Wildlife-Scenery

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He was shot, stabbed, and pierced by arrows—20 wounds in total. Then, in 1844, left for dead on a bloodied battlefield, Cicero Rufus Perry did the unthinkable: he walked 120 miles alone across hostile land to survive. Born in Alabama in 1822, Perry moved to Texas at 11 and quickly found himself in the thick of violent clashes—fighting in the siege of Bexar, skirmishing along Yegua Creek, and battling Native tribes as a Texas Ranger. His wounds tell a story of relentless grit, but that 120-mile trek stands as a testament to a willpower most could hardly imagine.
It wasn’t just a miraculous escape; it was the raw edge of survival. Perry, bleeding and unarmed, without food or water, staggered through rugged terrain from Uvalde to San Antonio, refusing to give up when even his comrades thought he was gone. But his story didn’t end there. Years later, Perry still fought, surviving battles like Deer Creek in 1873. Rising through the ranks, he became Captain of Company D, leading men who revered him for his unyielding spirit and battlefield savvy. His life was a quiet legend—known not for riches or fame, but for resilience that inspired those who rode beside him.
By the time he passed away in 1898, in the rugged Texas Hill Country, Perry’s name had become a whispered legend among Rangers. Yet outside of history’s dusty pages, how many know his story? How many could imagine walking that brutal 120 miles—wounded, alone, and desperate—for the mere chance to live? Cicero Perry’s journey forces us to ask: what would you have done when left for dead?
 
About five years ago, I visited the Las Vegas Lion Habitat.
The Giraffe, "Ollie" was quite the show off.
Sadly, August 1 this year, Ollie fell and his injuries
were fatal. (Ollie was a talented Painter)
.

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In 1851 (JD just graduated High School) , high in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana Territory, lived the Whitaker family — reclusive, self-sufficient hunters who hadn’t seen a town in years. Jedediah Whitaker, once a fur trapper on the Missouri, had settled deep in the forest with his Nez Perce wife, Awenasa, and their three children.
Their log cabin stood beside a cold mountain stream, and their lives followed the rhythm of the land: elk migrations, berry harvests, and snow that could trap them for weeks. Awenasa taught her children medicine from roots and bark; Jed taught them how to fire a rifle, but only when needed. Survival wasn't about violence — it was about reading the land, trusting your instincts, and respecting every life taken.
One winter, a stranger collapsed outside their cabin — a wounded surveyor lost from a mapping party. They took him in, mended his wounds, fed him venison and broth, and sent him back come spring. He would later write about them in a Denver paper — calling them “the ghost family of the Bitterroots.”
But the Whitakers didn’t care for fame. They lived by an older law — the silence of snowfall, the tracks of a deer, and the stories passed in whispers by the fire.
 
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