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Fort Bridger, Wyo. » The Mountain Man Rendezvous held here last weekend taught me one thing: Running away to live in the mountains has never really been a good idea, especially if you're lazy like I am.
The annual event celebrates the glory days of the American fur trade, when stalwart men (and some lunatics) ventured into the Rocky Mountains to trap beaver for the fashion industry.
Trapping was serious business. From 1820-1840, anyone who wanted to keep the weather off their head used a dead beaver. No proper man ventured into public in a hat made from anything less than 100 percent rodent.
As today, fashion was so important to America back then that the beaver
The yearly rendezvous gave fur trappers a place to unload their wares, resupply and see who was dead. There was also an open bar.
The historical rendezvous was equal parts business convention, class reunion and frat party.
Enough historical background, on to Rendezvous 2009. On Saturday, several thousand people dressed in everything from Spanish armor to jacket rabbit underpants crammed themselves into old Fort Bridger.
Because historical accuracy is so important to rendezvous enthusiasts, the event was strictly segregated. There was the primitive part where no anachronisms were tolerated, then
Admission into the primitive area was free for those in period costume, provided, of course, that the entire ensemble was made from material available prior to the 1840s -- buckskin, wool, cotton, tree bark, dirt, etc.
For people like me, admission was $3. Arguments that my moccasins were crafted after the style made popular by Chief Adidas fell on deaf ears. "Three bucks, pilgrim," the gatekeeper said.
"Pilgrim" is how mountain men referred to anybody who did not floss with deer tendon or sleep in a creek. Trappers had an entire vocabulary of their own.
Walking around Fort Bridger, you might have heard something like, "Chafe me over this foofarraw, bug tit, and I'll bark your head." Translation: "Stop bothering me about my earring or I'll hurt you."
When a trapper wished to emphasize a point, he always said Wagh!"
This was 1840's mountain-speak for "Totally!" as in, "This arrow in my liver really hurts. Wagh!"
The primitive area was lined with trader shops featuring barrels, jewelry, pottery, clothing, guns, knives, and other "plunder" (stuff).
For example, I talked to the proprietress of a booth selling mountain man "skins" (clothing). To make a historically accurate pair of trapper pants, I would need two XXL deer, 85 feet of sinew, some brains (other than my own), an awl, 200 hours, and the patience of a saint.
Rendezvous events featured things such as Dutch oven cooking, storytelling (lying), foot races, shooting, knife and tomahawk throwing, Native American dancers, archery, and singing children.
There weren't many children present during the early rendezvous.
This may explain why modern mountain men still struggle with youth appropriate rendezvous activities. At one sing-a-long, a mountain man led a hundred kids in "What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor."
The most widely recognized mountain man item was his firearm. The typical one was a flintlock or percussion Hawken rifle. It used black powder to propel a bullet slightly larger than a golf ball into whatever needed to be dead immediately.
Having built several such rifles from kits, I'm familiar with the dimensions. I know that they are taller and weigh more than many women. So, I was curious when I heard about the "Women's & Youth Shoot."
Historically, mountain men were...well, men. Women -- even before they were allowed to vote and go to school -- had better sense than to wander off alone into the mountains. But political times have changed. Today there are mountain women. And they can shoot.
There was no 911 in the Rocky Mountains during the 1800s. In the event that a trapper's rifle failed, the only remaining defensive option was to throw stuff. This is where tomahawk throwing became important.
It's harder than it looks. Proper "hawk" throwing requires practice, coordination, and a good eye for distance. Since I have none of these, it did not go well. Had the target log been a charging grizzly bear, I'd be cat food.
Scarier still was the Women's Frying Pan Throw, an event that judged contestants on accuracy, distance, and damage inflicted by a hurled cast iron skillet.
I should have brought my wife along to the rendezvous. She's an expert.
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com
