Some years back I made a snap decision to try to shortcut actoss a steep draw to cut off some turkeys that were taking the long way around. I was running down this Black Hills Hogback ridge and mis-remembered that the rock wall was only about 4 ft high. So there I went at full bore leaping offa that rock wall figguring to land in soft pine needles and head down the hill without breaking stride.
Gotta interrupt myself and explain I was wearing moccasins, woolen stockings up over the knees, linen knee breeches with brass buckles at the kknees, a brown linen shirt with a green woollen vest over that (13 brass buttons up the front), and a floppy brimmed black woolen frontier hat at the time. I coulda been one of Roger's Rangers, or a New England backwoodsman from the late 1760's. Powderhorn and shooting bag on my left side, high and tight up under my arm, tomahawk and longknife on the right hip. Perty Girl, my super-curly maple fullstock, flintlock, .36 cal rifle in my right hand. Ok, picture that with me hanging in the air having run at full gallop and leaping off this rock ridgeline. Back to the story.
My hang time was something NFL kickers fantasize about in the off season. The hang time wasn't a direct result of my prodigous leaping ability so much as my ability to mis-remember terrain. My expected 4 ft drop turned into 2 1/2 stories of fall....25 bloody feet straight ever-lovin' down with no lawyer to argue my way out of paying the fines for my failure to respect the law of gravity.
I let go of Perty Girl and proceeded to windmill my arms, a la' Wile E. Coyote, with much the same result. The slope where I landed was very well padded with deep pine needles and it was approximately a 75 degree slope. When my heels hit, they promptly slid out from under me. I caught myself with my buttcheeks which attempted to grab a hold of the ground...none to successfully, I might add. I then hit that same small patch of ground with my shoulder blades, and they too also tried to latch a hold. No luck, so it was the back of my head that next had a chance to smack that little square foot of real estate.
Four parts of my body impacted that square foot of dirt, rock and pine needes in quick succession like a woodpecker in a drum solo. And then it was a hell for leather slide down the hill, bouncing off ponderosa pines like a blindfolded pinball on meth! Eventually a nice boulder at the bottom of the canyon (it started as a draw and turned into a canyon) stepped up to the plate and cushioned my slide. Eventually I made my way back to the top of the canyon to retrieve Perty Girl.
She was cracked dang near in two right thru the lock mortises, held together by the least little bit of wood. My first flintlock, my favorite gun ever. Too late to say long story short, but I am almost done with refinishing her. A professional blackpowder gunsmith repaired the breaks and strengthened her up again. I stripped and sanded the whole thing, refined a few features in the process, and I am almost ready for final sanding and laying up new stain. I can't wait to show her off.
For them that don't shoot flintlocks, take this as a precautionary tale. These guns get under your skin and drive you to excesses rarely seen outside of the narcotics user's experience. The funny clothes, the urge to master firestarting with flint and steel, the appetite for odd foods like parched corn and pease porrige, and the willingness to do all this stuff in the most unforgiving weather your locale offers is just the beginning. It gets worse. There is a dark side. Yuo find yourself hating soft beds, cell phone reception, and food that don't fight back. Suddenly you realize you the modern world ain't no fun anymore. So run while you can, don't look back. It's too late for me, prayer may not even do me any good.
