Mountain Man – The Real Jeremiah Johnson

Half a century ago, a fledgling sculptor, I worked my way through a bachelor’s degree at a small, fly-by-night bronze foundry, situated outside of town, in the mesquite forests of north Texas. The owner was Rick King.

At sunset, after a pour, Rick and I would take a belt of whiskey, and he would butcher a chicken while I took the dogs for a short run in the mesquite forest gathering wood. I’d throw the mesquite wood into the still glowing crucible furnace, we’d put a grill on top, and lay on the chicken and cans of beans and corn. By this time the metal had cooled, and with the fragrance of mesquite barbecue wafting through the shop, and another belt of whiskey, we would break off the ceramic mold, clip the core pins, grind off the sprews, and sandblast the pieces in the day’s final light. The work completed and the chicken done, we would sit under the star-studded, black velvet Texas sky, and with cold beers and occasional rumbling belches, relish some of the most beautiful meals I’ve ever known.

That is how I made this sculpture, as a gift for my Father. And it was my boss and friend Rick King who introduced me to the subject – a mountain man and his biography Crow Killer: the Saga of Liver Eatin’ Johnston.