For many years a runnin, we been palin round with a mountain man named Ken.  A real quiet sorta man, deliberate about his doins, an always a all round good guy.

He’s been ta many a rondeevoo, an hunted the wiley mulie with some of the best.  Includin meself.

I’ve stood side ta side with him on the shootin line an seed him plumb a ball agin the sharp edge of a double blade ax an break clay bowles, one on each side of the ax, at the same time!

But, Ken was what we called him.

I’ve heard tale of him long-gunnin big mulies at 600 yard, drink cases of Annie Green, an PJ Swine, then rip the corner off’n a perfectly good lodge.  Tussle with men bigger than big, even whop’em up side ‘o the head with a stick ‘an still come out  not  hurtin’in

But still we called him Ken.

We was talkin one day about old Ken and most tryin ta figger out a mountain name fer him when “No Grimace” say—“Ya know, old Ken is just old Ken.  Quiet, to the point, an never makes no mistakes or does anything out of the ordinare.  How kin a guy git a name doin that”?

“Tracker” spoke up bout then and said—“You be right, ‘No Grim’, hard ta name a man bein the same as the rest”.

One day old “Two Breaks” spoke up an said, “Ken done got some kind a likin fer feathered critters.  Seems he done got one ‘o them talkin birds what don’t need the tung split, an is teachin him to cuss like his squaw.  He done also got a heard of ducks ‘an some miniature chickens, ‘an some of them carrier birds like what the King of the Black Forest uses to send notes to his buddies with.  Seems like maybe perhaps his name could deal with that.  Bein buddies to a heard o ducks don’t seem ta me like ol Ken got all his ores in row”.

Well now, we didn’t know all this about ol Ken.  Least ways about his teachin the talkin bird ta speak such lingo as that.

So, back at rondeevoo in ’91, up on the left fork ‘ol Ken was called to the talkin stick, an wherever mountain men shall meet forever will be called—“Flying Feathers”!

Bears Butt

May-June 1991