This morning I stopped for gas when I was getting home from opening day of muzzleloader season. In the truck next to me at the pumps was a very young and impressionable boy of about 8 years. He was wearing camo and had some facepaint on, too. He had a blaze orange vest on over the camo and obviously was out with Dad for some hunting. I smiled. Good for them.
I was wearing mocs, linen knee breeches with woolen leggings, two linen shirts under a woolen weskit (vest), a silk neckerckerchief holding the inner shirt's collar closed, and atop my head a battered black felt widebrimmed slouch hat. Around my waist a wide leather belt with a longknife and a tomahawk protruding from the back. I had relegated the blaze orange vest to the backseat of my Jeep since I was out of the woods.
The boy slid over to the driver's seat and asked if I was going to a costume show. I said no, this was my hunting get-up. The boy announced that it was muzzleloading season, proud to show he was well aware of the changing seasons. I said, yep, it sure is. I opened the back door of the Jeep and slid out "Perty Girl", my girlishly slim hunting companion. Curly maple, brass furniture, and a fine English flint clenched with purpose in her jaws .
"Here's my hunting partner. I been carrying her for over 15 years. This year I get to hunt a buck for the very first time this muzzleloading season." His eyes were like saucers and he was about to say something when his father walked out of the convenience store with coffee and donuts. As the father came around to the driver's door the child blurted out, "Dad! Look! A REAL MUZZLELOADER!!!"
