TexasCharley
New member
This happened to a friend of mine back in the '70s. At the time he worked for NASA as a draftsman. It was a very stressful job, so he needed real relaxation when he could get it. He was, at the time, an historical re-enactor & a primitive hunter. 'Primitive hunting' means getting as close to an earlier period--camping, firearms, clothing, everything else--as you can. His period was 1830s/'40s. He had a lease on a large farm in the Davy Crockett National Forest. In Texas, 'National Forests' are composed of private farms & ranches, timber-company-owned land, & a little--very little--federal land. At the time timber companies would allow almost anyone with the money to hunt their land, though that's changed somewhat over the years.
Anyway, he trucked all his stuff in, took the truck back to the farm's HQ, & walked back to his campsite. He was dressed in homespuns, a buckskin jacket, coonskin cap, hi-top moccasins, the whole works. He had a lean-to tent & a home-made bedroll. All his cooking stuff was replicas of early 19th century stuff. Dried beans, piloncillo sugar, cornmeal, jerky, the whole bit. He had a paraffin-lined keg full of water &, of course, a crockery jug with some corn likker in it for the evenings.
About his 3rd morning he got up to go to his stand about an hour before daybreak. He'd just gotten there when a pea-soup fog rolled in. Being a primitive--but not a dumb--hunter, he reached into his possibles bag, got out the space blanket he kept for emergencies, rolled up in it, & took a nap. About 10 AM he woke up & the fog was burning off in the clearings but remained thick in the woods. He folded up the space blanket, put it back in his possibles bag, & began to move around until he could feel a slight breeze on his face so he'd be downwind of any deer.
He hadn't gotten far when he heard somebody holler "Hey, buddy!" He saw a guy come running across a clearing towards him. According to my friend, this guy was so green the tags were still hanging off his K-Mart hunting clothes. He was also obviously lost & had committed the cardinal sin in Texas deer hunting--he'd crossed fences. You never cross a fence unless you've already made arrangements with the landowner to hunt that land, too.
Anyway, the guy got close enough to see how my friend was dressed & realize he was carrying a flintlock long rifle. He said--in a sort of shaky voice--"My God, how long you been lost?"
My friend has a peculiar sense of humor. I think he got it from a distant ancestor--a guy called Atilla the Hun. He looked the intruder over & then said, in his best drawl, "Wal, stranger, Ah doan reckon Ah rightly know. Last I hearn, Gen'rul Houston was a-headed fer Nackydoches an' Ah reckon Ah musta missed him." Then he turned away and walked into the dense fog.
Neither of us knows how the story ended, but we would have loved to have been flies on the wall in the first bar that guy got to after he got out of there.
Anyway, he trucked all his stuff in, took the truck back to the farm's HQ, & walked back to his campsite. He was dressed in homespuns, a buckskin jacket, coonskin cap, hi-top moccasins, the whole works. He had a lean-to tent & a home-made bedroll. All his cooking stuff was replicas of early 19th century stuff. Dried beans, piloncillo sugar, cornmeal, jerky, the whole bit. He had a paraffin-lined keg full of water &, of course, a crockery jug with some corn likker in it for the evenings.
About his 3rd morning he got up to go to his stand about an hour before daybreak. He'd just gotten there when a pea-soup fog rolled in. Being a primitive--but not a dumb--hunter, he reached into his possibles bag, got out the space blanket he kept for emergencies, rolled up in it, & took a nap. About 10 AM he woke up & the fog was burning off in the clearings but remained thick in the woods. He folded up the space blanket, put it back in his possibles bag, & began to move around until he could feel a slight breeze on his face so he'd be downwind of any deer.
He hadn't gotten far when he heard somebody holler "Hey, buddy!" He saw a guy come running across a clearing towards him. According to my friend, this guy was so green the tags were still hanging off his K-Mart hunting clothes. He was also obviously lost & had committed the cardinal sin in Texas deer hunting--he'd crossed fences. You never cross a fence unless you've already made arrangements with the landowner to hunt that land, too.
Anyway, the guy got close enough to see how my friend was dressed & realize he was carrying a flintlock long rifle. He said--in a sort of shaky voice--"My God, how long you been lost?"
My friend has a peculiar sense of humor. I think he got it from a distant ancestor--a guy called Atilla the Hun. He looked the intruder over & then said, in his best drawl, "Wal, stranger, Ah doan reckon Ah rightly know. Last I hearn, Gen'rul Houston was a-headed fer Nackydoches an' Ah reckon Ah musta missed him." Then he turned away and walked into the dense fog.
Neither of us knows how the story ended, but we would have loved to have been flies on the wall in the first bar that guy got to after he got out of there.
