Meet Me at the Ronnyvoo

Only a pilgrim would be caught dead in blue jeans at a mountain-man rendezvous. And depending on whom he met there, the dang flatlander might either get it between the eyes with a tommyhawk or get lucky and find some kind soul who’d lend him a spare pair of buckskins. Either way, he would learn quickly: If something’s not authentic to the mountain man’s golden age, pressed like a preserved leaf into the first forty years of the nineteenth century, the diehards will say “hit won’t wash” at a mountain man “ronnyvoo,” especially after 6 p.m. That’s when the pilgrims–newcomers to the tradition–have to leave camp, unless they’ve found some proper garb.

You pilgrims may be able to get a taste of this life at Sunday’s Mountain Man Rendezvous at the Fort.

The rules about what constitutes a respectable mountain man vary from camp to camp, but most would agree on at least one point with a fellow who calls himself Preacher. “A man’s word is his bond,” he says of the breed, a rarefied sort based on the mostly illiterate but highly self-sufficient trappers who roamed the Rockies before the masses arrived. “Just don’t ever take it seriously if he tells a story. That’s when the truth is, shall we say, ‘elongated.'”

Preacher and his ilk are essentially historical re-enactors, not unlike those folks who endlessly relive Civil War or American Revolution battles in period costume, but they’re particularly indigenous to the West and certainly intertwined with a little-documented speck of regional history unique to Colorado. They cluster in all seasons at camps resembling the original rendezvous, at which three factions–mountain men, traders and Indians–gathered to exchange wares, news, tall tales, black-powder rifle skills and the like. True to the model, today’s camps usually feature lots of good-natured competitions, as well as a traders’ row where vendors hawk period “foofurah”–from leather garments and handmade trinkets to root beer and medicinal herbs.

“It was a real peace mission,” says Doc Grizzly, who’s been going to camps for about fifteen years. “When treaties were ready to be made in that period in the 1840s, the mountain men were the interpreters. They knew the Indians and respected what they did.” In those days, though, it was also every man for himself. Trappers often paid tributes to the natives in return for the right to hunt on their land, but they were also known to carry a scalp or two on their belts in order to let the Indians know they were tough characters–“brave as a buffler bull in spring,” in their own vernacular.

Modern mountain men, unlike those they’re modeled after, are anything but unlettered. From head to toe, they’re carefully researched representations, and most know volumes about the history of the times. Nighthawk, a buyer/trader prototype and noted gunman, says, “There are always purists in the camps who say, ‘You don’t have this and you don’t have that.'” John Harrington, a professional mountain man who portrays a trader/trapper character, adds that “some count the number of stitches in the seam of your shirt.” However, the majority of mountain men still believe in having fun. “Most of us aren’t that serious,” Preacher says. “For instance, I wear underwear. Traditionally, you wore none then, unless they were longhandles.”

What kind of gear can you expect to see at a typical rendezvous?
“I wear britches of elk hide, and moccasins with elk tops and soles of buffalo rawhide–that works good when yer feet get old,” Harrington says. “There was no such thing as polyester in 1846–you couldn’t go to Foley’s and buy a shirt. There may have been a guy named Foley, but he owned a saloon at the time. You either wore cotton muslin, flannel or printed calicoes in single colors. Technology had not yet allowed them to print those Hawaiian luau shirts.”

Doc Grizzly wears buckskins with suspenders, a white shirt, and a top hat with a feather in the band. But that’s not the end of it for this particular persona: Naybobbin’ and palaverin’ may be the most personable arts displayed at a rendezvous, and Grizzly’s ready to participate. “I always have time for conversation and joviality,” he remarks. “In fact, sometimes I’m quite the storyteller. I tell one story about how I camped with Skinny Larry–see, Larry was raised by snakes. The rule is you can never let the truth interfere with the really good stories.”

Shooting with muzzle-loading rifles is another skill every ol’ hoss would like to master, though the antiquated weapons aren’t nearly as efficient as modern-day firearms. “It makes you wonder how we ever took the country away from the Indians,” says Nighthawk. “It takes approximately one to three minutes just to load the guns–an Indian could fire off twenty or thirty arrows in that amount of time.” But in spite of its physical drawbacks, a black-powder weapon is packed not only with gunpowder but also with a healthy charge of romance. And many mountain men were first attracted into the fold by way of a shootin’ match. Some, like Preacher, eventually even built their own. “I got a bag full of parts, and eight months later I had a rifle,” he says of a gun he calls Old Cussin’. “It came by its name honestly, from something my wife said. Someone once asked her where I was, and she said, ‘Can’t you hear all that cussin’ from the basement? He’s down there working on his gun!'”

Though the camp shooting contests can stir up some rivalries, Doc Grizzly says, “even that’s no dog-eat-dog thing. People will joke and laugh and stand around. It’s serious, but it’s not serious.” The predominant attitude at a righteous rendezvous is one Harrington describes as unique to the mountain man’s historical heyday: “I’m human, you’re human. The rest is peripheral.”

–Froyd

Spring Mountain Man Rendezvous, noon Sunday, May 17, Fort Restaurant, 19192 Route 8, Morrison, free, 697-4771, www.TheFort.com.