Revelation of Recent Attack Reported: details in www.cabin-muse.blogspot.com

Since the preceding entries are related to a four part sequentially entered series, I would suggest starting at Part One, entered 5/28/13.  This tale was resurrected from an older archive which may or may not have been originally recorded on the proverbial shovel with a piece of charcoal.

Is it a shocking contagion of catastrophic acts, or: merely copy cats, after recently disclosed IRS, NSA Edward Snowemall, or whatever, type irrational actions.

Whatever it turns out to be, it represents the first and only attempt by person or persons unknown to impugn the integrity and reputation for long honored, principled and virtuously unembellished prosing on the part of this publisher. 

In my treasured position as head muse, and reflecting the totally forthright and transparent method of musing by our government and our business community in general, I have chosen to reprint the obviously prevaricated and totally fictional folly as contained in a recently received communication.  Since the offender has chosen to remain anonymous, I choose not to reveal his identity to avoid embarrassing him when the true facts are confirmed as originally reported.

If necessary, I shall revert back into the coveted 1963 Archives in my determined battle to refute these totally inaccurate depictions, even to the extent of determining from which bottle the usurper was nipping.   

Fictional Letter Received

Log Cabin Muse -- Fact or Fiction

Date: November 24, 1963

Place: Cecil. WI -- Uncle Augie's Farm

Subject: The Annual Deer Hunting or The Real Story

As we prepared to enter Uncle Augie's back 80 in our quest for white-tail deer, we were advised by Johnny Sanborn's dad to keep a look out for Uncle Augie's pet bear.  The bear went by the name of Blackie, according to Mr. Sanborn. He, Blackie, was placed in Augie's care following Blackie's retirement from Ringing Brothers in 1961.  We were told that everyday at about 9:00 AM Blackie would make his way from his den to Augie's house to have breakfast with Augie and Augie's wife. 

Several hours after entering the woods, a shot was heard.  Following the shot, a terrifying scream was heard.  The scream was followed by the sound of breaking and crushing of branches.  These panic stricken sounds were  immediately followed by the appearance of the hunter in the red boots.  The same boots described in the Log Cabin Muse.  The hunter in question will remain nameless in this narrative for on that day I promised never to divulge his identity.  His face was ashen, and he was obviously emotionally upset.  He kept talking (actually screaming) about shooting an abominable snowman, or something similar; something big and casting a dark shadow.

After reassuring the red booted hunter that he was in no danger, his friends convinced him that it would be safe to return to the location where he allegedly encountered what may have been the abominable snowman.

It is difficult for this writer to continue for the sadness experienced upon finding not an abominable  snowman but poor old Blackie is still fresh in my mind.  Uncle Augie's tears are also still fresh in my mind.

I can't go on.  The Real Story is too sad.  We did carry old Blackie out of the swamp, and we hung his 50 pound carcass from a horizontal timber behind Mr. Sanborn's house. Old Blackie was hung next to the 160 pound 8 point buck I harvested on that infamous date in hunting history.

Note:  This commentary was not recorded in the log cabin muse comment section for as I previously indicated I did promise never to reveal the identity of the red booted hunter, or the true or Real Story of what occurred on November 24, 1963.

Have a nice day red booted hunter!

From the Archives Sunday November 24, 1963

From the Archives, Part IV: The Finale November 24,1963

Sunday Morning (continued)-The Finale

Hemingway said "the sun also rises".  But not in a Wisconsin swamp.  The clock says so, but the ground fog and overcast denies penetration of its promised light. I proceeded hand over hand along the north/south fence line, that is until I came to an old Cottonwood tree.

Normally an old tree would not be an obstacle, except when it grows tired of standing and decides to lie down across the fence line.  A straight ahead course is impossible, and to circumvent a 100 foot long tree in this swamp would be a very time consuming detour

 But just as I am studying my alternatives, the old feeling returns-this  time accompanied by movement directly ahead of me and just on the opposite side of our fallen Cottonwood.  It appears taller than myself and heavier, but not identifiable through the branches of the fallen tree and, thus, an invalid target.  We, thus, are in checkmate, I watching him, and he watching me.....neither one identifiable by the other and both frozen in our positions.

As it is destined to do, the sun proceeded to burn its way through the darkness and, in a matter of minutes, vague dawn light started to penetrate the black of the swamp.  My mysterious company began to materialize before my eyes, and I could see two large round ears on top of the large dark shadow.

Fifty years ago the Wisconsin black bear season was simultaneous with the whitetail deer season.  During the 1963 season a total of 553 black bears were harvested in the entire State.  By far, the majority were taken in far northern areas, as the bear population had not migrated so far to the southern areas of the State as to be considered frequent.

With over half a million hunters registered, the odds of an encounter were about a thousand to one, so I consider myself one of the lucky ones.  Both to have harvested a prize...... and that it wasn't really the Abominable Snowman..

PS:  It would be remiss not to recognize the efforts of the real heros of the hunt. Those       faithful companions who ended up helping me drag said quarry out of the swamp. Thanks guys.

PS2: The red of the boots has mellowed, as do all things after 50 or so years...but one of the many events over the past fifty years that has never mellowed was the senseless taking of the life of the 35th President of the United States.

From the Archives, Part III: 4 AM Sunday November 24, 1963

Up at 4 AM.  After breakfast, we proceeded to our chosen positions.  It was dark, overcast and the area was covered by a thick ground fog created by the clash of cold air and relatively warm ground water.  The sought after giant Shawano buck obviously elected to stay where visibility was minimal and travel treacherous-in the depths of the marsh.  After a short deliberation, I decided to move a ways into the marsh and find a suitable clear area where Mr. Buck could be intercepted should he elect to move, and move he most assuredly would, it being the  height of the rut and the ladies would be on the move.

After stepping only a few yards out of the clearing, the surroundings changed from dark and barely discernible to feeling my way a  step at a time.  The marsh had evidently been used for livestock grazing perhaps fifty years before, and remnants of an old barbed wire fence marked ancient boundaries.  Luckily, this provided a guide, at least north and south, to aid me in my penetration into the midst of the swamp.  So I proceeded on my journey into the depths, in retrospect now realizing that my total "journey" may have been only 150 yards.

After feeling my way along the fence line for a short while, I suddenly had a feeling that I was not alone.  Visibility was near zero, the ground fog was quite thick, but either a sound or movement had alerted me that something or someone was near.

Could it be a trespasser?  Who would be crazy enough to be in this swamp?  A  member of our party?  We pretty well knew where each guy hunted,  so that was not probable.  The thought of a challenge was immediately dismissed, for it could alert the much sought after BIG BUCK.  So, I proceeded with the only alternative, to keep on creeping the fence line.  After all, I had the security of my old and faithful Simson & Co 1916 8MM  Mauser, loaded with 196 grain soft points, which were capable of handling even the abominable snowman, if confronted.

Next:  The morning progresses

From the Archives, Part II: Opening Morning November 23, 1963

We were up early, had a big breakfast and proceeded to our selected opening day stands in the woods.  I had chosen a five acre clearing out behind Augie's barn.  It had a large maple tree at one end, against which I had planned to repose while keeping a vigilant lookout for the big Shawano County buck.  Bordering the clearing was a twenty acre marshy area, thickly covered with dense pockets of alder, buckthorn and any other invasive plant species which didn't mind having wet feet. A small creek meandered through the swamp creating a drainage into two surrounding lakes.  It was a spot one would prefer to avoid if at all possible.

It was still, no wind and no snow.  Just a bed of maple leaves upon which to sit.  The sun had not yet peeked out so the light was dim and visibility low.  But...not everything was enveloped by the pre-dawn darkness.  The one thing-or rather I should say two things-that stood out like floodlights in the dark were those two big red boots at the ends of my legs.  For the next several hours, as dawn proceeded to  conquer darkness, I contemplated what  the  actual color of those boots were. Were they really red, or could they be mahogany, or possibly cinnamon?  Regardless, I can attest that they were without doubt the brightest objects within sight.

So went opening morning, November 23, 1963.  Analyzing the color of my new boots and wondering why anyone would want to kill our president.  In fact, the remainder of the day and, for that matter the entire weekend, was spent primarily meditating on those two issues, one devastating and  one simply for "musing".

But, although the opening day evening was consumed almost entirely by assassination rhetoric and conjecture among the hunting party, events of the following morning did create an unusual enigma over what was a normal Wisconsin deer hunt.

Next, 4 AM tomorrow...