More field notes from a stranger in a strange land.
Long story short. We are somewhere in rural Wisconsin. It’s been raining all morning. And we have cabin fever.
So we decided to make a pilgrimage to the nearby Mississippi River. And by chance we ended up in Prairie Du Chien.
Which, roughly translated, means, I think, dog of the prairie.
But I digress.
The point is that, by pure chance, we ran smack dab into the annual Prairie Du Chien Rendezvous. Which is a reenactment of those long ago times when French fur traders would periodically gather together in one place to fraternize and trade.
The first thing they needed to do was resupply.
With traps, wooden knives and guns, hollowed out cow horns, Davy Crocket-style coonskin hats.
And other necessities.
They sold their furs.
Then they would grab a bite to eat. Pretty much whatever primitive fare was available out there on the edge of nowhere.
And they couldn’t afford to be too picky.
Maybe they picked up a bamboo pole here, a calico dress there.
A gewgaw here. A trinket there.
These are grizzled veterans of the frontier. Men who keep their guns, or stones, close to hand.
And if they were lucky, an itinerant troubadour would sing epic songs about their glorious adventures.
All of which inspired me to go out voyaging on my own in search of adventure.
I loaded up on essential provisions. And set out to hunt the elusive fur critter.
See you at next year’s rendezvous mon ami.
FreeGNV 