There's an old joke about a man who, after camping out in front of a newly built gas station, was first through the door on opening day and then sprinted to the bathroom. Asked why, he replied, "Because I wanted to go where no man had ever gone before."

Each of us has a need to be singular; not a we and an us, but an I and a me. In an era that prizes teamwork and collaboration, the Great Outdoors, among its other attractions, gives us opportunity to go it alone, relying on our own resources, and able to say, I have sensed the world uniquely; I am, therefore, no common man.


It is impossible to return from any outing without a treasure of experiences that can never be duplicated; perceptions that belong to no-one else, nor ever can. Examples are infinite, from magnificent to mundane, but each is a prize given only to one.

When I stopped to take the photo of the trail tree shown here, Sherry decided to take her shotgun and walk the aspens between road and marsh -- perhaps she'd find a grouse -- I could meet her down the road. Before long I heard a shot. Another shortly after.

Partridge tremble when they hear her name.

Finished, I drove slowly down to meet her; spotted her carefully working her way through the trees, too intent to notice the car. I tooted, she turned toward me and triumphantly held up two grouse.

She told me all about it: the birds bursting out ahead of her, one from the ground, the next from a tree. And the shooting. That's all she could share. The kaleidoscopic sensory bombardment of it all is inexpressible and hers alone.

She may still forget a grandchild's birthday, lock her keys in her car, miss an easy putt, or check when she should raise. But it matters not. She is no ordinary woman.

Experts say Blaze Orange is safest because it doesn't occur in nature. So much for experts.

I am taking a picture of a hat in the leaves. From high above, gently on the back of my hand falls a leaf, a woeful specimen of mottled green, yellow and orange -- unripe -- dieing before it's time. It saddens me that in one short life it never reached its glory. I feel its pain and shove it in my pocket to shield its embarrassment. There it remains in little brown crumbles mixed with lint. It moved me more than all the other leaves of autumn. I hope it knows that.

If you love the outdoors, you must envy the ancestors who knew this continant in its virginity, where every step trod new ground and every view was a glimpse of its creator.

One blaze leads to another (up, center)

But for all their venturing forward, the pathfinders, if not tonight, perhaps tomorrow, next week, in a few months, maybe years, always intended to retrace their steps to home. For that, they needed signs.

The universal marker was a blaze. (Hence, generic for all explorers: Trailblazers.) A blaze is made by slashing bark from a tree trunk, leaving a conspicuous white spot visible from a distance. A simple blaze is struck in passing by the single stroke of axe or knife.

Going into unfamiliar territory, the traveler cuts blazes facing away so they are visible on the way back. A second blaze can be added on the way out to mark the way in. I once ran across a lost hunter who said he had blazed the way into his deer stand, but when it was time to leave couldn't find any of them. He had, without thinking, blazed the trees as met them and had nothing to see when he turned around.

Century old survey blaze on this cedar is too big to heal over. Tree survives by growing around wound.

Blazes last the life of the tree and remain visible even when scarred over. Larger ones, perhaps the diameter of the tree, never heal and may kill through the heart wood. But the tree survives, bypassing the wound and forming a double trunk. Some of the 150 year old blazes from Michigan's original survey look today as if framed in living bark.

Knotty pine on the way to my deer stand will become a magestic trail tree and a perfect haunt for my ghost.

Lacking suitable knives and axes, native people developed a simple and no less permanent method of trail marking by snapping off or bending over saplings along their route. To a practiced eye, the disturbed brush made easily seen markers for the return trip.

As a child, my father learned trail marking while gathering with his Indian mother; he in turn taught it to me. Not all the saplings, he explained, would die. Some would survive to become permanent trail trees. Many of the places where he and I hunted a half a century ago had impressive trail trees along the way. A few yet survive; the one shown earlier is among my favorites.

Small axe or large knife--either make perfect trailblazers. For just that reason, Webster Marble, in 1909, named this knife the Trailmaker.

So too survive some of the trails worn deep as cow paths. They are narrow and difficult to walk, but for good reason. Native people, and those who followed them, adopted a peculiar gait: one foot ahead of the other like fashion models on a runway. Contemporary accounts describe it as "gliding" through the forest in a "pigeon toed" or "mincing" stride.

Peculiar as it looked, it is a highly effective and energy conserving way to walk. Many animals know that and string their tracks out as straight as a ruler. We, on the other hand, stumble about, feet wide spread searching for obstacles to launch us flat on our faces.

I envied the way my father moved noiselessly and easily through the landscape. It wasn't stealth -- for he was not sneaking -- but it amounted to that. Most of the game he shot had no idea he was there. I remain as graceless as a duck in a marching band. I guess the blood line ran out in me.

Combination pocket knife and axe will cut acceptable blazes and a whole lot more. It is my all time favorite design for a true outdoor knife.

In the old days, America's roads and highways followed ancestral trails. But their meanderings have been straightened and their impasses made passable until only woods roads are true to their origins. There, it is possible to walk in the footsteps of the trailblazers.


Autumn, when the leaves fall to reveal them, is the best time to find old trail trees and ancient blazes. When you find one, look for the old trail beside it. Step in and be still. You are not alone.

And when an unseen spirit taps you lightly on the shoulder, just say hello, the proper response is, "Nice to meet you." Screaming, "Oh my God in heaven!" is really tacky. Happy trails.



Post Script: After confessing in last month's column that I missed two opening day shots, I shelved the new double barrelled magnum and recalled Old Faithful, my Model 97 Winchester. Four geese, seven grouse and a turkey later I haven't missed a shot. Old ways are best ways.

© 2007 Arni Dunathan