This article first appeared in Muzzle Blasts Magazine in 2020. NMLRA Members get access to digital scans of all the Muzzle Blasts Magazines since 1938. Join Today

By John Curry

Seems as though every single thing on God’s green earth possesses a subtle, inescapable, somewhat droll sense of humor.  Even the basic, rudimentary forces of nature herself have a way of laughing/poking fun at you when you least imagine or expect it...  And if a lad (or in this case, several lads) be smart, they’ll learn to laugh right along with Ma Nature and/or everybody else.

Last winter, in the midst of a wonderful Christmas get-together held at Linton, Indiana by the renowned, NMLRA sanctioned, Buck Creek Muzzleloaders, I was waggishly reminded by an old friend – (Squire Jerry Gilreath), of an ill-fated, historically oriented endeavor we’d made with a number of like-minded friends thirty plus years ago.  A relatively ambitious, late October foray into the rugged, Deem Wilderness Area of the Hoosier National Forest. Truth be told, a rather embarrassing mini-fiasco which

(due to the insufferable assault on our pride) never quite made it into the pages of Muzzle Blasts - until now.  Not that we’d done something bad or harmful or anything like that mind you.  Looking back, it just seemed as though our collective luck during that particular venture, more or less flew out the window and the proverbial, “historic-re-enacting stars” were somehow firmly aligned against us.

Return with me now, to those thrilling days of yesteryear…  and a happy-go-lucky pack of rowdy, southern Indiana rednecks who had just recently discovered the wonderful world of the ultra-primitive, period-correct, eighteenth-century scout.  (Ahhh yes): Favorably seated around our large, warm, brightly burning council fire at a big, fall, George Rogers Clark Memorial, “show-and-tell” in the ancient hamlet of Vincennes with a million, curious tourists all around us; our lively, diverse conversation ultimately fell upon that intriguing, new concept of actually taking one’s weaponry, clothing, equipment, accouterments and such out into the wild, untamed forest.  Away from the more, semi-controlled, socially-oriented practices like rendezvous, monthly shoots, structured living history events, etc. and back into the un-forgiving deep woods from whence their need was actually developed.  You could tell these lads were seriously interested as the dialogue slowly but surely meandered from

“how peculiarly appealing” to “less jess do it”.

Now, this was like music to my ears as I had been dabbling in that manner of thing since my high school days.  Mostly alone and mostly to the laughter and disdain of the more established, more traditional, muzzleloading community.  Preforming the lion’s share of this bewilderingly neglect-ed, functionally applied form of research in regard to the unsettled, Pre-Rev. War period frontier totally by myself with no appreciable interest from my peers was beginning to give me a morose, melancholy, “last of the Mohicans” complex…  Seeming to me as though nobody knew, no-body wanted to know, and (to the best of my understanding), nobody even cared.

You can imagine my elation when I learned the rest of my pals there in attendance at the GRC Memorial were rather of the same mind; desiring a genuine, in-depth look at the mysterious, alluring, colonial far-west. Stalwart, thoroughly seasoned backwoodsmen such as the previously mentioned Jerry Gilreath along with Bobby Hill and Steve Fields - just to mention a few. Most certainly no new-com-ers to that region’s illustrious, heavily timbered hinterlands themselves. On the contrary, every last one of these lads possessed as much or more, raw, practical, woodland experience as I did! Nevertheless, this “revisiting the 18th-century wilderness” thing was at the time, something of a confusingly novel idea.  A wonderful, yet fairly untried theory none of us were all that familiar with:  “Well then, where shall we go?”  What should we take along on this scout?” “Can we hunt?” “How should we conduct ourselves?” “Will this be correct?” “Would that be correct?” A thousand questions flew from our excited, fired up the group as the once-vague, half-baked notion of a dozen or so, highly motivated and enthusiastic, modern-day frontiersmen forming themselves into a single company; conducting such an endeavor together, grew into an actual, honest-to-goodness plan.

Having by the late 1980s, managed to garner a wee, slight discernment of southern Indiana’s massive, sprawling, Hoosier National Forest, I suggested this might be a good, general starting point; with its lonely, breathtaking, Deem Wilderness Area being particularly suitable to our interests.  I knew how to get there. It wasn’t that far away. It was as similar to a legitimate, immeasurable, eighteenth-century setting as I was aware of.  More importantly, I was (to a trifling extent), comfortable with several, utterly primitive, incredibly beautiful places where a party such as ours could encamp. Plus, I’d hunted and scouted for deer there – twice!  Which gave me a further, rough, if not inexact appreciation for the lay of the land. Almost immediately, everyone on hand heartily approved my tentative proposal and the Deem Wilderness locale became our target objective.

Full-blown autumn rolling in soon thereafter put just enough cool, crisp weather in the mix to heighten and fire up our imaginations to an even greater extent than they already were.  The more we contemplated our grand adventure, the more eager and motivated we all grew…  Early on a Saturday morning and acquainted with no better rallying spot, we settled for a well-known, nondescript, Hardees restaurant located on the southeast side of Bloomington, Indiana.  (Tremendous breakfasts ya know… at a good price.)  Just like clockwork, everyone came rolling in fully dressed and accurately equipped as rough-cut, F & I era, far-western bordermen and I might add, causing quite a stir in addition to no few questions among the various, sleepy-eyed, early morning customers.  Over myriad cups of hot coffee, breakfast sandwiches, pancakes, and loads of warm, spicy cinnamon buns, I carefully explained our route of travel to access the Deem Wilderness.  Most especially how they should not be too overly concerned when we initially found our dilapidated, scrawny little, forest service road, as we would be forced to follow that sucker (such as it was) through the HNF for another thirteen miles before reaching our actual, embarkation point.  Thus – with bellies filled, instructions reasonably understood and saying our “fair-ye-wells” to the many congenial, Hardees patrons – out the door we strode.

Sometime later on that morning; arriving at a tolerable, however decidedly neglected, Forest Service parking area, complete with a nostalgic, antiquated, eighty-year-old, fire tower; we forsook our vehicles and made ready for the difficult, albeit exhilarating task at hand. The weather was ideal and everyone was in high spirits. Donning our accouterments and trail gear, talk centered around what we were doing, where we were going, and what we might see.  Keep in mind, this was 1989. Well before we had any notion of appropriate scenarios; valid, historic personas or the like. So, none of that. We hadn’t yet seen the need for recognizing where we were, who we were, or why we were doing whatever in the heck it was we were doing.  That would all be acquired and refined in the years to come.  We were at this early date, merely a bunch of good ‘ole boys, tromp-ing through the woods… Cheerfully supposing we’d just been dropped out of the sky somehow - waaay back in the “olden days”. And that was good enough for us.

Conducting my brigade (as we used to call them back then), down off the tower’s big, precipitous ridge; into an ethereal, maturely forested, vertical walled valley and straight off toward the north, I picked up a barely discernable, doe path which I had in fact followed once or twice before. To the best of my recollection, this pint-sized, anemic trace would in the span of four or so miles, ultimately lead us to a wonderful selection of virginal looking shorelines and beaches picturesquely dotted along the immediate southern rim of Lake Monroe. Per my hopeful estimation, such inviting, inherently open, and level areas with their expansive vistas should make for a truly exceptional campsite. Laboriously twisting and winding our way through the steep, rock-lined bluffs, hills, and deep hollars so common to this region; our surrounding, pristine environs appeared completely untouched by the hand

of man and for all intents and purposes, a sort of idyllic, “heaven on earth”... No fire trails, no logging, no trash, no garbage… not even a spent shotgun shell. Each little valley and convoluted glade possessing its own, unsullied, boulder-strewn creek or stream.

Two/three hours later – following a pleasant, somewhat exploratory ramble; we at length arrived upon the nearshore of that huge, treasure of a lake; sparkling in the midday sun like a 10,000-acre diamond. All the lads were mightily impressed with the sheer grandeur of the region… not to mention what they perceived as my remarkable ability to get us there. Walking amid those primeval, sandy banks, many vigorous back-poundings, and congratulations for a job well done were tossed in my direction. Hah! Truth be told, having all those brisk, hard-running, diminutive waterways pointing us along the same basic route; it didn’t really take much of a pathfinder to figure which way a lad needed to go to stumble onto that behemoth of a natural landmark. My friends I’m afraid were giving me a bit more credit for knowing what I was doing than I really deserved.

Coming upon a secluded, particularly handsome cove; a large flock of Canadian Geese abruptly burst out of the water, honking, raucously flapping, and taking flight well-nigh under our noses. Whoooa Nellie!  Neither faction being aware of the other until the last second; that momentary, unintended encounter proved significantly, shall we say “interesting” for both sides. Shoving our hearts back down our throats and thinking the whole event rath-er astounding, we promptly christened the place - Goose Bay, and determined to encamp there. Almost without mentioning it, our company set to work. Separating into small groups, some gathered firewood. Some ferreted out a number of useable springs and rivulets a short distance above the lake; acquiring satisfactorily potable/boilable water for our various needs. As our “brigade” if you will, was a moderately large one, others constructed three, husky, serviceable campfires strategically located maybe fifteen/twenty yards apart. Fortunately, the first fall frosts had successfully dealt with any potential, mosquito problems. Later on in the day; shadows falling, chores all finished… cranes, loons, with a host of other indigenous birds dreamily calling to one another across the open water and our lakeside camp was transformed by degrees, into a thing of beauty.

A heavy hour or so of full sunlight left, in addition to this sylvan, drop-dead gorgeous lake totally at our disposal; we decided to break up into a couple of goodly sized scouting parties. Let those who wanted to stay, remain in camp and the rest of us take ourselves a serious look-around before nightfall. Situated roughly twenty miles east of the 446 causeway and Lake Monroe’s more central areas of usage; the 300,000 acres, Hoosier National Forest and its immense Deem Wilderness were a strangely uninhabited, serenely beckoning, ghostly quiet with the lake itself (other than our own company), utterly devoid of humanity. Accordingly, with fickle wanderlust and curiosity so ingrained among those of our breed and the enticing invitation so subtly extended - we were essentially driven to comply.

My own little crew determined to tenaciously follow those high bluffs and lofty hillsides gliding off to our east along the immediate south side of the lake; thereby sending us further into the guts of the enigmatic, Deem Wilderness. This entire, far-flung section of Lake Monroe, pinioned maybe twenty-two/twenty-four miles upstream from the dam, becomes much narrower, a great deal faster flowing and noticeably shallower than the central or main portions of the lake many miles back to our west. At this point, earnestly resembling a large river such as the Ohio, the Kanawha, the Wabash, or maybe the lower Allegheny.  Due to these unavoidable restrictions, plus its remote location linked with several other inhibiting factors; it was (practically speaking) a rare occasion to see any boats or pleasure craft whatsoever through this far-removed territory… We saw none. 

Working our way in a great, pathless, flattened, elliptical fashion – hang-ing close beside the lake; enshrouded by an unimaginably colossal, virginal looking forest… we in due time arrived once again amidst the friendly confines of our charming, beachfront encampment. The conversation around the different cook fires that evening bristled with noteworthy, thought-provoking information and valuable intelligence regarding the lay of the land in all directions and particularly the soaring, rugged, topography which my own stouthearted party encountered off toward our east. That following afternoon, with a hardy mid-day meal over and done… fires extinguished, all weapons, personal gear, and accouterments cleaned, serviced, and ready for the long trail; we rather casually assembled in the middle of our lakeside station camp. Prepared to the best of our knowledge, for the lengthy, arduous hop back to that primitive parking area, our awaiting vehicles, the thirteen-mile long forest service road leading us back to US 446 - and ultimately, civilization.

Now…to the crux of the matter: All of us (at this early date), rather naive and inexperienced when it came to the business of caution and wise usage of previous familiarity with regard to an enormous, fairly confusing section of the forest; we as a company, just kind of “lit out” willy-nil-ly… in a long, ragged, sloppy, semi-attentive string.  Even though I was the bloke who had led us in with no one else has ever been here before, many had struck the homeward trail well ahead of me. On looking back at it, our coming in did seem so incredibly easy. What need did they have for a pilot to steer them out once again?  Even I presumed my services at this point we’re no longer required and complacently fell in line somewhere toward the middle of our column. My main area of interest had now shifted to contentedly chatting with an assortment of near-by, trail mates about this grand, Hoosier National Forest, the majestic Deem Wilderness plus all our various, exciting, middle 18th-century incidents and occurrences so recently transpired therein. The whole experience was exhilarating, we were to a man, all elated - and life was good.

The only problem being whoever was leading us out, much to our chagrin, elected to follow the more obvious, western fork of that scenic, woodland passage as it came up to the northern terminus of its first, imposingly gigantic, north/south ridge. This, rather than the correct; infinitely more elusive and harder to detect, eastern fork...(Uh ooh.)  Quite understandable how-somever, for anyone not used to the area. The lay of the land in that southwestern direction was an inviting, spacious, level bottomed hollar with a fine, seriously used deer-trail passing right through the middle of it. Appearing to the uninitiated as precisely the route we needed to take. Regrettably, this nice, well-used fork was precisely the wrong, and I do mean the wrong route to take! Steering us almost imperceptibly off; straight into the bowels of the vast, Deem Wilderness. Embarrassingly enough, when my section of the line came up to this same, inappropriate fork, I was so engrossed with the intriguing conversations springing from all quarters, seeing the sights and thoroughly enjoying such a good time, I merely dogged along behind those directly in front of me and in my somewhat distracted state, never noticed the slip-up…  And away we go!

Realizing at length something wasn’t quite right while blithely assuming it might just be another second or two before we came upon any familiar landmarks; we continued onward for some time in this erroneous, west by southwesterly course. On and on through exquisite, beautifully timbered, heretofore unexplored, virginal hollars - up handsome, swiftly flowing, rock-strewn, never before seen streams and rivulets. Abruptly grasping our dilemma, I raced forward to the head of our party and called a short council meeting to see if someone perchance, might have any sort of an idea as to where in the heck we were!  Every-body sporting blank, mystified expressions declared the sad, sad tale. We were lost… all twelve/fifteen of us. And up to this juncture, no one (including myself) was any the wiser.

As we stood there en masse, awkwardly pondering our situation… having hitherto, abandoned any semblance of a trail; trying to figure how on earth we’d managed to go so astray - the little lightbulb came on and I slowly began to recall our taking that calamitous, right-hand fork in the path all those miles back. Immediately bringing this error to the company’s attention, my suggestion was that we take a couple/three extra hours… retracing our moccasin tracks through this splendid but unknown sector. Back to that ill-chosen divide; jump on the correct, left-hand, or southeastern fork. Follow it out for a few miles (with any luck, probably reaching the fire tower by sunset) - and all would be perfectly peachy keen. It was at this moment the great woodsman Bobby Hill spoke up in his quiet, easy-going manner, saying: “Think about this:  To the best of my recollection, that huge forest service road we came in on travels in a relatively straight, east/west line; from well beyond our vehicles, clear back to U.S. 446. Straight-line boys, straight-line… for as much as anything around here is straight.  Now I understand we’ve been unintentionally drifting off a bit to the west for a while.  Nevertheless, we have still and all been workin’ our way for the most part, into the south!  Which tells me we’ve got to be headed smackdab toward that big ‘ol access lane.  And that’s a good thing. ‘Cause if we were to simply continue on toward the south – maybe even take a south by east course on our compasses, I’m thinkin’ we should slam right into it.  Most likely darned close to that old parking lot where our cars and trucks are.” As always, Bobby’s common sense thinking and years of woods wise experience reigned supreme with all of us there in attendance favorably acceding to his sage advice.

Resolutely striking off; bearing per our compasses, a south/southeasterly direction through the pathless forest, we (in the space of perhaps forty-five minutes), indeed banged head-on into that highly sought after, thirteen miles long, dirt-clad, deeply rutted, forest service road – maybe 200 yards west of the weather-beaten, ramshackle, fire tower. Bingo! And a prettier, more welcome sight we’d never seen.  Walking that short, final distance down our fondly remembered, backwoods thoroughfare we all had a good laugh on ourselves while at the same time learning an important lesson regarding the need to remain vigilant… Even while touring extraordinarily beautiful places, and having an extraordinarily good time of it! But we were all quite new to the game then and learning a great many novels, heretofore unimagined and yet valuable lessons irrevocably connected to existing within the wilderness.

Several months later – while attending a top-notch living history event in Vincennes, Indiana known to all as “The Vincennes Rendezvous”, Ronetta and I had just finished setting up our camp.  In the process of making our rounds and visiting with all our marvelous, long-time chums, I was approached by the distinguished eighteenth-century reenactor, Squire Larry McCoy.  Hands clasped together; looking down at the ground – feigning embarrassment with a huge, ear-to-ear smile on his face, Larry innocently quipped:  “Well John, we were all glad to see the Lost Brigade managed to find their way back to civilization last fall.  Nobody died out there in the woods, did they?  Maybe next time you might want to try tossin’ out bread crumbs.” Instantly giving Larry my “sideways look” with head cocked at a forty-five-degree angle and my eyes menacingly squinted…  the both of us couldn’t help but break down into a hardy, uncontrollable, belly laugh. 

From that moment on… with one and all being such a great, tightly knit group of friends over at the Vincennes doin’s, (and everybody knowing everybody else’s business); I found absolutely no escape from the continual onslaught of good-natured teasings and gregariously humorous jibes.  It seemed as though all 30,000 souls there at the Rendez-Vous:  reenactors, tourists, sutlers, the dagone, GRC park rangers for Pete’s sake, boy scouts, Kiwanis Club, volunteer church groups – EVERYONE… had their own, “Lost Bri-gade” joke.  Later on and throughout that year:  monthly shoots at different clubs, other sizeable rendezvous and living history events, etc…  The playful, tongue-in-cheek joshing never stopped and our poor, “temporarily be-fuddled”, Lost Brigade was to go down in the dubiously hallowed archives of comedic, reenacter history.  Truth be told; at Buck Creek’s annual, end-of-the-year Christmas banquet/organizational meeting held in early December of 2019 - thirty years later; the worn-out, threadbare, “Lost Brigade” puns, wisecracks and witticisms flew around that room like old, John Wayne clichés.  As for myself, I am personally considering a name change - plus a series of covert moves to another state.  (Sigh…)