A day in the woods paying homage to a time gone by.By Geoffrey Norman
Photography by Hubert Schriebl
A small fire burned on a piece of ground where someone had cleared away the snow, and the wood smoke rose listlessly through the branches of the tall ash and maple trees. The morning was cold enough that several of us were standing almost on top of the fire while we drank coffee and talked. Back toward the road, someone fired a shot and then, about twenty seconds later, another. It made a big sound in the still and otherwise silent woods.
“Here we go,” someone said.
I looked back down the trail and saw a figure moving deliberately. Not walking, exactly. But not running, either. Trotting, I suppose you would call it. Or loping. Which might be the best you can do on snowshoes. Especially the big, old, classic wood framed kind.
The runner came on. Dressed in a long, heavy woolen coat with a sash around the waist, a stocking cap, and what looked like fringed leather pants. And, also, carrying a rifle.
Even from a distance, you could see that the rifle was not one of the modern, short barreled, bolt action pieces that fire cartridges and generally carry a telescopic site mounted above the receiver. For one thing, this rifle had a much longer and thicker barrel. From this distance, it appeared that if you put the rifle and the runner side by side, the rifle might stand taller. Yet the runner was carrying it comfortably in one hand.
The runner reached the spot where we were standing. He was breathing hard from the run but not gasping. The heavy wool coat added bulk but plainly he was fit. When you looked at him, what you mostly saw was a thick beard and wide blue eyes that were glistening with the cold. It was like looking into the face of the 18th century.
The man quickly put the butt of the rifle on the ground and reached into the leather pouch that hung from a strap that crossed his body. He pulled a paper cartridge from the pouch, bit off the end, and poured the contents down the rifle’s muzzle. Then, with no wasted motion, like he’d done it thousands of times—and he probably had—he put a cotton patch and ball on the muzzle, tapped them home with a short starter, then pulled a ramrod from its place under the rifle barrel and rammed the ball and patch home. Cradling the rifle the way you might hold a baby, he open the frizzen, primed the pan, and pulled the hammer back.....