Dark and Bloody Ground : Immersion Recap

 

I’m never exactly sure how to write these immersion recaps. Should I simply tell it as it happened? Should I write it as though it’s an 18th-century narrative, straight from the Draper Manuscripts? I never know. So I suppose I’ll do a little of both—maybe. We’ll see how it goes.

After traffic delays and some van battery issues, I finally arrived on site late Thursday evening. David and Dillon were already there and had gone into the woods. Elijah had arrived as well, and he and I quickly kitted out and went looking for our native counterparts. We spent the first night camped together, and by the next day the rest of our parties had arrived.

By mid-afternoon Friday, the hunting party was assembled and in the woods: five men total—myself, Elijah, Joshua, Ehrin, and Sayer. Elijah had brought some green deer hides, and he and Sayer set about making frames to stretch and hang them. While they worked, Joshua, Ehrin, and I began construction on the half-face shelter. We had one good felling axe, several belt axes, and a crosscut saw.

Work was going well when suddenly natives were spotted on the ridge above. Our camp was, admittedly, poorly placed. We sprang to our rifles and managed to drive them off. After that, we became more vigilant.

Later, I went to the spring for water and was ambushed by the native party. I managed to escape when the rest of my group came to my aid. We made a second attempt at dusk, but they had crept closer to camp and sprang an ambush. The fight that followed was intense and close-quarters—in the darkness, we could see them only by the flashes from their firelocks.

I passed a sleepless night, cold and uncomfortable. In the early hours, Elijah and I rose and built a small fire, keeping a watchful eye on the ridge. As the rest of the party stirred, we warmed salt pork over the fire and resumed our work through the morning.

While sitting on the back log of our half-face shelter, I spotted a native watching our camp from the underbrush. I slowly stood and walked to my rifle. Just then, fire erupted from the trees, accompanied by war cries. We sprang into action. Elijah crossed the dry creek and cut off any attempt at flanking. We formed an open line and began exchanging fire. I shouted, “Let’s show them what Virginians are made of!” and with that, we charged. They fell back a short distance and took up positions behind trees. At one point, I was just ten feet from one of them. It was close and intense, but we finally drove them off.

As we returned to camp, we saw one of the natives run down and grab our felling axe where Joshua had been cutting wood. With the axe gone, work on the shelter slowed considerably.

Later, while Joshua and Ehrin scouted up toward the spring, the natives realized our group was divided. They rushed our camp and quickly encircled us in their usual half-moon formation. We fought for our lives. After about ten minutes, Ehrin and Joshua broke through the native line and rejoined the fight. Elijah and I flanked to the left, and I pushed up to the ridge, expecting to find the enemy. To my surprise, I was alone.

Eventually, I stumbled upon the native camp—and there was our felling axe. I took it back, along with a tobacco pouch, and returned to camp with my prize.

   At this point, all the hides were on frames and scraped, and we’d made good progress on the half-face shelter. We were low on powder, so I decided to go parley with the natives. Upon arriving at their camp, it was decided I would be “captured” and taken above our camp to deliver a message: we were not welcome in Kentucky. And that’s how it ended.

It was a truly incredible weekend. So many vivid moments added to the realism—not just the skirmishes, but the quiet times in camp, the work on the hides, and the sounds of timber being chopped. From their perspective, hearing us in the woods deepened the experience.

One of the most special moments was having my dad come down and sit in camp for a while. It was a dream come true for him to see us doing this on his property, and I’m glad he could be part of it. We all camped together the last night with Eileen and Colleen joining us, went out for a group dinner and reminisced about our epic weekend and made plans for the future. 

I'm also glad that we had several relatively new guys, and they're more fired up about living history than ever.

This won’t be the last!  

The Versatility of Common Garments and Immersion on the Brain

     In just over a week, I will be in the woods of Kentucky with some like minded individuals portraying hunters in the backcountry. I've been thinking as I put my kit together and look at all my gear laying all over the back deck of the house about how a simple starting point can help you build all manner of impressions for the Backcountry, but I want to highlight two different looks that I think are important for our purposes here. I've also, in the lead up to the event, gotten several inquiries about attending. I had to give the usual speech about this not being your average 18th century event at Fort Harrod or Boonesborough. That the standards are a bit higher, and offered help in the direction of what could be done to improve. And so I thought that it would be good to maybe revisit some basics. 

    The base layer is very simple and with this layer, a person could come to an event, borrow a few things from his comrades, and boom, he's attended his first event and can now make more purchases or make some things. That base layer is two garments. A shirt and a pair of trousers. You can purchase both these things "off the rack" from South Union Mills. I've seen their trousers in person and they're really solid and the best option currently on the market. My wife made both the shirt and trousers pictured here. 

    With these as your base you can do a lot. I decided I'd show two looks that I think are the easiest to achieve with a little sewing or commissioning (or again, purchasing from South Union Mills). The first is what I'll call the Virginia Farmer Going to the Field. He's got some work to to do out in the area around his cabin and he's bringing his firelock, bag and horn along just in case of danger. He'll pick up his axe, saw or whatever tools he needs for the task at hand as he leaves the house or cabin and a jug of water to stay hydrated. He wears a small round hat cocked up on one side and a linen jacket that he'll shed once he starts to sweat. He's wearing buckle shoes, that depending on what he's doing he might kick off and enjoy the freedom of the backcountry. 

    Later that week he's been called up for service on an Indian Campaign. The Natives are on the move and he's been asked to defend the frontier. He's now wearing a hunting shirt, a pair of woolen leggings and moccasins, his firelock bag and horn are with him still and he's added a bedroll suspended from a tumpline. 

    All of this is the average amount of clothing and accoutrements I take to a public event. I usually throw most of it in my knapsack and then I have options depending on what's going on. Now, for an immersion like what is coming up, I'll be a lot more selective and limit myself to the outfit I feel best reflects the scenario and what the person I'm portraying in the past would've done in the same scenario. 

    One good thing about the backcountry is that you can do a lot with relatively little. One thing I want to stress is what Kobuck is always saying. These aren't "brands". "Hunter" isn't a brand. "Farmer" isn't a brand. These are occupations and the clothing doesn't necessarily indicate the occupation, although "Hunting shirt" would definitely be an exception. Jackets and trousers were universal garments worn by everyone. Laborers, farmers, sailors, hunters and every other occupation you could imagine. There's no such thing as a "Longhunter Kit" or a "Farmers Kit". There's just common clothes, and different tools and accoutrements for each job. A versatile backcountry kit is one that can be both farmer, hunter and soldier with a simple adding and subtracting of layers specific to the job at hand. 

    I hope this gives some of the folks who are wanting to get out with us at future immersion events something to chew on and to really put some thought into simplicity and versatility. Less is more and common is best. 

    Resources and Items for Purchase : 

http://thebuffalotrace1765.blogspot.com/2017/09/i-bet-if-you-tolld-henry-harmon-he-was.html

https://www.southunionmills.com/excelsior-line-18th-century-mens-linen-trousers/

https://www.southunionmills.com/completely-handsewn-18th-century-shirt-checked-linen/

Captain Titus Death March and How I Don't Like Change...

     Another Martin's Station has come and gone. It was great to see so many friends and familiar faces. My parents made the trip down for the first time in six years. It's the first time I've been to the same event as my folks in quite some time. The unfortunate downside was Eileen falling ill Friday night. She soldiered through the day on Saturday and then we made the decision to pack up and take off. I'm glad we did because she ended up with a fever and asthma attacks. 

    I was taken back this weekend to the many events of the past held in the shadow of that incredible mountain ridge. Those moments of time travel I've experienced so many times. There were many stories that came up over the weekend, many about the Raid. 

    The Raid at Martins Station came to an end a number of years ago and the feelings ranged from outrage to "it's about time". I'll leave the modern politics out of the discussion, there's been enough said about it and I'm just not interested in weighing in. But I will say this. I miss the Raid at Martins Station. As out of hand as it could be at times and yes, even a little cringey, the 11 year old kid in me still longs for it.

    Imagine, it's nearing dusk. The fort is suddenly a hub of activity. Natives have been spotted in the area around the Fort. Captain Titus barks orders, the men stand to attention. Other companies of men stream into the Fort. Women and children rush to find shelter within the walls. Then suddenly a war cry, the woods erupt with gunfire. The men on the walls of the fort return fire and we prepare to march out and engage the enemy. As we march out of the gate, to our right a small corn crib is set ablaze. We form our line and engage with the natives who are darting around the cabins and buildings outside the protection of the log palisade and blockhouses. Fire spits from the port holes as men discharge their rifles and are handed freshly loaded ones from the women. If this scene didn't stir your blood and set fire to your imagination, then you either weren't there, or I'm a poor writer. In some ways, words can't do it justice.     

    When I first came to Martins Station I was 11. Captain Titus, the man who so effortlessly led you back in time with his manner that just seemed so naturally suited to the 18th century, was larger than life to me and when he saw me lugging around my drum, I became his drummer. This lasted a few years until I was finally able to shoulder a gun, but it is a memory I will treasure. "Drummer, beat the drum" he'd say, I 'd stand on a stump in the middle of the station drumming away as the men assembled before us. Every year, he'd lead us on the now legendary "Death March", so named by the men who trudged along in buckle shoes until, I'm sure, blisters formed on heels. And there was Titus, always about 20 paces ahead of the column, gliding along with his easy gait, sword hanging by his side. He demanded and got respect, because with Titus, it wasn't just something we were doing for the public. Not some mere educational program that ended at 5 o'clock when the modern crowds left. This was LIVING history. This was as near to time travel as any us were ever going to get and by God, we were gonna get there if he had anything to say about it. And so we marched, not to our deaths, but into the past, down the trails our ancestors trod before us until we were alongside them shoulder to shoulder, experiencing their experiences as closely as we could muster for 3 days in the Powell Valley of Western Virginia. And I loved every second of it.     

    And now I'm 34. The world has changed a lot since I was 11. For the better, I'm not sure. But that's what those who get older always say, right? It was better "back in my day". I don't know if it was better, I just know what I experienced, and a lot of it is gone, as much history as the history we're trying to re-create. Anyone who knows me knows I don't like change. The Raid will always be something I long for, that I'll miss. I'm not unhappy about the new event. I love it. I just wish it was in addition to the raid. 

     We try to do a less lengthy version of the death march every year in memory of Titus. This year, we marched along with Titus's former colleague, Jason Gatliff, jug in hand for the occasion. We stopped under the shade of a tree and began the ration. We poured out the first cup for Titus and then drank to his memory. Jason shared a story, and we talked about him. Kyle Willyard then said that it's so important to cherish and savor those moments in this hobby that are special because once they're gone, they probably won't be experienced again. He's right. And I'm sad about it. They always say, don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened. Well, I am both. 

    As the hobby has progressed, I will admit that it feels like maybe we've lost something in all the stitches and thread counting, in all the perfect gear and exact copies of this and that, and that something is the spirit of this whole thing. That mythic frontier spirit that drove us all to get into this in the first place. That spirit that grabs you when you're 11 years old and makes you want to run off into the woods and be Daniel Boone. Yeah, I've criticized a lot on this blog, and stuff should be criticized. There's been a lot of goofiness that happens in this weird hobby. But in amongst the strange clothing choices and poorly thought out kits, there was a fire that I can't help but feel burns a little lower. Maybe I'm bored of folks pretending like they don't enjoy a good power burner, and that they'd pretentiously rather do living histories and interp. 

    Now, I'm not advocating that we ditch it all and stop caring about accuracy. I LOVE nailing an impression as much as the next guy. No need to regress. I don't really know what's to be done or if anything actually needs to be done or if there's even a problem at all other than I'm just feeling nostalgic and wanted to talk about it. To sit with my feelings as they say and let them have some room to breathe. To feel sad and happy at the same time. It's hard to strike a balance with all this stuff. Maybe the fire is burning brighter than ever for this hobby, and I'm just sulking. I certainly don't wanna ever become one of those guys that thinks the hobby is dying, cause it certainly is not. It's just changing, and mostly I'm okay with that. Mostly. In a lot of ways, I'm more fired up to just do my part to keep whatever version of the flame I value flickering brightly in my little corner of the hobby. So for now,  I'll likely just pop in my VHS copy of Last of the Mohicans and start preparing for the Immersion Event in Kentucky in a couple weeks time. All I ever really wanted was to be Hawkeye, running through the woods chasing Magua up a mountain and I think I'm still chasing him all these years later, trying to win back my stolen love. I guess the 11 year old me is still alive and well and I think for Captain Titus, so was his. 

    May we have many more memories together as we conjure up the spirts of the past.  

What's in the Jug? : Counter Culture, Living History and Blurring the Lines

   

Do you ever have those moments where you have an interaction that really moves you and makes you feel like, despite all the noise that the modern world throws at you, there's real goodness in the world. That there's real purpose in what we as reenactors and living historians do. That this hobby of ours can transcend merely being a hobby and can have real and positive impact on our lives and those around us. In some ways, what we do is subversive. It's counter culture. It's standing with a foot in two worlds, the world of modernity and the world of our ancestors. It's keeping alive those pre industrial skills and rhythms of life, before blogs, instagram accounts and AI generated art. 

 I was walking along the row of tents, on my way to speak with someone when something caught my eye. The tinsmith at the event had some stuff out and I walked up to browse the cups and various items he had for sale. I gruff voice from the next tent over asked if I had been having a good weekend. I said yes, and I walked over and stood under the fly and scanned the items on the tables. I picked up a small jug and examined it. Reddish brown with a leather strap fastened as to be carried over the shoulder and a cork stuck in the top. "If you like that you can just take it." he said. I was sort of taken aback. "That jug has been on many a trek with me and I'd like to see it in the hands of someone who would appreciate its history and who's carrying on what we were doing so many years ago". I was still sort of shocked and I expressed my appreciation and then a long talk ensued that could have gone well into the evening and night. 

    
 Jim Jacobs is a well known name in this hobby. His vast knowledge of the 18th century frontier, his work as a craftsman, his treks and his adventures down the Wabash are legendary. He appeared in the Gary Foreman history channel documentaries that I loved so dearly as a kid. I've known Jim for years, but always sort of in passing.

 I won't share everything we discussed because, honestly, I wish we lived in the moment more without the need to document everything, but our conversation was one  of mutual respect, a mutual recognition of what we both have been in pursuit of our entire time in this wild and beautiful hobby of ours. He talked about how all those years ago, despite some elements that leaned on reenactorism, that he and others really set out with the goal of experiencing what they read in those first hand accounts. We talked about time travel. We talked about getting out in your gear, not just at events or in the woods, but out in the garden, doing simple little tasks in period clothes to gain an appreciation for what our forefathers and mothers really experienced in daily life. 

 

    
Something I often mention to people who are trying to get into the hobby is that for many of us, this isn't just a weekend warrior thing where we go out a couple times a year to a public event and wear funny clothes and then come home and put it all away in the closet until next time. Most folks I know, Jim included, often live a life full of blurred lines between the contemporary and the historical. A chore done in jeans, a t-shirt and a pair of moccasins with a round hat on while working in your garden. A project sitting on the coffee table to be worked on during an evening watching a movie. It's not merely a hobby. It's a lifestyle that can become all consuming. For myself, virtually everything I do and think about has some history adjacent element to it. I'm often, as I just described, half in modern clothes, half in period clothes while working on some project. Even in my band with my wife, we strive for a historically inspired aesthetic. It permeates everything. 

 

    He talked about the 90s, how he really stands by what they accomplished, what they were able to get out and do and if that if he had it all to do again he'd do it. And I honestly stand by them too. I know this blog has been a place sometimes of pushing the envelope and riling some feathers, but through it all, I am so appreciative of the work of the old guard to bring us to where we are. I have nothing but admiration and respect for people like Jim. 

 I realized part way through the conversation that what I was being given wasn't just a jug, I was being given trust. Trust that I and others will continue to keep our history alive. Not just names, dates, facts, but this strange and wonderful hobby that combines craftsmanship, traditional knowledge, hunting, trapping, agriculture, animal husbandry, sewing and many more things. The LIVING history. Not just reenacting, but living it. And that is what Jim has done. He's lived it. 

 We're experiencing, I think, another "moment" in the hobby that we should take advantage of. Lot's of young blood coming up and getting fired up about this weird thing we do. Let's be encouraging and pass along the knowledge.