Eastern Missouri Morels

They're here!

I scored 63 small, mostly black morels yesterday in the Ozark highlands along the margins of dolomite glades. And this is just the beginning of the season.

Git out there and git you some!

Paw Paw Time Again!

Yes, it's paw paw season.  This nice little cool snap has helped. Grab your gunny sack and head on down to the river bottoms. Akers Ferry is probably loaded with paw paws. Mmmmm....

Breech of Confidence

My ancient and traditional anthropological studies have led me to, among other things minimalist, the use of the breechclout, or "loincloth". It's an article of clothing used by ancient and indigenous people throughout the world. Even Otzi the Iceman wore it.  In respect to the Native American cultures of which I can claim a scant 1/16 genetic heritage, I try to limit its use to Paleo LARP, or just plain hanging out in the woods. To decorate it as Native American or otherwise emulate this culture would be disrespectful.

When I mention or describe the breechclout I get mostly negative reactions, and largely from women. I've found this to be somewhat perplexing. The kilt in contrast seems to attract women like a magnet, and many of them can't resist to ask what's beneath, or outright "cop a feel." But most women have preemptively told me to refrain from wearing the breechclout.

Recently I put the breechclout on whilst lounging around the house on a particularly sweltering evening. My significant other immediately went into ridiculing mode. "It's silly!"  "Vulgar - you can see your thighs and part of your butt-cheeks!" "You might as well be naked!" And so on.  I chose to smile and let it pass. Then a strange thing happened: First, she fiddled with the belt-string, then the back flap. Soon she was asking how it felt. And finally, she copped that proverbial feel. Before much longer we were discussing a photo-shoot with breechclout, toussled hair and primitive tools.

I believe the breechclout is a lost fashion whose time has come again. Perhaps "butt-cheeks" will become as popular as Scotsmen "going commando." What's under the front flap? Ask if you dare!

Old War Horse

I am an old war horse

I was born for battle

stolen from a tribe who knew me as cincala

when I was young

I learned to feel my rider’s thoughts

Flanking the enemy, sensing the drawstring

Holding my breath with all four hoofs in the air

as the drawstring was released

I learned to stiffen my ears

Listening with my rider’s ears

Both watching the horizon

For the signal to attack

I learned to celebrate the victory

Sharing the security of my people

Reflecting on my purpose

And knowing it was fulfilled

On the day I was stolen

My rider and his kin were gone

Scattered on the ground

Their time had passed

I was a war horse in my prime

I was born for battle

Fighting for a tribe who did not know me

when I was young

I did not need to learn

As each new rider could attest

Holding my breath with all four hoofs in the air

As the thunder was released

Soon the time had come for younger horses

And for younger riders with new battles

I reflected on my purpose

And believed it was fulfilled

Old habits die hard

From the safety of my stall

I see the enemy on the horizon

Amassing for the battle to come

The young riders and young horses

Wait for the signal to attack

While the old generals putter and dawdle over their tea

Thinking their time has also passed

But old habits die hard

I kick down my stall

I will join the enemy on the horizon

And celebrate the battle to come

copyright 2014 Cecil X. Nixxon - all rights reserved

The Frost has Come

Last night I went down to the prairies by the Meramec River, just before sundown. The temperature was 50f as the sun was setting. I noticed the deer were not coming down from the ridges to browse as they usually do. The stillness was deafening. By twilight, the temperature dropped like a rock to the upper 30's and the prairies prepared for the coming frost. The rapidity of the temperature drop was amazing. Unless you live in a den underneath the prairie grasses, it would have made for a very chilly evening. The deer are no fools!

The "Fairer Sex?"

It has been a mild summer here in Missouri, and with recent rains and a spectacular find of Chicken of the Woods fungus I resolved to hunt more summer wild mushrooms. During the warm weather mushroom season one can be rewarded with shaggy mane, oysters and corals.  These white mushrooms stand out starkly against the green and brown forest backdrop. They're rare - and tasty!

Shortly after dawn I headed into the LaBarqe Creek Conservation Area. This three-mile trail loop has yielded white summer mushrooms in the past, and my expectations were high. I tuned my eyeballs to see white blazes through the sweat, gnats and endorphin haze. I hadn't walked a hundred yards before finding a small, dainty white coral mushroom sprouting from the side of a dead log. Eureka! "It's going to be a good shroom hunt" I told myself.

As I headed deeper into the area I kept seeing white blazes on the ground. But excitement and anticipation soon turned to disgust. Each white blaze was a clump of toilet paper thrown directly on the ground. These were not "#2" field latrines, mind you, just pee spots. Not a single turd was found. No effort was made to bury or disguise the refuse. In most cases these bathroom breaks were within 5 feet of the trail. Only occasionally did I find a spot over 20 feet from the trail. For the next hour the scenario repeated itself, dozens of times over.

Pardon me if I jump to conclusions. These are female human field latrines. Males rarely if ever use toilet paper to clean up after urination. My disgust turned to outrage quite easily when I considered that most females who might be inclined to explore a high quality area such as LaBarque should be a cut above the rest.  At least, they should be environmentally mindful enough not to litter. No, this was the handiwork of slobs.  I even saw several "patches" of pee paper where it was obvious the spot was a multiple-use "pee party." Again, jumping to sexist conclusions, I never see fellas going off to the bathroom together.

My preconceptions of nature-wise and resourceful outdoor ladies frequenting this area with reverence and respect crumbled before my prefrontal cortex. These weren't ladies at all.

Slobs piss on the trail. Slobs litter. Slobs pretend to commune with nature. Is it really that difficult to get off the trail a bit, and scoop a little leaf mast over the toilet paper or better yet put it in a baggie and cart it out?

Ghosts of Crescent Hills

For over ten thousand years people have been quarrying high quality Burlington chert from the hills around my home.  It has been transported throughout North America and was worked into Clovis tools long before the Great Sphinx was a dream. The Crescent Hills Quarry District was one of the primary sources of tools for the Mississippian Mound Civilization. Workers transported bifaces and finished tools down the Meramec River to the Mississippi/Meramec Confluence where trade with the Mound People took place.  Trade stone was transported by foot northward to the Mississippi/Missouri Confluence where it was destined for the Great Plains and the Great Lakes. The almost pure white, vitreous, easy to flake Crescent Hills Chert was legendary among the indigenous people of North America.

The quarry district is listed in the St. Louis County National Register of state historic sites as “address restricted, Crescent.” The finest and most exposed quarrying evidence is along the West Tyson County Park spur of the Chubb Trail.  Here, one can see literally hundreds of pits dug out of the steep hillsides, and piles of lithic flake and quarry artifacts piled ten feet deep. The size of the operation was massive by today’s standards. Two miles downhill of the quarries is a prairie complex along the Meramec River.

At dusk along this ridge I can almost feel the spirits of tens of thousands of humans making their way to the prairie camp for dinner and stories. There would be fish in abundance, smoked venison, acorn and nut breads and juicy blackberries to name just a few menu items. Today the knowledge of the past allows me a glimpse of how it must have been. Amazingly very little archaeological work has been undertaken in this area. As I bushwhack down the hillsides from the quarries, avoiding the Chubb Trail, I have found bifaces on the ground near seeps and springs. The area is littered with scrapers and stone tool work just waiting to be found.

I ordered a reprint of a book from the Missouri University Library that is one of the few archaeological studies of this area.  My hope is to gain further insight into the nature and location of ancient habitation in the Crescent Hills. If I’m lucky, I may receive tiny gifts of wisdom from the people who came before.

Squirrel Pipe from the Davis Site, near Crescent Hills

More about the Davis Site near Crescent Hills