The Mountain Man Rendezvous at Whispering Pines was down somewhat in overall attendance; nevertheless, the doin’s this year were as grand as usual; I know because I was there.

The Whispering Pines Cap & Flint Club, of Cherry Flats, once again orchestrated one of the best rendezvous in the East. Swallowing the last of some chalk-dry crackers, I made my way across the sun-baked meadow toward “skid row,” where a line of white canvas lodges backed into the woods’ edge.

I was in dire need of moisture for my cracker-scratched throat; a hundred dollars wouldn’t have been too much to pay for a cold refreshment; my thirst was that wicked. Pausing at the lodge of Mel “Long Knife” Stafford, I was greeted by his charming wife, “Many Hands,” who offered me a frothy mug of “flip,” that liquid that drowns all care. She informed me the stuff had yet to be iced and was somewhat warm; I declined her gracious offer, as this thirst was one in which could only be slaked with a quantity of some ice-cold beverage; I couldn’t spend this dryness on anything room temperature or tepid.

Within fifty feet of the woods, I thought I had died and awakened in heaven. There, standing before me, was Sailor Ed, my seafaring friend and legendary privateer. He held out a frost-sweated vessel full of that nectar of the gods; I partook of his offering and felt the fire go out in my throat.

I unshouldered my bedroll and haversack and leaned my firelock against a tree; I jaw-flapped some with Ed and fired down another dose of his ice-cold, thirst-killing draft.
Four-tenths of The Pine Creek Party was on hand, and we set up our canvas, clustered together near the woods. The party members need recognition, for they are all legendary woodsmen: Red Moon is, of course, yours truly and captain of this elite group; “Iron Hands” Jim Page; the aforementioned “Long Knife” Stafford; and the newly signed-on, Kevin “Two Coats” Cronk. The simple camaraderie and friendship of like-minded individuals are just some of the attractive benefits of rendezvous. Since the original mountain men came from most of the then-existing states or colonies, we who live in those states today often identify with those early adventurers. To feel the historical connection is the deep-rooted motivation to most of what we practice, including participating in this gala event.

Guns and shooting, knife and tomahawk throwing, tipi camping, trading, and camp cooking are common experiences at almost all rendezvous. And as a cloudy sunset gives way to the glow of night fires inside the tipis and tents, an evening around a warm campfire brings friends, good conversation, and typical rendezvous music. Under the fly of Iron Hands’ tent, a crowd gathered to hear the strings of guitars and banjos, a cooking pot drum, a pair of spoons, and voices belting out lyrics of another time and place. It’s a happy time, made even more jolly with the custom of “wassailing,” the passing around of a jug for all to sample. At times, only The Almighty knows the jug’s contents.

During the festive gathering around the campfire, I once again thought I had died but not yet awakened. A tap on the shoulder turned my head to see a man, red-bearded and wearing a brown robe that touched the ground.

“You must be Roy Kain.” His voice was clear and strong. “I was told to seek you out.

You wanted to see me?”

I responded with, “Hallelujah brother! Dig deep!”

I surmised he was simply one of us playing the part of a Jesuit; I had crossed paths with “Black Robe” impersonators while attending various reenactments. Nevertheless, the brown robe he wore had me confused. A lump formed in my throat when he introduced himself as “Brother Paschal,” from a New Mexico monastery; he was a real, genuine monk. I was really, genuinely impressed. Here on monastery business, he’d come to Whispering Pines with a family camped among us; it was his wish to experience a real, live rendezvous. And he did.

We stood and talked together for some time; his manner was jovial and his answers to my many questions were straightforward and understandable. He told me of his life at the monastery, of work and prayer, and his order of silence: six days without speaking followed by one day of conversation. I told the monk I couldn’t be quiet for six minutes, let alone six days.

“Each man to his own calling,” was his frequent reply, especially when I would ask,

“Why?”

He’s a happy man and content with the life he lives, unlike so many in the world today.

This dedicated representative of the Roman Catholic brotherhood amazed me with his sense of humor and apparent fascination with the mountain-man lifestyle. When he asked me, jokingly, “Why?” I answered with, “Each man to his own calling!”

About this time, Iron Hands took a break from his music-making to join those outside. It appeared he also thought the monk an imposter putting on a show for the campers; he fell to the ground close to Brother Paschal, clutched the brown robe and kissed it, right after shouting, “Your Eminence!”

The monk put his hand on the head of this fool and, laughing more than a little, said,

“Rise, brother.”

I pulled old Iron Hands to the side quickly and relayed the news that we were entertaining an actual, authentic monk; he turned pale and wooden. The monk laughed, as did the assembly of mountain men.

Upon parting, the Brown Robe and I realized the odds of us meeting again were slim. He heartily shook my hand and told me, “I don’t believe I will forget you, Mountain Man.”

And I’m certain I will never forget Brother Paschal, the Brown Robe.

Days are getting shorter; those long yellow wagons are back to hauling young scholars to and from school; things are looking up. See you all here next month.

You can contact Roy at mountainman@mountainhomemag.com. Someone will walk up into the hills and make sure he gets the message.