The Old Western Field 22 Rifle...First Steps Toward a Boyhood Dream

 Not sure really where those boyhood dreams of adventure originated. Could be from the stories my grandfather told me about fox and bear dens on the old Oklahoma Cavanal Mountain. Or maybe it was from watching an old adventure movie or reading about the grand adventures of Lewis and Clark. Most likely though it probably was brought to life after reading the true story of a man long ago who made a bet with a friend that he could survive for six months or maybe longer in the woods taking nothing with him...not even his clothing. A fascinating story for sure especially for a young boy who dreamed of such things. Most of those dreams remain locked away inside until one day, on my 12th or 13th birthday during the summer of either 1964 or 1965, my dad bought me a 22 LR rifle. At the time it probably sold for around 25 or 30 dollars. From that moment on, I felt as though those dreams had the potential of becoming, at least to some degree, a reality. 

It was a simple rifle; a single shot Western Field bolt action he most likely purchased from Montgomery Wards. But to me it looked and felt like a high caliber deer rifle. Just holding it in my hands and raising it to my shoulder to sight down the barrel and align the sights on some distant target was an act of adventure. On that first day after opening the long box it came in, a smaller package was also included which contained a couple boxes of Remington Long Rifle bullets. Later that day we headed over to a local creek and within a short time I shot up those two boxes of shells plinking at various objects. I'll never forget that first day shooting my very first real rifle.

Still in my youth I relied on my dad to take me someplace to shoot it and to buy the bullets, so it wasn't all that often I was able to get it out. Never did go hunting with it back then, just plinking around creeks and other locations mostly imagining hunting way off in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains. Not until I grew into adulthood did I manage to head out on my own. Most of the time I just shot at cans and pieces of wood and things. Doing so improved my accuracy and it was indeed a rather accurate rifle considering the simplicity of its design.

That accuracy lead me into target shooting. I knew very little about how to do that, but over time learned the basics. I discovered just how accurate the rifle was for it, when held steady and solid off a bench, could consistently shoot a five shot one inch group at fifty yards. That's good enough to score in the mid-40's on a 50 point fifty yard small bore target. That grouping improved when I figured out if I used subsonic rounds like the CCI target rounds. Using those specialty rounds the potential accuracy improved to about a 3/4 inch five shot group. That could in theory score in the high 40's.

Of course shooting by hand would impart a level of inaccurate tendencies into that potential. Even so, I eventually started shooting in four position small bore rifle competitions; Prone, Sitting, Kneeling, and Standing. I rigged my rifle with a simple target peep site which improved my offhand shooting and felt as though I could compete respectfully and not embarrass myself...too much. 

During my first competition over near Bixby, Oklahoma I arrived not really knowing what to do. I registered and was given my targets and listened to the range officer go over the range rules. When we stepped onto the range I looked across the various stations and my heart simply sank as the other competitors extracted from fancy hard cases high dollar specialized target rifles fixed with calibrated diopter target sights. My little rifle looked almost like a toy up against those. They also wore specialized target shooting clothing which helped them hold their rifles more steady. I stood there in blue jeans and a sweat-shirt using only a large leather glove and a sling made out of an old leather belt to help steady my pulse from being imparted to the hold of the rifle. 

Next to me stood a fellow who appeared to be a seasoned target shooter using a several thousand dollar target rifle. He looked over at me obviously eyeing my little gun and politely smiled. I felt a slight bit of smugness from his demeanor. Undeterred, I sighted in my rifle in the prone position at 50 yards and was pleased with the results...then the shooting started for real. I fired off all twenty rounds, five on each of four targets. When the shooting stopped we gathered our targets and exchanged them with the competitor next to each other for scoring. His target looked well seasoned and even though I felt sure I had shot pretty well, I wasn't sure how the scoring would turn out.

When he was finished, he stood there shaking his head, glanced over at my rifle, then back to the target and commented. "You shot this target with that rifle?"

I said, "That's right...how'd it turn out."

He shook his head, "Man, that's some pretty good shooting for a little sport rifle like that. These are some good scores. Never thought I'd see these kinds of groups with that kind of gun. Some of these other guys using real high dollar target rifles won't score much better, and your scores are most likely better than a good number of them."

I smiled and thanked him. My highest target score if I recall right was around 47 and the four combined target scores fell around 175 out of 200 in the prone position. Kneeling, sitting, then standing my scores varied somewhat but were respectable and that little old Western Field sport rifle held her own against much more capable guns. I continued to entertain myself at those shoots for a season or two.

Through the years I have introduced both my son's to that old rifle even mounting a 4X scope on it. I even took them on an early morning squirrel hunt some years ago. Christopher carried a pellet gun and Tim the 22. That was great fun and this one photo I made of them using a simple disposable camera is one I treasure as much as any of them. Christopher, my youngest seemed have more of an interest in shooting and even got him to doing some 50 yard target shooting practice at one time.

On one of Kris and my first dates, I took her target shooting using that old 22. Even today, she will, on our Thanksgiving shoot, partake of the shooting activities. She's a pretty good shot even now.

On occasion just for myself, I'll breakout that old rifle and set up a target 50 paces away inline with my mound of dirt I had put in when we first moved to Kentucky.

 My skill at shooting has diminished somewhat, but that old rifle will still shoot a good group. Almost every Thanksgiving Day after my boys and family have gorged ourselves on turkey and dressing, we will brakeout the old 22 and do some plinking in the backyard. 

I love that little old rifle and treasure it as a means to retouch with my past. It is a past filled with visions of adventure and each time I squeeze the trigger, I am gratefully returned to those days when a young boy dared to dream of such things. My eyes are dimmer, my once blond hair now turned white, and my hold not so steady anymore, but I still enjoy the feel and excitement of how a simple little sport rifle strengthened the heart and mind of a young boy. I am still today that young boy, just in an older body, who dreamed of grand adventures and that old Western Field 22 rifle came along on many of those dreams.

The Quiet Side: When Nature Offers The Best of Herself

 Not so long ago, a long day fell mostly behind me and Kentucky's Barren River Lake began to settle toward its nightly rhythm. Daylight crawled ever so slowly toward darkness and just as the peak of the setting sun reached its climax, the horizon began to glow with a fire-like texture enhanced by suspended dust and smoke particles from summer forest fires way up in Canada. I walked across the gravel-like beach hearing only the soft crunching of the sandy pebbles under foot and the gentle washing of the lake against the beach, then sat on an old wooden box that somehow washed ashore some time back. The quiet side of nature spoke to me as I absorbed the moment. Speaking softly it reminded me just how much I needed this softer moment and just how often I miss these opportunities, but when I and the quiet side of nature do converge, we do so with a more clear understanding of why I need to do such things.

The Quiet Side is that moment when nature offers the best of her day. It can occur most anytime, but tends to spring to life during that transition from daytime to night., when the bigness of the day begins to slow down toward a refreshing calmness. That calmness of spirit moment can be felt, should you allow yourself to do so. It is like no other, and one of the best ways to discover and experience it is to canoe camp. 

I am blessed to have a wonderful location nearby where I can partake of such moments. Yes, it is a public area, but large enough to offer room enough to slip away from the public locations and find a secluded spot that offers a great isolated view of the lake. Not only do I enjoy the adventure of paddling my canoe deep into the back areas of the lake, I mostly do so just to experience the quiet side of nature.

So much noise infiltrates our lives we often lose touch with the benefits of getting away so we can fade into the aura. Canoeing provides one of the best opportunities to slip away from all the clutter of life. It is a throwback of sorts where you can truly become one with your craft and one with nature. After a while on the water, stiff muscles loosen and the distance begins to slip away behind you. It becomes easy again to view the world with a more discerning eye, like a Sycamore tree growing out of the sheer rock face of a bluff, or an Osprey hovering then diving for a meal, or maybe the cool spring water leaking from high up the ridge to run across the face of a bluff. A favorite of mine as a photographer is watching summer clouds change their shape as they drift across a sky so blue it looks more like a painting. These are but a few of the kinds of things that you may find while seeking out the quiet side of nature.

Sometimes I'll stop paddling and just drift allowing the day to infiltrate into my soul. I'll lean back to stretch stiff back muscles and allow the sun to warm my spirit. Eventually, I'll find my secluded spot and pull off the lake. In short order I'll setup camp, gather firewood, sort through my gear, take a few photographs, and cook a meal. Oh my...those meals! What could be more rewarding that watching, hearing, and absorbing the aroma of a steak or bacon and eggs cooked on an open fire...I suppose eating them might be. 

But mostly, I just relax and wait for the climax of the days quiet side. As always, the sun follows its path toward the horizon and settles deep behind a distant hill. The sky turns reddish orange, glows into a brilliant moment of light, and slowly fades. 

Then the stars begin to show themselves. At first just one, then another, and a few more twink their light across the darkening blueness of a evening sky. Before you know it, the sky is filled with diamonds of light. 

You toss another log or two onto the campfire, lean back and enjoy the show. The quiet side of nature arrives with a subtle flavor, then...it simply fades into the night.

By morning another flavor of the quiet side presents itself. Sometimes fog greets the morning and that often provides for some fantastic photographs. More importantly, it provides for another example of what the quiet side can offer. In the halflight of morning before the sun fully exposes itself, these foggy events whispers subtle greetings to your day.

It's hard sometimes to decide between capturing photographs before the fog lifts or savoring those sizzling strips of bacon cooking in your skillet. Just another quiet side dilemma I suppose, but...I will enjoy both...eventually.

 The Quiet Side. It's a point in time when nature offers the best of herself, and a place in time where we can release ourselves from the clutter and noise of life.

The Voyageurs - A Nature Photographer' s Personal Connection to History

(As the new year begins, one of the things I want to write about on this blog site are brief historical accounts from bygone years. One of the most fascinating involves the storied saga of the Fur Trade Era and the men who braved the dangers of the North American wilderness, men known as The Voyageurs.)

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 In the mid-sixteenth century, the fringes of North America had barely been explored, but because of the potential abundant wealth that could be had from the furs of beaver, mink, marten, lynx, ermine, bear, and wolf, the fur trade era began and gradually gained momentum to last for almost two hundred years beginning in the early seventeenth century (modestly starting around 1600 and reaching a peak in the early 1800's). The role of probing those unknown fringes of North America fell onto numerous individuals and bands of independent fur traders, but one of the most colorful groups most associated with this era were a hardy bunch of men known as The Voyageurs. As a result of their efforts, a nation (Canada) was born and the deeper regions of North America began to open up. 

 The craft they chose to venture into the backcountry was the Native American birch bark canoe. These canoes varied in size from the small personal designs suitable for one or two people to large freighter canoes measuring up to over 30 feet in length with 50 inch beams and 30 inch drafts capable of carrying well over a ton and often as much as 3 tons of cargo. Complemented by a narrow bottom, flared sides, sharp ends, and a relatively straight keel line and high prow, they were rugged and well suited for the trials of traveling deep into the interior. They were easy to repair in the wilderness with natural materials and relatively lightweight. Four men could portage ( pronounced por taj or por tahj ) the craft by hoisting it up and over onto their shoulders. ( Portage is a French word meaning to carry or transport freight.)

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To barter for furs from the indians and trappers they carried items such as awls, axes, gunpowder, gun tools, brass wire, flints, lead, beads, blankets, material, firesteels, rope, hooks, nets, rum or wine, tobacco, and a variety of other useful and scarce items. They transported these and other items to remote outposts established deep within the interior.

The voyageurs were able to paddle these large canoes great distances with no less than 50 miles per day being the norm and 75 miles was not uncommon. Using their long paddles, with red painted blades, they maintained a torrid pace close to one stroke per second tirelessly for 15 hours a day, with just a few breaks, that tested their strength and endurance. Across vast stretches of flat water and up or down fast running rivers, they traversed deep into the interior of North America, which included not only Canada, but parts of what eventually became the United States as well. More often than not they chose to run dangerous rapids to avoid the back breaking chore of portaging their heavy loads around them, but there were times a long portage became necessary. Every man often had to carry an aggregate of  up to 500 lbs the length of the portage which could be several miles over steep terrain often requiring several trips per man. Each pack was stuffed upwards to 90 lbs of cargo, and no self respecting Voyageur would carry less than 2 per trip, plus their personal duffle bag. Sometimes 3 and even 4 packs were carried by a single person employing a tumpline braced against the forehead and wrapped around the base of the heaviest pack. A second or third pack was tossed on top held in place by their respective weight.

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These Voyageurs were tough, well conditioned men more akin to world class athletes of today, possibly even more so. Most of them were not tall, but rather short about 5' 6" on average and stocky. Long legged Voyageurs were rare as there was no room in the cramped confines of fully loaded freighter canoe to stretch out legs. Most of the voyages began in Montreal where most of the Voyageurs were recruited to work for the large fur companies. Their voyages often spanned 1500 miles often covering over 3000 round trip miles across the wilderness and as far north as the shores of the arctic seas.  

Their shelter was simple consisting of an overturned canoe draped with a sheet of heavy oiled canvas. Tents were rare, but sometimes used. Their food; 1 quart of dried/boiled peas per man per day seasoned with salt pork or lard. As a bonus, flour mixed with water, along with an occasional pesky fly, the odd pebble or two, and sand mixed in from the gubby hands of their cuisiner, was fried like a pancake on a tin plate steel skillet lined with lard, but it added bulk and calories to their diet. To ward off the annoying mosquitoes and black flies, they rubbed their body with a mixture of skunk oil and bear grease which often got mixed in with their food..

At camp they joined in songs and dance to lighten their emotional loads. After a particular grueling day, they might be allowed an extra helping or two of rum or wine. Songs were often used to build comradery and help the team keep a steady and even pace through the day. Each morning started at first light but breakfast was rarely eaten until well after they were underway later in the morning.

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Along their route, they pushed through dangerous waters, and places like the windswept reaches of the Ottawa River, Georgian Bay, and Lake Superior and onward to The Grand Portage post, the crossroads of the fur industry, on the north shore of Lake Superior. The Grand Portage had no real outlet to the river systems they needed to travel deeper into the interior and everything had to be carried along a nine-mile portage to the Pigeon River area where their cargo was often parceled and transferred to smaller canoes to be delivered to far flung outposts.

These men had a great respect for their birch bark canoes and treated them with care for it was their lifeline to carry them back home. Little sleep, questionable food, back-straining loads, exposure, storms, exhaustion, and other dangers of unknown nature awaited them during their journey. Yes, they were hardy men of steel and endurance and became legends in their own time. Even after many years, most of those original Voyageur routes can still be traveled by modern day adventurers using modern canoes.

Voyageurs wore a variety of clothes and were a reflection of their personal expressions. They included gear such as moccasins, breechcloths, and leggings which reached to the ankles held in place by a string secured to a belt or sash (ceinture fle'chee') around the waist.  Made of homespun linen or wool, sashes were at least 8 inches wide and 12 feet long and most of the time they were red in color but could be almost any color and were often interwoven with various colors. 

Wrapped 2 or 3 times around the midsection just above the pelvis to just under the rib cage they were not only a colorful addition to their outfit, they served several purposes; as a warm wrap, as a tupline to help carry heavy loads, or as a back brace to prevent injury carrying those heavy loads.

 They also wore a red or blue wool cap called a toque and a hooded coat called a capote and a large cotton scarf tied around the neck and shoulders or tied around their head to absorb sweat. Their attire might also include a shirt or felt hat. Most of their gear was provided, for a hefty cost, by the fur trading company they hired on to.  They ranged in age from their early twenties and as old as into their sixties and most of them were French Canadians. They never made much money but more often were simply paid with a voucher good to exchange for merchandise from the company-run store. They were not allowed to trade furs on their own and everything they hauled belonged The Company. Eventually, many of them became independent trappers selling their furs when and to whom they chose.

The Voyageurs often spoke of strange happenings and observations they encountered during their trips. Stories like 'The Water Horse' were often spoken of. Described as a creature with a horses head with two long tusks jutting from the upper jaw but with a long snake-like body that easily moved through the water. They appeared awkward on land, but quickly retreated into the water if approached. This strange creature had deep connections to ancient European cultural folklore. By the descriptions given, this mythological creature more than likely can be identified simply as 'The Walrus' . 

Another tale from those days refers to a mysterious woman leader of one of the west coast tribes. She was known as 'The White Queen'. She by all accounts was a real person of striking appearance and ruled over her people with an iron but wise hand. A true leader, she held and demanded unwavering respect from even the most radical and hot headed of her warriors. She is credited with saving the lives of several explorers who happened to cross paths into her domain. Many other tales of adventure filled volumes of journals. 

One of the most strange accounts was known as the Legend of the Shaking Tent. There was a half naked medicine man chieftain who would enter into a tall, narrow tent constructed of several long poles of different kinds of wood and covered with hides. Once inside the chieftain would light a fire and breathe in the smoke from the different herbs and plants being burned. Before long all kinds of voices could be heard emanating from within. Voices included shouts and screams in a language no one could understand along with howling and barking like a dog that filled the air at the same time and lasted for quite some time, when suddenly all would grow quiet. The old chieftain then spoke in a calm voice and said the Turtle deity was now ready to answer questions anyone might ask. In Native American culture and mythology, turtles are associated with the earth and symbolize divination, protection, healing, and wisdom. On one observed occasion, one of the questions asked was if the British were going to attack them and how many soldiers did they have. The tent began a violent shaking almost to the point of collapsing. After a few minutes the Chieftain from inside spoke again saying the Turtle deity had flown across the great lake (Superior) and saw few British men, then he flew on down toward the far end and found many British ships with many men, but they would not greet their people with anger, but offer trade goods in turn for beaver, and mink, and ermine pelts. This prophetic moment proved true.

 Yes the Voyageurs from that era not only gained legendary fame as brave and resourceful men of vigor and endurance. They added a great deal of color to the enterprise known as The Fur Trade Era.

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Today's canoe is a far cry from those form defining bark canoes of old. With high tech materials capable of lasting for decades, the canoes we use today do provide a common and distinct link to that amazing era of the North American Voyageurs. You can still purchase special made birch bark canoes. They are quite expensive, sometimes running between $500 per foot (about $7500 for a 15 foot canoe) to over $1000 per foot (about $15,000 for a 15 foot canoe. The ones I've seen are beautifully constructed and capture the essence of bygone days of the fur trade era. 

Today's canoes pricewise are a comparative bargain and even though they do capture the basic form and function of those classic designs, they tend to fall short in recreating the rustic charm and historical warmth associated with a canoe made from natural materials. I have often wanted to build one, but, that's not practical. However, I have created several wooden paddles from scratch that do retain a warmth and charm all their own.

Every winter, as I sit in front of the fireplace, I begin to long for those warmer days when I too can load my canoe and head off for a day or two or maybe three afield paddling the length of a local lake, or even the length of a nearby river system. My efforts seem rather anemic and pale in comparison to what the Voyageurs did, but I do so enjoy paddling my canoe across calm waters on a warm summer day.

Even so, just feeling the movement of my canoe as I press the paddle through the water, to feel the sun on my face, to breath fresh air, and to watch as clouds dance across the sky, or to witness an amazing sunrise or sunset while set adrift across a lake, well, as simple as those moments are in comparison to what the real Voyageurs experienced, they still provide for me a very personal connection to the storied history of those colorful adventurers from bygone days.

And...when I find myself alone with my canoe, especially at first light as the sky begins to glow, I'll often stop paddling and simply drift along. During those quiet moments when birds greet the dawn, and distant hills spread their great shoulders against the golden rays of morning, somewhere in my deep memories, the young boy who first dreamed of grand adventures comes back to life, and, because of those old dreams I...however briefly...too, become a Voyageur!