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Travel Log - Hunting, Hitchhiking, Painting & Getting Dirty: Traveling Across America


Keepitrail

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Anyway - finally made it to Montana for the 2nd time.... Went out hunting with my old Crow Indian friend Leland Walking Bear. He got the pheasant and I got the rabbit. It was swarming with fleas. I took a shot at another pheasant and missed. We were on our way out to my great uncle's cabin in the highlands to break his horses. He had a shotgun he bought for $20 at a pawn shop and ate most of whatever was at the other end of it. It was a bolt action without a clip. He gave me two shotgun shells to chase after the second pheasant and told me "the first one's for the pheasant - the second one's for you, if you miss."

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Well - I missed the second pheasant but got a rabbit.

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I soaked the rabbit in a bucket of warm water with a couple drops of soap to kill all the fleas. They floated to the top like old hens in a storm.

 

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I only skinned a rabbit once before and it wasn't a whitetail but it seemed the same as a deer or squirrel. I pinched the stomach near the groin and made incision then cut up through the ribcage making sure to only cut the skin and not the organs less you desire such a strange feast

 

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Thank you, that means a lot to me... These are from shortly before my last post, on the way to Montana through Wyoming - -

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I wandered up through the treetops and into the pass, and fell into a dream. The view from that road is continuously changing, whitening, purifying. All the way until you get to the top and it’s all of the sudden one big screen of precious white, and you can see everything and nothing all at once, and nothing matters but the little specks of light that mean fellow travelers. I was running away from my lies and finding beauty, and yet I had the earnest desire to avoid it. The purity of the snow only reflected how unclean my mind and thoughts were, and I wanted desperately to be something with it, to dive into an avalanche and swim through the fog. The light tore through wondrously quiet clouds in thin rays of white that screamed Providence. It was a novelty, the great Midwest – that you can begin your day in sun drenched valleys, sweating and overheating in your car, and four hours later find yourself neck deep in swills of giant mountain snowdrifts, lost in purity. Wyoming did that to me. There’s a pace that’s set when you arrive that takes some time to adjust – it’s a pace that’s more realistic and natural than the East. Time and events occur as the weather dictates. In the East, time is a product that is manufactured, packaged, and delivered on a very slim margin. It is dictated, written down, and calculated to maximize efficiency. But in the Midwest, the ideas and lives of its denizens center around the sun and rain. There is no desire for one-upmanship, for time tables or expensive cars. The feeling of a lack of control over nature is embodied and understood, rather than abhorred and resisted as in the East. They seemed to understand something more fundamental than I could ever imagine, the idea that perhaps man is a not a product of his environment, but a process.

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