Jim was already dressed when I pulled into the parking lot he had designated, a canoe strapped tightly to the top of his SUV. I stepped out in my modern clothing, and after exchanging pleasantries we hopped back in and made our way to the boat launch. As we drove down the meandering road, the blacktop shifted to gravel—almost a symbolic portal marking our departure from modern things, a quiet slipping into worlds past. The forest around us felt otherworldly, the light filtering through the trees and striking the leaf-covered floor in hues of orange, yellow, and green. My mind was full of thoughts about what we were about to experience, and about what the man beside me had already lived out in this wilderness.
Jim Jacobs became enamored with the woods and with history at a young age. He told me about roaming the forests with his BB gun, imagining himself a frontiersman like Daniel Boone. When he discovered reenacting, all bets were off; he immersed himself fully into the 18th century. A major inspiration was Mark Baker, who took academic knowledge and turned it into lived experience. That method resonated with Jim, who became enthralled with historical trekking—living as early explorers, Indian traders, and trappers once lived. Over time he developed a reputation for organizing scouts, some of which have become legendary tales told around campfires.
We arrived at the landing site, and I dressed and unpacked my gear. Jim and I did a bit of trading—a kettle for one of his awls and a tobacco pouch. He also gifted me seeds from his garden, part of his growing historical skillset in 18th-century farming. Something I learned about Jim is that he always brings along a month’s worth of provisions, even for a weekend scout. The idea is twofold: first, to reflect the essential loadout for a long journey of this type, and second, to serve as a practical precaution if circumstances require staying put longer than expected.
Our provisions for the weekend included:
4 lbs of parched corn
4 lbs of cornmeal
2 lbs of beans
A small quantity of jerk and a block of maple sugar
A bundle of Johnny cakes
A sack of ground coffee
½ lb of cut tobacco
A fifth of rum
A bundle of dried mullein leaf
I brought my own supplies—salt pork, jerk, parched corn, flour, and coffee. With this combined stock, we were well set for an extended stay in the woods.
We loaded the canoe carefully, tying everything down to prevent loss in the event of a capsize. Jim told me a story of once tipping his boat; though he lost only a glove, the experience sounded miserable. He had managed to get everything ashore, build a huge fire, and dry out. I hoped we’d avoid a similar fate. Once our provisions and accoutrements were aboard, we stepped into the canoe—a modern one, though its modernness quickly faded as we pushed off down the creek.
The world became quiet. All we could hear were the birds and the soft slosh of our paddles. A beaver to our right sounded its alarm with a tail slap before diving into the water. A heron lifted from the shoreline and glided down the creek ahead of us. We wove our way through deadfall, occasionally brushing submerged logs hidden by the murky water, hoping we wouldn’t have to climb out to free the canoe. Our luck held. Jim described the lay of the land as we approached, but I found myself distracted by the sheer beauty of the place.
Jim looks like he stepped straight out of a Paul Sandby sketch—his clothing well-worn and lived-in, a look I’ve always admired. His gear shows similar use; these aren’t props for an “impression” but tools for sustaining himself in the woods. He is a living historian in every sense, taking what he finds in dusty tomes and applying it in pursuit of practical knowledge. Jim and his wife Chris were part of a core group in the ’90s who pushed the boundaries of reenacting, transforming it from a periodic costume hobby into something deeper and more lived-in. Many of us have adopted this “lifestyle” approach, where at any given time a friend in the hobby is either making, repairing, or reading something related to their 18th-century persona. Jim and others like him have been major inspirations to me as I pursue firsthand experience of our 18th-century counterparts and their backcountry lives.
We reached the landing spot and eased the canoe against the bank. I found a solid foothold, stepped out, and tied us off to a sapling. Jim suggested we scout for a campsite before unloading. He prompted me to load my gun, and he loaded his while still standing in the canoe. I helped him ashore, and we headed into the trees. We found a few promising areas. For shelter we carried a 9×9 tarp, blankets, a buffalo robe, and a bearskin. We discussed possible setups—lean-tos, tarp shelters, or simply bedding down against one of the many fallen logs that littered the forest floor, forming natural windbreaks. Jim told me of past nights spent with nothing more than leaves piled for a bed. Farther up, he showed me a forked tree designated years ago as “Jacobs Station.” Eventually we settled on a site and returned to unload, but not before Jim paused for a smoke, sparking one of many conversations we’d share that weekend.
Jim is old enough to be my father, something he acknowledges with grace. Our mutual respect was obvious. We talked about how reenacting remains one of the few places today where young and old meet with shared purpose. He said it warms his heart to see younger folks pushing the hobby in ways he could only have dreamed of in the ’90s. I told him how much men like him have inspired me, how their stories fueled my own fire. We talked, too, about how the internet has strained relations between generations—older hobbyists feeling threatened, younger ones feeling frustrated. Yet out there in the woods, we defied that dynamic completely.
We spent the evening talking and getting to know each other. I sewed repairs into my spare moccasins and read from the Virginia Gazette. I had also brought Robinson Crusoe and letters from Eileen. She’s made a habit of slipping letters into my knapsack before I leave, for me to discover later; this trip was no exception.
Jim has been coming to this area since the early ’90s—sometimes with Chris, “the first woman of the woods,” as Jim called her, and sometimes with larger groups. He’s camped here in every month of the year and learned much from the variety. One story that stuck with me was his tradition of spending a week or two in the woods before Thanksgiving as a kind of spiritual and physical reset. He said he knew he had truly adjusted when Thanksgiving dinner tasted extraordinary after a week of jerk meat and pone. I’m tempted to adopt that tradition myself.
We talked about what this hobby offers and whether it’s worth pursuing amid modern pressures. The conversation grew philosophical—religion, politics, what it means to be human. We agreed, we disagreed, and in the end respected each other even more. As the fire dimmed, we turned in for the night.
I never sleep well in the cold, and despite the buffalo robe I tossed and turned. Jim seemed to fare better, his soft snoring proof enough. I finally rose around six, stoked the fire, and stretched out beside it until the sun began to creep over the trees across the creek. Jim stirred, retrieved his blanket coat from behind the shelter, and slipped back under the blankets before rising again. We sat by the fire discussing the day’s plans. I cooked salt pork in my frying pan and shared it with him. He had hoped to take me up the ridge to overlook the area, but said his body wasn’t up to the climb. He suggested I go alone while he tended camp and prepared our gear for the return trip. Rain was coming, and we agreed it would be wiser to leave Saturday evening rather than Sunday morning. Better to know your limits than try to impress someone. The thought of loading a canoe on a wet, slippery bank didn’t appeal to either of us.
I set off to scout the ridge while Jim worked around camp. Though he’s less active these days, the spark in his eye—the passion for this era and for lived experience—remains strong. He emphasized the importance of humility, curiosity, and the willingness to admit when you don’t know something. I’ve tried to adopt the same principles: to make what I do about others, to inspire folks to get involved, and to use what little knowledge I have to encourage exploration. I don’t know as much as others, and I try not to pretend otherwise.
When I returned, we broke down camp and carried our provisions to the boat. Before pushing off, we held a little informal shooting match. My gun wouldn’t fire—just a flash in the pan. I assumed the charge was wet. Jim suggested a trick I’d never considered: fill the pan, then use the vent pick to push powder through the touchhole until it’s full. Sure enough, the gun fired immediately. I was glad I didn’t have to pull the ball.
We set off again, weaving through the deadfall. On a long straight stretch, Jim complimented my paddling rhythm. We reached the forks and spotted a heron rookery to our right. We drifted there a while, smoking our pipes as the boat slowly spun in the still water.
Suddenly the modern world reappeared—the cars, the parking lot. We unloaded, strapped the canoe to the SUV, and ignored the curious looks from passersby. Jim gave me a share of the buffalo meat, and we went off to have a meal together before heading home to our wives.
I love this hobby and always will. Experiences like this one—with Jim, who after all these years still carries a twinkle in his eye—fuel my passion and stoke my flame a little brighter. We already have more plans in the works, and I can’t wait.
