By Sandy Vasko

If you live in the country anywhere around here, you are aware when hunting season starts. The sound of shotguns at dawn fills the air. Today we will go hunting, but not here in Will County, rather on the Grand Marsh in Indiana. Note that St. Viatuer’s, which is mentioned early on, is where the present-day Olivet Nazarene is now.

Taken from the Feb. 19, 1875, Advocate, a hunting we will go:

“Our party, 9 in number, with 3 open buggies containing also camp equipage, dogs, provisions, ammunition, etc., left Wilmington at about 4 p.m. on Saturday, en route for the Beaver Lake country, Indiana.

“The dry and very good road from here to Bourbonnais was soon traversed and 7:30 found us seeking accommodations for man and beast in the purely French settlement. The lights of St. Viatuer’s college gleamed brightly and the night proved quite light and pleasant. After an hour’s rest at Bourbonnais, our squad took the road leading for Momence, but not until Capt. B succeeded in getting a bite in the leg from a French dog that quarreled with our own canines.

“Ten o’clock brought us to a beautiful road skirting the Kankakee and a few miles further brought Duvall’s hotel at our side. We had rode 30 miles, and as our stiffened joints alighted all hearts were gladdened at the prospect of a rest. Our teams cared for; we approached Duvall’s in single file, and we soon warmed by the cheerful wood fire at Duvall’s.

“Despairing a little wipe ‘for stomach’s sake’ our party visited a prominent saloon in the moral town of Momence – in which card playing in public places is not allowed. Here was a scene, it was about 11 o’clock and a Wilmington chap remarked: ‘now they’re going to carry out the dead.’ And they did – the dead drunk. One or two were carried by half a dozen would be pall bearers, and allowed to vomit upon the sidewalk while a poor idiot inside was coaxed to sing flash songs at the top of his voice. We were tired, the beds were poor but we made the best of them and soon in the arms of sleep – that silent friend of all our woes.

“Sunday morning opened bright and beautiful; no sooner was a good breakfast dispatched than our third wagon hove in sight, direct from Kankakee. We were regaled with most extravagant stories of the game in prospect and with Duvall’s hostler (Smith) for a pilot, our train pulled for Hosierdom.

“After stopping 3 times to ask directions and being told it was ‘just a little piece down the road,’ we meet a pretty little wood nymph of some 16 summers who conveyed the intelligence that our destination was but half a mile distant. We meet at last, Smith talked fast, and well – plenty of game – good time ahead. It was now 5 o’clock. Smith took his team and led us three miles to a camping spot in the happy (?) hunting ground. Two thirds of the way being through 18 inches depth of water and we halted in darkness and drizzling rain. But most of us were ‘old soldiers’ and had ‘been there’ before; in ten minutes our tent was up and a bright campfire glowed. ‘Twas army life over again; the frying pork, the aroma of coffee, the tin cups and dishes – all carried us back to the recollections of army life.

“The ‘squawk’ of wild geese roused us on Monday morning; our squad encircled a sort of swamp, say two miles long, and a mile wide; the water in it averaged a foot deep and little tufts of willow on mounds here and there offered the sportsman an ambuscade over which the geese kept flying at frequent intervals for hours.

“Half a day’s experience in the manner demonstrated that we were rather out of the regular flight of the geese; also, that ordinary charges of powder and B shot had little effect unless perchance a goose were struck in a vital part or had a wing broken. Our party probably fired 75 rounds that day but often a long range and without desired effect. At evening the spoils of the day footed up but three geese and as many duck.

“On Monday night we rested with high hopes of the morrow’s results; we had gotten the lay of the land and water and an aggressive policy was unanimously agreed upon. Tuesday morning – we must say it – dashed our prospects to the four winds; snow and ice covered the earth, the wind blew a gale and ‘twas freezing keenly. But we would not abandon the field without at least an effort – not much; donning long rubber boots the party sought their bough houses in the swamps where a few stray and fruitless shots were obtained. Half an hour adventure sufficed; we returned to find our newly made tracks frozen over and the air still growing colder; the thought of breaking two miles of ice in order to get our teams out stared us in the face and we concluded to ‘throw up the sponge.’

“To make a long story short, we broke camp in short metre and after a terrible drive through ice, mire, and water reached terra firma once more, and wended our way toward Newton County and the State line. At nightfall we reached a hospitable domicile and passed a comfortable night. Our host acted as doctor for his neighbor, also as blacksmith and general jack-of-all-trades. He was none other than Ed. W. Gould; he did his best to add to our comfort.

“Next morning we drove out to the Evergreen marsh, two miles, to a famous duck swamp, but it was coated with ice and ‘twas no go. Our last resort for game was then to the river, and the train headed from Blue Grass Landing – 18 miles above Momence; ill luck seems to have even followed us here for the ‘natives’ all said that we were on the wrong side of the river. We now retraced our steps to Momence, where we arrived at 4 p.m., looking hard enough. After application of good old-fashioned yellow soap and soft water our sanitary condition was much improved.

“Thursday morning put us upon the road to ‘sweet home’ and willing horses made the route short. A little steamer plies above Momence for many miles in the freight traffic. Cordwood and posts are a legal tender at the isolated stores, and the surroundings generally remind one of some description of an entirely undeveloped country.

Had our visit been a week earlier in the season we would no doubt have bagged plenty of game, but ‘old probabilities’ put a sudden veto to our port and his decree admitted of no appeal. We have a large quantity of fixed ammunition on hand, warranted to kick, which will be closed out at a ruinous sacrifice.

Who’ll buy?”

Sandy Vasko is Director of the Will County Historical Museum & Research Center and President of the Will County Historical Society.