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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

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

"Nightwoods" by Charles Frazier

As promised, I am occasionally adding a blog post on some favorite books of mine.

When Charles Frazier’s "Cold Mountain" was published in 1997 it made quite a splash with the public, both popular and literary. Impressive reviews popped up everywhere I looked. Then Hollywood added its stamp of approval by chasing the book’s popularity with a movie. What I learned about Mr. Frazier by cultural osmosis tempted me further. Hailing from Asheville, North Carolina he loved his mountains. My mountains.

His subject was the Civil War, a piece of American history that interested me on several levels. The reasons for me to read "Cold Mountain" continued to pile up like a stack of books on a night table.

And so I did.

About halfway through the novel I struggled with my attitude toward the book. I simply was not enjoying it. This was a surprising admission because every page contained very good writing. In fact, I tested that idea with a little game. I closed the book, opened it to a random page, and, with my eyes closed, pinned a finger to the page and read the paragraph under my fingertip. I did this several times and never failed to read an impressive passage. So, I kept working my way through the book.

Same results. In the micro-picture, I recognized a great writer. In the macro-assessment, I still could not engage in the story. There was something off, I thought, about the way the story moved. Or didn’t move.

I actually felt guilty about this. What’s wrong with me? I wondered. How can so many readers love this book, while I cannot even finish it?

So be it. I officially gave up.

Then in 2006, Mr. Frazier’s "Thirteen Moons" came out. If a story of the Civil War had tugged at me, this one on the Cherokee dragged me out of the shadows with a tow truck. This one I had to read.

And so I did . . . with the same results.

Sadly, I bid Mr. Frazier adios, wished him well, and went about my reading life without him. (The Cherokee have no word for “goodbye,” and I could not use their related phrase “donadagohvi” [“until we meet again”] because I planned no further rendezvous.)

In 2011 Mr. Frazier published "Nightwoods." This book did not even make a blip on my radar. I’d learned my lesson. But fate came through with a special delivery. A friend who scavenges discarded books from libraries put "Nightwoods" in my hand in 2021. She told me she had not read it, but it seemed like something I might enjoy.

Despite noting the author’s name, I received the book out of courtesy and carried it into my home by my own hand. Which seems ironic now. It was as if Charles Frazier had somehow enlisted me to play my own part in a grand trick he had plotted against me. Or another way to think of it might be this: Charles refused to give up on me.

As a writer myself, I am well aware (all writers think we are) of the ingredients that make for a great piece of literature. It’s the stuff that all authors TRY to shape and twist and refine into a masterpiece. Here’s a short list that I believe in:

1. The way the words are put together must engage a reader with beauty, enlightenment, and maybe a little profundity. There is a certain rhythm needed. This is probably the part of writing that is hard to teach. I think of it as being innate in the natural writer.
2. To surprise with original ideas. These may surface as unique similes/metaphors or by using the unexpected word that serves perfectly. Often it is a comparison of an act in the story to something familiar to the reader.
3. The reader MUST care about a protagonist. There must be an emotional investment.
4. The story has got to grab the reader and take him/her hostage.

When I inexplicably picked up "Nightwoods" one evening and opened the covers, I quickly crashed headlong into everything on the above list. By the time I was halfway through, I knew this was already on my list of favorite books. I did not want it to end. My wife kidded me about how slowly I finished off the last pages.

So, without even mentioning the storyline, I will say that this is a review of a masterpiece. And it’s a review with a theme of redemption. Whether it is mine or Mr. Frazier’s, I cannot say. All I know to do is thank him for writing this wonderful story. As a writer, I find it inspiring. As a reader, let me just pass it along to you. It will make me feel like the best of gift-givers.

Nightwoods

There Are More Reasons to Embrace Survival Skills Than the Scare of a Pandemic

Revisiting an article written for Blue Ridge Highlander – 2008
~ The first in a series of articles on survival skills ~

PRIMITIVE SURVIVAL SKILLS IN THE 21st CENTURY

The physicality of satisfying our essential needs today is virtually effortless – like strolling through the aisles of a grocery store or turning a knob to heat an oven. So why turn back history and roam forest and field to dig up edible roots? Why twirl a stick in your hands to near exhaustion in the quest for fire? Isn’t all that ancient lore outdated? No. And I will give three reasons why.

Whether seashore or woodland, prairie or mountain, desert or tundra, every personality of the land demanded competent survival skills of the first people to settle in it. Each discrete land form required its own specialized lore, because humans had to meet their needs not with resources they wished they had, but by using what was available. To one man, the building block of his home was snow or ice. To another it was grass or mud or animal skins. Some utilized logs. Others used sticks.

Here in the forests of these Southern highlands, caves were certainly appropriated for shelter, but of course caves could not be moved to the most favorable settings. (One etymological interpretation of the word “Cherokee” describes people from caves.) New tenants of the land simply took what they could find. But when early inhabitants of southern Appalachia began to look at choicer locations (and less dank living quarters), their first homes were comprised of sticks and mud and leaves (a wattle and daub hut with a thatched grass roof). These building materials were found in abundance.

Survival skills allowed paleo-settlers to get started in the process of staying put. In time, grander schemes replaced the raw hardscrabble tasks that were at first required. For example, a one-room hovel might be expanded to a more complex home with the space needed to perform a variety of chores. Now there was room to store water in the home, because free time had opened up for the making of vessels composed of clay dug from creek banks. This addition of crockery eliminated the constant going to and coming from a stream. In other words, a resource (water) had been harnessed, so to speak, by bringing it inside … within easy reach.

It was only natural that humans would strive to invent less demanding solutions to their basic problems. We all do that even today. In fact, one way to look at the history of humans is to follow the “evolution of comfort.” Within this story of water, anthropologists consider it an important chapter when humans stopped lowering their faces to a stream and learned to cup water in their hands and raise it to their mouths – a posture better suited to staying alert and alive (to see what predator might be approaching).

Consider where we are now in the story: channeling water through the walls of our homes by way of pipes and then again out of our homes once we have made use of the water. What yet-to-be-discovered technique might the future hold for making water available inside our homes?

Regardless, we are now enjoying a very comfortable juncture in the story. We rise from our chair, take a few steps into a nearby room, turn a handle and, voila! …water flows. It’s so easy. Why would anyone want to make obtaining drinkable water more difficult?

Here’s what the primitive approach would require: build a fire of dead hardwood and let the wood burn down to coals; burn out a concavity in a chunk of wood by using hot coals and a blow-tube (a hollow plant stem like Joe Pye Weed or rivercane) to superheat the coal; scrape the depression with stone and sand to produce a finished wooden bowl; fill the bowl with water from a stream; heat egg-sized stones on the bed of hot coals; at intervals, drop glowing-red stones into the bowl of water to bring it to a boil and keep it there for fifteen to twenty minutes to purify the water.

At my wilderness school I teach students of all ages about nature. By far, my most popular classes are those that explore how the Native Americans perfected their survival skills – lore that tied them so closely to the natural world that the natural result of that partnership was not only pragmatism but also respect, reverence and gratitude.

Because I ask my students why they sign up for such a course, I hear lots of perspectives on the relevance of survival skills for our time. I’ve pared them down to two basic categories … and I’ve added one more that I believe lies deep in the subconscious realms of the human brain. A half-forgotten room of atavistic memory.

Before I list these rationales for addressing these skills, let me ask a question: Might you really ever find yourself in a life or death scenario – you against the elements? Ten years ago, I prefaced my survival skills classes with this statement: “Chances are, you’ll never find yourself in a true survival situation … like walking away from a plane crash in the Andes or being car-jacked in the jungles of Central America and left on your own.” That’s what I used to tell my students. Not now.

Of course, the more adventurous you are … the more your odds increase in coming face to face with a survival challenge. After all, not everyone flies over the Andes or drives jungle roads. For that matter, it’s only a small percentage of Americans who venture out on the trail for days at a time with packs on their backs. But the times have changed to make us all logical candidates for learning these ancient skills.

~ The Three Reasons to Learn Survival Skills ~
1.) It’s a different world now because of the escalation of terrorism. There are people in other countries who feel that America is long overdue on being at the receiving end of foreign attack and devastation. (Even Pearl Harbor seems not to count, because of its distance from our consolidated shores.) We, who engineered the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and head the list of the planet’s voracious consumers, present an image to many that is spoiled and arrogant. From the lessons of September 11, 2001, we have a new awareness that – within the scope of terrorism – anything is possible. Almost certainly there is more tragedy to come.

Short of nuclear holocaust (for a taste of coping in a post-apocalyptic world, read The Road by Cormac McCarthy), an act of terrorism could demand from us at least a few survival skills. Consider this scenario: a deliberate contamination of a municipal water source. Surface water from streams (though almost universally polluted) would come full circle and once again be a primary resource just as it once was. Knowing how to render such water drinkable would be imperative. Drinking that stream water “as is” would be a serious mistake – one that could level you with a sickness so severe as to incapacitate you. Racked with pain, you would become dehydrated and too miserable to perform the tasks needed to stay alive. (Side note: yet there is a tea made from a root that can dispel that sickness inside an hour!)

If you don’t have a wood heater or fireplace, you’ll be setting up a grill or permanent fire pit outside your home. You’ll have to haul water to it – that, or make your pit near the stream. You’ve probably got all the containers and cookware you would ever need for collecting and boiling water.

If our system of commerce and the transporting of goods were brought to a halt, grocery stores would empty in just a few days. After depleting our pantries, we would be forced to venture outside for our food. Hunting and fishing would enjoy the status it once held in pioneer days. Those good at it would be renowned. But the forests and streams would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers of people trying their hands at it. The forest would likely become a war zone of territorialism and desperation.

As for our other needs, virtually all of us possess at this moment a lifetime supply of shelter, clothing and tools. But how much do we know about successful gardening? Seed storage? Or foraging for wild plants? The experienced farmer would be our mentor.

2.) There is still enough wild land in America to challenge a person unexpectedly stranded in it. Every year, we hear of someone’s demise in wilderness. The person who wandered off from the group. The traveler who ventured off on an unfamiliar route and ran out of gas in a remote area. The solitary adventurer who pushed his/her limits.

There are probably places in your own county that would qualify as “wild” enough to pose a problem to you if you weren’t prepared for an unplanned stay-over. In that situation you would not likely succumb to starvation or thirst, but hypothermia could be your nemesis – especially if you were wet. (Even in summer, a cool night can prove deadly.) Hypothermia is the loss of body heat to a point where it cannot be retrieved by a person’s natural metabolism. Without help afforded to the victim (external heat source or hot drink ingested), this condition leads almost certainly to death.

If you think you might be exempt from the threat of hypothermia because you are physically fit and plan to fend off the deadly cooling process by running or some other strenuous exercise … think again. The debilitating stage of hypothermia sneaks up on you quickly. It robs you of your ability to use your muscles. Exercise is not possible.

A most useful skill would be knowing how to insulate your clothing with materials from nature. And how to get a fire going. If your stalled car is nearby, you would have a tremendous asset in its shelter from wind and rain. But people have frozen to death inside their cars.

You might even have matches or a lighter. But I have learned through my classes that, even with those incendiary assets of technology, most adults do not have sufficient fire-making skills – especially in wet weather. Did you know that a forest that has been soaked for days in a driving rain still has more dry dead wood than wet dead wood? Would you know where to find it?

3.) This last rationale is my favorite, because it’s for everybody who simply yearns to be “out there” in God’s world. Survival skills integrate you with the land like nothing else can. Think of taking off on a hike or camping trip and purposely leaving your matches at home. Or leaving behind food. Or tent and sleeping bag. Your surroundings become the source of all your necessities. The earth reveals itself as the bearer of all gifts – just as it did for paleo-people and, later, the many native tribes. How differently your eye would look upon each gift. You would literally learn to love sticks, leaves, stones, vines, roots, bark … and every other useful component of nature.

Survival knowledge lightens your load and sharpens your eye. It brings immediacy and purpose to the details of the forest. On some previous outing you have probably walked past a colony of arching plants with yellow-green bell-shaped flowers dangling beneath the stem. But now – with an education of edible plants simmering on the back burner of your mind – you pause, feeling a wave gratitude wash through your body. You judiciously select one or two plants and harvest their tuberous roots. These tubers will serve as the main course of your next meal. Their rich taste and hardy nutrients will greet your palate with surprising satisfaction. Forevermore, when you look upon this herb, you will experience a sense of connection and awe.

Instead of seeing the native needled evergreens as a mere backdrop of scenery, now you would recognize a year-round source of protein, fat, carbohydrates, iron, phosphorous, thiamine, riboflavin and vitamins A and C. All this is packed into one ribbon-like layer hidden beneath the rough outer bark of the tree.

When I first struck out on a self-imposed “semi-survival” trip, I took everything I needed for a normal camping trip… except matches. I
had cookware, rice, spoon, canteen, tent, sleeping bag, etc. But eating that rice depended upon my success at creating fire. My eye was so keen to find the proper dead wood (not just any wood will do for fire by friction) that I felt a quantum leap in my relationship with trees – those beings the Cherokees called “The Standing People.”

It was as though the trees were whispering to me. Oak said, “Not me. I can’t help you with that. I didn’t swallow fire in the ancient days. But save me for the time when your spark has grown to a large flame. I can make a lasting fire for you.” Sourwood said the same. And most of the pines told me that they could be helpful in making my initial small flame quickly build to a larger one, but they could not help me create the fire from scratch. Then hemlock said, “Yes, I swallowed fire in the long ago. I’ve been waiting for you. I can give you fire. And I am holding my lower dead branches off the ground for you so that they are dry … at least on the inside.”

And so it was hemlock that gave me fire, cooked my rice and warmed me that night as I gazed at the flames. And when I looked at my hands I knew that something profound had changed for me because of this new relationship I had earned with this tree. Knowing that I could walk into the forest with empty hands and coax fire from a piece of select wood became a monumental milestone. The feeling was and remains a paradox of “humble power.” Whenever I demonstrate fire creation for a group, the spectators break into smiles as if they have just witnessed a magic trick. And I feel much the same even after all these years.

On my next trip I did take matches along with my other gear. But I purposely omitted tent and sleeping bag. Shelter and insulation became my quest. All else that I had packed was a given. On this journey the fallen leaves and the down branches were my treasures, for they were the building blocks of the home I would construct. Never had I been so aware of how much is discarded from the various trees. Never had I noticed the differences of loft and texture and quantity of the leaf litter characteristic of the many species of trees.

Next trip, I packed everything but food. And so went the pattern until I began to leave behind things in pairs. Food and matches. Or tent and water. Then I omitted items in threes. This is the same procedure I advise for my students today. To go about the quest in a safe and adventurous format. Jumping into the full-fledged ordeal is too much.

After many, many months of similar trips, I weaned myself away from all the gear until I was ready for a true self-imposed survival trip. My equipment was 1.) my mind and what it knew about the forest, 2.) my body and what it could do with its strength and the form I had learned in practicing the skills, 3.) the clothes I wore, and 4.) my knife.

At this point in my growth as a practitioner of survival skills, my eye had learned to look for everything at once – that is, to relax and see what was in front of me so that I did not pass by something of use. The improvement of my observation skills was significant. My feeling of being a part of the wild – as opposed to being a visitor to it – was exactly what I had yearned for and needed … even though I had not defined it in those words. I was a different person – a person I had always wanted to be.

When I ask my survival students: “Why do you want to learn these skills?” Most often I hear this answer: “I just want to learn more about what’s around me. I want to be more connected to it.” I know this feeling. It is elemental. It is in our genes. Our ancestors planted it there. Without this connection, something fundamental is missing in us as an animal on this planet.

Ever since we have been children, haven’t we admired those figures in history or fiction – people who knew the secrets of nature? The Native Americans; the mountain men who pioneered the way west; Mowgli from Kipling’s The Jungle Book; Sam from My Side of the Mountain; Tarzan. I believe most of us feel that spark of autonomy in nature glowing within us. It is the ultimate knowledge. We crave intimacy with the green world that lives and breathes around us. It is the world into which we were born. It received us. Sequestered away inside our buildings and adrift in the momentum of our fabricated society, most of us peek out at the natural world as though spying a foreign territory.

I live on what was once Cherokee land, so it makes sense to me to learn what they – as a people – once knew to a man, woman and child. And if I “discover” something “new”, I know it is not really new. A Cherokee learned this long before me. And there-fore, as my relationship with the forest has grown, so grows my bond with these people who understood the value of each piece of the puzzle of that place I call “the real world.”

Mark Warren has authored a four-volume series of books called Secrets of the Forest. These books detail the nature and survival skills he has taught for more than 50 years. Check them out at www.secretsoftheforestbook.com


Mark Warren owns and directs Medicine Bow Wilderness School, teaching nature classes and Native American survival skills in the mountains of North Georgia. For more information, call: 706-864-5928 or email: medicinebow@att.net. To view the school’s class offerings, please visit the web site at www.medicinebow.net.

Watership Down, My Take on a Classic

Watership Down by Richard Adams

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Back in the 1970s whenever I mentioned to friends the title of my favorite latest read—Watership Down—I was sure to get a reply something like this: “I like a good World War II story. Is this one about submarines?” When I explained that this book is about rabbits, I watched eager faces turn to confusion.

Rabbits?

It always seems important to preface any explanation about Watership Down with: “It’s about rabbits!” not only to prepare the reader for a new perspective but also to celebrate the fact that someone could write one of the best stories (or the best, paws down) ever told and have it be about lagomorphs. It is a classic that ranks up there with the works of Michener, Hemmingway, Dostoevsky, Proust, and Proulx. In the decade that followed its release, this novel became required reading in select colleges, mainly in civics, political science, and government classes. Now here we are half a century later and when someone asks me my favorite all-time book, guess what falls right off my tongue?

Watership Down.

The late Richard Adams, the author of this masterpiece, created the narrative as a travel story for his children as they motored across England one summer. In other words, he winged it as he drove. Surely he smoothed it out with detail and color when he sat down to put it on paper, but still the original theme is probably intact, which makes this an incredible bit of ad lib.

I had read a mountain of books before his and have read a mountain chain since, but never before have I reacted to a writer’s prose with such strong emotion. I remember vividly one section that sent tingles of inspiration trickling up my spine. (This from a rabbit!) I’ve experienced that feeling with music many times, but Watership Down is the one and only book to have affected me so profoundly. In another section, I simply closed the book, looked out my window, and watched the forest outside my little rented cottage fade into a blur. I cried those kind of tears that feel as if they are forced out by the ballooning of the heart.

I have no shame about those tears. They are jewels.

The story is about an epic journey made by a band of rabbits who must flee construction crews working in their habitat. Humans are invading their territory, and they must find greener meadows. In this journey they encounter various individuals and organized bands (there’s the government study angle) and great dangers. The travelers’ extraordinary leaders succeed through it all but at a price. These characters are filled with such “rabbitity” (think “humanity” for humans), I can almost guarantee the reader you’ll have a new collection of heroes. And friends. Remember these names: Hazel, Bigwig, and Fiver. After reading the book, you’ll never forget them.

As a composer of music, I was destined to write a piece for Mr. Adams’s rabbits. When I completed it, I knew I had something special, and I knew the composition had to go home—to England. I recorded it (about a five-minute-long piece) and mailed a copy to Mr. Adams and thanked him for his contribution to my life. He received it and wrote back to me, and I felt like this barter across the ocean was one of the most fulfilling interactions I had ever been a part of.

This experience brought home to me one of the inspirations for my own career as a writer. Besides being afflicted with the need to write, I cherish the unspoken transaction that exists between writer and reader. A man in England I never met (except through an exchange of letters) set a very substantial stone into the rock wall of my life. Never to be forgotten. Making me a better person than I was. Now as a writer, every now and then, I get to be on the other side of the equation. It’s one of the grandest feeling I can imagine.

My latest effort (I’m eight chapters in) is a tribute to Mr. Adams and his book. The story will be my own original work, but the rabbits of Watership Down are looking over my shoulder as I write. It was very tempting to write about rabbits, but of course I needed to choose my own species so I would not appear to be a Richard Adams wannabe (which I am), so I opted for another little critter that fascinates me: squirrels . . . more specifically, the Eastern Gray Squirrel. It could easily have been beavers or mice. I’m not sure what it says about me that I am drawn to rodents, but so be it. These squirrels of mine are coming up with a fine story and good dialogue. Coming soon to a bookstore in your area. I hope.




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On Writing the Earp Books

When I completed my manuscript on Wyatt Earp, I had a 500 page tome that my agent believed in. He wanted me to name it Wyatt, but I was fixated on another title, Adobe Moon. In the years that followed I saw many titles come out with one-word titles, which meant my agent was seeing a trend. But I couldn’t let go of that moon image. The entire manuscript (now a trilogy) fell under that title, Adobe Moon, because the Mexican adage about that rusty-hued orb carried the running theme of Wyatt’s life: Having to settle for what he had rather than what he wanted.



There are a number of nonfiction books on Wyatt Earp. I never intended to add another to the list. My purpose in writing was to share the fully researched story through the eyes of Wyatt, so as to understand the motivations, rationalizations, and ambitions that drove him. Though I studied him and the West that was his milieu for more than half a century, it took me four of those decades to understand him well enough to apply for my poetic license to enter his head.

As a novelist I relish the freedom of coloring a scene, providing stimuli for the reader’s senses. My trips to the places painted in these books empowered me with the details to describe them. There is a profound feeling of connection when you stand on the ground of a historical event, especially if you get your boots dirty and seeds stuck to your clothes by moving around in the area, getting involved in it if only by exploring.

Wyatt’s story has been laid out for me by some wonderful researchers: Casey Tefertiller of San Francisco, Gary Roberts of Georgia, Peter Brand of Australia, Roy Young of Oklahoma, Jeff Morey of Los Angeles, and others. All are friends of mine with whom I discuss the events of all things Earp. The nuggets they have unearthed have allowed me to reveal what I believe to be the most accurate version of Wyatt Earp’s story that has been set within the historical fiction genre.



There is another thing that I relish: connection to a reader I may never meet. I’ve had enough complimentary messages from readers to make me feel blessed inside an equation I have admired all my life. The equation is this: a writer puts down words that travel between the covers of a book to parts unknown . . . an unknown reader is moved by these words sufficient to enrich his/her life in some way. Yet they never meet. I’ve been on the receiving end of that equation many times, having my life shaped by the force of words and story by an author. To be on the giving end is a joy.

Mark Warren

The Value of Wildness

Though on the surface of my teaching it appears that I peddle the physical skills of native lore—fire creation, shelter building, stalking, tracking, water purification, crafts, plants used as foods, medicines, crafts, insect repellents, weaponry, traps and snares, etc.—a hidden agenda lurks beneath. I am most interested in turning metaphorical keys that show people inroads to nature. I believe that each person develops his/her own unique relationship with the wild world, one that no one else can claim. That uniqueness is one of the beauties of this equation.

When students first come to my school to learn a particular skill, I often ask what urged them to plunge into such a topic. Usually, they do not have a ready answer. By the time they visit for a second class we have gotten to know each other enough that they feel comfortable delving into that question again.

“I just felt like something was missing in my life.”

I have heard that answer time and again. Once those words are out, we can then enter into an exchange that dips into our spiritual needs. It always boils down to this: That student vaguely recognizes this void: He has no practical or intimate interaction with the natural world into which he was born. That student can feel like a stranger to his own land. He is more familiar with the constructs of civilization: stores, highways, Internet sites, cell phones, etc.

Living among wild plants and animals on a daily basis was the original “real world.” To move through a paleo day and draw nourishment and warmth from the surroundings (and ensuring protection from those same surroundings) was the definition of life. It was the most fundamental procedure for existence. Today it is an adventure that only a small percentage of humans can accomplish. No wonder there is a gap between modern man and nature.

There are two subjects I always suggest for those who want to build a bridge to the intimacy of nature: plant study and animal stalking. I know of no better thresholds to cross to affect the psyche of the hungry student. By learning and using plants, we become part of the forest and field by developing relationships with individual species. If we eat a plant, are we not what we eat? If a plant heals us, do we not owe it some allegiance and respect? If we make a tool from nature, are we not holding that tool in gratitude? If a nibble of yellowroot’s bright yellow root resolves an upset stomach, each time we encounter it in a new place, do we not feel at home in this new place by the presence of an old friend?

In dedicating oneself to the rigors of stalking—a discipline that, arguably, could be called a martial art—a very simple shift occurs: The student transcends from being a spectator in nature to being a participant. This last sentence is the answer to the riddle. This is what was missing from the lives of those students mentioned above.

Why do I want this for people? Two answers. One: I value the enrichment of their lives. This path boosts self-esteem. I have seen it do wonders for curious children, troubled young adults, and introspective adults. Two: If we do not continue to produce generations of people who understand the value of wildness, we will lose it. When that happens, the world as we know it loses. If a person does not care about plants, animals, rock outcrops, rivers . . . how can we expect that person to conserve it?

As grandiose as the term may sound, I’m talking about saving the world. The real one.

Secrets of the Forest, My Life in Teaching, My Legacy to Leave Behind
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Dissecting the Character of Wyatt Earp

For the first two-thirds of my 60+ years of research into the life of Wyatt Earp, I made an assumption about his personality that I now consider to be inaccurate. Based upon the accounts of his actions in crisis moments, it was easy to assign to Mr. Earp the word “courageous.” In fact, this was the very character trait that reached out to me as a child and hooked me for life. All through my youth, courage fascinated me. It still does.

Once I had read my first book about Wyatt Earp, I looked for another. Eventually I discovered library files, micro-films of old newspapers, and stacks of dusty magazines. Later I sought out interviews with historians. And so it went.

Though different researchers and authors have, over the 90 years since Wyatt died, depicted him as either a stalwart frontier lawman or as a sly opportunist who often blurred the lines of ethics, no one has convincingly challenged his grit. He was a very deliberate man. His quiet strength and determined approach to problems earned him either loyal allies or desperate enemies with little else remaining in between. As a young boy it was easy for me to catalogue Wyatt’s man-of-action qualities under the mantle of “courage,” but now I believe it was something else.

Bat Masterson and Jimmy Cairns—both Kansas lawmen who worked with Wyatt—had named it long ago, when they remarked that Wyatt operated as an officer of the law with an “utter lack of fear.” Wyatt took a straight-ahead approach to problems. Once he knew what he needed to do, little could stop him. Entering into a confrontation without fear . . . and entering such a scenario with courage . . . are two very different things.

To exercise courage one must overcome fear. To be fearless is just that—without fear. In this latter case there is nothing to overcome. Though the two approaches might appear identical to an observer, they are not.

One end result of conquering fear is a boost to self-esteem. A person who bravely surmounts his anxieties earns a certain validation of his ideal character. He lives up to his own code of behavior, even when consequences loom. I suspect that Wyatt Earp did not experience such revelatory surges of pride. Perhaps his pride was a permanent fixture that resulted from his fearlessness. Perhaps it served as a driving momentum for his “straight-ahead” personality.

We don’t often meet fearless individuals. They are uncommon. To complicate the issue, some people are fearless at certain points in their lives but at other times they feel the vulnerability of being afraid. If ever you ask someone “Have you never felt fear?” and he/she truthfully answers “Never” . . . you are talking to a rare human being. A conversation with such a person might prove educational. Perhaps that person’s personality might share some common ground with Wyatt Earp’s demeanor.

How does a person acquire such an unusual trait as fearlessness? Certainly some of it is the result of genetics. Wyatt’s father, Nicholas, was domineering, blustery, bossy, and intolerant of dissension. Another way to look at those qualities is to call the man “extremely confident” about his opinions. While Nicholas was noisy and bombastic about his beliefs, Wyatt was quiet, a man of few words. All of this begs a few questions: 1.) Did Wyatt acquire his confidence from his father’s DNA? 2.) Did the clannishness of the Earps promote feelings of superiority over others? 3.) Did Wyatt develop an internal confidence as a way to survive his father’s rule?

I believe the answers to all the above should be woven together and considered. But a definitive answer is more complicated than choosing one reasonable answer. It must have been quite a lesson as a youngster for Wyatt to see the way that Nicholas treated other people in order to get what Nick wanted, because, even though the elder Earp lacked tact, he generally came out on top.

Life on an Iowa farm among five brothers undoubtedly spawned a sense of solidarity for the Earp boys. Together they solved whatever problems arose in agrarian life. Plus, each brother knew that his kin would back him up against outsiders. The Earp boys would have experienced the typical competitions between brothers, but overshadowing any inner turmoil in the family was the need to show a common front against a Dutch-dominated community.

We can surmise and theorize over such matters of the psyche and never know the absolute truth. But, for my two cents, I believe that genetics weighs in heavily in this equation. It appears that Nicholas’s domineering character passed to Wyatt as an Earp legacy, but Wyatt carried it with reserve and containment. To illustrate my point, I imagine someone asking Nicholas about an altercation he had on the street with a political rival. The elder Earp would have delivered a blow by blow accounting of the affair, giving himself the better of it, no doubt. On the other hand, whenever Wyatt was asked about the famous gunfight in Tombstone (the one the world would call “the O.K. Corral fight”), his reply was always to say: “I suppose we can find something better than that to talk about.”

To compare photographs of Nicholas and Wyatt, one sees the same glowering eyes . . . more so with Wyatt than for any other Earp brother. Each time these two men faced a camera, they looked as if they were “staring a man down.” Even into his old age, Wyatt “called out” the camera with his all-business eyes. I know of only one photograph that shows him smiling, and each time I show it to someone I get the same question: “How can you tell he’s smiling?” People ask this because Wyatt’s head is tilted down, making it difficult to see his mouth below his moustache. His eyes are looking down at his dog, and so the observer sees only Wyatt’s eyelids. But I know he’s smiling. It shows in the subtle shadows of his face.

Unlike today’s spate of cell phone selfies and snap shots, photographic images of people from the 19th century West almost never show a smile. That might tell us something about the hardships of making a life on the frontier in the 1800’s. Or perhaps about the pride of surviving it. Still it’s interesting to study the old images, to see what a person chose to wear for the occasion of a photograph. Or to see what prop the poser borrowed from the photographer’s supply of studio accoutrements.” Many young men in these centuries-old images, for example, clutched rifles and stuffed revolvers and knives in waistbands, belts, and boot tops until they bristled with artillery. Such a tintype would be carried home to show friends how one decks out for a life of adventure. Their portraits seem to say: “If you’ve got the sand to follow my footsteps (to ‘see the elephant’) you’d better be prepared for anything . . . just like I am.” All that Colt, Remington, Winchester, and Smith & Wesson hardware in a photo might be likened to a varsity letter on a school jacket in my high school days.

To my knowledge, Wyatt never brandished a pistol in a photo. He probably never felt the need.

Personally, I have known fear. But I’ve also known courage . . . its costs . . . and the benefits that come from employing it. So, doesn’t that mean that I, as an author, should not know how to write about someone who is fearless . . . someone like Wyatt Earp? What, you might ask, gives me the author-ity to describe Earp’s feelings, motives, and mindset?

For half a century I couldn’t do it. I could detail what he did, where and when he did it, and with whom, but not always the “whys” and “hows.” But here’s what I have learned. As all of us get older, we come closer to a kind of fearlessness. Not in dare-devil feats. I’m talking about a quieter demeanor in facing the challenges that come our way. We gain a larger perspective about what is important and what is not, and this view can sometimes dwarf threats from menacing to laughable. This territory of fearlessness grows with every year. This is why I waited 60 years to write about a fearless man. It took me that long to understand what made Wyatt Earp tick.

In the long haul, Wyatt’s fearlessness served him well in his years wearing a badge but did little to further him toward his ambitions. This is why I have evoked the Mexican adage of the “adobe moon” in my first book of his story. It’s a moon the color of mud, reminding one who gazes at it and dreams of his future that, inevitably, he must eventually settle for what he has . . . like a home made of mud.

If you enjoyed Adobe Moon, the first book in the trilogy Wyatt Earp, An American Odyssey, the second book debuts November 21. This one is called Born to the Badge and covers the Kansas years, 1874 – 1879. This is the period in which Wyatt’s formative years in lawing turn professional, and the reader watches Earp unknowingly prepare for the trials of Arizona Territory that await him. The final book covering the Tombstone years is called Promised Land and comes out in September of 2019.

Here are a few remarks about Born to the Badge by several renowned researchers:

“Mark Warren is the first writer to illuminate the Earp story from the inside. Adobe Moon and Born to the Badge show you why Wyatt Earp became a legend and what that legend was born out of.” ~ Allen Barra, author of Inventing Wyatt Earp, his Life and Many Legends

“They still talk about Wyatt Earp in Wichita and Dodge City. After reading Mark Warren’s Born to the Badge, you’ll understand why.” ~ Jeff Morey, historical consultant for the movie Tombstone

“Warren’s intensive research uncovers layers beyond the legend as Wyatt Earp follows the sun westward in pursuit of another opportunity. Accurate discourse unites with historical truth to produce a thrilling read that is really tough to put down.” ~ Eddie Lanham, historical researcher

“Historian Mark Warren’s second volume in his trilogy on the life and times of Wyatt Earp (presents) dialogue that is virtually true to life and gives the feeling the author must have been present when the words were originally spoken. This volume has been anticipated and meets all expectations.” ~ Roy B. Young, Wild West History Association

A Dreaded Malady in Remote Wilderness (and its cure!)

Of all the unpleasant situations that can come up in a wilderness setting—a few self-imposed, some brought to us by unexpected circumstances, and others a combination of both—one ranks high on the scale of misery: “bad” water or “bad” food.

If you’ve brought in your own drinking water supply and you run out . . . or if you’re using a pump filter and it breaks down . . . or if you’re going primitive and boiling your water as needed using a burned out wooden bowl and fire-heated stones . . . and if the weather turns so antagonistic so as to make fire-tending challenging . . . it is tempting to sip right from a creek or spring. Thirst can be like a siren coaxing one to “hope” those natural sips will be harmless.

You may have squeaked by on this gamble before with no ill effects. But the odds are against you. One day your luck will run out.

I would love nothing more than to lie on my belly and drink from a stream, harkening back to the days of the earliest people. But such a practice is no longer recommended, no matter how remote, no matter how beautiful the scenery, no matter how much we might want to emulate paleo times, it is an unwise practice. Fifty feet upstream might be a carcass or raccoon scat on the shoreline or something as minor as a dead spider. Short of an involved chemical analysis, there’s really no way to gauge the safety of surface water.

True, there are other sources of water for consumption: rain, sleet, snow, sap of grape vine, hickory, and sycamore. But these sources are not available in all seasons. Dew is a source, but dew is not always a dependable phenomenon.

This article is really all about micro-organisms, tiny creatures we cannot see. We all have lots of beneficial bacteria in our gut. These are essential to our lives. If they could migrate upward in the alimentary canal to the stomach, their presence there would be devastatingly harmful. Thankfully, they don’t make that upstream journey. Only when we take in such microbes through our mouths does trouble loom. This is why we are encouraged from childhood to wash our hands before leaving the bathroom. Inadvertently allowing traces of our own waste to enter our upper digestive system through the mouth can mark the onset of an unforgettable sickness.

Besides drinking tainted water, equally dangerous is eating spoiled food. “Dysentery” . . . “food poisoning” . . . “galloping diarrhea” . . . “the royal runs” . . . whatever you call it . . . such an experience can be completely debilitating. No matter how hardened you are by a lifetime of braving the elements, this malady will level you—literally. I know this, because I have been there. Twice.

The first time this happened I was leading a camping trip for 12 year olds in the Chattooga watershed of north Georgia. After we had set up our tents beside Warwoman Creek and settled around a welcoming fire, one of my more challenging campers offered me a “shot” of his powder-mixed Tang, the orange drink carried into space by the U.S. astronauts. His gesture of sharing was a breakthrough in our relationship, so I could not refuse.

Within two hours I was so sick I relinquished leadership to my assistant. The next day the group of campers and assistant carried me and the Tang-maker on a long return trip to our van. During that ride the camper informed me that he had scooped up water from the creek to make his fruity refreshment. Though Warwoman Creek was—in those days—a sparkling stream, it ran through miles of cattle farmlands before snaking into the National Forest to connect with the river. The boy and I were terribly sick for 5 days and sequestered away in the camp owner’s home.

Apparently, we were too demoralizing to be seen, even by those visiting the infirmary. It was the worst sick I’ve ever been: extreme nausea, cramps, fever, vomiting, and diarrhea. In short, it felt like the ante-room to death.

On the second occasion, it was my doing. On a self-imposed, solo “survival trip,” I snagged a trout for dinner. That night I cooked and ate half of it, built a primitive refrigerator of stone in the mountain creek. The shelf upon which I stored the fish was just inches above the water to receive the coolness typical of all mountain streams. The next day I sniffed the fish and detected the slightest foul aroma. Reluctant to waste what I had harvested, I made a bad decision. By cooking to an “overdone” state, I believed I might avoid any digestive problems. I was wrong. An hour and a half later I was reliving the “bad-Tang” days of hell. And this time I was alone.

But I had made one good decision before breakfast. Roaming the forest I located a small sassafras tree no taller than I. After digging for a root, I returned to my camp, cleaned the root (about the size of a ten-penny nail), scored it (lots of shallow slits cut into its surface), and dropped the root into water I had heated in a crude wood bowl. When the water turned pink, I removed the root and set it aside. This was my ace in the hole should things go bad. Only then did I eat my extra-crispy fish. If I hadn’t done things in this order, this would have been a different story entirely. Probably written by someone else.

Thankfully, just weeks before my outing, I had read a new study about sassafras. Its root tea was already known to be an immune-booster, but new research had revealed that this same tea kills micro-organisms in the gut . . . both good and bad bacteria. Though we do need the good, sometimes it’s worth purging all these critters. All it takes to get in that frame of mind is to engage with food- or water-poisoning.

Now for the miraculous part of the sassafras story: I was flat on my back, cramping terribly, nauseated to the point of misery, and so weak I could barely crawl. I drank that single cup of root tea and lay back down. Before an hour passed, I was on my feet, able to work, and nausea-free. Every symptom was gone.

In using plants as medicines, there is almost always a necessity for attention to proper preparation and dosage. With sassafras root tea, the procedure is simple. After boiling the water you can simmer or steep the root until the water turns pink. That’s all there is to it. Remove the root, let the tea cool enough not to burn the tongue, and drink one cup.

In my opinion, this puts sassafras high on the priority list of plants to know. It has at least 5 different leaf shapes, the 3 most common of which are football-, mitten-, and double-thumbed-mitten-shapes. (When sassafras gets old, it tends to make only the football-shape.) Chip away a piece of outer bark and you’ll discover a cinnamon color in the deeper flakes. In spring, after a positive ID, snack on a very young leaf and taste the “Froot Loops” flavor. (For those of you old enough, you’ll receive a nice memory from your childhood: Davy Crockett Bubble Gum.)

Only one other Southern Appalachian tree produces these same leaf shapes: mulberry. This fruit tree is filled with dangerous toxins, except in the mature fruit. Using its root accidentally could only compound your problems.

Sassafras is usually a small to medium-sized tree in Georgia. A “big” one in my forests might have a trunk as thick as my calf. One living a half-mile from my home in the national forest stands tall with a 1¾ foot diameter at breast height. On the Buffalo River in the Ozarks I met a sassafras that would take 3 grown men to reach around its trunk.

Take this tree to heart. It can be an important friend. As I always tell my students, “survival skills” begin with a knowledge of the plants in your area. Learning them is an adventure.

Secrets of the Forest (Volume 1) The Magic and Mystery of Plants and The Lore of Survival

The Skinny on Snakes

It’s summer. It’s hot. And there is a lot of low, lush, green ground-cover that’s perfect for hiding. (Think of a fern bed on a flood plain.) In other words, it’s snake season.

In the mountains where I live (north central Georgia), only two species of venomous snakes make their home: timber rattlers and copperheads. Throughout my teaching career, wherever I have held classes for youth and adult, I have carried out a displacement plan to try to minimize the chances for my students having an encounter with one of these reptiles. This means that there have been hundreds of occasions in which I have captured these pit vipers, transported them to a more remote place, and released them unharmed. At worst (for the snake), this might mean that the creature has to spend a few hours in a large, capped bucket until class is over and I can free it in a new location away from people.

All this is to say, I have handled a lot of snakes – both venomous and not. So, I believe, this gives me enough familiarity with snakes’ behavior in the wild to say a few authentic things about these much misunderstood creatures.

I am, of course, aware that many people have difficulty in appreciating any kind of snake . . . much less one that carries its own “poison.” I am equally aware that most people cannot differentiate one snake species from another. Whenever I am called upon to positively ID a dead “copperhead” or “water moccasin” or “rattlesnake” that a neighbor has killed, I find the majority of those corpses belonged to harmless water snakes, king snakes, or racers. Rattlers should be difficult to misidentify because of their rattles, but a number of snakes purposefully vibrate their tails in dry leaves for a pretty convincing facsimile.

It has been my observation that our two pit-vipers – copperheads and rattlers – are two of the most laid-back, sluggish, and non-aggressive species in our woods. The only exception to that would be during mating times, which can occur in spring or fall. I have stood next to two copperheads in the throes of reptilian passion. They were jittery, quick, and seemingly – for the male, at least – more than half-crazy over the anticipation of coupling. These two snakes flopped and chased and wriggled all over the ground around me as if I were not there.

Outside a mating scenario, the story is much different. On several different occasions I have seen people walk right over a venomous snake and never see it. More importantly, the snake remained absolutely still and showed no interest in biting an animal so large. Yet I have no doubt that people have been bitten as a consequence of simply stepping over a log. In such a case, it would be very tempting to say that the snake ambushed a human.

In fact, Emergency Room doctors have shared with me their stories of treating snakebite victims. So often the patients declare that the snake was the aggressor. “It came right after me!” “I was just minding my own business!” Toward the end of the hospital visit, so the doctors say, the patients often capitulate and admit: “Well, maybe I was poking a stick at it a little.”

But what about that person who committed no other sin than walking too close? Well, it’s all a matter of interpretation. Picture a rattlesnake coiled up under the curve of a dead log on a trail. The snake’s reason for being there is shade. When it cools off too much, it moves into sunlight. This is how it regulates its body heat; because, unlike our bodies, snakes have no system in place for producing internal heat.

Let’s pick up the story when our hypothetical rattler is cooling off under the log, minding its own business, practicing patience without even knowing what patience is. Then the snake feels a regular footfall in the distance. (Snakes can’t hear. They have no ears. But they can easily pick up ground vibrations.) The interloper approaches. Not good. The snake already knows the name of this trespasser by his walking rhythm and foot-to-earth weight. It is the dreaded Homo sapiens.

We often hear about the flight or fight option among wild creatures, but there is another option – a third “F” – probably more common: freezing. By remaining still, most wild animals melt into anonymity among their surroundings. But that doesn’t mean their nerves don’t get on edge. If this “frozen” rattler feels those feet coming directly toward it, what follows could be a harrowing wait.

Then the invader is practically on top of the reptile. All alerts are on. There might even be a sense of fear. And why not? I find it hard to believe that humans are not universally recognized by wildlife as the ultimate killer.
Then comes the big thud! A foot comes down from over the log. That foot does not touch the nicely hidden snake, but it has blocked the path of escape. The snake is cornered for an instant, and in that split second the snake has to make a decision.

If I were a snake, I believe, I might opt for a pro-active measure. Better to be s-s-safe than s-s-sorry. That sibilant adage might very well be a slogan among our slithery friends.

There are always two sides to any story. I would guess that most folks are not willing to stretch their imagination in favor of the snake. Especially one that has just bitten someone. But still, that other interpretation is no less real. Perhaps our biases get the best of us.

The closest call I ever experienced involved a copperhead moving quickly across a flat piece of ground right toward me. When it struck at me the snake was less than two feet away from my leg. Employing a little, sideways, shuffling slide that I may have picked up from contra-dancing, I evaded a bite. Wait! Was I attacked?

Now for the real story:
After a survival skills workshop had ended, I went to my supply shed to put away some of my teaching tools. Folded on the ground was a tarp that I needed to cover firewood from a coming rain. Always on the alert for venomous vipers, I carefully picked up one corner of the tarp to check. Nothing was underneath. So I started walking away with the tarp, dragging it (still folded) behind me.

Two steps into my walk toward the wood pile, I swung the tarp forward to better grip it with both hands. Out from the folds of the plastic slipped a coiled copperhead, scooting across the ground like a hockey puck from the jerk I had made. It slid right for me in this coiled position.

A moment ago this snake had been sequestered inside a snug tarp as it whiled away the day. In the next moment it was skittering along the earth at surprising speed. When it was close enough, it converted that sliding momentum into a strike that seemed to reach beyond the normal range for a strike. The snake made its lunge. I performed a quick sashay. All was good for me. The snake, I am sure, felt completely interrupted, exposed, and annoyed.

Into the bucket. Into my truck. And off we went to a place that will probably someday be renamed “Viper Valley.”

Do unprovoked snakes really ever come after a person? I have been told by many folks that they do. One fisherman I knew told me of a water moccasin that waited for him in the branch of a shrub. When his johnboat came under the shrub, the snake dropped inside. Ambush! When the panicked fisherman grabbed a paddle to do battle with the reptile, the cottonmouth came for him.

I must point out here that there is a difference between aggression and aggressive defense. Again, all you have to do is see that other side of the story. Perhaps, this was a heroic snake. The ophidian Odysseus of snake-dom. Once it was trapped inside the gunnels of a boat as it faced the ultimate predator, its warrior-like response might be seen as commendable by some.

But before all that, it is almost certain that the snake was minding its own business and perched in the best place for a quick escape. If a threat arose, what could be more liberating than to drop into water and swim away? In this case, it is easy to imagine what really did happen. The aluminum boat scraped against the bush, initiating a vibration. The snake dropped. Thud! Not what he expected. Uh oh, that’s a human with a big stick.

There are always two sides.

In "Secrets of the Forest Volume 3," one beautifully photographed chapter is devoted to snakes of the Southeast. This includes an in-depth probe into the physiology and psychology of the human/reptile equation.

Check out all of the "Secrets of the Forest" books at www.secretsoftheforestbook.com