Mark Warren's Blog: Mark Warren Blog - Posts Tagged "mark-warren"
My Grandfather's Badge
Ten years before I was born, my grandfather had been the sheriff of Fulton County, Georgia.
As a young boy of five, I knew him simply as the tall, white-haired man who helped me to know I was loved in this world. By then he was serving in our modest town of College Park as a city councilman, though I had no idea what that meant, even when – on a rare occasion – I accompanied him to one of those meetings. He always dressed in a white shirt and blue-gray tie, black suit and vest with a silver pocketwatch chain that hung in an arc across his belly. The most memorable item among his daily accoutrements was a roll of dollar bills he always carried in his trouser pocket. That wad of money was almost the size of a coffee mug. Every now and then – on a special occasion, like a birthday or holiday – he peeled off one of those bills and slipped it my way. Something a child never forgets.
As much as I loved him, in my 6th year something changed that caused me to look more closely at who he was. I had checked out a book from my elementary school library and read the so-called “biography” of Wyatt Earp. The story reached down inside me and gripped my soul as no story ever had before. Why? Courage has always fascinated me, and whether or not it was courage or lack of fear (two very different ideas) that governed Wyatt Earp’s actions, he had my attention.
When I showed the book to my grandfather, he walked me back into his bedroom – a twilit place I had seldom visited – and stood me before a chest of drawers. Sliding open the second-from-the-top drawer he lifted out a bronze-colored Colt .45. It was the Bisley model, the last Colt’s to retain any similarity to the “Peacemakers” of the Old West. Next he lifted out a gold shield – the one he had worn as sheriff. From that moment on, that dusky bedroom became for me a time machine.
After that brief glimpse into the not so distant past, every time I visited my grandparents’ home, my mission was set. Once my mother and her parents were preoccupied with conversation I worked at becoming anonymous, eventually slinked away to the back of the house and entered that semi-dark room. There in the dead quiet I carefully pulled open the drawer on my own, rose up on my toes, and peered down at the relics. That’s how it all began for me.
Not only was I interested, I was connected.
Mark Warren The Long Road to Legend
As a young boy of five, I knew him simply as the tall, white-haired man who helped me to know I was loved in this world. By then he was serving in our modest town of College Park as a city councilman, though I had no idea what that meant, even when – on a rare occasion – I accompanied him to one of those meetings. He always dressed in a white shirt and blue-gray tie, black suit and vest with a silver pocketwatch chain that hung in an arc across his belly. The most memorable item among his daily accoutrements was a roll of dollar bills he always carried in his trouser pocket. That wad of money was almost the size of a coffee mug. Every now and then – on a special occasion, like a birthday or holiday – he peeled off one of those bills and slipped it my way. Something a child never forgets.
As much as I loved him, in my 6th year something changed that caused me to look more closely at who he was. I had checked out a book from my elementary school library and read the so-called “biography” of Wyatt Earp. The story reached down inside me and gripped my soul as no story ever had before. Why? Courage has always fascinated me, and whether or not it was courage or lack of fear (two very different ideas) that governed Wyatt Earp’s actions, he had my attention.
When I showed the book to my grandfather, he walked me back into his bedroom – a twilit place I had seldom visited – and stood me before a chest of drawers. Sliding open the second-from-the-top drawer he lifted out a bronze-colored Colt .45. It was the Bisley model, the last Colt’s to retain any similarity to the “Peacemakers” of the Old West. Next he lifted out a gold shield – the one he had worn as sheriff. From that moment on, that dusky bedroom became for me a time machine.
After that brief glimpse into the not so distant past, every time I visited my grandparents’ home, my mission was set. Once my mother and her parents were preoccupied with conversation I worked at becoming anonymous, eventually slinked away to the back of the house and entered that semi-dark room. There in the dead quiet I carefully pulled open the drawer on my own, rose up on my toes, and peered down at the relics. That’s how it all began for me.
Not only was I interested, I was connected.
Mark Warren The Long Road to Legend
On Meeting Wyatt Earp
In 1955, when The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp appeared on the television screen, I already considered myself an historian. I watched the show not as a kid craving a Western but as an impassioned analyst who wanted to see what they got right in the stories. By then I had several times devoured Stuart Lake’s 1931 book, Wyatt Earp, Frontier Marshal, which was the only published Earp biography written by someone who had actually sat down to interview Wyatt before he died. Lake was the historical consultant for the TV series. Every Tuesday night at 8:30 pm I filled my one-TV-program-a-week quota set by my parents, watching the show, each time staying with the credits to the end to see my favorite entry: “Historical Consultant, Stuart Lake.”One thing I learned very early in my career: No matter how introverted or private you are … tell people about your passion. A case in point. When I was 10 years old, one afternoon – to my surprise – I was summoned to the home of the neighborhood witch. I had no idea why. I’d never seen the inside of her house. When I left her strange-smelling parlor and reentered the normal world of sunshine and birdsong I carried in my hand a magazine I would never have known existed. Inside its covers was a grand article on Wyatt Earp. This was the first of many papers that would fill boxes containing all-things-Earp.
When I was 12, a girl 4 years my elder called me on the phone. (This in itself was unheard of – a teenaged girl calling me.) Her father was a pilot. She told me, “You’re going to need to get down to the airport and wait at the Delta entrance. Hugh O’Brian is coming through town. Daddy says you should be there at 20 till 1. Can you get there?”
After a stunned moment of silence my reply must have sounded desperate. “I’ll get there!”
My good mother knew what this meant to me. She told me to get in the car, and off we went. There I stood alone outside the airport entrance as my mother idled in the waiting line of cars nearby. There was no one else waiting but me. At a quarter to 1, a big black limo pulled up and out stepped TV’s Wyatt Earp in a dark suit similar to the ones my father wore to work. Forcing myself into action I stepped forward and introduced myself. He shook my hand and smiled. Then I heard myself say, “Can I help you carry your bags?”
He had plenty of help, but he picked out an appropriately sized briefcase and handed it to me. It was a gracious move. Hugh O’Brian was known to take a personal interest in the man he portrayed, so we walked the long corridor side by side and talked the entire time about some of the decisions Wyatt Earp had made – most notably – the killing of Frank Stillwell, who had assassinated one of Wyatt’s brothers and maimed another. I was impressed with Mr. O'Brian's knowledge. At the departing gate I surrendered the luggage and we shook hands again. Then I retraced my steps down the long terminal to find my mother. That long walk back "alone" seemed somehow important to me, and I think my mother had anticipated that.
Mark Warren
The Voice Was Mine, But Where Did The Words Come From?
There are two reasons that the last book of my Secrets of the Forest series is my favorite: Archery and canoeing have intertwined with my soul to become two of the most precious and defining parts of my life. So, in essence, I have saved the best for last.
Both arts originally came to me in the same arcane way. In each instance I was alone in the forest without a thought relating to either skill. One late afternoon – back in 1969 – on a self-imposed “survival trip,” I stood by the Chattooga River staring out over a dark emerald pool, a smooth tongue of water pouring into it from an upstream level three or four feet higher. The little falls made a steady rending sound as it broke into the lower pool’s surface – a liquid song containing both treble and bass parts, a steady roar that filled the air in the gorge like a never-ending exhalation from deep in the Earth.
Wafting from that breath, it seemed, was every secret of the forest that had existed since the beginning of time. I looked out at the moving water, and, unexpectedly, after days of not hearing my own voice, I spoke aloud.
“I should be in a canoe.”
No truer words have I spoken. From that day on, I began a mission of riverine passion, exploring hundreds of streams by canoe from the Chattooga in Georgia, west to the Rio Grande and Colorado River, north to Minnesota’s St. Croix and the Deerfield in Connecticut, and south to the mysterious blackwater rivers of northern Florida. Even in Georgia alone, one cannot cover all the creeks and rivers in one lifetime. But I tried.
A near identical revelation hit me one day as I walked a long open lane among the great white pines standing on the flood plain of Warwoman Creek. Again, without any premonition that I would do so, I spoke aloud.
“I should be shooting a bow,” I said. And so it began.
The first simple projectiles were sticks and stones. The compact heft of a rock must have quickly suggested its killing or maiming potential, but as a weapon it was most effective when affixed to the end of a handle. So attached it was a fearsome skull-cracker (the war-club), but to use it for hunting required one to stalk within reach of an animal. This proved to be, by and large, impractical. A “hunting” rock needed to travel through the air. And so, at first, man threw stones.
The first leap in stone-throwing technology came with the sling. From there the story evolved to modifying a stone to a sleek, sharp point and lashing it to a stick. Such a spear was originally a long-handled stabbing implement, until some unknown deft innovator(s) learned to send it sailing through the air javelin-style along a steady trajectory.
This tool was further improved by a mechanical advantage that might be said to emulate the architecture of a grasshopper’s powerful rear leg. The atlatl – a wooden spear-launcher – had the effect of extending the length of the thrower’s “arm” to provide more thrust. Eventually, a smaller spear came along to make a quantum leap, this one powered by the energy stored inside a stick that was bent out of shape by a taut string.
Surpassing the spear, the bow and arrow offered more distance and less chance for human error. However, the delicate technique for releasing the string is the deciding factor in an archer’s level of expertise and consistency. Archery epitomizes the marriage of strength and grace. Its proper technique is not innate. In fact, its secrets of operation seem so arcane as to elude all who pick up a bow for the first time without the benefit of instruction.
The blowgun is in a category of its own. It was not employed in warfare but used to hunt small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Invented in the Southeastern corner of North America, it spread to Central and South America. Its uniqueness lies in its power source: a sudden expulsion of breath.
All but two of the weapons covered in "Secrets of the Forest" volume 4 held their glory days as “top-of-the-line” airborne implements of hunting and/or warfare, each in its own time. The exceptions are the knife and tomahawk. Both were highly valued tools and had their essential places in history – but not as projectiles … especially in warfare. (It was ill-advised to hand over one’s weapon to an enemy, even if by a hostile throw.)
Part of this omission was due to the weapon’s composition. What sane craftsman would hurl his stone axe or knife at anything? Too much work went into the production of a fine edge. Even so, it is almost certain that men were sometimes forced to throw a knife or hand-axe out of desperation. If an enemy eyed you over the sights of a rifle, wouldn’t you?
With the advent of knives and hawks forged from steel, it was inevitable that they would be thrown. Anyone who handles metal knives long enough will eventually yield to the compelling urge to throw one, trying to stick it in a stump. Once one has success at it, he will likely repeat it. In fact, it can become a passion. This I know, because I began my “knife-throwing career” when I was nine-years-old, secretly experimenting with all things with a sharp point from my mother’s kitchen. More than six decades later I continue to feel that same craving to sink a blade into a target.
The novelty of throwing edged steel did emerge among the mountain men of the Rockies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At an annual rendezvous – the social event of their year – contests of knife- and hawk-throwing provided one more arena for taking bets and boosting reputations. Once it became a sport, I am inclined to bet that throwing these implements may have worked its way into practical application.
Whether or not that is true, these two sports are still alive today. The temptation to throw anything at a target is probably an atavistic itch – a carry-over from mankind’s long history of hurling weapons toward prey. I see evidence of this every time a group of young students arrives at my school in my gravel parking lot. To their eyes, every stone is a projectile, every tree a target. Imagine their faces when I inform them that our agenda will include spears or knifes or tomahawks. In an age of all things electronic and glittery, such enthusiasm is gratifying.
secretsoftheforestbook.com
Archery, Projectiles, and Canoeing: Secrets of the Forest
Both arts originally came to me in the same arcane way. In each instance I was alone in the forest without a thought relating to either skill. One late afternoon – back in 1969 – on a self-imposed “survival trip,” I stood by the Chattooga River staring out over a dark emerald pool, a smooth tongue of water pouring into it from an upstream level three or four feet higher. The little falls made a steady rending sound as it broke into the lower pool’s surface – a liquid song containing both treble and bass parts, a steady roar that filled the air in the gorge like a never-ending exhalation from deep in the Earth.
Wafting from that breath, it seemed, was every secret of the forest that had existed since the beginning of time. I looked out at the moving water, and, unexpectedly, after days of not hearing my own voice, I spoke aloud.
“I should be in a canoe.”
No truer words have I spoken. From that day on, I began a mission of riverine passion, exploring hundreds of streams by canoe from the Chattooga in Georgia, west to the Rio Grande and Colorado River, north to Minnesota’s St. Croix and the Deerfield in Connecticut, and south to the mysterious blackwater rivers of northern Florida. Even in Georgia alone, one cannot cover all the creeks and rivers in one lifetime. But I tried.
A near identical revelation hit me one day as I walked a long open lane among the great white pines standing on the flood plain of Warwoman Creek. Again, without any premonition that I would do so, I spoke aloud.
“I should be shooting a bow,” I said. And so it began.
The first simple projectiles were sticks and stones. The compact heft of a rock must have quickly suggested its killing or maiming potential, but as a weapon it was most effective when affixed to the end of a handle. So attached it was a fearsome skull-cracker (the war-club), but to use it for hunting required one to stalk within reach of an animal. This proved to be, by and large, impractical. A “hunting” rock needed to travel through the air. And so, at first, man threw stones.
The first leap in stone-throwing technology came with the sling. From there the story evolved to modifying a stone to a sleek, sharp point and lashing it to a stick. Such a spear was originally a long-handled stabbing implement, until some unknown deft innovator(s) learned to send it sailing through the air javelin-style along a steady trajectory.
This tool was further improved by a mechanical advantage that might be said to emulate the architecture of a grasshopper’s powerful rear leg. The atlatl – a wooden spear-launcher – had the effect of extending the length of the thrower’s “arm” to provide more thrust. Eventually, a smaller spear came along to make a quantum leap, this one powered by the energy stored inside a stick that was bent out of shape by a taut string.
Surpassing the spear, the bow and arrow offered more distance and less chance for human error. However, the delicate technique for releasing the string is the deciding factor in an archer’s level of expertise and consistency. Archery epitomizes the marriage of strength and grace. Its proper technique is not innate. In fact, its secrets of operation seem so arcane as to elude all who pick up a bow for the first time without the benefit of instruction.
The blowgun is in a category of its own. It was not employed in warfare but used to hunt small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Invented in the Southeastern corner of North America, it spread to Central and South America. Its uniqueness lies in its power source: a sudden expulsion of breath.
All but two of the weapons covered in "Secrets of the Forest" volume 4 held their glory days as “top-of-the-line” airborne implements of hunting and/or warfare, each in its own time. The exceptions are the knife and tomahawk. Both were highly valued tools and had their essential places in history – but not as projectiles … especially in warfare. (It was ill-advised to hand over one’s weapon to an enemy, even if by a hostile throw.)
Part of this omission was due to the weapon’s composition. What sane craftsman would hurl his stone axe or knife at anything? Too much work went into the production of a fine edge. Even so, it is almost certain that men were sometimes forced to throw a knife or hand-axe out of desperation. If an enemy eyed you over the sights of a rifle, wouldn’t you?
With the advent of knives and hawks forged from steel, it was inevitable that they would be thrown. Anyone who handles metal knives long enough will eventually yield to the compelling urge to throw one, trying to stick it in a stump. Once one has success at it, he will likely repeat it. In fact, it can become a passion. This I know, because I began my “knife-throwing career” when I was nine-years-old, secretly experimenting with all things with a sharp point from my mother’s kitchen. More than six decades later I continue to feel that same craving to sink a blade into a target.
The novelty of throwing edged steel did emerge among the mountain men of the Rockies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At an annual rendezvous – the social event of their year – contests of knife- and hawk-throwing provided one more arena for taking bets and boosting reputations. Once it became a sport, I am inclined to bet that throwing these implements may have worked its way into practical application.
Whether or not that is true, these two sports are still alive today. The temptation to throw anything at a target is probably an atavistic itch – a carry-over from mankind’s long history of hurling weapons toward prey. I see evidence of this every time a group of young students arrives at my school in my gravel parking lot. To their eyes, every stone is a projectile, every tree a target. Imagine their faces when I inform them that our agenda will include spears or knifes or tomahawks. In an age of all things electronic and glittery, such enthusiasm is gratifying.
secretsoftheforestbook.com
Archery, Projectiles, and Canoeing: Secrets of the Forest
A Window to the World of the Wild
If you are a nature-lover, an animal-lover, a nature-writer, nature photographer, or simply a natural explorer, you might be interested in an old hunter's trick.
Simply put, stalking is all about being sneaky. It is an art of deception that requires both physical and mental discipline. To successfully stalk an animal of the wild, a human must hide, mask, alter, or eliminate the following telltale clues to his or her presence: 1.) eye-catching movement, 2.) displaying the classic human silhouette, 3.) vocal sounds and sounds from articles worn (rustling, swishing, creaking) or carried (sloshing, clinking, jingling, rattling), 4.) sounds underfoot from body weight, 5.) body scent, and 6.) alarming other animals incidental to the area.
There is a part of us that will always love the concept of hiding. Think how many times in your life you have enjoyed “sneaking up on” someone – a friend, a relative … or even a pet. The thrill of becoming invisible is probably atavistic, trickling down to us through our genes from our paleo-ancestor-hunters. Even outside the hunting arena, there is a singular excitement in being present to observe while, in turn, not being observed.
Centuries ago Cherokee hunters stalked through these Eastern woodlands where I live. They moved slower than you might guess, gliding on legs made strong by the demands of hunting and by the mountain terrain itself. It takes great patience to stalk successfully, but in the old days such a hunter might never have mentioned this quality. Slowing down was simply a necessity that brooked no lapses or short-cuts. It was part of the daily work of surviving. Without a dedication to that work, he went hungry.
In the dense forests of the Eastern U.S., a bow-hunter faced two consistent problems almost everywhere he turned. First, he needed an open “window” through which his arrow could fly undisturbed toward his target. Obstacles to deflect a projectile were everywhere: tree trunks, branches, shrubs, vines, and boughs of leaves. Even a single leaf can spoil the trajectory of an otherwise perfectly launched arrow.
The second problem lay beneath the hunter’s moccasins. Whenever he moved, the stalker had to step upon the forest’s ground cover of dead leaves and twigs … without alerting wildlife. How did the Cherokees solve these problems?
If the cluttered maze of the woods denied a long shot at an animal, then these native bow-hunters were forced to reduce the distance between hunter and prey. (This is one of many stories about the land shaping the lives of the people who inhabit it.) There were four ways to achieve a closer shot: 1.) setting up a blind (or simply hiding) and waiting for an animal to approach, 2.) luring an animal with an intriguing sound, scent, or curious motion, 3.) setting a trap that could maim, kill, or contain the animal, or 4.) approaching the animal with stealth. The ancient hunters used all these techniques, but none so shaped their physical lives as the last option: stalking.
Ironically, by choosing to close the distance of hunter and prey to solve the first problem, the Cherokees exacerbated the second problem. Moving across that noisy forest floor only became more challenging as he got closer to his prey. How did he eliminate the sounds produced by his body-weight on all of the crumbly items underfoot? He didn’t. He simply spread them out by applying his weight to the earth so slowly that the little “ticks” and “pops” and “cracks” of crushed leaves were heard individually rather than en masse. It is true that a twig can break no matter how slowly a foot comes down on it, and such a “snap” is undoubtedly an alarm to an animal. But the supple sole of his moccasin allowed the stalker to detect twigs by touch and thereby avoid them.
What was left – the crackling of leaves – was so spread out that it could easily have been interpreted as the ramblings of a beetle. In fact, many insects are noisier in dry leaves than a skilled stalker.
Stalking was also necessary in warfare, where the stakes were higher. Stealth could save the life of a man or woman moving through enemy territory.
Hollywood has given us the wrong impression about the actual mechanics of stalking. In terms of movie-making, it would be impractical to show an authentic stalker moving even one step. The scene would last three minutes. Instead, filmmakers have chosen to depict “Indians” with preternatural abilities of soundless movement by simply turning off the sound on a sneaking-up-on-the-white-man scene. As a result, movies have duped audiences into believing that Native Americans possessed some kind of innate magic. It wasn’t magic. They exercised supreme body control, strength, and balance … all dictated by need. Stalking had to be learned, practiced, and mastered.
It does take work and practice to stalk well, but – barring a severe handicap – most people have the necessary ingredients to become successful stalkers. What is lacking is need. Few Americans need to hunt to live. Strolling the aisles of a grocery store is easier. Even among those who do hunt, only a small percentage choose to stalk. Most sit in a tree stand – usually a small, factory-made seat attached to a tree trunk. I have seen cushioned armchairs perched fifteen feet off the ground on more elaborate platforms.
The first hunter-stalkers of history also faced a mental challenge: to remain calm and controlled under the high-tension and stress of a stalking-to-kill scenario. They probably sensed by instinct the arguable point that “nerves” alone can announce an interloper’s presence in the forest, and so they mastered a relaxed mindset.
More than a hunter’s skill, stalking is a method of getting closer to wildlife simply to observe. The grace of stalking even finds its way into everyday life. It can change the way one walks or runs by using the legs like shock-absorbers. Powers of awareness are heightened. Movement becomes more economical. Strength and balance improve.
One of stalking’s greatest contributions is in adding to the scrapbook of a person’s life. The memories of animal encounters that I have earned by stalking are some of the most powerful images filed away inside my head. These treasures could not have been acquired by any shortcut, save the technology of a high-powered lens, but that piece of optical equipment removes a person from the intimacy of the “duet.” From a distance an observer does not hear, smell, and feel the same stimuli that the animal is experiencing.
Stalking emphasizes an all-important tenet of primitive skills: that merit is the abiding law of Nature. Deer and bear, chipmunk and turkey, fox and crow … all are unforgiving critics to the beginner stalker. To be successful one must perform with an excellence measured by the standards of the animals he stalks.
Perhaps most importantly, stalking elevates one’s status in the forest from visitor to participant. In a sense, the stalker must “go wild.” He abandons as much of his human traits as possible: silhouette, scent, habitual gait rhythm, talkativeness, and heavy-footed passage through the forest. To transcend to this state of wildness is a profound shift. Perhaps only those who experience it can appreciate its depth.
Even on days when I struck out into wilderness for the sole purpose of simply seeing whatever animal I could see – if my only sightings were birds, squirrels, chipmunks, spiders, and insects – still I was keenly aware of my place in the community of the forest.
Naturally, when I set out, I hoped for a more dramatic sighting – a bear, fox or deer – but I felt my intimacy with the forest take a quantum leap. Whenever a student asks me about the best ways to find that personal portal into the bonding of human and Nature, I often recommend: “Go out alone into the wild … and stalk.”
When I was younger and just beginning to embrace stalking as an adventure, hundreds of challenges popped up in my life that had nothing at all to do with animals. I became so interested in the cause-and-effect relationship of movement and sound that my curiosity carried over into every facet of my everyday life. I began to entertain little challenges that had not occurred to me before I was a stalker: setting a drinking glass down on a wooden tabletop without any sound; sitting on the ground Indian style and rising slowly without repositioning my feet and without a rustle of clothing; closing a door silently by pushing and pulling on it at the same time, letting the latch catch without a click, then easing the turned knob back to its resting place; moving so slowly through a room that the movement of my shadow could not be detected in my peripheral vision.
But the richest part of stalking is the collection of moments indelibly imprinted in memory: the gray fox trotting past my leg; the woodchuck herding her babies; the black bear climbing the serviceberry tree to feast on its fruit. Every image is priceless.
From Volume three of "Secrets of the Forest."
www.secretsoftheforestbook.com Stalking, Tracking, and Playing Games in the Wild: Secrets of the Forest
Simply put, stalking is all about being sneaky. It is an art of deception that requires both physical and mental discipline. To successfully stalk an animal of the wild, a human must hide, mask, alter, or eliminate the following telltale clues to his or her presence: 1.) eye-catching movement, 2.) displaying the classic human silhouette, 3.) vocal sounds and sounds from articles worn (rustling, swishing, creaking) or carried (sloshing, clinking, jingling, rattling), 4.) sounds underfoot from body weight, 5.) body scent, and 6.) alarming other animals incidental to the area.
There is a part of us that will always love the concept of hiding. Think how many times in your life you have enjoyed “sneaking up on” someone – a friend, a relative … or even a pet. The thrill of becoming invisible is probably atavistic, trickling down to us through our genes from our paleo-ancestor-hunters. Even outside the hunting arena, there is a singular excitement in being present to observe while, in turn, not being observed.
Centuries ago Cherokee hunters stalked through these Eastern woodlands where I live. They moved slower than you might guess, gliding on legs made strong by the demands of hunting and by the mountain terrain itself. It takes great patience to stalk successfully, but in the old days such a hunter might never have mentioned this quality. Slowing down was simply a necessity that brooked no lapses or short-cuts. It was part of the daily work of surviving. Without a dedication to that work, he went hungry.
In the dense forests of the Eastern U.S., a bow-hunter faced two consistent problems almost everywhere he turned. First, he needed an open “window” through which his arrow could fly undisturbed toward his target. Obstacles to deflect a projectile were everywhere: tree trunks, branches, shrubs, vines, and boughs of leaves. Even a single leaf can spoil the trajectory of an otherwise perfectly launched arrow.
The second problem lay beneath the hunter’s moccasins. Whenever he moved, the stalker had to step upon the forest’s ground cover of dead leaves and twigs … without alerting wildlife. How did the Cherokees solve these problems?
If the cluttered maze of the woods denied a long shot at an animal, then these native bow-hunters were forced to reduce the distance between hunter and prey. (This is one of many stories about the land shaping the lives of the people who inhabit it.) There were four ways to achieve a closer shot: 1.) setting up a blind (or simply hiding) and waiting for an animal to approach, 2.) luring an animal with an intriguing sound, scent, or curious motion, 3.) setting a trap that could maim, kill, or contain the animal, or 4.) approaching the animal with stealth. The ancient hunters used all these techniques, but none so shaped their physical lives as the last option: stalking.
Ironically, by choosing to close the distance of hunter and prey to solve the first problem, the Cherokees exacerbated the second problem. Moving across that noisy forest floor only became more challenging as he got closer to his prey. How did he eliminate the sounds produced by his body-weight on all of the crumbly items underfoot? He didn’t. He simply spread them out by applying his weight to the earth so slowly that the little “ticks” and “pops” and “cracks” of crushed leaves were heard individually rather than en masse. It is true that a twig can break no matter how slowly a foot comes down on it, and such a “snap” is undoubtedly an alarm to an animal. But the supple sole of his moccasin allowed the stalker to detect twigs by touch and thereby avoid them.
What was left – the crackling of leaves – was so spread out that it could easily have been interpreted as the ramblings of a beetle. In fact, many insects are noisier in dry leaves than a skilled stalker.
Stalking was also necessary in warfare, where the stakes were higher. Stealth could save the life of a man or woman moving through enemy territory.
Hollywood has given us the wrong impression about the actual mechanics of stalking. In terms of movie-making, it would be impractical to show an authentic stalker moving even one step. The scene would last three minutes. Instead, filmmakers have chosen to depict “Indians” with preternatural abilities of soundless movement by simply turning off the sound on a sneaking-up-on-the-white-man scene. As a result, movies have duped audiences into believing that Native Americans possessed some kind of innate magic. It wasn’t magic. They exercised supreme body control, strength, and balance … all dictated by need. Stalking had to be learned, practiced, and mastered.
It does take work and practice to stalk well, but – barring a severe handicap – most people have the necessary ingredients to become successful stalkers. What is lacking is need. Few Americans need to hunt to live. Strolling the aisles of a grocery store is easier. Even among those who do hunt, only a small percentage choose to stalk. Most sit in a tree stand – usually a small, factory-made seat attached to a tree trunk. I have seen cushioned armchairs perched fifteen feet off the ground on more elaborate platforms.
The first hunter-stalkers of history also faced a mental challenge: to remain calm and controlled under the high-tension and stress of a stalking-to-kill scenario. They probably sensed by instinct the arguable point that “nerves” alone can announce an interloper’s presence in the forest, and so they mastered a relaxed mindset.
More than a hunter’s skill, stalking is a method of getting closer to wildlife simply to observe. The grace of stalking even finds its way into everyday life. It can change the way one walks or runs by using the legs like shock-absorbers. Powers of awareness are heightened. Movement becomes more economical. Strength and balance improve.
One of stalking’s greatest contributions is in adding to the scrapbook of a person’s life. The memories of animal encounters that I have earned by stalking are some of the most powerful images filed away inside my head. These treasures could not have been acquired by any shortcut, save the technology of a high-powered lens, but that piece of optical equipment removes a person from the intimacy of the “duet.” From a distance an observer does not hear, smell, and feel the same stimuli that the animal is experiencing.
Stalking emphasizes an all-important tenet of primitive skills: that merit is the abiding law of Nature. Deer and bear, chipmunk and turkey, fox and crow … all are unforgiving critics to the beginner stalker. To be successful one must perform with an excellence measured by the standards of the animals he stalks.
Perhaps most importantly, stalking elevates one’s status in the forest from visitor to participant. In a sense, the stalker must “go wild.” He abandons as much of his human traits as possible: silhouette, scent, habitual gait rhythm, talkativeness, and heavy-footed passage through the forest. To transcend to this state of wildness is a profound shift. Perhaps only those who experience it can appreciate its depth.
Even on days when I struck out into wilderness for the sole purpose of simply seeing whatever animal I could see – if my only sightings were birds, squirrels, chipmunks, spiders, and insects – still I was keenly aware of my place in the community of the forest.
Naturally, when I set out, I hoped for a more dramatic sighting – a bear, fox or deer – but I felt my intimacy with the forest take a quantum leap. Whenever a student asks me about the best ways to find that personal portal into the bonding of human and Nature, I often recommend: “Go out alone into the wild … and stalk.”
When I was younger and just beginning to embrace stalking as an adventure, hundreds of challenges popped up in my life that had nothing at all to do with animals. I became so interested in the cause-and-effect relationship of movement and sound that my curiosity carried over into every facet of my everyday life. I began to entertain little challenges that had not occurred to me before I was a stalker: setting a drinking glass down on a wooden tabletop without any sound; sitting on the ground Indian style and rising slowly without repositioning my feet and without a rustle of clothing; closing a door silently by pushing and pulling on it at the same time, letting the latch catch without a click, then easing the turned knob back to its resting place; moving so slowly through a room that the movement of my shadow could not be detected in my peripheral vision.
But the richest part of stalking is the collection of moments indelibly imprinted in memory: the gray fox trotting past my leg; the woodchuck herding her babies; the black bear climbing the serviceberry tree to feast on its fruit. Every image is priceless.
From Volume three of "Secrets of the Forest."
www.secretsoftheforestbook.com Stalking, Tracking, and Playing Games in the Wild: Secrets of the Forest
One Writers Bumpy Journey on the Road to Publication
Mark Warren
I’ve been writing stories since I was 6 years old, those first efforts always illustrated (but minimally so . . . to elevate each work from a comic book). A healthy collection accrued through the next 40 years, only to be converted to ashes in a house fire. There were no copies.
That life-changing fire, by the way, also consumed my first attempt at a fully-blown novel. About 500 hand-written pages in a brown three-ring notebook that was, in that time, my most prized possession.
After the fire I got serious about getting my written work out into the world for other eyes to see. By that time I had come to appreciate so many skilled authors that I considered the author-to-reader relationship one of the most important interactions of our lives. To position myself on the other side of that equation, from reader to writer, felt like an act of grace. An honor. Something to cherish.
After writing a slew of novels and wallpapering my home with rejection letters, a friend savvy to the publishing world advised me to write a memoir. She said I would have an easier time getting it published. My first reaction was: Who’s going to care about the life of an unknown writer without a single published book to his name? (That’s still a reasonable question.) After more urging from her, I wrote it – Two Winters in a Tipi. Then I wrote a historical fiction trilogy based upon a lifetime of research on Wyatt Earp. Also, I put out a four-volume series on Cherokee survival skills and environmental education in general. Those 8 books have one thing in common: They were all based on existing facts. The memoir was full of true events that I experienced. The Earp books described a life with events pretty well documented. The nature books dove into the realities of historical skills and the complexities of Nature.
And all this is what makes my next step in publishing a special one for me. "Indigo Heaven" is a novel spawned from the simple love of creating and writing. There was no time-line or outline to follow. It’s a leap off the cliff of tangible truths into the freedom of wide open prose. This is really the genre for which I am best equipped. "Indigo Heaven" is like a newborn baby of unknown heritage. I will watch with interest to see what it grows up to be.
This book, like all my completed novels, might best be described as a prayer of gratitude, because there is no possession I own that I treasure more than creativity. Every day I express my thanks for it. With each publication of a book, that sentiment lives on forever. What a nice feeling that is.
So here comes the first of many novels. Fifteen years ago I struggled to get a manuscript read by an editor. This year, 4 of my works make their debut into the world of literature.
My prayer of gratitude is multiplied by 4.
By the way, I rewrote that first novel – the one that burned up. It is unpublished. Maybe one day . . .
Indigo Heaven
I’ve been writing stories since I was 6 years old, those first efforts always illustrated (but minimally so . . . to elevate each work from a comic book). A healthy collection accrued through the next 40 years, only to be converted to ashes in a house fire. There were no copies.
That life-changing fire, by the way, also consumed my first attempt at a fully-blown novel. About 500 hand-written pages in a brown three-ring notebook that was, in that time, my most prized possession.
After the fire I got serious about getting my written work out into the world for other eyes to see. By that time I had come to appreciate so many skilled authors that I considered the author-to-reader relationship one of the most important interactions of our lives. To position myself on the other side of that equation, from reader to writer, felt like an act of grace. An honor. Something to cherish.
After writing a slew of novels and wallpapering my home with rejection letters, a friend savvy to the publishing world advised me to write a memoir. She said I would have an easier time getting it published. My first reaction was: Who’s going to care about the life of an unknown writer without a single published book to his name? (That’s still a reasonable question.) After more urging from her, I wrote it – Two Winters in a Tipi. Then I wrote a historical fiction trilogy based upon a lifetime of research on Wyatt Earp. Also, I put out a four-volume series on Cherokee survival skills and environmental education in general. Those 8 books have one thing in common: They were all based on existing facts. The memoir was full of true events that I experienced. The Earp books described a life with events pretty well documented. The nature books dove into the realities of historical skills and the complexities of Nature.
And all this is what makes my next step in publishing a special one for me. "Indigo Heaven" is a novel spawned from the simple love of creating and writing. There was no time-line or outline to follow. It’s a leap off the cliff of tangible truths into the freedom of wide open prose. This is really the genre for which I am best equipped. "Indigo Heaven" is like a newborn baby of unknown heritage. I will watch with interest to see what it grows up to be.
This book, like all my completed novels, might best be described as a prayer of gratitude, because there is no possession I own that I treasure more than creativity. Every day I express my thanks for it. With each publication of a book, that sentiment lives on forever. What a nice feeling that is.
So here comes the first of many novels. Fifteen years ago I struggled to get a manuscript read by an editor. This year, 4 of my works make their debut into the world of literature.
My prayer of gratitude is multiplied by 4.
By the way, I rewrote that first novel – the one that burned up. It is unpublished. Maybe one day . . .
Indigo Heaven
A Conversation About Conservation
Each new generation loses a little more contact with
nature than the one before it.
THE JOY OF DISCOVERY and THE MAKING OF A CONSERVATIONIST
There are Cherokees in the mountains of north Georgia who still dip their hands into water just as their ancestors did. But in this case, it is not to drink. It is part of performing a rite. In the Going-to-Water ceremony, contemporary Cherokee people gather together beside a stream to honor Long Man for the nourishing liquid of life. Long Man is the river, stretching from mountain spring to coastal delta and including all the winding paths in between.
To the monotheistic Cherokee, Long Man was not a god, but a gift. Native people all over the world have recognized his generosity since the beginning of human history. Even into the twenty-first century a few of the “old-timey” churches of Southern Appalachia still “gather at the river” for ritualistic ablutions. Think of what they are asking of Ol’ Man River: to wash away all sins, to purify, to refresh so as to be born again.
Whatever symbolic powers we may attribute to free-flowing water, we no longer enjoy the privilege of drinking it. Not directly. This in itself may be one of the greatest tragedies of our American history. Somewhere along the way, we woke up to find that our sacred waterways had become sewers or, at the very least, choked with surfeits of silt. Now we drink from a remote outpost of water dispensation–a faucet, a fountain, or a bottle.
Perhaps the most important facet of that ancient act of imbibing water in the wild was this: The partaker was present at the source! That intimate place–a solution to the reality of thirst–was experienced first-hand. It is no wonder that the primitive child instinctively refused to desecrate it, even if by a thrown dirt clod or a careless arc of spit. And, certainly, not by urinating into it. The Cherokees had a story about violating a stream with body waste. By this moral, one who broke this code of riverine hygiene risked being sickened by the “fish spirit.”
Think about that. Is there not some empirical version of that story that aligns with science? No one had to teach early people this lesson of respect, just as today we know not to sprinkle dirt into a bottle of Evian.
Imagine going back in time to ask a primitive child: “Where is your water supply?” Would he not point unerringly to the drinking place at the creek? Ask any urban child today. Where would he or she point?
Having visited thousands of classrooms in America–grammar schools, high schools, and colleges alike–I often ask students about the water they drink. Few know where it comes from. Without fail, elementary school students point not outside but to the sink at the back of the room or down the hall toward the nearest fountain. These same students also have no clue about electricity. The youngest tell me, of course, that it comes from a switch. If pressed to go beyond the wall plate, most often they venture these two guesses: the ocean and lightning. (Maybe they’re on to something here.)
As foods go, not only are most youth unaware of what part of the world certain products come from, but they are hard pressed to identify the contents of some of the concoctions they eat on a regular basis:
“Exactly what is that meat on your pizza?”
“What’s been added to the milk you drink?”
“Did you know your so-called ‘maple syrup’ didn’t come from a tree? It came from corn.”
When I teach about wild plants in the forest and field, I am always first to take a bite–to prove that a plant is edible. Yet the young ones are still reluctant. It takes coaxing to get that greenery into their mouths. Even then, they always ask, “Do I swallow it?” One-fourth of the kids flatly refuse, claiming that, if it comes from the outdoors, it must be dangerous.
Ask children about their clothing? More mysteries. Quiz them on their everyday tools like pencils and paper. They’ll likely have an idea about these, but their answers come from the textbook part of the head, not the heart. Once I asked high school juniors to think back to their most recent occasion of touching the cells of a tree. Everyone frowned, pondering the question, one hand holding a wooden pencil, the other resting upon a sheet of paper.
As for the rest of us, it’s not just our children who are starved of the information that ties us to our natural surroundings. All of us now wander in the dark. Each new generation loses a little more contact with nature than the one before it. How did we get to this place? To the majority of urban Americans, the outdoors is now foreign ground. If we’re not out in it, getting our fingers in the dirt, hearing the conversation between mountain water and stone, smelling the grape-like musk of the gray fox, seeing the burst of flight of a grouse, how are we ever going to gain an appreciation for any single part of the whole? This distancing ourselves from nature is not something we set out to do. All we wanted was to get more comfortable.
What’s the point of this article? From my generation’s annals of music, I’ll offer two memorable lines that apply. First, from Joni Mitchell: “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” And last, Graham Nash: “Teach your children well.”
It’s that last lyric that gives me hope. Instead of each generation coming into the world a little blinder, perhaps we can reverse that. What if each new child entered the world to an education that unveiled the secret water pipes and electrical wires that hide inside the walls of our homes? What if they visited farms, water treatment plants, and coal-burning power plants? And most importantly, what if those field trips were comprised of small groups, where the explanations were personable and made relevant to each child? Are our schools going to do that for us? That depends on what we demand of our schools.
But what’s to stop us from teaching it ourselves? Imagine doing what some Cherokees in my county do. Imagine taking your child to a creek that feeds your local reservoir. Imagine the two of you kneeling, touching the water, and perhaps saying a simple “thank you” as the liquid spills from your hand back to the Earth. Imagine that.
Finding the sources of EVERYTHING will lead you back to the Earth. Start with a creek or a river. Take your child with you and embark on an adventure. Connect that stream to the water that runs through your faucets, cooks your food, washes your dishes, fills your bath, quenches your thirst, nourishes your garden, washes your car, sparkles in your swimming pool, makes your coffee, washes your hair, and so on. Only when a consumer appreciates the source of a resource will he/she want to take care of it. Here’s the simple equation: intimacy with nature = waking up the steward in us.
Wild Plants and Survival Lore: Secrets of the Forest
nature than the one before it.
THE JOY OF DISCOVERY and THE MAKING OF A CONSERVATIONIST
There are Cherokees in the mountains of north Georgia who still dip their hands into water just as their ancestors did. But in this case, it is not to drink. It is part of performing a rite. In the Going-to-Water ceremony, contemporary Cherokee people gather together beside a stream to honor Long Man for the nourishing liquid of life. Long Man is the river, stretching from mountain spring to coastal delta and including all the winding paths in between.
To the monotheistic Cherokee, Long Man was not a god, but a gift. Native people all over the world have recognized his generosity since the beginning of human history. Even into the twenty-first century a few of the “old-timey” churches of Southern Appalachia still “gather at the river” for ritualistic ablutions. Think of what they are asking of Ol’ Man River: to wash away all sins, to purify, to refresh so as to be born again.
Whatever symbolic powers we may attribute to free-flowing water, we no longer enjoy the privilege of drinking it. Not directly. This in itself may be one of the greatest tragedies of our American history. Somewhere along the way, we woke up to find that our sacred waterways had become sewers or, at the very least, choked with surfeits of silt. Now we drink from a remote outpost of water dispensation–a faucet, a fountain, or a bottle.
Perhaps the most important facet of that ancient act of imbibing water in the wild was this: The partaker was present at the source! That intimate place–a solution to the reality of thirst–was experienced first-hand. It is no wonder that the primitive child instinctively refused to desecrate it, even if by a thrown dirt clod or a careless arc of spit. And, certainly, not by urinating into it. The Cherokees had a story about violating a stream with body waste. By this moral, one who broke this code of riverine hygiene risked being sickened by the “fish spirit.”
Think about that. Is there not some empirical version of that story that aligns with science? No one had to teach early people this lesson of respect, just as today we know not to sprinkle dirt into a bottle of Evian.
Imagine going back in time to ask a primitive child: “Where is your water supply?” Would he not point unerringly to the drinking place at the creek? Ask any urban child today. Where would he or she point?
Having visited thousands of classrooms in America–grammar schools, high schools, and colleges alike–I often ask students about the water they drink. Few know where it comes from. Without fail, elementary school students point not outside but to the sink at the back of the room or down the hall toward the nearest fountain. These same students also have no clue about electricity. The youngest tell me, of course, that it comes from a switch. If pressed to go beyond the wall plate, most often they venture these two guesses: the ocean and lightning. (Maybe they’re on to something here.)
As foods go, not only are most youth unaware of what part of the world certain products come from, but they are hard pressed to identify the contents of some of the concoctions they eat on a regular basis:
“Exactly what is that meat on your pizza?”
“What’s been added to the milk you drink?”
“Did you know your so-called ‘maple syrup’ didn’t come from a tree? It came from corn.”
When I teach about wild plants in the forest and field, I am always first to take a bite–to prove that a plant is edible. Yet the young ones are still reluctant. It takes coaxing to get that greenery into their mouths. Even then, they always ask, “Do I swallow it?” One-fourth of the kids flatly refuse, claiming that, if it comes from the outdoors, it must be dangerous.
Ask children about their clothing? More mysteries. Quiz them on their everyday tools like pencils and paper. They’ll likely have an idea about these, but their answers come from the textbook part of the head, not the heart. Once I asked high school juniors to think back to their most recent occasion of touching the cells of a tree. Everyone frowned, pondering the question, one hand holding a wooden pencil, the other resting upon a sheet of paper.
As for the rest of us, it’s not just our children who are starved of the information that ties us to our natural surroundings. All of us now wander in the dark. Each new generation loses a little more contact with nature than the one before it. How did we get to this place? To the majority of urban Americans, the outdoors is now foreign ground. If we’re not out in it, getting our fingers in the dirt, hearing the conversation between mountain water and stone, smelling the grape-like musk of the gray fox, seeing the burst of flight of a grouse, how are we ever going to gain an appreciation for any single part of the whole? This distancing ourselves from nature is not something we set out to do. All we wanted was to get more comfortable.
What’s the point of this article? From my generation’s annals of music, I’ll offer two memorable lines that apply. First, from Joni Mitchell: “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” And last, Graham Nash: “Teach your children well.”
It’s that last lyric that gives me hope. Instead of each generation coming into the world a little blinder, perhaps we can reverse that. What if each new child entered the world to an education that unveiled the secret water pipes and electrical wires that hide inside the walls of our homes? What if they visited farms, water treatment plants, and coal-burning power plants? And most importantly, what if those field trips were comprised of small groups, where the explanations were personable and made relevant to each child? Are our schools going to do that for us? That depends on what we demand of our schools.
But what’s to stop us from teaching it ourselves? Imagine doing what some Cherokees in my county do. Imagine taking your child to a creek that feeds your local reservoir. Imagine the two of you kneeling, touching the water, and perhaps saying a simple “thank you” as the liquid spills from your hand back to the Earth. Imagine that.
Finding the sources of EVERYTHING will lead you back to the Earth. Start with a creek or a river. Take your child with you and embark on an adventure. Connect that stream to the water that runs through your faucets, cooks your food, washes your dishes, fills your bath, quenches your thirst, nourishes your garden, washes your car, sparkles in your swimming pool, makes your coffee, washes your hair, and so on. Only when a consumer appreciates the source of a resource will he/she want to take care of it. Here’s the simple equation: intimacy with nature = waking up the steward in us.
Wild Plants and Survival Lore: Secrets of the Forest
History and Fiction ~the oxymoronic blend~
The Long Road to LegendMost of the aficionados of Western history whom I have met, kick-started their passions for all things Western by watching television in the 1950s and 60s. There is no doubt that the “Era of the TV Western” had a profound influence on all of us who grew up in those decades. Around half a dozen Western series aired each night. Overall, about 140 Westerns debuted on the small screen in those 20 years.
Movie makers followed suit. The terms “Saturday matinee” and “Western” went hand in hand. It’s hard for modern youth to understand how that flood of Western entertainment inundated us, taught us about character, and helped to shape who we are now. The Western was then what the world of mystical fantasy is now to our present culture’s youth.
It seems that a milestone in the transition was Star Wars, which, interestingly, was considered by many to be a “Western in space.” Then followed everything else that sealed the genre of magic and mystery: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, all the super-heroes (Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, etc.) That’s a very glittery world for the Western to compete with. It’s like trying to pull a child’s attention away from a computer game to show him/her the grandeur of a spider web or a century-old oak.
One thing that must be said for our TV Western-influenced years is that the information was, at least loosely, based upon history. It was connected to something real in our American past. Maybe Matt Dillon was not a historical character, but his demeanor and interactions with the townfolk of 1870’s Dodge City taught us something about the people who inhabited that time and place. The same cannot be said for Lord of the Rings and Spiderman. As impressive as movies like this are, we’re not connected to them by the roots of our past.
The big glitch for us came when we discovered that Hollywood had delivered up its own version of the West. We thought we knew Wyatt Earp, Jim Bowie, and Davy Crockett, but we were given a sanitized version of these real life characters for the sake of providing heroes whom we could emulate.
Those of us who pursued more about our American frontier history (beyond the small- and big-screen) soon found out that we had been duped. There was no “code of the West” that insisted a lawman allow the outlaw to draw his gun first. In fact, there were hardly ever face-downs on the street in which two antagonists met with guns holstered. (That’s one of the reasons the OK Corral fight is so celebrated.)
The struggle between Indians and white men was more than a story of a supreme trespass. Though founded upon the specious rationalizations of Manifest Destiny, it became much more complicated and gruesome on both sides. But that’s not how it was presented to us through film.
All of this is to say that, for most of us, our love of the West was born out of fiction. It was the writers who started the trend of exaggeration: Walter Noble Burns, Stuart Lake, Frank Wilstach, Ash Upson, etc. Most of us probably agree that the true history of Western heroes is far more interesting than the fiction that was introduced to us. And so, many of us feel a natural resentment toward the mythmakers and swear off anything that smells of fiction.
But I am here to tell you that fiction has a place in telling the truth. If you visit a Western museum and admire the renditions of paintings of the great Western artists (think: Edgar Paxson’s Custer’s Last Fight), you might feel your love for this history enhanced by the visual brush strokes. But you’re looking at a fiction. The scene was made up or interpreted by an artist. It’s not a photograph.
If you enjoy paging through a colorful book by artist Bob Boze Bell—on Earp, Holliday, Bonney, Hickok, or Geronimo—you’re getting a good historical timeline, wonderful paintings and sketches, and a heavy dose of facts, but you’re still looking at a fictional image. As much as Mr. Bell might adhere to the best-known data, he delivers up a visual interpretation using artistic creativity. For example, we don’t know for certain how the participants were posed at any given moment in the streetfight behind the OK Corral in Tombstone. (We don’t even know with certainty how “the ball opened.”) You’re seeing Mr. Bell’s version of it. We may know that Tom McLaury’s blouse was blue and Doc Holliday’s overcoat gray, but what about Ike Clanton’s boots and Morgan Earp’s hat? As dedicated as Mr. Bell is to history, his creative juices flow to fill in the gaps, so that you can enjoy seeing the dramatic moment. And O how we love to see those drawings and paintings rendered. We pore over them as if looking through a time machine.
This is exactly what a writer of historical fiction supplies. With his/her palette of words, the writer fills in the picture, creating colors, sounds, tastes, and smells. Such a writer allows the reader to feel the sun on the protagonist’s back. To sense danger. To feel relaxed, angry, or afraid. If the author has devoted enough time to the research, he/she begins to absorb the psychology of the characters and can make an admirable stab at exposing the inner thoughts of the real people who fascinate us a century and a half later.
Reading a stellar historical novel introduces emotion to the story. In fact, I believe that it’s similar to adding a musical score to a motion picture. Pull out your favorite DVD and watch a pivotal scene with the volume muted. Then go back and watch again with its accompanying score. (Writing music and writing a novel have more in common than you might think.) The emotion evoked by this added device (music) gets you more involved in the story. It gets you invested. Puts you in a mood. It helps you appreciate more the history that you thought you already knew.
Granted, there are some writers who don’t do adequate research; therefore, they churn out books of questionable value. How do we cull them out? Word of mouth among WWHA members is one way. For another, look into the author’s background and research. It can reveal a lot. Where did they get their material? Whose research are they relying on? We who crave the “truth” about history—or at least the current culture’s take on it—are familiar with the present-day leaders of research. (A list of their names would read like a speakers’ agenda at a WWHA seminar.)
Here are two suggestions for good reads. Try The Frontiersman by Allan Eckert. Enjoy that one and watch your interest level in the 18 – 19 century Ohio River Valley begin to emerge. Find a copy of Hanta Yo by Ruth Hill. It could change forever the way you think about the Dakotah and other plains tribes.
I wonder if other WWHA members would be willing to share the titles of historical novels that have meant a lot to them. This would be a good introductory reading list for you if you would like to see how this genre can enhance your understanding of history.
(This blog post originally appeared as a guest blog on the WWHA website. To find out more about the Wild West History Association, or to join, check out their website at https://wildwesthistory.org.)
Movie makers followed suit. The terms “Saturday matinee” and “Western” went hand in hand. It’s hard for modern youth to understand how that flood of Western entertainment inundated us, taught us about character, and helped to shape who we are now. The Western was then what the world of mystical fantasy is now to our present culture’s youth.
It seems that a milestone in the transition was Star Wars, which, interestingly, was considered by many to be a “Western in space.” Then followed everything else that sealed the genre of magic and mystery: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, all the super-heroes (Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, etc.) That’s a very glittery world for the Western to compete with. It’s like trying to pull a child’s attention away from a computer game to show him/her the grandeur of a spider web or a century-old oak.
One thing that must be said for our TV Western-influenced years is that the information was, at least loosely, based upon history. It was connected to something real in our American past. Maybe Matt Dillon was not a historical character, but his demeanor and interactions with the townfolk of 1870’s Dodge City taught us something about the people who inhabited that time and place. The same cannot be said for Lord of the Rings and Spiderman. As impressive as movies like this are, we’re not connected to them by the roots of our past.
The big glitch for us came when we discovered that Hollywood had delivered up its own version of the West. We thought we knew Wyatt Earp, Jim Bowie, and Davy Crockett, but we were given a sanitized version of these real life characters for the sake of providing heroes whom we could emulate.
Those of us who pursued more about our American frontier history (beyond the small- and big-screen) soon found out that we had been duped. There was no “code of the West” that insisted a lawman allow the outlaw to draw his gun first. In fact, there were hardly ever face-downs on the street in which two antagonists met with guns holstered. (That’s one of the reasons the OK Corral fight is so celebrated.)
The struggle between Indians and white men was more than a story of a supreme trespass. Though founded upon the specious rationalizations of Manifest Destiny, it became much more complicated and gruesome on both sides. But that’s not how it was presented to us through film.
All of this is to say that, for most of us, our love of the West was born out of fiction. It was the writers who started the trend of exaggeration: Walter Noble Burns, Stuart Lake, Frank Wilstach, Ash Upson, etc. Most of us probably agree that the true history of Western heroes is far more interesting than the fiction that was introduced to us. And so, many of us feel a natural resentment toward the mythmakers and swear off anything that smells of fiction.
But I am here to tell you that fiction has a place in telling the truth. If you visit a Western museum and admire the renditions of paintings of the great Western artists (think: Edgar Paxson’s Custer’s Last Fight), you might feel your love for this history enhanced by the visual brush strokes. But you’re looking at a fiction. The scene was made up or interpreted by an artist. It’s not a photograph.
If you enjoy paging through a colorful book by artist Bob Boze Bell—on Earp, Holliday, Bonney, Hickok, or Geronimo—you’re getting a good historical timeline, wonderful paintings and sketches, and a heavy dose of facts, but you’re still looking at a fictional image. As much as Mr. Bell might adhere to the best-known data, he delivers up a visual interpretation using artistic creativity. For example, we don’t know for certain how the participants were posed at any given moment in the streetfight behind the OK Corral in Tombstone. (We don’t even know with certainty how “the ball opened.”) You’re seeing Mr. Bell’s version of it. We may know that Tom McLaury’s blouse was blue and Doc Holliday’s overcoat gray, but what about Ike Clanton’s boots and Morgan Earp’s hat? As dedicated as Mr. Bell is to history, his creative juices flow to fill in the gaps, so that you can enjoy seeing the dramatic moment. And O how we love to see those drawings and paintings rendered. We pore over them as if looking through a time machine.
This is exactly what a writer of historical fiction supplies. With his/her palette of words, the writer fills in the picture, creating colors, sounds, tastes, and smells. Such a writer allows the reader to feel the sun on the protagonist’s back. To sense danger. To feel relaxed, angry, or afraid. If the author has devoted enough time to the research, he/she begins to absorb the psychology of the characters and can make an admirable stab at exposing the inner thoughts of the real people who fascinate us a century and a half later.
Reading a stellar historical novel introduces emotion to the story. In fact, I believe that it’s similar to adding a musical score to a motion picture. Pull out your favorite DVD and watch a pivotal scene with the volume muted. Then go back and watch again with its accompanying score. (Writing music and writing a novel have more in common than you might think.) The emotion evoked by this added device (music) gets you more involved in the story. It gets you invested. Puts you in a mood. It helps you appreciate more the history that you thought you already knew.
Granted, there are some writers who don’t do adequate research; therefore, they churn out books of questionable value. How do we cull them out? Word of mouth among WWHA members is one way. For another, look into the author’s background and research. It can reveal a lot. Where did they get their material? Whose research are they relying on? We who crave the “truth” about history—or at least the current culture’s take on it—are familiar with the present-day leaders of research. (A list of their names would read like a speakers’ agenda at a WWHA seminar.)
Here are two suggestions for good reads. Try The Frontiersman by Allan Eckert. Enjoy that one and watch your interest level in the 18 – 19 century Ohio River Valley begin to emerge. Find a copy of Hanta Yo by Ruth Hill. It could change forever the way you think about the Dakotah and other plains tribes.
I wonder if other WWHA members would be willing to share the titles of historical novels that have meant a lot to them. This would be a good introductory reading list for you if you would like to see how this genre can enhance your understanding of history.
(This blog post originally appeared as a guest blog on the WWHA website. To find out more about the Wild West History Association, or to join, check out their website at https://wildwesthistory.org.)
What Every Author Wants
The Westering Trail Travesties, Five Little Known Tales of the Old West That Probably Ought to A' Stayed That Way
What every author wants:
1. To have his book read.
2. To have that book valued by the reader.
3. To get a good review.
4. This last one is a wish no author expects. To be compared to the author's favorite writer.
Review from the Tombstone Epitaph:
"The Epitaph rarely reviews fiction, but author Mark Warren and his magnificent catalog of work seems to be the exception. "The Westering Trail Travesties" ushers in some of Warren's finest writing to date, and in it he shares with the readers five short novellas about the Old West. Written with the confidence of Charles Portis and the depth of Cormac McCarthy, award-winning author Mark Warren weaves fascinating and readable tales that stretch from Arizona to Texas to Nebraska. Peppered with violence, heartbreak, and intrigue, "The Westering Trail Travesties" certainly deserves a place among the most highly regarded western fiction ever written, but I suspect this is only the beginning and Warren is the western fiction author to watch.” Erik Wright, Author and Western Historian, The Tombstone Epitaph National Edition
What every author wants:
1. To have his book read.
2. To have that book valued by the reader.
3. To get a good review.
4. This last one is a wish no author expects. To be compared to the author's favorite writer.
Review from the Tombstone Epitaph:
"The Epitaph rarely reviews fiction, but author Mark Warren and his magnificent catalog of work seems to be the exception. "The Westering Trail Travesties" ushers in some of Warren's finest writing to date, and in it he shares with the readers five short novellas about the Old West. Written with the confidence of Charles Portis and the depth of Cormac McCarthy, award-winning author Mark Warren weaves fascinating and readable tales that stretch from Arizona to Texas to Nebraska. Peppered with violence, heartbreak, and intrigue, "The Westering Trail Travesties" certainly deserves a place among the most highly regarded western fiction ever written, but I suspect this is only the beginning and Warren is the western fiction author to watch.” Erik Wright, Author and Western Historian, The Tombstone Epitaph National Edition
Possum on the Half-Shell
Now that armadillos have made themselves at home here in the mountains of Southern Appalachia, you might be interested to know something about them. First of all, what are they doing here?! Until recently, my experiences with armadillos have occurred exclusively on the coastal plain. Why migrate here? They don’t have the ability to hibernate, and they don’t insulate well from the cold because, unlike most mammals, they don’t have sufficient body fat or a healthy coat to keep them warm. This makes their presence a mystery to me, but I’ve learned that these “little armored ones” have reached as far north as Illinois. I can’t help but wonder if this expansion of range is connected to global warming. I hope researchers can enlighten us.
Even if you’ve not crossed paths with a nine-banded armadillo, perhaps you’ve seen their tracks and not been aware of who left those prints. I’ve seen differing numbers of toes reported by various “trackers,” some saying that there are 3 toes on the forefoot or 4 on the rearfoot. Maybe there are some anomalies out there, but the standard numbers are: 4 toes in front, 5 in the rear. How do I know?
I picked up an armadillo once to learn more about it. All in the name of science, of course. But that rationale means nothing to an armadillo. It would much rather NOT be picked up. By the way, that little feat of derring-do is not recommended because of pathogens that can be transmitted to humans. Plus, if you don’t know how to pick up one of these critters, you might find yourself in a claw-fest. Think of a knife fight against 18 guys named “Mack.” It is also a bad idea to tamper with armadillo scat, which is found as small pellets. Body waste is also a potential source of disease for an over-eager inspector of all-things-natural. Like raccoon scat. And fox urine.
Stalking armadillos and watching them go about their lives is a treat. It’s so easy to do. They just motor around like little Volkswagen Beetles with manic, blindfolded drivers, bumping into things, stopping unexpectedly, changing course, bumping into more things, plowing a trench, and bumping again. When you do see one travel for a few feet uninterrupted, you’ll notice its most regular gait, which is called a “fast stalk.” This means that a rearfoot moves forward, and just as it starts to land, the forefoot on the same side begins its step. Just before that one lands, the rearfoot on the other side starts its step. Just before it lands, the forefoot on that side moves forward. Then the whole process cycles again. It seems nothing like a “stalk,” which implies slow, furtive movement, but it uses the same pattern as a “true stalk,” only faster. This usually places a smaller rearfoot print right behind the larger forefoot print. If you want to understand this track pattern, get down on all fours and follow the above formula. As you do, pay attention to where your hands and knees leave tracks.
“Armies” eat insect larvae, worms, bugs, butterflies, and ants. (Look at their heads and think about anteaters.) They are great diggers, not only in a food search, but also in digging lots of burrows. Each individual has a number of homes to dodge into. Summer home, winter home, autumn home, spring home, solstice home, equinox home, old folks home, home on the range, etc.
What will be the impact of having armadillos in north Georgia? Stay tuned. I’m hoping for a reduction in fire ants.
Mark Warren
Even if you’ve not crossed paths with a nine-banded armadillo, perhaps you’ve seen their tracks and not been aware of who left those prints. I’ve seen differing numbers of toes reported by various “trackers,” some saying that there are 3 toes on the forefoot or 4 on the rearfoot. Maybe there are some anomalies out there, but the standard numbers are: 4 toes in front, 5 in the rear. How do I know?
I picked up an armadillo once to learn more about it. All in the name of science, of course. But that rationale means nothing to an armadillo. It would much rather NOT be picked up. By the way, that little feat of derring-do is not recommended because of pathogens that can be transmitted to humans. Plus, if you don’t know how to pick up one of these critters, you might find yourself in a claw-fest. Think of a knife fight against 18 guys named “Mack.” It is also a bad idea to tamper with armadillo scat, which is found as small pellets. Body waste is also a potential source of disease for an over-eager inspector of all-things-natural. Like raccoon scat. And fox urine.
Stalking armadillos and watching them go about their lives is a treat. It’s so easy to do. They just motor around like little Volkswagen Beetles with manic, blindfolded drivers, bumping into things, stopping unexpectedly, changing course, bumping into more things, plowing a trench, and bumping again. When you do see one travel for a few feet uninterrupted, you’ll notice its most regular gait, which is called a “fast stalk.” This means that a rearfoot moves forward, and just as it starts to land, the forefoot on the same side begins its step. Just before that one lands, the rearfoot on the other side starts its step. Just before it lands, the forefoot on that side moves forward. Then the whole process cycles again. It seems nothing like a “stalk,” which implies slow, furtive movement, but it uses the same pattern as a “true stalk,” only faster. This usually places a smaller rearfoot print right behind the larger forefoot print. If you want to understand this track pattern, get down on all fours and follow the above formula. As you do, pay attention to where your hands and knees leave tracks.
“Armies” eat insect larvae, worms, bugs, butterflies, and ants. (Look at their heads and think about anteaters.) They are great diggers, not only in a food search, but also in digging lots of burrows. Each individual has a number of homes to dodge into. Summer home, winter home, autumn home, spring home, solstice home, equinox home, old folks home, home on the range, etc.
What will be the impact of having armadillos in north Georgia? Stay tuned. I’m hoping for a reduction in fire ants.
Mark Warren
My Favorite Reads From 2023
Recently, I was asked "What are your favorite reads of 2023 and why?" Do you have a favorite read of 2023? I'd love to hear about it!
My favorite read in 2023…
Pastoral Song: A Farmer's Journey
By James Rebanks
Why did I love this book?
I wish this book could become required reading for all the world. But most especially for all Americans.
It addresses a relationship between humans and Earth that is steadily slipping away from the public’s consciousness: Mankind and how he treats the land upon which he lives. This story of farm life in England reminds us of our relationships to foods, whether plants or animals.
The author, who inherits the agricultural legacy of his father and grandfather, discovers the ultimate futility and destruction of large-scale industrial farming and digs back into his grandfather’s methods of living with the soil. The audio version of this book is excellent due to the perfect-choice reader, which is always a critical ingredient for a spoken text.
But the real gift here is Rebanks’s experience and dedication. His willingness to change the course of his farm management reveals a story that gives us hope.
My 2nd favorite read in 2023…
The Journey of Crazy Horse: A Lakota History
By Joseph M. Marshall
Why did I love this book?
First of all, let it be known that I believe Crazy Horse to be one of the greatest persons to have lived on the North American continent. Naturally, I am drawn to any book about him.
Marshall, who is Lakota, has given us a very intimate look into Crazy Horse’s day-to-day life and his part as a humble member of his tribe.
He is not supernatural. Like all of us, he is a flawed human being, which makes his transcendence into heroism and glory all the more appealing. He was a man of duty and principle, yet he stole another man’s wife.
Anyone wishing to judge that transgression must first immerse him/herself into Crazy Horse’s time and situation. a near-impossible task. But to hear one Lakota (Marshall) talk about those times and that place and those individuals reminds us that we can never really know the full story of what goes on in the minds of the players.
I feel I know Crazy Horse better now. If there is a place across the river where we all will meet, I hope that I can sit down with this man and talk of things that matter.
My 3rd favorite read in 2023…
Blue Highways
By William Least Heat-Moon
Why did I love this book?
I happened to see the author on a documentary about Lewis and Clark, and I was drawn to his quiet and thoughtful manner. This made me pick up his book, and I am glad I did.
The author embarks on a journey across America to discover what is truly at the core of the quintessential American.
Shunning the interstates and major highways, he travels the backroads that are marked in blue in his Atlas. Along these routes, he seeks out the average person and engages them in conversation or activity so that he can get a sense of what drives these people to get up every day and continue to compose a life.
The author’s frankness, friendliness, and honesty jump off the page. I looked forward to each and every vignette.
I am posting this because I thought it might be guidance for others in finding good books. Maybe you would like to do the same? What are your three favorite reads from this year?Mark Warren
My favorite read in 2023…
Pastoral Song: A Farmer's Journey
By James Rebanks
Why did I love this book?
I wish this book could become required reading for all the world. But most especially for all Americans.
It addresses a relationship between humans and Earth that is steadily slipping away from the public’s consciousness: Mankind and how he treats the land upon which he lives. This story of farm life in England reminds us of our relationships to foods, whether plants or animals.
The author, who inherits the agricultural legacy of his father and grandfather, discovers the ultimate futility and destruction of large-scale industrial farming and digs back into his grandfather’s methods of living with the soil. The audio version of this book is excellent due to the perfect-choice reader, which is always a critical ingredient for a spoken text.
But the real gift here is Rebanks’s experience and dedication. His willingness to change the course of his farm management reveals a story that gives us hope.
My 2nd favorite read in 2023…
The Journey of Crazy Horse: A Lakota History
By Joseph M. Marshall
Why did I love this book?
First of all, let it be known that I believe Crazy Horse to be one of the greatest persons to have lived on the North American continent. Naturally, I am drawn to any book about him.
Marshall, who is Lakota, has given us a very intimate look into Crazy Horse’s day-to-day life and his part as a humble member of his tribe.
He is not supernatural. Like all of us, he is a flawed human being, which makes his transcendence into heroism and glory all the more appealing. He was a man of duty and principle, yet he stole another man’s wife.
Anyone wishing to judge that transgression must first immerse him/herself into Crazy Horse’s time and situation. a near-impossible task. But to hear one Lakota (Marshall) talk about those times and that place and those individuals reminds us that we can never really know the full story of what goes on in the minds of the players.
I feel I know Crazy Horse better now. If there is a place across the river where we all will meet, I hope that I can sit down with this man and talk of things that matter.
My 3rd favorite read in 2023…
Blue Highways
By William Least Heat-Moon
Why did I love this book?
I happened to see the author on a documentary about Lewis and Clark, and I was drawn to his quiet and thoughtful manner. This made me pick up his book, and I am glad I did.
The author embarks on a journey across America to discover what is truly at the core of the quintessential American.
Shunning the interstates and major highways, he travels the backroads that are marked in blue in his Atlas. Along these routes, he seeks out the average person and engages them in conversation or activity so that he can get a sense of what drives these people to get up every day and continue to compose a life.
The author’s frankness, friendliness, and honesty jump off the page. I looked forward to each and every vignette.
I am posting this because I thought it might be guidance for others in finding good books. Maybe you would like to do the same? What are your three favorite reads from this year?Mark Warren
Mark Warren Blog
Every so often I write a blog about whatever might inspire me. They may pertain to my wilderness teachings, my books, or my personal experiences. I hope you enjoy reading them, and I look forward to y
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