longbeards punch their tickets to the great strut zone in the sky.

Having already accompanied myself for two kills, Jasi was bound and determined to see Mom kill one. We all three started the morning taking a long walk on a local public land to spot where Jasi and I killed a mature Gobbler last Thursday.

Sunrise found us sitting in my trusty old leafy fabric blind listening to all manners of beautiful song bird noises. Unfortunately the only sound missing was a wild turkey gobble.

We gave it an hour to no avail. We then backed out and hit two more nearby properties. Still no gobbles. It was then that I made a command decision. Time for breakfast at the local diner. Sometimes one must take a break and reevaluate the morning fortunes and goals. It was at this juncture and after a good breakfast of bacon and eggs and a hearty western omelet, that we should go to my Uncles farm and just enjoy a couple hour sit at my lucky “killing tree”.

Chrissy opened the gate and we drove around the farm road. I decided here we would pack the strutter and the hen decoy both. After a warm walk to the lucky tree, Jasi and I readied the decoys and Chrissy set up the blind. At eleven a.m. we snuggled into the blind and settled in for a two hour sit. Jasi had her plastic horse and was playing away when Chrissy whispered suddenly, “ here comes one!”

The sneaky two year old came straight to the strutter. Not a gobble or a sound. The shotgun barked and a long beard flopped his last. Jasi squealed with delight! She had just been part of her third longbeard flop of the spring.

I just want to thank the wild turkey for this spring. Providing our family with fun, education and lessons. We love the gobbles, the highs, the lows, the cutting of hens and the vibrant colors. We love the different hunting techniques employed. The variety of habitat, the hooting of early morning owls and the morel mushrooms tucked up beside an old forgotten apple tree. We love the spitting and drumming, the weather variations and the afternoon trout fishing. We love the weight of a Gobbler string over our shoulders as we walk from the woods. We love spring and the wild turkey and all of the magnificent wonders of the creators world.

The bottom line is we love each other and the memories made. To hear the questions from a learning three year old, to see wonder in her eyes and to hear her exclamations of joy!

Until next spring………….

Tiskelwah Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

Back from the Dead

The water was cold and rough. The log I grabbed beat me with every rock and rapid. I had bit off more than I could chew. I was going to die.

No. No I wasn’t. I had to live through this to save my sister. The New was pulling me downstream at a sickening rate. I dug in and started kicking hard for the far shore. Just as I was making ground a huge boulder in the center of the river came into my view. There was nothing I could do, the force of this river slammed me, my log and my belongings into the rock. I screamed as my leg pinned between the log and the rock, I started swallowing water. Then as quickly as I was pinned the river let me and the log go. I tried kicking but my left leg was useless and painful. As I came around the bend into a calmer section I noticed I was drifting closer to the far side. I summoned my strength, pulled myself up over that log and passed out.

A rough shake on my shoulder brought me too. I looked at the face of a bearded white man through the fog of my pain. “Boy, we got to get you off this sand bar.”

I rolled and stood. I was a sight. Bleeding from my shoulder, left leg screaming with pain and shivering uncontrollably from the wet and cold. The man grabbed my pack and gun and started quickly for the wood line. “Come on son! You standing there gonna get us killed by Plugy’s braves.”

I started after him carefully putting weight on my leg, realizing it wasn’t broke but sure felt like it should be. The brisk walk started getting some warmth in me but I was still froze. I would have built me a fire in the edge of the woods but this man was determined for some distance.

“What you doing here boy? Why you got them Shawnees stirred up so? Where you heading?” The questions came to me quick. “I am tracking the murderers that killed my parents and stole my sister off.” The old man looked at me and laughed, ” well you ain’t getting along very well on being a savior now are you boy.” Well that grated me very well but my inner senses told me that I better follow this man. ” I am Steven Boggs, I am a trapping and hunting this area with Simon Butler, we have us a camp bout 35 miles north on the mouth of Campbell’s Creek right close by the Kanawha, you need go there and learn what do to get your sister back. ”

I wasn’t in much of a mood to argue. I followed. Old Boggs was a woodsman. Even though he looked aged he was twenty times the woodsman I was. As we covered some ground and headed up into the high country from the river he had me gathering every dry piece of birch bark and small bird nest I could find.

” Pick your tinder bundle as you go son, when we get to a camp we don’t have to hunt it to build a fire. You got a lot to learn I can see. A boy going off and declaring war on the Shawnee nation, I declare, you need to learn these mountains and those red Indian ways before you go traipsing all over the country leaving your dumb boy sign all over!” I bristled at his criticism. ” I am not a dumb boy! I went to school for 6 grades and learned books and natural ways from my Father ” Boggs looked at me and shook his head. ” No book going to help you out here. When you finally tell yourself that you are a dumb boy the better we both will be, now follow me and do as I say. ”

We covered the ground. He had me cut some willow branches and stuff them in my pack. After we put about 6 miles behind us and darkness was setting in, old Boggs started scouting for a camp. “We will build a fire and pull the ball from yer gun. You got to get that squirrel rifle back to firing able, we are in the most dangerous bloody ground there is and it’s only gonna get worse closer to that Great Kanawha River.”

Old Boggs said we were on Gauley Mountain overlooking Turkey Creek. It was wild country. Thick rhododendron patches choked the hollows. Huge majestic chestnuts were on this ridge. Old Boggs stopped us at a small overhang. There was enough room for us and a fire. “Get yourself undressed and get them clothes dried. You get in my blanket for warm. Here eat this sweet bread.”

I took what he handed me. I was starved. I ate and realized I was eating the tastiest meal I had in days. Sweet bread is a Shawnee bread made with corn meal, bits of meat and fat and maple syrup baked into a bread. It’s the best trail food I ever did eat.

” If it weren’t for you soaked to the bone we would dry camp. That Chief Plugy is one mean Chief. You don’t want caught by them Shawnees boy, they would have roasted you or maybe even skinned you. They are hating us white faces right now. Now you scrape that bark off those willer branches into your cup and add water and boil, drink that tea. It will take some pain outa your banged leg and where your shot in the shoulder. Now let’s get some buzzard down in that wound and wrap it.”

I give Old Boggs credit. He knew how to mend me up. He also had a fine set of rifle tools in his parfleche. ” I was a black smith up Fort Pitt way. ” We pulled the ball from my rifle and he cleaned it while I slept.

I woke and looked looked at my companion. He wore a sturdy pair of pants made from elk skin. He had on a linen long shirt and was wearing a rough made deer skin tunic over that. His long frock looked to be made from a canvass dyed to blend in the woods. He wore the Shawnee style of moccasins. He had a coonskin hat on. His rifle was a sturdy made. Curly maple stock .45 caliber and inlaid with German silver. He had with him a canvass parfleche bag with a wolf head flap on it. He carried a butternut colored wool blanket. His pack was a big handmade basket with Buffalo hide straps. He was definitely a wild man.

” Boy we got to get moving. We are going to throw these Shawnees off and we are going to really go cross country.” He wasn’t kidding, all through the day he pushed. We crossed the Gauley River with a hidden canoe. Then we walked and ran as best as my leg would carry me. We covered miles that day and camped on a knob he called “Beulah”. We were on the trail before daylight. We covered miles, crossing three major creeks and then hitting a mountain where we was looking down on the Great Kanawha river. “Come on boy you can rest this night, now walk easy and don’t you leave no tracks now, we are close to our camp.”

We slowed down to a crawl. We was placing each step now, not turning leaves or stones. I had never walked like this in the woods. A matter of yards took minutes to cover. We came to a creek, it looked waste deep and full of fish. I could tell this country was heaven. “This be Campbell’s Creek, it runs down to the Kanawha, if you take it to the head your on the mountain looking off the backside onto the Tiskelwah river, we just call it the Elk.” We crossed the creek and started up a brush choked point, we came to a good rock wall with a cave.

Old Boggs threw a stone in and out stepped a giant, the biggest man I ever did see , ” My names Simon Butler, where did Boggs find you?”

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