The turn signal clicked off and the
pickup started to roll down the steep blacktop township road north of
Black River Falls. Moments earlier, the long shanked padlock was
daisy chained to an odd set of other locks securing the steel gate of
the hunting land. A sappy sad moment for me for I had that duty.
The 33rd, 34th, or 36th
Twangfest had come to it's conclusion.
The bowhunting weekend has been a
tradition with a bunch of my friends since our days in college at UW
LaCrosse in the early eighties. Quick Sunday trips to Jackson County
to bow hunt turned into long weekends of camping in late October or
early November each year. None one seems to be able to nail down the
exact “first Twang.” At that time we were busy graduating from
college, moving to other towns and cities, starting careers-beginning
the adult life.
Luckily for us, Twangfest was a
consistent reason to pull us back together each year. For most of
the 7 or 8 of us, we've been back over three decades...and counting.
The Black River Falls area has been our
home base, landing on three properties through the years.
Fortunately, we have connections through parents who are generous
land owners and allow us to gather each year and hunt their land. We
try to be good stewards of their generosity and are so appreciative
in these times of shrinking hunting access. We're scattered from
Neillsville to Nashville, to Chicago and Minneapolis, so having a
once a year home on private property is something we're grateful for.
The 2015 edition starts like everyone
before it-immense anticipation starting at about 50 miles down the
road from the previous year. The prospect of the next Twangfest
grows throughout the year and everyones calendar is kept clear the
first week in November (prime whitetail rut, of course). Thoughts of
what new “junk” (hunting gear) needs to be procured for Twang
doesn't end until we pull into the gassy landing in front of the old
trailer. No different for me as I made a quick stop in BRF for last
minute things before heading up the steep coulee.
Typically we arrive on a Thursday late
morning and hunt until Sunday noon. The first day is so much easier
than the last-trucks and cars are swiftly unloaded-tubs overflowing
with camo and food stuffed into the modest, if not rough old mobile
home. Resident mice are encouraged to leave and stale air circulated
out the door. Man hugs and back slapping abound, for most of us have
pretty limited chances to see each other during the year. It's a
homecoming of sorts for the “brothers.”
Greetings and catching up conversations
gradually subside after the last vehicle pulls in and thoughts of
hunting commence. By all accounts, we should hit the peak rut just
right these four days-I'd seen a lot of sign of that in the previous
scouting trips here the past week. For most of the gang, this is
their only bow hunting opportunity of the year, so we try and make
the best of it. New crisp camo and old ratty stuff is soon donned
and practice arrows flung at a target just to be sure bows and arrows
are good to go.
We hit the woods early-during the rut,
animals could be moving and chasing at any time and with the
expectancy of shooting a big buck running high, there was little
delay. A pick-up is loaded and soon bouncing down a logging road to
the far end of 200 acres with happy hunters aboard.
That first afternoon always feels like
a test run of sorts, the real hunt would begin in the morning. Some
of us use the same general stands and blinds each year, while others,
are “not sure where to go” and skulk around a bit for the most
promising spot. We use this opening p.m. hunt to get back the feel,
the aura of the woods and where the deer may be.
The general theme of the hunt at Twang
this year was wind-lots of it. Forecasts looked fine
temperature-wise, but strong breezes would not let up. With tall
ridges and deep valleys, the gusts also circulate from all directions
it seems. A steady blow from the north west most days up above was
south east or variable down below where most of us hunted. Not to
make excuses, but it did hint at limiting deer activity. Sadly, it's
the only thing I could come up with.
One of the best parts about hunting
with these guys is “story time” when returning to the
truck-while I may not have seen anything, it matters little if
someone else did or there is a tale to be told. Each new
reappearance of someone at the pickup would begin the same: “Whatja
see??? What's the story?” And
the new report would be woven into the previous ones and the first
ones back would need to repeat everything again. I'm never sure if
it's best to tell ones tale first or last.
The
narrative from the day one gathering (and every morning and afternoon
sessions thereafter) was almost the same for everyone. Maybe one or
two deer seen-mostly far away, very little chasing activity, no “horn
monsters” and bows frustratingly remaining at rest, arrows in the
quiver.
There
were a few variations to that theme-a small “sixer” did peg
“Junkman” as it appeared behind him-7 yards. “Polecat,” who
had a divine location nestled into a quiet draw, would be skunked
everyday. Nixter, directly from Nashville for his annual woods
venture, seemed more surrounded by turkeys than whitetails. “Googins”
(yes, everyone has a nickname) would watch helplessly as does worked
in and out of the “sanctuary” on the neighbors land. “Pete”
the conductor, JoJo, Claudius and I all stayed with the
light-in-the-deer-sightings version. That's why it's called hunting,
right?
They
were long days in the stand, but as usual, we feel alert there and
everyday work, news and distractions are forgotten. These woods and
the hunt insulate us from diversions of real life. Maybe what we
were doing was more “real?”
Evenings
are filled with cooking, enjoying a few refreshments, and laughter
overcoming the howling winds outside. Guitars, a bass and feeble
attempts at percussion join the revival of songs echoed here each
year. It's Twang-Jam time and some of us (myself especially) just
sit back an enjoy watching the talent in the room come alive. The
music stops only when the last few heads start to droop or tired
hunters shuffle to their bunks. The Son's of the Pioneers
would be blaring too loudly and too soon the next morning as our alarm-quite effective.
I'm not sure why, but this year seem to
fly by way fast-all of a sudden it's Saturday, our last full day to
hunt. Seemed like we just pulled in. I shouldn't be surprised I
suppose-time has a way of accellerating as we get older. We were
just 20 or so when this 'fest started, now we're pushing through the
mid 50's. A lot has changed. Appreciate the time together more? The
effort to come together worth it? Yes to all those thoughts.
My truck had the shortest drive back
home after leaving the Twangfest grounds and locking the gate. I'd
be unloaded, washing hunting clothes and showered before some of the
guys were even half way back. Like the rest of the vehicles, mine
was empty of deer- no venison from this outing, but like anything
that challenges us, we'll keep coming back for the next time. I
can't wait.
