dennyducet

Our latest video on traditional muzzle loading. Snow and cold has never stopped these good old boys and gals from heading out into the winter woods of Montana for campfire grub and some wet firesticks.

There really are no words for me to add to this video she made for me. I will admit, I cried too. She said, "Yes"....and I am the luckiest man in the world because of it.

The season Autumn has forever captivated me. As a boy, I played amongst the leaves and drank the sweet scent of wetted Aspen leaves, slick upon the quiet floor of the Absarokas. As a man, I walk these

Unfurling of black the heaviest of clouds, Passing away with its torrent, Removed now is this boiling shroud. Behind this place no more torment. Glimmers of fresh light pierce behind peaked cumulus, Rays

Flintlocks and traditional muzzleloaders in Montana. March 2019. Video by Denny Ducet. There is an indescribable calm that comes with the methodical loading ritual of these fine firearms... ....a meditative,

Having spent considerable time over the last two decades as a youth, and young man on the plains, I can only strain to imagine the descriptions one reads in the accounts of the Corps. Of Discovery and

Upon the summer plains a bowl of gold is poured. The evening setting of a cooling sun having blazed to scorch the day, calmly slips to sleep beyond horizon far. Stillness descends to silent every trembling

My father began taking me into the Mountains of the Sierra Nevada when I was young. I was 4 or 5 on my first fishing trip, where I bloodied my hands on rusty treble hooks, playing with various lures in

No shadows cast, no darkened figure follows. Gray cold air hangs still on lightless morns, Leafless tree silhouettes rattle in foggy hollow. Hoar frost on snow adorns. Winters breath, her mist exhaled,

I tread along a narrow path upon the rim of alpine bowl, Above snowfields, among cold monoliths a howling wind does growl. Glacial ice draped upon the shoulders of this giant, as ancient white cowl. Uncharted

I do not know if all is well in the depths of the well that inside of me does dwell. A Pyrrhic victory, over my spirit did quell. The origins of feeling, where one does draw from deep, Echoes, that resonating

Perhaps you are there now, at that intersection of wake and sleep, a moment before you cross the threshold into dreams. Falling upon you are the chains of uncertainties, weights of regrets, anxieties of

I’m just like you brother; old bones, wrapped in aged meat and scarred flesh, a vessel holding the remnant pieces of a shattered spirit. There is nothing grand or unique, no admirable quality setting me

A man rode up on his horse, And he said, “Son, grab yourself a gun”. I said, “Sir I don’t have one and how is this right? Who am I to take who’s life in this fight?” He tossed from his saddle a worn 45

An envelope of night is closed upon the letter of my life. Sealed upon that script writ in blood of days gone by, Calligraphy of text penned by the divine. Who will hear the lyric of our final rhyme? This

There’s a fatigue that is beyond the weariness of physical exhaustion. It is a tiredness of the soul, a dying drive, a dragging of the spirit, a sense of breathlessness, a trembling of the heart - the

There is an aroma of such I shall never bore; the fragrant scent of cloud born petrachor. Such a perfume as this man has never made. Impossible to capture the scent emitting from every wet, verdant blade.

Will streams upon my cheeks that flow, Ever cease to spring for the other half of my old soul? Tumbling, falling from windows through which I peer. These droplets of my spirit, rain for her who is not