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.