Let's Run Some Ball by Bob Spencer

 This post first appeared on Nov 17, 2020

Hunkering over the fire while making them will make you sweat in hot weather, but it surely feels good in the wintertime.

I make all my own balls as a matter of routine, but that is done in my garage with my electric melting pot, block molds by Lyman or Lee, and all the other equipment I might need. Moving the job into camp is not a very big change, since the basic principles remain the same, but there are some points which I think worth emphasizing.

One of the most fun things I do in camp is make my own lead round balls. It is a simple thing, but I find it very satisfying. I suppose our forebears would have been amused to think of making lead balls as entertainment, and it certainly isn't far up on the list of old time skills which are difficult to preserve. Still, it pleasures me to see a ball I made over the campfire strike true on the target, whether it is just a mark on an old stump or is my supper. They will do that, too. I find them to be as accurate for my hunting and casual shooting as the best I ever make with the modern equipment.

The molds which I use in camp are different from those I use at home. They are of the type commonly called 'bag molds', lightweight molds made for carrying in the shooting pouch or haversack. I use two different types from two different companies. One is from Rapine Bullet Mould Mfg. Co. and is made of steel. The other is of brass, and was made by Dixie Gun Works. I've used them both a fair bit, and can tell no real difference in the end product.

I found out quickly that these light molds heat up very quickly, so I always wrap the handles with strips of heavy leather to protect my hands. Notice also that there is a side cutter for removing the sprue made into each mold.

Banging around in the bottom of my haversack with the accumulated grit and detritus which collects there isn't exactly the ideal place for a good mold. I protect them by doing one of two things, slipping them in a bag or cloth of some sort, or filling the cavity with a ball. I usually do the latter, simply leave the last ball I ran in the cavity after rubbing it with some lube, then secure the handles with a thong to keep the mold closed. So far, so good.

A pouring ladle and some lead to pour are all the remaining equipment needed. I've seen many different types, over the years, and all will work. Most are made a bit heavy for my purposes, though. I always trek alone and far from the car, so I have to carry everything I need for the trek on my back. Cutting down everywhere possible on the weight becomes important, so I rejected all types until I found exactly what I needed. From some blanket at a shoot long ago, I ended up with a small blacksmith-made ladle which has served me very well over the years. It is quite small and light, and is made to be stuck into the end of a stick in camp, for a handle. It holds only about 2 ounces of lead, but that will pour three balls for my .40 caliber rifle or about nine for the .30 caliber. Lead melts very quickly over a hot fire, so it's no problem to pour several ladles, if you choose.

When I first started carrying what I needed to run ball in camp, I made two mistakes. I took too much lead along, and the pieces I took were too big. It took no time to see that I didn't need much lead, but I was a bit slow in figuring out the problem with the bigger pieces. Not really big, of course, just too big to fit into my little ladle. My first solution was to make up some small ingots of lead, bars really, by pouring melted lead into a trench gouged out of a piece of scrap wood. 

That worked very well, and I used those for a while. Still, getting them cut down to appropriate size was a nuisance, even with my belt axe and knife, so I ended up doing something slightly different. I poured ladles full of lead and let it cool into disks, carried those along. They fit right into the ladle, of course, and melted quickly, being so small. They weigh only 2 ounces, so 3-4 of them, all I need for a trip, are not enough weight to worry about. When I decide to pour some balls, I first attend to the fire. Any fire will do, but the job is so much easier if you work with a good hot bed of coals instead of a live fire. You need to get close in order to control the molten lead safely, which is easier with coals, and also, hot coals will melt the lead in short order.

I dig out my gear and lay the mold close to the fire to pre-heat. That's important here just as it is at home in the garage, it will produce acceptable balls quicker. I also smoke the cavity of the mold. By that I mean I hold it over a spot where goodly smoke is rising until the cavity is covered with soot. That helps the balls to release easily once you get going. I'll even light a stub of candle, sometimes, and smoke it over that flame, because the black soot from burning wax or tallow seems particularly good for this purpose.

When the coals are ready and the mold is hot, the rest is as simple as A-B-C. Stick the ladle on a stick, drop a disk of lead in and hold it over the coals until it melts. Pour the mold full, making certain to pour a little excess. I usually pile up some green grass or leaves as a soft spot for the fresh balls, and I drop them onto this as they are poured. My bag molds usually open and release the balls easily, but a tap with a stick will cure them if they don't.

Just as when casting balls in the garage, temperature of the mold is important. If the mold is not hot enough, I wind up with wrinkled balls. It it is too hot, the balls are frosted. 

When I have it right, the balls come out smooth and bright. I find that the temperature of bag molds fluctuates more than with block molds, simply because of the lesser mass. They heat up quickly, but also cool down quickly. Having to stop and melt lead every 3-6 balls means the mold will cool off, so it is a bit more trouble to maintain just the right temperature. Not a big problem, just a nuisance. Stick it near the fire while melting lead.

Once all the balls are poured, I clip off the sprues with the sprue cutter on the mold and then trim off any unwanted excess or roughness with my belt knife. Save all the lead for another day.

It's a simple job, but a pleasant one. A great way to while away a little time in camp, conjure up visions of yesteryear. As a bonus, I find that shooting balls cast over a campfire adds zest to my hunting, flavors the meat in a way hard to describe. Romantic, sentimental nonsense! True, true, but I'm stuck with it.

Copyright © 2003 B. E. Spencer. All rights reserved.

To see the original posting, click here.

Code: shot01 bs01

A Simple Trek by Bob Spencer

This post first appeared on Nov 17, 2020

In 2000, Bob Spencer wrote a series of posts on black powder shooting, trekking, and the the 1750's wilderness lifestyle. When I found his site, I made hard-copies of his most relevant posts, and when I re-discovered them in a binder, thought my fellow SVML members would enjoy reading. After some searching, I found the original site, and will include links to each post at the end of the text. It has been modified slightly for easier reading. Enjoy!

As I grow older I become increasingly aware of a problem common to older people, that of feeling out of place in the modern world. It's as though the world is changing more rapidly than I can accommodate, as indeed it is. Stress generated by the increasing rate of change is a cause for concern among younger people, too, of course, but they are in general more mentally and psychologically flexible, better able to 'go with the flow' than we older types. Their turn will come.

I've always had frequent need to disconnect from the hustle and bustle of modern life, and I've always turned to the natural world as my refuge. Whenever things begin to pile up, I feel the urge to head for the woods, the open spaces. I've done many things in the past decades which accomplish what I need in that respect, hunting and fishing, mostly, but also backpacking, hiking, outdoor photography, flying old wood and cloth planes, sailing, wood fire cooking, archery, bird watching, the study of the natural history of wildlife.... well, the list is long, and they were and are fun activities. It has occurred to me, recently, though, that there is one thing which I do that is by far the best I've found at allowing me to disconnect, and that is trekking.

I got seriously involved with the sport of black powder shooting and hunting almost thirty-five years ago. Thirty years ago I gave up hunting with modern guns completely, and for the next almost twenty years the sport of black powder shooting *was* the sport of black powder hunting. Those were grand years, and I have a head full of memories from those times. But, with little fanfare and completely unbeknownst to me, about a dozen years ago I was infected with a pernicious bug, that of "living history", "re-enacting", "experimental archeology", whatever you choose to call it. I don't think I'll ever recover. I should be so lucky.

I made all my own clothes and gear as far as was possible for me, developed an insatiable appetite for information about the life style of my ancestors, 1770 era, and began to do some simple hiking and camping trips, in colonial clothes and using only the gear available to them in their time. Right from the first I knew this was something special for me, that I could really get into it. Because the guns and hunting were always a part of it, my black powder hunting quickly merged with my re-enacting, and what I call trekking emerged.

What is trekking? Depends upon whom you ask, of course, as does most everything. Many people wouldn't even call what I do trekking. For me, my definition is the only one which is important, and it's pretty simple. Time spent in the woods in colonial garb, using colonial gear and colonial skills appropriate to the time period. That's all. Travel through the woods may be part of it, but it may not. Hunting, likewise, may or may not be on the agenda. A simple day trip, an overnight, a squirrel hunt in colonial garb, a day spent practicing the skills, the list is endless. All are trekking, for me, and all accomplish what I need, disconnection.

Whatever activity I decide on, there is one hard and fast rule, no cheating. A vital aspect of my trekking is that of experiencing life as my ancestors did, and I can't do that if I take any shortcuts. I don't. If I can't start my fire with flint and steel or in some other primitive way, I go without it. No heat, no hot food and drink, no light, because I don't bring along any modern way of starting it. The same holds true of all aspects of the sport, whether it involves the food, shelter, clothing, guns and their gear, rainy weather, etc. I can't do this perfectly, because I'm a modern man in my head, but I eliminate all obvious anachronisms.

Most of my trekking has been and is done on my farm. It's in rolling country with scattered woods lots, some ponds and streams, and just over two hundred acres of land to roam over. It only produces hay, so there isn't much "farming" to bother me. It's large enough so that I can easily get out of the sight of all civilization, and a few mental illusions do the rest. A couple of recent trips illustrate what my treks consist of.

After the recent holidays, which were very pleasant, what with all the children and grandchildren visiting for several days, I felt the urge. I decided to spend the day out, maybe do some rabbit hunting, do some cooking, whatever struck me. The night before, I got all the clothes out and checked them, put together the supplies and gear I would need for both roundball and shot shooting, for fixing a bite to eat and something to drink. I didn't sleep well that night, from simple anticipation, even though I have done this many times before. It's that good for me.

I arrived at the farm at about 0930, all decked out in period garb and ready for a day afield. It was 38F, clear, bright, but windy, up to 20K at times. Because it had been quite some time since I had been out, and some serious water had passed under my bridge in the interval, I spent the first hour just hiking around and looking at things, enjoying the feel of the cold ground under my moccasins and of being back where I belonged, watching for critters, looking for a place to build my lunch fire. I picked a spot in a cedar thicket with little undergrowth, open and covered with needles and moss, with a lot of downed wood nearby and a small, gurgling stream to listen to. I collected some squaw wood and built a fire using my burning glass, char wood and tow for tinder, and it worked exceptionally well. Lunch of hot gunpowder tea, homemade bread toasted on a stick, homemade corned venison, also toasted on a stick just to warm it, and some cheddar cheese, toasted, melted and browned just a bit... gourmet fare.

An hour after lunch was spent just watching the fire and thinking, about this, that, and the other, all important stuff. From where I sat on a cedar log, I could see where two deer taken with my smoothbore had fallen, and those memories started me thinking about life, death and other non-trivial concepts. You know, "What's it all about, Alphie?"

I then loaded my 20 gauge Jackie Brown Carolina smoothbore, my constant companion on all these outings, with shot for some rabbit hunting, doused the fire, collected all my gear and set off to find my supper. Three hours later I was still looking, but was not in the least disappointed. Few things, damned few things, please me as much as strolling around looking for rabbits in good cover while dressed in clothes I made and carrying a flintlock shotgun. After more than 10 years of this kind of abuse, my clothes, moccasins, leggings, breeches, etc., are still sturdy and sound, showing wear, but still more than serviceable. Much like myself.

I finally did bounce a rabbit which I could get off a shot at and rolled it cleanly at 30 yards, hoo boy, hoo boy, I'm a kid again! I am a simple man, and I like the simple things. I've hunted many things in many places with many guns over the last half century, but nothing will ever be better than beating a flushing bunny to the draw and rolling it with a flintlock smoothbore. I cleaned the rabbit, stuffed it in my tin kettle and hung it in a tree to cool while I went off for some roundball shooting. I found a dead tree with a conspicuous white mark and shot at it for the next hour, trying patched ball and unpatched, offhand and from a rest, 25 and 40 yards. The gun functioned flawlessly, the shooter didn't do badly, and the tree died again, several times.

Threw the tomahawk a few times, cleaned my gun using a gun worm, tow and water from the stream, then headed back toward town. It's good to practice the skills from time to time, and to remind myself how very important this little game we play has become to me.

That outing was so much fun, I decided to repeat a few days later. I had been hoping for some colder weather, because I wanted to test out some winter gear I had made but which had seen very little use. The next day's high was predicted to be 25F and with little wind, which seemed tailor made. My old bones don't tolerate a cold wind like they used to.

I added some longjohns to my outfit, but the only other significant change was that I wore a pair of moose hide shoe pacs I had made a couple of years ago. They have two soles of thick leather, they are worn with wool liners which have three soles, and they are large enough for a couple of pairs of wool socks inside, so they should be better than my summer elk hide moccasins which are single layer and have room for only one pair of wool socks. I tried putting the lower ends of my buckskin leggings inside the liners, then tying the tops of both the liners and the pacs over them, and that worked very well. I then tied on wool leg wraps up to the knees, and my legs and feet were ready for some cold.

I arrived early, while the temperature was still below 20F, and saw right away that my gear would be just fine. Once again I hiked for an hour, just soaking in all the sights, sounds and sensations, becoming part of the scene. I decided to go to the back of the farm, this time, where the boundary stream and woods make it seem less like a farm, more like the colonial woods. The ground was frozen hard all day, and was crunching and popping with every step. The shoe pacs were great, my feet never felt even cool.

On a little plateau in the woods there is a grove of cedars which create an open area in the woods, and it has always been one of my favorite spots to camp. I chose it again, today. I've slept many a night in that grove, but my old bones don't fit the ground very well, these days, especially the cold ground. I was not unhappy this was a day trip.

Collecting some small wood, I set about building a fire. I had no plans to cook on this trip, but I dearly love something hot to drink in such situations, and I never miss an opportunity to practice my primitive fire-building skills. Today I elected to use the lock on my smoothbore, since the sun wasn't bright enough for the burning glass. I didn't plug the touch-hole, but made certain the char cloth covered and blocked it completely as I dropped the cock. The gun didn't fire, never has. Good spark and a glowing spot on the cloth first try, and I nestled it inside a ball of shredded cedar bark and flax tow I had prepared, held it up to keep the smoke out of my eyes and blew it into flame easily. In short order my noon drink, Mexican chocolate sweetened with maple sugar, was brewing. I sat and tended it, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the inner glow of accomplishment. Warmed me twice, or three times if you count the chocolate.

I've been thinking of getting a matchcoat, so I had brought along an old blanket cut to proper size, just to give it a try, see what the advantages and problems might be, see if it would fit into my gear. I stayed so warm without it that I never broke it out. That is a perfectly good excuse for another outing, don't you agree?

A session of tomahawk throwing, a stroll along the creek just shooting at stumps and such, collecting a few black walnuts and cracking them to find two or three worth eating, trailing a large buck that had walked through the mud before it froze, sitting on a streamside rock listening to the music of rushing water... as I said before, disconnected. I sat by the fire as the western sky turned a brilliant orange and the temperature dropped along with the sun, as snug as could be in my homemade winter garb and as happy as If I had good sense. I like spending time alone. I can do it for days at a time. It recharges my mental batteries, soothes the savage breast, and done like this it is a damned fine way to spend a cold January day.

So, trekking is indeed simple, as I do it. The physical act of it, that is. When I analyse it a bit deeper, though, it seems more complex. Sitting there dreaming the fire, I was aware of all the gear I had made, skills I had learned, history I had absorbed, colonial lifestyles I had studied and "experienced". Without all that, I wouldn't be here in the woods today, trekking. I have put a lot into it, but I've received far more in return. No, it doesn't seem simple in all ways. It seems very good, though. Nothing I've ever experienced does such an excellent job of disconnecting me from the parts of the modern world I admire so very little. If I could package and sell it, I'd be a rich man. I can't, of course, because the magic only really happens inside your head, but I believe that makes me wealthier still. Out there trekking, I feel not the least bit out of place in the world, because the world is all mine.

Copyright © B. E. Spencer 2003 All rights reserved.

Click here to view to original posting.

Code: trk01 bs01