Cougars in Wisconsin

“Finally, the DNR admits there are cougars in Wisconsin!” How many times has that been said? Actually the Wisconsin DNR has always been keenly interested in any big cat sightings in the state, according to recently retired DNR Mammalian/Ecologist/Conservation Biologist Adrian Wydeven.

The former Head Wolf Recovery Program Biologist was also responsible to track down (pun intended) any reports of sightings of rare species like the cougar in Wisconsin.   Recently, at the Treehaven Outdoor Education Center, Wydeven presented “Cougars in Wisconsin,” an overview of the animal that once roamed the state, but has been gone from the landscape since the early 1900's.

Reports of “Puma Concolor, panther, catamount, mountain lion or mishibijn (Ojibwa), started trickling in to the DNR during the early '90s. The large tawny colored cat is one of three species native to the state, with only bobcats having a breeding population. Along with the cougar, Canada lynx have also been known to be reported here.

Prior to 1920, the 100-150 pound cats roamed primarily in the southern 2/3rds of the state in habitat more suited than the thick forest to the north. While males typically can have a range of 150 square miles, females stay much closer to home, covering only 64 sq. miles. Their primary prey are deer, but they will also take elk (out west) and smaller game like rabbits, beaver and raccoons.

Wydeven stated that although there had been earlier sightings, probably escaped captive animals, it wasn't until 2008 when DNR evidence confirmed a cougar of Black Hills (SD) origin near Milton, WI. A trapper followed tracks and discovered the cat in a barn. Upon retreating it suffered a injury providing blood along hair samples which was collected for DNA anylasis. That report quickly progressed from “possible” to “probable” to confirmed. Unfortunately, the cougar ultimately ventured into Illinois, possibly following the Chicago River corridor and was shot by police in the city. A year later in March of 2009, a cougar was treed near Spooner. Attempts were made to capture and collar it, but failed. During the same year another was caught on a game cam near Eau Claire in Dunn county.

Although the DNR has been accused of covering up reports of populations, including cubs or kittens (which would indicate a breeding population), Wydeven said those claims would run counter to biologists desire to know more about the big cats in the state. “Why would we hide it?” Wydeven asked. “We try and be very respectful of submitted observations.” Adding “We also strive to educate the public by posting confirmed observations on the DNR website.” "We take citizen observations seriously and value their input. They are our eyes and ears for some of the most interesting animal experiences," he said. "Interestingly, the epicenter of reported observations is the Rhinelander area." he commented when projecting a map of the state with pin points of sightings.

Aside from habitat, the bigger challenge of cougars will be living with people. When asked if there had been discussion on bringing females here to start a breeding population, Wydeven flatly said “No.” While the public would probably be okay with the species naturally returning, he doesn't see the same opinion if they were introduced. Evidence of that mindset is seen in angry accusations that wolves were “planted” in the state by the DNR, when in fact, they returned on their own from Minnesota. The state DNR has no management plans currently for cougar and they are protected in Wisconsin.

Peak sightings generally occur in summer for cougars. Although disappointing for many, some of these observations are discovered upon investigation to be false. Evidence of mistaken identity was presented by Wydeven (and can also be found on the DNR's rare animal web page). Many times these images are of bobcats. “Black panthers” (no black phases have been documented in North America) have proven to be other species like fishers while even coyotes with mange can be cougar look a-likes in photos. Sometimes “Cougars” caught on camera have even turned out to be domestic cats when there is no visual clues to compare relative size to at a distance. Others are hoaxes-from taxidermy mounted specimens to internet fodder. Photos of multiple mountain lions, cougars on someones porch and cats stalking a hunter-are attributed to multiple locations in the state over a period of years. They almost always are bogus.

Investigated and confirmed cases still continue. In 2010, a game cam picture of a male was taken in Clark County and eventually traveled to Bayfield county. It appears to be the same animal sighted in eastern Minnesota and Dunn county where DNA evidence was obtained. That cougar was killed in 2011 in Connecticut, a straight line distance of 1059 miles, by a car. Since cats don't like to cross long distances of water, Wydeven theorizes the animal traveled through the UP, crossing into Ontario and eventually through New York state- an amazing journey. There have even been photographs of collared cougars, again, most likely of South Dakota origin. In 2013, at least three cougars were confirmed in the state, all possibly the same animal. This past year an unusually clear image was captured in Lincoln County in August and another in September near Marinette.

With the incredible travels of some of these dispersing males to the Upper midwest states and as far as Connecticut, one wonders how soon viable populations could re-appear. In speaking to Wisconsin Public Radio in 2010 Wydeven expressed “We believe cougars may eventually reestablish in Wisconsin. We have habitat that’s suitable. Deer is their main food source. There’s source population in the Blacks Hills of South Dakota and we’re within the dispersal range of those.” He goes on to add, “ It’s one of the things as an agency we want to be on top of, that when cougars start to reestablish in the state, we want to be able to detect them and determine there are cougars and document their presence and monitor their populations.”

It's generally agreed that at some point in the future, cougars could very well return and reproduce in Wisconsin, but it will be a long road back. With females keeping a small range from where they were born, it could take decades for them to venture across South Dakota and Minnesota into suitable territory here.  But some have-at least males so far. "It demonstrates that these large carnivores can return to areas where they had once existed, if they're given adequate protection," Wydeven told LiveScience in 2011. Indeed, and as with the recent reinstatement of the grey wolf under the endangered species act, heated arguments will be made on both sides on whether a species, once at home here , will garner that protection and return to its home.

Report rare species to the DNR here:

http://dnr.wi.gov/topic/endangeredresources/forms.html

Late Season Fog Hunt

If mist and fog can make sound, then I was hearing it- though I have no words to describe the shroud enveloping the forest. Fog lifts from the cold snowpack, rising shifting and waving in a slow motion dark swirl through the wet black tree trunks. It lifts up, clinging to every twig and branch until gravity pulls it back down again-”splat” on my fleece covered shoulder. “Drip,” “splat,”  “ping”- a droplet ricochets off the barrel of my gun.

This is the late season for antlerless deer. The woods are dead quiet but for the drops and drips and a few crows talking among themselves in a distant corn field. It's still.....there is no anticipation like filled these driftless coulees a few weeks ago on opening weekend. Just quiet reverence to be out here, not so much hunting as waiting. It really is waiting- quickly scouting a spot to take a stand, now with rifle in hand, overlooking a greater part of the forest than with a bow. No one else is out here. No one but crows, a flight of nuthatches and chickadees and soft yelps from unseen stirring turkeys.

The gun and muzzloader seasons are behind leaving only melted tracks from tired hunters venturing up and down logging roads and sign that deer are still here. My prints press deep and sharp into the corn snow and quickly fill with vapor. The headlamp cuts through dark and mist and end up on a small knoll, its hillsides tore up from hoofs and claws in search of acorns. The draws on either side are white or brown depending on the digging of feeding animals. I like this spot-daylight should provide good visibility, my back against a higher steep hill leading to a bluff top. A blowdown top of a huge oak provides a blind. This will do.

Some jays move in and converse in the weird “rilling” squawk talk. They stay a while pounding their beaks into bark separating seed from chaff. They are apparently unconcerned with me, for their usual woodland alarm call is not sounded. Time passes, the cloud on the ground remains and daylight only barely budges in.

“A deer!” 

Three black BBs, two eyes and a nose, stare directly at me, burning a hole in my hiding spot. I'm pegged. The silent snow and murky air allowed her to slip in unexpected. The doe was there now-right there...and I can't move a muscle. I fear the stream of steam from my breathing will send her tail to, but doesn't. It's a don't blink contest and I'm not confident I'll win.

The Winchester is right next to me but unreachable. Nothing between us twitches. She's done this before as have I. The usual result is watching the tail waving bye after a few tense minutes. The crows and jays continue their chatting oblivious to the standoff beneath them. Not to be pessimistic, but I'm pretty sure of the outcome here- rarely will a mature doe let her guard down. She'll not afford the hunter pause to swing a gun up once she is locked onto to....something, that doesn't belong.

I have wind to my advantage or this wouldn't be happening-she is just confirming with unblinking eyes and a dull thump of a foot striking the ground. No, the safety won't be clicked off or crosshairs find their mark-she'll end this soon.

A sheet of fog moves up the draw, my eyes get burry from staring. She ends the game-spins and with amazingly few bounds, puts trees and brush and enough distance between us that I just watch. And take a breath.

In the minutes that follow I wonder where the doe came from before appearing as a statue aimed directly at me. That's not where a deer was supposed to be-I had shots all visualized and set in my head other directions. I'm not frustrated, it's the way of hunting, of waiting. This place is their home, not mine, at least not mine enough.

The sun is up somewhere as the surrounding timber slowly grows lighter. The fog won't burn off this day, the just at freezing temps will keep the pea soup clinging close to the ground. No matter, I'm comfortable so far in the mild damp air and the woods are waking. There are worse places to be.

Trying to put venison in the freezer late season can be tackled two ways-bring some buddies and make pushes through parcels or solitary, taking the opportunity to have backwoods to yourself. I chose the latter.

This property normally has a small group of friends with bows and broadheads in hand when I hunt here. It's the rut then and deer habits are different than now. Bucks run all day and night, camo clad men tromp every acre, quite the opposite from December, when everything settles down for the approaching winter. There is no big drama like during the rut or rifle season, but rather just an opportunity to be here on the animals terms.

Corvis the crow and his clan shift location-perhaps finding tidbits to feed on, their caws echoing off the trees inviting others to join in. A chainsaw fires up and the clug of a diesel powered skidder drones on the far side of the property. The logging operation I drove though in the dark produced vast hi-ways of deer tracks-the tops proving browse. They'll be well fed this winter.

Free from the distraction of another deer showing up-one has more than enough time for the mind to wander. A common trait for most hunters I'd think. Quiet time on a stand is different from that of sitting in a comfortable chair at home, much like the outdoors enhancing the flavor of coffee poured from a thermos. I think about why no other deer have waltzed by, why the raucous crows have moved again and what they are up to. Deeper thought takes me to what this woods will look like when the skidders and saws move this direction. Good for wildlife eventually, but changed.

A bigger change will happen later and I wonder about that as well. Word passed down that after logging, a frac sand mine would be developed here, a big change. The ridges will be gone along with the deer and hunters who will move on. My friends and I have had a good run here, hunting this land and fortunate the owner has been gracious enough to share his property. In a year or two I'll have to find another place to sit on a snowy fog filled day. It won't be quiet or still then and there will be no staredowns with suspicious does. I'm thinking of this and a pair of crows alight in a tree nearby-clicking, rattling and grating crow talk, maybe sensing the thoughts drifting up from my blind.

A second pour of coffee into a tiny stainless cup warms my hands-the very best way to do that. A scan left and right concludes no whitetail has snuck into range. I guess while sitting here contemplative and scribbling notes, part of me was aware and keeping an minds-eye out for game. I think hunters develop a sixth sense for these things.

The crows move off having kept me company long enough apparently, while the jays return. A drawn-out, downward "kaaaar" of a Rough Legged Hawk is somewhere just beyond the limbs of the oak and white pine below me. Wonder if his hunting is going better than mine?

I start to think I maybe dressed a bit too optimistically, as my toes are starting to ache with cold in my too-thin boots. I can hold out a bit longer I think-there is still hope something might walk by from feeding to bedding grounds. “Wump wump” - a distant set of shots. Maybe I'm not the only one out here today?

Eventually, the feet win the argument that we're done. I'd been fidgeting a bit too much as well and realized I'm just staring blankly at the same trees, not “seeing” any longer. The reality that my season is over for the year sets in as I stuff and zip my pack, the backtag pinned on it at a strange angle and ready to retire.

There are always thoughts of pulling the bow out again, but I know better, the skis and fatbike and maybe an occasional foray with the black lab will not allow another deer hunt this year. The freezer will be venison-less again. I'll need to make mental note to prepare the pheasants and salmon still hiding there before it's too late and rely on successful family sharing a few steaks and roasts.

The hunt or wait or any time in the woods is all good and although this day, in the mist and fog and drips and melting snow, I'll return home empty handed...but with everything I needed.

Snow tracking Rare Animal Species

Dr. Jim Halfpenny

“Never forget the trail, look ever for the track in the snow; it is the priceless, unimpeachable record of the creature’s life and thought, in the oldest writing known on the earth.” Ernest Thompson Seton, Mammal Tracks and Sign

Tracking and reading animal signs and the stories they can tell has always been something I've been interested in. Tracks can easily distract me from my other persuasions like skiing, mountain biking or hiking. But keeping an eye on the ground and not taking for granted the signs animals leave behind is really a part of those sports as well. When word reached me that Dr. Jim Halfpenny, professional tracker, carnivore ecologist and author would be teaching a course in Wisconsin, I jumped at the opportunity to learn more.

Dr. Halfpenny describes himself as a “scientist and educator who specializes in carnivores, cold and tracking.” A love of those predators, especially bear and wolverine, and teaching others how to track and find other rare species is central to his life's work. Canada lynx, wolves, fishers and martin are other animals of special interest and ones we studied in our course. These mammals, along with cold, high altitude and arctic study, have taken him to seven continents-to call him an expert in these fields would be a gross understatement.

The class, offered at Treehaven Outdoor education center between Rhinelander and Tomahawk, was an intense, professional, no nonsense and comprehensive course on the subtitles of tracking and trailing. Participants in the seminar varied in background-some, like myself, desired certification for the Wisconsin Volunteer Wolf tracking program, others were there to refresh their skills and some just to learn more about tracking in general. From the get-go, it was conveyed that this was a professional level curriculum, the same as DNR personnel would be taking in the days following our tenure there.

Jim stressed quality in tracking and that trackers can be judged by the “dynamite test”- “that everything trackers do and practice must be TnT!-testable and teachable.” As Seton describes the trail as the oldest writing on earth, Halfpenny also added tracking as the oldest profession on earth, contrary to some common opinions. The second oldest profession needed to be paid by successful hunters who, of course had to be skilled trackers. These trackers Halfpenny describes as “naturalists and scientists,” who had to become skilled at identifying and following tracks. If they formed the correct hypothesis to test (of an animal to eat) then they were well fed. If not, as Jim would comment to us, “then their genes are not sitting in this room.”

“The ideal attitude of the tracker is that of a detective. One of the reasons I love to read Sherlock Holmes is that he thinks like a tracker. He lets nothing go unexamined. He is constantly observing, sifting through facts and evidence, piecing puzzles together, solving mysteries.” Tom Brown Jr., Nature Observation and Tracking

Halfpenny mirrored this idea as well-that good tracking is like the CSI of the animal world. Tracks, sign and gait, all clues, need to be looked at and collected as quality evidence in order to make a hypothesis. “I-E-R” ...what is Important, collect Evidence and Review. That review may change the hypothesis, and one should be careful not to hold on to one theory too tightly, but be accepting of where the evidence leads you. He presented illustrations of how this progression can work and when conclusions need to be changed. An example might go something like this when a slightly old track is found. “Ahh, 4 toes, kinda rounded shape- must be a cougar!” Fresher snow later clarifies the track showing now 5 toes”-large track, five toes front, 4 hind, claws showing, nope, must be a bear!” Still more evidence indicates a chevron shaped interdigital pad. “No, not a bear,.... large, claws, 5 toes front, 4 toes rear, chevron shaped pad-a wolverine!” Jim used a much more detailed example than this, perhaps based on an actual case study.

Although I've tracked for fun for a long time, the subtle nuances of what to look for when trailing, of what the sign can tell us, was simply amazing in this course. Characteristics of tracks like toe number, claws showing or not, the shape of the interdigital pad, foot posture and gait, all can narrow down tracks into animal groups. We learned how small things like toe spacing or anterior lobe shape can differentiate between similar tracks. Halfpenny spent a good deal of time crawling on hands and knees demonstrating how animals move so we could interpret gait patterns in the snow. This knowledge, in turn, can provide clues as to what the animal is doing. A slight change in gait, where the front feet are in line with travel, can indicate where an animal is looking. Tracks indicating a walk, to trot to gallop, could be a clue that prey has been spotted. Fascinating data for the observant tracker.

Testing us, he positioned cards on the floor indicating front and hind feet, placing them in patterns and asking us to identify such things (in the example of a wolf) as the sex of the animal, it's hierarchy in the pack and time of year. In revealing the interpretations of these clues to us, my eyes were opened to some of these very signs I'd seen in the past, but didn't have the “vocabulary” for. It made me eager to get outside and explore and seek out some of the sentences these animals write in the snow.

In the days since returning from the program, I found myself really “seeing” more when outside. The fatbike trail, illuminated by my bike light, defined a “F4 h4C” track formula-one we learned meant that it was most likely in the dog family. It was rectangular and about 2 fingers wide-most likely a fox. Another, barely visible in the hard pack snow, revealed a “1x3x1” toe position, and “f5(4) H5(4)co print with a chevron pad, three fingers wide. Characteristics of a Fisher. It seemed now that I was aware of these clues, I was observing them everywhere while outdoors. My attention was pulled away from my riding and wanting to focus on the sign below the wheels.

The naming and classification of tracking is also crucial according to Halfpenny. Without a consistent vocabulary, it becomes very confusing and difficult to teach or learn. For instance, the above track formula is quite simple if one understands the language. “F” means front foot and capitalization indicates it's larger than “h,” the hind foot. “5” is the number of visible toes, although “(4)” means sometimes just four are. “co” implies claws often show while “C” stands for claws usually show. “1x3x1” labels the toe pattern having a space between toe 1 and 2 and between 4 and 5. A good indicator of an animal in the Mustelid or weasel family.

My notebook quickly filled it's pages with crude sketches of tracks (they were illustrated in his books, but I need to draw to reinforce them I guess), of gait patterns and average size of different animals strides. Scribbled terms like “transverse gallop", as opposed to “Roto-gallop", “ambles” and “pronks” along with “group” and “intergroup” was the jargon tossed about the room and during our field work to help understand trailing. Scat was looked at closely (in photographs) to just give us another visual sign in identification of species. Size, shape and what it contains can be a powerful tool in collecting hard evidence and confirming a hypothesis.

Outdoors, we had a chance to witness tracks and gaits actually being made. A young Labrador retriever was brought in to produce walking, loping, trotting and galloping patterns.Still being a pup at heart, she had some difficulty staying on task for the class, but did manage some top end speed, which was interesting and impressive to measure. With so much winter outdoor experience, Halfpenny revealed a world I hadn't known of in snow (and I love snow as well!). He taught how to spot the subtleties of a track in snow by the phases and anatomy of a track being made. The “ramp, “ floor,” “head wall” and “collar” of a print in snow can indicate direction of travel and it's age. The effects of long wave and short wave radiation (from the sun or surrounding forest) will change and metamorpihize tracks, enlarging or shrinking them in size. Understanding this process and the snow type is crucial in determining age and proper measurements of its size. Crawling under a nearby spruce, he also clued us in on finding “track traps” -places animals want to be and locations where a successful tracker can find prints.

Our field work also included casting tracks in snow-not the easiest process. A nearby creek bottom at Treehaven was a target rich location for tracks. After demonstrating the process of casting-spraying with snow wax, mixing of plaster, pouring and curing the plaster, we were off. Halfpenny charged us with finding different species, making the cast and meeting back for show and tell. A bobcat had searched the mostly frozen creek for prey and soon we had some clear tracks to cast. I found the process would take more practice for my water to powder ratio was off and my cast crumbly. Others returned with hare tracks, fisher, fox, red squirrel and deer.

Dr. Halfpenny had quite a collection of casts from his years of work, from martin to grizzly bear. Casts of a much better quality than ahhh... ours. I'd brought in a large wolf cast from a few years ago to share with him. On inspection he questioned me on the number of tracks in the cast. Confused, I sheepishly replied “one?” Nope, he pointed out an ever so slight change in the toe shapes, indicating a double register, two prints. My extra large wolf track was actually 2, something Jim said is common when inspecting unusually large tracks.

The weekend wrapped up with a presentation by Nate Libal from the Wisconsin DNR, who assists with the large carnivore program. He gave an overview of the Volunteer wolf tracking program and reviewed much of what we'd learned of tracking during the course. I was anxious to sign up and put to practical use some of the skills I'd learned. Trackers are required to take several 30 mile surveys during the winter in specific zones, record data, not only on wolves, but other carnivores as well and submit results to the DNR. Wisconsin has by far the largest and most extensive tracking program in the country collecting data.

“Snow Tracking Rare Species” with Dr. Halfpenny was everything I'd hoped it would be (and more). Finding and following tracks is one thing, but properly identifying them, reading what the animal is doing (or did) and knowing all the clues a tracker can collect to make a correct hypothesis is what I'd desired to learn and did. Now to put it all into practice!

“Trackers first observe tracks and trails as naturalists and classify what they see. From their observations, trackers formulate hypothesis and as scientists, test their hypothesis. Trackers, as practitioners, use their skills and knowledge in the field for their enjoyment and often to fill their stomachs. As teachers, trackers honestly pass on their knowledge to others.” -Dr. Jim Halfpenny

The Dilemma

The Dilemma

noun

1. a situation requiring a choice between equally undesirable alternatives.

2. any difficult or perplexing situation or problem.

My knees were killing me, camo bibs frozen to the ground. The crosshairs were steady on the chest of the buck. Safety...on. It was a longish shot but doable. The Winchester bolt steady on a stick bipod. He stood motionless until my eyes grew blurry staring through the scope. Re-focus. The antlers turned slightly offering me another view. Safety? On. A single coal black eye from the deer pierced between two trees trying to locate me. Maybe a faint waif of my scent had reached him? He couldn't quite nail me down though his eye seemed to have a magnet on my blind.

About fifteen minutes earlier a single small doe had trotted by up-wind. Not really seeming to know where she wanted to go. I scanned her through the binoculars and waited. She worked her way across a hummock swampy area and then suddenly raised the flag and bounded up and over a small rise. Hmmmm. She didn't know I was here and couldn't smell me. I kept watch that direction wondering why the sudden departure.

A movement caught the corner of my eye. It's one of those quick glances that tell you instantly “that's a buck.” Yep, head down, slowly picking his way through, horns on his head. This was the real deal-reach for the gun, kneel down, peer out of the blind for a possible shot.

Last day of the season and there were no high expectations  in this buck only area. But that thought was gone-changed in an instant as the gun sat cradled into the shooting sticks. He did his best to move cautiously, like bucks on the last day do, but steadily closer. He was sure to place brush and tree trunks between himself and me at every step it seemed. Yep, an antlered rack.....not a monster or one that would score whatever numbers matter for those who know such things. Just a buck and maybe a shot. He made his way directly ahead, knowing a destination of thick swamp would be his residence for the remainder of the day. I still couldn't get a clear picture of his rack exactly, but his body size seemed a bit trim for a mature deer.

The place he stood- for....ever was maybe 90 years away between two trees. Tail behind one, head another. Turning his neck either way would give me glimpses through the scope of his headgear. 8 pointer, 5 inch brow times, main beams just at the alerted ears. Safety....still on. Clear shot at his chest and the gun seemed plenty steady-one eye looking my way. I had seemingly an eternity to decide-legs starting to cramp but I'm still okay-Safety, on.

I'd seen this buck on our property a few times this year and on a camera-pretty sure of it. Same deer, I resolved in my head. I thought then- “He'll make a really nice buck next year-I hope he makes it.” Did that thought change now as he presented this opportunity? My season would conclude with a click of the safety.

He turns his head, takes a nervous step, now sure of where he wants to go. In his deer mind, the threat passed perhaps. I lower my gun, thumb slides off the safety and I take a breath. “Come back next year young buck, if I'm skilled and patient enough maybe we can continue this little dance.” I think to myself. He silently continues off until I no longer see him though the brambles and briars. Next season there will be no dilemma.

To Lem

The Horizon

Blog: noun 1. a website containing a writer's or group of writers' own experiences, observations, opinions, etc., and often having images and links to other websites.

I started this blog quite a few years ago-at first to share photographs, then as things progresssed it seemed more and more words found their way onto “paper.” Experiences, thoughts, feelings.

I never really know who reads these little posts, but from time to time, someone will mention that they like what they've read or seen, or they share some of the same thoughts on my random entries. Who reads them and how many people I reach really isn't the point-these are more for me.

Today, I really only care if one person reads this.

A couple days ago I received an email from one of my Twangfest (and family) friends Kyle. It was just a short note telling the Twangfest group that one of our guys had lost his close friend. It was a shock and unexpected. My good friend and “Twang-brother” Mike Lemoine, “Lem,”as we all call him, had returned from a great opening day of hunting on his property when learning that he'd lost one of his dear friends.

I didn't know Mike McCormick well-I'd met him at Lems home a few years ago at a summer get together and remember him as very funny, personable and someone who loved music. I can't imagine what Lem is going through losing someone like that-when I called, he just stated it was surreal-something one can't understand. At 55 years old (about the same age as all of us) Mike's passing was much too young, and a reality check. The obligatory statement (but so true) “Life is short” was shared between us during our short conversation and I just said I was sorry. Lem, as he does, sincerely thanked me for my humble phone call. I felt bad for him.

I've never lost a close friend like this. Thinking about it the past few days I know it would be very difficult. It's said “ Close friends are family you choose” -a very accurate statement I believe. I feel that way about my good friends, especially the Twang guys who I only see once or twice a year if I'm lucky. I'd hate to lose one of them....most of us have known each other for over 30 years.

Lem and I hit it off from the beginning-he had married into the group and since neither of us were boyhood friends like the rest from Onalaska, we had a mutual connection as outsiders in a way. 20 years have now passed and we have remained close cohorts-like we'd seen each other yesterday (a year later) good friends. I don't know why that happens but I'm glad it does with some you meet.

I do know that when you become friends with Lem, you consider yourself very lucky, as I do. I'm sure Mike McCormick and Lem felt the same way about each other, making this loss so much harder. When something like this happens we can't understand it, but we want to do something. We share someone's loss when they are a good friend. I could have bought a sympathy card and mailed it, but after my call, I knew I just had to write a few words-Just to Lem.

I'm sorry for your loss... very sorry and want you to know I don't take for granted your friendship. It's inevitable in life, these things will happen, but that doesn't make them any less painful. In time, we can look back and appreciate those who come into our lives, no matter how long they are with us. For that we can be thankful. Be well my friend.

Life is eternal and love is immortal; And death is only a horizon, And a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight. ~Rossiter Raymond

2014-The Box Stand

Yearly Count

Five pieces of thin plywood. Wood screwed together and attached to long legs chained to a red pine sixteen feet in the air. This has been my home, my refuge, during the gun season for over 15 years. Before that, some old Wausau Paper mill felt lined the shooting rails to help block the wind. Even earlier, it was a couple planks nailed to a crotch of an oak or birch, where I'd shiver in the exposed air yet try not to twitch a muscle for fear of being pegged by an unseen whitetail.

So maybe from a purest standpoint, my boxstand is sacrilegious to true hunting-too comfortable some would say? But deer hunting has changed-I've changed. Scant numbers of hunters cruise snow covered hills and dales seeking out a track to peruse.  Fragmented small land parcels prevent that technique and more-so, few nimrods* are willing to put the effort nowadays. Still hunters, taking step after painstaking slow step, scanning the forest for game are scarce as well. I wonder how many of us have the patience to use these techniques in our “modern” times? For a change of pace, I have reverted to those ancestral skills from time to time but not often enough it seems.

This year again, I, like the majority of hunters, sit and wait. Fred Bear championed this hunting style and indeed, maybe taking a stand, letting game come to you and staying put can be the most successful. This little box on stilts affords me at least a little comfort, letting me dwell longer. It's the second day of the season as I write this and what was a near perfect opener, (sans deer sightings) with mild temps and snow cover, turned to a damp windy grey scape. I'm happy to have these four walls blocking some of the mist and breeze.

It's not a luxury box like the new plastic or fiberglass ones for sale outside Gander Mountain or the local sporting goods store. Nope-mine is just homemade-I like the openness in order to hear a twig snap or leaf shuffle. I'm not sure how guys can hunt just visually from those windowed central heated stands. Not a criticism- for I enjoy my little crib in a tree, I just need a bit more exposure to keep all senses involved.

This stand is also my escape. I can duck down and pour and sip what usually is the best coffee ever (deer hunting helps “flavor” it) or stay almost hidden munching a sandwich. It's a quiet place as well, so needed when removed from my elementary school classroom (and appreciated). It's my humble abode where notes can be jotted down, my hunting journal updated and maybe pages of a book read. (this year's selection was Richard Thiel's “the Timber Wolf in Wisconsin”) 

The property where my stand resides has been our family near Mosinee for over 40 years. I wandered and hunted this and the surrounding land since a teen ager. The tree it leans against is not a random choice. My stand locations gradually migrated over the years further and further from our shack, now to this remotest corner of the property. County and managed forest land adjoin ours and although I've never had mass migrations of deer pass by, the spot has been productive. The stands' lifetime average is .75 deer per hour hunting. Maybe low by central farmland standards, but enough to put venison in the freezer from time to time. Least I forget, I've etched every whitetail seen from this box on the wood walls. Yearlings, does and bucks with little lines indicating the number of points. Occasionally, a mark will be circled, indicating a successful shot. Some are noted with “Ten” or “Nik” next to it-the kids joining me here for their first successful hunt with dad.

It can be a long hike in here-a mile now, and although I pass through good habitat, I seem to just want to get to the stand and settle in. Stashed warm boots, bibs and orange coat are changed into by the glow of a headlamp, daylight still an hour off. The backpack is unloaded of shells, binoculars, extra hats and a camera. The notebook sits next to a thermos, ziplock bag of moms cookies and a bologna pickle sandwich. Only when all that is set can I relax and start taking in the sounds of the still pitch black woods. Its amazing what one can hear and detect in those agonizingly quiet pre-dawn minutes. As soon as the sun is up and maybe a breeze begins, I can ease off the intensity of the senses.

Pre-Game

Hiking in this year (on day 2) I thought the weatherman should have issued a dense fog advisory for hunters seeking their stands. My light barely pierced the blanket of suspended cloud I waded through traversing the old logging road. Luckily for me, my opening day tracks remained in the mashed potato snow and I could blindly follow them to the ladder. Not surprising, there were few shots in this murkiness, even after several hours of daylight. Opening day, it seemed everyone was shooting....except me. As it turned out, there were lucky hunters around us, but unfortunately, none in the Meurett group.

Having a little comfort like this box keeps me out in the woods longer. I usually stay all day. In the back of my mind I think I can't get a deer if I'm sitting back in the warm shack. Part stubbornness, part optimism I guess. I know if I'm out there at least I have a chance-even on dead slow long fog days. After several unproductive days and later in the season, even that tenacity starts to wear off. Hours and hours staring at the same bare trees and listening to the same red squirrel scurrying around gathering pine cones gets old. The stand fends off the urge leave a little longer-I have some coffee yet in the thermos and a few more pages of notes to pen and the .308 leaning against the wall still has a chance if it's here not in a case.

Day 2:Fog

Although I have a few days left in this season, the chances of getting a deer tend to dip dramatically. I know this. Fewer hunters out moving whitetails, the animals staying nocturnal and frankly, some of the deer are just now gone. I'll still take my place and put in more time-one never knows what will happen. It'll be bittersweet on the last hunt there this year, tucking away my gear one last time. You become attached and accustomed to this little place away from it all. I'll know that the season is over and it'll be another year to wait until I climb this ladder....with a new book, my trusty Winchester and a thermos full of coffee.

Hour 17

*

1. (Bible) Old Testament a hunter, who was famous for his prowess (Genesis 10:8-9). Douay spelling: Nemrod

2. a person who is dedicated to or skilled in hunting

A World away- Twangfest

I feel like one of God's chosen people, having had the opportunity to share, with many fine companions, these varied and lovely realms of our natural world. -Fred Bear

A world away-the natural world as Bear speaks to. That thought kept passing through my head during the three days of Twangfest this fall. Each time I looked out over the surrounding countryside- every time I caught amazing sunsets from high above the encompassing forest. It was reflected in the deafening silence of the predawn morning, waiting for the landscape and trees around me to solidify from the darkness. This place is a world away from everything outside of where we were, if just for a few days. I relished it-every second.

I'm not sure why these thoughts were so vivid this year. We'd all been gathering for “Twangfest” for over 30 years, a group of old college friends who spent a weekend together bow hunting, camping and enjoying our friendship afield. I'd seen those sunsets before, framed by the tops of a massive oak trees and the tall ridges in the distance. In the dark, I'd watch tracers of car lights roam the roads and hiway below, all busy going somewhere. The blackness beneath our high perch base camp was dotted with farmyard lights and in the distance small towns glowed and twinkled. I'd seen that all before and liked it. I was here and “they” were all out there occupied doing other important things I'm sure.

I guess I “pondered” why it felt so disconnected from the outside world this year, but that term seems so old fashioned. Contemplate, reflect? I'll go with those words for they sound more profound, but mean the same thing. Maybe it's an age thing-the older I get, the more I appreciate just being out there. It takes effort and preparation and it's never easy, but there are small moments outdoors that sink into ones primal soul and make it all worthwhile. The snap of a twig or shuffle of leaves in the excruciatingly quiet dawn requires every ounce of attention to identify. Eyes strain to re-connect with a movement, careful to not twitch a muscle least the prey locks onto me instead. Every shift of wind is detected, noted and fretted over-something I don't give a second thought when removed of this place and this time.

Twangfest does detach the group, usually numbering between 6 to 9 guys, from almost everything for this short period of time each year. Smart phones intrude some, but the guys are pretty good about leaving business behind and escaping. It's like we are sequestered here in the woods, with bows and arrows, camo and gear among friends that seem we'd seen yesterday. Not a bad place to be, and one we don't leave once we are unloaded and settled. Any news from the outside world is unwelcome-I kind of take delight (or maybe respite) in not knowing what's going on, in being removed from it all. It allows us to focus on our camaraderie and concentrate on hunting, which yes, we do take seriously, though it's just one part of this yearly gathering.

When bowhunting, you find you get closer to the woodland critters. The flora and the forest floor becomes clearer. You look at things more closely. You're more aware. You know the limited range of the bow is only 40 yards or so. You must try to outwait that approaching deer. Careful not to make the slightest movement or sound hoping that your scent won't suddenly waft his way. That's when you'll know for sure and appreciate deeply what bowhunting is all about." - Fred Bear

Having the bow in hand does alter us-we're no longer an observer, but a participant, something hard to define, but I've found true none the less. As Bear reflects-you do look closer, one does become more aware and everything is clearer-something that maybe is missing from daily life. The Twangfesters in the early years had different priorities, we were all in our early twenties, still in college and a weekend in the woods centered around a lot of crazy fun, some hunting and maybe an impromptu touch football game-in camo. Wait...I guess much of that does remain, plus a lot of music playing and story telling built of many years of returning to this place. But perhaps it's now just the escape, the esprit de corps, that keeps us returning each year. The locations have changed a few times over the years, each spot with a different flavor, each place providing different memories and tales.

Fewer deer are taken these days-the hunters much more picky about the quality of our quarry. “Brown is down” (meaning does are fair game-for we all love venison) is whispered around camp, but in reality, long drives back home after the weekend, then dealing with deer processing probably hampers releasing an arrow from time to time. Chancy attempts are passed on, instead waiting on a opportunity to make a good shot. Filling tags has much less importance now than in early versions of Twangfest. It was said that just preparing, gathering gear (or buying new junk), washing camo and planning on stand placement is half the fun-maybe more. We can always dream of taking that big buck and imagining it happening is something that helps pass countless hours in the blind. Those aspirations also become great fodder for the boys back at camp-who doesn't love chatting up the pre-and post hunt each day?

My companions arriving at Twang after 32 years leave behind for a few days diverse careers-a couple battery executives, a pair of teachers, a musician and a VP of new talent in Nashville, a sales exec and a couple others who manage to drop in from time to time. We've gone from college bachelors donning camo each weekend to starting jobs, changing jobs, raising families, saying good bye to some and even welcoming grandchildren. Perhaps a new generation at some point will join us in the woods, also thankful to be worlds away.

“...to share, with many fine companions, these varied and lovely realms of our natural world.”

Winds of Change

“The Winds of Change”

That line begins it's life from a speech by British Prime Minister Harold macmillan to the Parliament of South Africa in February of 1960. The seeds of independence were beginning to take root in Capetown at that time. Thirty years later, the pop group Scorpions borrowed the phase again- “The future's in the air-I can feel it everywhere-Blowing with the wind of change” My revival of that line here is a long way from South Africa or a German rock band formed in 1965.

The words rushed back to me as I listened to the wind howl through the trees outside one morning, clanging chimes loudly and catapulting anything not tied down into the woods near the house. It seemed a cyclone had blown in overnight, kind of unusual for Wisconsin, not known for such gales. Out west, sure-I was used to non-stop wind whenever my buddies and I head to North Dakota. It's a constant, even in the dead of night we'd discovered. Usually those winds drive ducks and all manner of waterfowl along for the ride. Cold and wind seem perpetual in “nodak” during October.

Molly Morning

We usually make the trek west just before Halloween, which signals the imminent changeover to winter and our last chance for puddlers and divers before winter slams the potholes shut and frozen. Some years arctic air arrives early and breaking ice for dogs and birds becomes the modus operandi, a challenge (not pleasurable) for anyone and everything.

The winds of change arrived this year to be sure. A record high temp preceded us (86 in Bismarck) and it stayed in the upper 60's and 70's during our stay with little to no breeze. All that is fine and dandy, but not exactly favorable to waterfowl hunting. Apparently, the ducks didn't get the memo that late October is when they should be streaming through the pothole region where we hunt. They too must have just stayed put, enjoying the bluebird days wherever they do such things. Needless to say, we walked far and wide for the few birds we did take-scarcity, the order of the day (s). I shudder to think just how much each duck cost per pound on this trip, but again, that's not the reason for doing such things-besides, we re-cooped some of the cost in unused ammo.

Not only the weather was altered, but also the make up of our hunting party. My buds and I are all in our middle 50's, but the average age dropped considerably this year when 3 young sons of a couple of the guys joined us. I was all in favor. It kind of takes the pressure off the four elders to constantly torment and tease each other for now we had new blood. No missed shot would go unnoticed. There was also the advantage to have young backs to carry overflowing bags of decoys to far flung ponds or fit legs to circumnavigate the biggest of potholes.

The newbies were fun and changed the dynamic of our group. Devising a strategy for 8 guys is different from half that. It was almost like making a war plan, involving synchronizing watches, dividing the troops and being sure the correct retrievers tagged along with their owners. Things move slower but broader, from rolling out of bed in the morning to spreading out among all available wetlands in the search for game. There may have been fewer ducks aloft, but steel still flew-the youngins still working on their distance judging. If one shot were fired, then three, then down the line until guns reached the limit of their plugs. I think the ducks had little to fear at some of the volleys .

Molly and Mallard

As usual, filling gamebags was not the priority, but rather enjoying time outdoors together in a beautiful place. We made a point everyday to find the highest point around, park the trucks, let the dogs out to stretch and watch the sun go down. I think the “kids” appreciated it, not realizing in the early days, we'd still be collecting evening decoys at that time of day and slugging them back to the pickup. Now, we just take the time and savor it and the company. Perhaps the highlight of those evenings was the decision to tailgate on one of those hill tops. Why not? Grills were trucked in, coolers and lawn chairs set up and Wisconsin brats sizzled over flame. Times like these are made perfect, not only by the food, friends and scenery, but by stories told-many of which had us in stitches. That crowns a great day hunting out west.

Selfie with 1187 & Molly Mae

All to quickly the trip is over, and the task of packing, cleaning and driving is before us-8 or 9 hours for most back to central Wisconsin. Within 40 miles, the pothole region, with ever present water and rolling hills, is behind us-replaced by a dead flat plain, corn and soybeans. On the horizon, plumes of black smoke-here and there, accompanied us for almost 200 miles. Puzzled at first, I soon realized the source-farmers burning wetlands of cattails and marshgrass, then following with the plow and disk. Change was bowing in on the marshes as well. CRP land, so vital to not just waterfowl, but wildlife in general, was disappearing in every direction we looked. Sky high commodity prices last year had driven CRP acreage into virtual extinction everywhere in North Dakota. The change just in the past year was dramatic-far less habitat meant fewer birds and animals. I understand farmers need to make a living, but a few more acres of corn, fueling the questionable ethanol industry, comes at a high cost for the environment and wildlife.

Change is inevitable. Some, like sharing the outdoor life with new family and friends is the very best kind. Others, like the transformation of the landscape, would be better left untouched, the way the wind and weather formed it and what drew us to it's beauty many years ago. Let's hope the breeze shifts in a positive direction to sustain what we have come to love and keep future generations coming back and living life out of doors.

"USA Pond"

Story Time

Andrew-New Generation

Cornrows

Buck Pond Hike

"Twin Lakes"-Posted

End of Day Storytime

Sunset at Allens

Boot Pond Morning Decoys

Two days, Two Hunts, Same Outcome?

Go afield with a good attitude, with respect for the wildlife you hunt and for the forest and fields in which you walk.  Immerse yourself in the outdoor experience. It will cleanse your soul and make you a better person. -Fred Bear

Fred Bear has always been one of my favorite outdoorsmen, perhaps because of his reserved and respectful character about hunting. He was a childhood idol and I pulled back many a Fred Bear recurve during my early years bowhunting. That was a long time ago and recurves have been replaced by high tech compounds and carbon arrows, none of which make the “outdoor experience” any better-in fact, those modern “advances” really don't matter.

Sure, better equipment, bows, guns, ammo, fishing gear and alike can make our sports more successful-if measured in harvested game. I think the older I get, that measure of success has changed-no, it surely has, because that theme has found it's way onto these pages more than a few times. Part of it is time-in my younger days it seemed time moved ever so casually and it was unlimited. Now in my mid fifties, there seems to be an urgency, that every second spent in the “forest and field “ as Bear speaks to, is precious...as it should be. There are only a finite number of minutes left for me out there.

Thoughts of years left on this planet were not filling my head the other day as I walked back to the truck, lab trotting alongside, double barrel broke and cradled in the crook of my arm. The day's hunt over. The game pouch was weightless. The last few minutes of daylight streamed through the trees far across a prairie valley-switchgrass and tall Big Blue Stem filling the fields in amber. Molly had done her job. I was satisfied in her performance, nailing down a couple rooster pheasant, her tail whipping violently each time she closed the gap on a bird. I could just waltz along following her zig zagging course through the grass and brush. The pheasant did well too-managing to put a tree or two between themselves and my shotgun leaving me with an empty vest and disappointed dog-retrieving is half the fun. Molly would drive back and forth searching out what should be a dead bird, and I felt disappointed for her I didn't connect. But that's how these things go and luckily her memory is short-there are always more birds to seek out and smells to smell.

“It will cleanse your soul and make you a better person.” That was more the thought as I fiddled with the two 20 gauge shells in my hand, then slipped the brass bell off Molly's collar. She happily jumped in the truck-perhaps thinking we were off to another hunting spot or at least to be rewarded with a treat. Two days earlier, at this same field and covering much of the same ground, I'd connected on a nice big colorful rooster. Molly raced to collect the still lively pheasant as it tried to make an escape, but the proud lab would have none of it and returned the bird to my hand. That hunt was much the same-beautiful fall evening, cool temps, the dog getting birdy a few times and a quiet walk back enjoying the sunset warm the colors in the west sky.

“A bird in the Hand....” as they say, was the only difference. Yet, it didn't really make that day any more successful or satisfying. It would provide a good meal at some point and I was thankful to bring back some game, but really, that wasn't the point of being out there. Two hunts, two days, same outcome as far as what is really important and the reason I needed to spend a few minutes afield. Bear's quote, to me, really lands squarely on everything I believe when I lace up some boots, slide the gun into a case and step out the door. It's not about limits being reached or perfect shots, but rather it's about cleansing that soul and making me a better, happier person.

Dogs, Guns and Time

Christian B

“A dog, a gun and time enough.” - George Bird Evans

Whenever bird hunters or about to be bird hunters share a few minutes or hours together, these three topics will always come up. There is no doubt. There is no debate. Dogs, guns and having enough time to do them both justice will be discussed. Birds as well, but as unlikely as it would seem, they are a minor part of the story and whether or not a game bag is filled.

This fall we have been blessed with awful weather. Awful as in the original meaning of the word-things used to be “worthy of awe” which is how we get expressions like “the awful majesty of God.” Yes, awful indeed and days that are not to be missed outdoors. Bird hunting with my good friend Dave Borman and his son Christian of Ladysmith would have to override all other activities these perfectly awful days. Bike riding gear and a fat bike were stowed in the truck-just in case, but I think we knew deep down, their tires would see no dirt. Not when dogs, guns and time were on the agenda.

We have hunted together for well over 30 years, sometimes in the central forest region near my home, others busting brush in the Blue Hills in search of grouse or woodcock. An annual trip to North Dakota is a priority,  putting our pups and and packs of shot on ducks, geese and pheasant is something not to be missed. This year is no different. The ND hunt is a few days away and to tune up the labs and our reflexes, it was decided we'd wade tall swamp grass on a game farm, then try our luck on a state wildlife area in hopes of getting the dogs on as many birds as possible.

Barley, Dave's excellent senior chocolate lab, needed to be afield a few last times-although showing her age, when the weather turns cooler and shotguns are slipped into cases, a spark of youth fills her gimpy little body. The tail starts wagging and she won't let you near the pick-up without her tight against your leg, not to be left behind. And why not?-she is one of the best upland labs I've hunted over and it's her life. It might as well be until she can burrow through the cattails no longer. It was a chance to see if she had the vigor for one more trip out west. As we hunted together once again, the little brown dog proved she still had the goods, confirming my black lab Molly's hits on birds or finding her own. I trusted Barley completely for over the years she is seldom wrong when the tail starts excitedly whipping her backside. “Yep-there is a bird there.” 

Molly May

Molly is in her adult years now-proving herself a solid performer, turning into this serious all business creature when she catches her first hot scent of a bird. Her solid body plows blindly through brush and saw grass letting her nose lead the way-albeit, at times a bit far. As I see it, I just need to keep up and it's tough to slow her down when a rooster is sprinting down cornrows or through a bean field.

Of the pheasant and grouse the pair of labs found and put up-we managed to take about 80%, not bad for using flushing dogs on our first hunt of the year. I'm just happy if I manage to connect once and a while-especially on grouse, who always have a knack of putting trees between me and them during their startling escape. I actually enjoy watching the dogs work and if they can find birds,-zero in on the scent cone and get them flying, they've done well and it's a good day. It's hard to explain witnessing a good bird dog do their thing to someone who has never had the privilege to.

Dave recently added a new gun to his collection-mostly for the tougher birds out west, but really as an excuse to get a new gun. His eldest son Andrew would be joining us for this years adventure and would inherit Dave's older scattergun. Perfect reason (in all our minds) to pick up a new smoke pole. Obviously, it should be tested, so he was anxious to run a some shells through the barrel. After watching the first few birds wave bye after his shots, we dealt him (and his new gun) a good deal of ribbing-justified, of course. In no time, they became comfortable with each other, much like my well used over and under, and birds started to drop. Christian, a full time education student, has less time to hone his shooting skills, but made some good clean kills on a few birds. As nice as new guns are, and we discussed this, we always seem to wax on and on about the venerable 870-one of our first guns and as trustworthy as they come. We always have one along as a spare, knowing full well, they can be counted on without fail. With my double and Dave's auto loader, we sometimes forget to pull the trigger a second, or third time, not having the '70s slide action to prompt the followup shot.

There were plenty of times while loading or unloading guns and dogs or when just stopping for a minute in the field, we remarked how peerless these days were. How matchless October outings can be like we were living, with bells on collars, vests stuffed with shells and the sound of a round chambered with authority. I love that sound. The scent of wet dog, gun oil and decaying leaves waif around us-a most incomparable perfume. I wish I had bottles of it for days I'm stuck in lifes' other distractions though not everyone would appreciate the fragrance I suppose. Those smells, those sounds, the talk of dogs, guns and time I cannot get enough of. Time is always too short here. Always. 

Dave & C-Man and the Tiny Vest