W1045

W1045-March 2020

W1045 is the DNR ID number for wolf 1045.  He'll be known as that for as long as he's "on the air" and long afterwards if he has a life and stories worth remembering.  Hopefully he'll provide more information for those of us who conduct, monitor and help with wolf research.  Personally, he's special to me as he's from a pack I know quite well and live among.  There are other packs like that in Jackson and Clark counties of the Central Forest, but he'll be one I'll really want to follow and get to know better.

There's my preface of this post.  It can sit there for a moment.  It's been a while since writing and yes, I've had subjects in the cue-Ice Age Trail hikes, kayaking, mountain biking etc....but the urgency to type hasn't been there like back in March when the covid crisis started.  It's now 4 months in and although we had a downward trend in April (and many other countries contained it then) Americans grew tired, lax and have no consistent plan from anywhere to stop it.   Why this tucked in here?  I guess the frustration is always sitting under the surface lately-sometimes crawling out on FB posts, but I'm preaching to the choir there for the most part.

 There seems little to look forward to-can't make plans.  Unsure of the future.  Even activities I love seem more like I'm going thru the motions.  Using up a day.  Like flying with an unhappy baby on an airplane-you just gotta make it thru....but lately, it seems like the pane will never land.  

So that leaves me with doing what I can to make days during this crisis meaningful.   I love working with wildlife, and wolves especially are a fascinating species and one I study.  I jump at every chance to learn more.  I remain basically laid off from my DNR work until re-hiring starts up again. There is so much work to do from our work station, and I think it could be done with low risk but for now, wait and see.  So sans that work option, I look for volunteering opportunities.

Trapping wolves in Wisconsin in order to place research GPS collars on them, takes place in late May and early June.  Pups have been born and are usually hanging close to their den-adults wander far and wide to find food for their growing appetites.  Travel corridors during these time periods give a trapper the opportunity to be successful.  It's no easy task to get an adult wolf in a 50+ square mile territory to place one foot on a specific spot the size of a coke can.    This time span also proceeds the bear hound "training" season which starts July 1st.  It would be difficult then as the public lands are crawling with pick-ups, hounds chasing bears and wolf/ hound conflict and depredations begin.  (sidebar: I don't understand running bear when heat indexes push to the 90 and 100 degree range and hounds are placed into known pack territories. A personal frustration.)

W1045 has been around for a number of years-a survivor so far in a county known for frequent poaching.  He's appeared on my cameras before-at least I'm quite sure it's him.  Same territory, same pelage (fur coloring).  He's a big male as Wisconsin animals go, in the 90 # range.  Contrary to fairy tales from barstool biologists, that is about as big as they ever get in the state and a little unusual-no 150 or 200# Little Red Riding Hood big bad wolves out there.  The really interesting aspect of W1045 is that the day before he was trapped, I had seen him about 3 miles away from where he was caught while driving a forest lane looking for tracks.  No way to know for sure, but it was the same color, in the right area and checking tracks he left behind, he seem to fit.  Ironically, I'd also been in the area checking cameras and discovered him in several frames from March and April in a full thick winter coat!

W1045- April 2020

Covid effected trapping season as well.  Normally it would be a crew of 3 scheduled ahead of time, generally over a 2 week period.  The trapper, and 2 assistants.  There is a lot to do in a short amount of time for the welfare of the animal.  Assistant duties include distracting the animal when it's being sedated, constantly monitoring temperature during work-up, and cooling as needed. Recording information on a particular animal, following a check list step by step and monitoring it during reversal.  It's all done efficiently and professionally.  This year was different, as we traveled in separate vehicles, wore masks and took precautions.  Instead of being formally scheduled, we were on-call to help as needed should a wolf be captured.

The system worked well and I was able to help out on W1045-a fortunate thing as during reversal, the trapper headed out to check other sets and as luck would have it, W1046 was also caught the same day.  Another assistant was called in to help there while I watched this big guy finally wander off into the woods. 

During the June session, one more wolf was collared from a pack researchers were targeting, so a successful season overall.  Data from collar locations will be used to learn more about wolf and elk interactions, pack territory shifts and generally where they are spending their time throughout the year.   Trapping never goes smoothly and challenges included bears tripping or pulling sets completely out, raccoons digging attractants and some days just a general disinterest by animals walking by without investigating a perfectly good set. All frustrating, but a part of the game.

For myself, it's an chance to really be up close and personal with an animal that normally is seen only through the lens of a game camera pic or track on a sandy road or snow covered trail.  They are often such a maligned animal, misunderstood by many-especially in the area I live.  I'm thankful to have such an opportunity during these crazy times volunteering with W1045 and others. I'm glad I could contribute to learning more about him (and them,) a species I hope we can appreciate for what they are, how they live and who lives among us and makes the wild a little bit more wild.

W1045 Reversing

The Country on Fire.

I joked with Rick that his RX prairie burns are always one of the big deals in the Town of Hewett...and I wasn't joking.  With firetrucks lined up along Columbia Av and white and gray smoke lifting up into the sky, it's about all the action we get out here. Exciting stuff.  Rick and Toni Sturtz live on an old farmstead, which they have transformed into a wondrous home property-caretakers of the land until the next generation comes along.

There are few prairies anywhere in the central forest region of Wisconsin.  It's hard to imagine that a 1000 years ago, all of this landscape would have been covered by warm season grasses and plants.  The Sturtz's are doing their part to bring a little back and enhance the environment.  Over the course of years since flipping the fallow ground back to what it is today, it's steadily improved and more and more varieties of prairie plants find their way "home."

I've written and posted pictures of these RX fires before, so I think there was a different need to do so this morning.  CV19 has claimed over 100,000 lives in the US and shows no sign of slowing.  In Wisconsin, it's getting worse as we "opened up" 2 weeks ago.  24% unemployment. The murder of George Floyd by a Minneapolis police officer a week ago,  has now fanned protests and looting and violence across the nation.  (Knowing that protests & the violence are not the same thing, nor the people).  We are on fire in the US, literally and figuratively. There isn't anyone alive that knows how this will end, or if it will end.  3 months ago I had the same ache and anxiety, and it's returned today, but for a different reason. The racial injustice that has always been below and above the surface and those who willingly and purposely fan those flames as we are learning today.

Seems fire is a theme in this post.

So escaping all of that, Rick invited me help yesterday.  Of course-I'd be glad to.  Usually I'd have a big camera in hand, but it was replaced by some kind of fiberglass broom, used to stomp out any escaping flames heading sneaking to where they shouldn't.  The firemen had it all under control and I didn't have to do much 'sweeping."  The firebreaks were green, and the back fires worked like a charm.  The head fire really was subdued, but still blackened the majority of the field.  Successful in any regard.  I walked around in the black, made some pictures and took in the transformation of this property.

Our country is being transformed as well.  These past few months I've noted the very best in humanity in those who realize we're in this together (however cliche that is, it fits) and the very worst, as we are seeing now.  I don't think there ever will be a "normal" or a getting back to where we used to be. In so many ways we can't and shouldn't.  Like the prairie starting over after fire, so will we-we have to, to make this world better.

And then some pictures:

A Creek Runs Through It

The post title is an homage to one of my favorite books-"A River Runs Through It" by Norman Maclean.  His tale of brothers and a family, who's life intertwines with a river, with fly fishing and an obsession with both.  In my world, trout live in small creeks and streams and there are no large cold flowing rivers like the Blackfoot in Macleans book.  Flyfishing is challenging in the tree and brush sheltered waters around here, so bait or spinners are more common.  But trout are trout and they are different than other fish and maybe trout fishermen are too.

I'd been exposed to trout fishing only briefly as a young boy by my grandpa Schultz and Uncle Johnny.  We'd drive south a few miles from the cottage in Hazelhurst to the Rocky Run creek off hiway 51.  A hike back through dense forest about 1/4 mile lead to the stream.  Worms were tossed in a few holes and most of the time brookies filled the old wicker creel destined for Grandma Emmas cast iron pan.

In the early 80's I'd find myself back alongside trout water again.  I'd started my first teaching job in Neillsville and Bob Moore, a HS history teacher, kind of took me under his wing in all things outdoors in this unfamiliar neighborhood.   He showed me his best bow hunting spots and frequently we hunted together.  He also dragged me along to fish the tiniest of trout waters in Jackson County, west of Neillsville and taught me the ways of putting fish in the bag.

We bait fished-actually more like hunting.  We were camo clad and literally crawling through brush trying to thread a nightcrawler and line thru tangles and tall grass into the creek.  Doing so  without spooking fish or getting hung up was a challenge.  We'd move from place to place, give the fish a look at the bait, if no hit, then try the next spot.  Generally, we'd get our 5 trout limit and be back home by mid morning.

That was 30+ years ago.  Kids came along and time to sneak out myself to fish was limited.  Until now.  Of course the world has changed and I have a lot of time on my hands and returning to the trout streams seemed like a good thing-a diversion to a quiet unhurried place.  I tapped into our fish biologist Kramer at work and asked about what he uses and where he goes.  I'm sure, like all fishermen, he didn't tell me everything, but he got me started.  The creeks I'd fished with Bob Moore all those years ago were now sub-par, silted and shallow and holding fewer and smaller fish than years ago.

 So I'd be moving and exploring new water and exchanging worms for spinners. Casting would be different and not entirely easy in these tight twisty creeks.  With bait, you'd drop it with a split shot on the line in a likely looking spot, let the current drift it along and hopefully in front of a trout nose.  I suppose a spinner fishing is a bit like casting a fly-you're actively trying to place the lure as close to the fish as possible and coax a strike.

My first attempts a couple weeks ago  went okay, though starting out I was reminded of the 10,000 casts adage in musky fishing.  It seemed that was how many I tossed before finally catching and releasing my fist small brookie.  At least I must have done something right?  Immediately I caught a second and kept it for the frying pan.  The creek was small here at a road bridge, but did have a larger deep pool on the opposite side-perfect looking spot, but 5000 casts later, nothing.

 Trout fishermen get obsessive of their sport-I'm understanding that now.  That same little stream got it's claws in me when I hooked into a big brown trout a bit downstream, the largest I'd ever seen or had on a line.  It got tangled in a branch of course, but I managed to free it and work to a clear spot.  The next issue was getting him out of the water. The water was too deep to wade in and I really couldn't get to it as the banks were too high and straight down to the water.  So, I tried gently lifting him up and out which resulted in a big brown trout quickly swimming away downstream.  Damn.

I've returned to that spot again and several other streams Kramer had shared with me.  It seemed every time I learn something new, I became better at reading the water-where fish may be waiting in ambush.  My casting techniques improved and getting tangled with overhanging sticks is a bit less frequent. I'd return home with fish enough for a meal and a need to change out equipment that just wasn't working.  The open bail spinning real was shelved for an enclosed one-less tangles in all my short casts.  Asking other trout fishing friends, my spinner collection grew and narrowed to what seemed to generate the most hits.  A new net was needed as I tired of cutting the hooks out every time I landed a fish in the black nylon one.  Brand new hip boots are now left in the garage replaced by my old neoprene chest waders for it seems to work better to actually be in the water working my casts upstream at fish level-who knew?  I've learned that spring stocked rainbows taste bad and though fun to catch, get slid back into the water.  Brookies are beautiful and make great table fare so that's what I want now hitting my lures.

I haven't forgotten Brown Trout-that day one fish is seared in my mind-watching it plunk back into the water and swim away.  I've yet to catch another and I know they are there...somewhere.  I think I'm getting that trout fishing preoccupation with getting one on my line again and maybe this time landing one.

Like the brothers Maclean, Norman and Paul from the book, I'm starting to understand the ardent pursuit of a perfect pool, a perfect cast and perfect fish.  I don't know if  I'll ever get there, but now seems to be the time to try.

Of course now I'm too old to be much of a fisherman, and now I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. But when I'm alone in the half light of the canyon, all existence seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories, and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River, and the four-count rhythm, and a hope that a fish will rise. Eventually all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood, and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
— Norman Maclean, (1976)

Coach Doug

Coach Doug

My cell pinged and I saw it was from long time friend Janet Capetti. A little unusual. She works in the Special Olympics state office in Oregon and we stay in touch mostly via facebook or over the years prior to or after a World Games.  If I happen to be a head coach, and an Oregon coach applies for an assistant position, I would always contact her for a reference.

This wasn't that type of call or message. It was simple, and short. "Hi Steve. Hope this finds you well. I'm messaging you to share sad news, and I'm sorry to do so. Our sweet friend Doug passed away. Not really sure what happened. Just know he passed "in his sleep". My heart aches. He was one of the best."

He was.  A shock to be sure.  He had a recent birthday and the picture above was still fresh in my mind.

Doug Trice was one such coach I wanted to know more about before the 2011 SO World Games in Athens Greece where I had been named head coach.  Janet connected with me and could not say enough good things about Doug-his personality, his involvement with Special Olympics, his coaching style and knowledge of the sport (track and field).  I didn't have to scour his resume to decide if he would be a good fit for our team, I trusted Janet's recommendation.  I called and caught up and it seemed the more we discussed Doug-the stronger he became as a candidate.

The closest thing I've ever had to a manger-as in hire and fire type manager, is being a head coach and being involved with selecting assistant coaches.  Yes...the application needs to be filled out correctly, the resume should be strong and there should be a feeling that the coach loves the sport they are applying for.  I also like to call and actually talk to these coaches.  You can get one impression on paper, but just having a conversation can usually bring out a more authentic perception of who they are.  Such was the case with Doug.

I asked if he was interested in the World games coaching position.  "I would be very pleased," he replied.

San Diego was our training camp site and the first chance to meet all of the coaches and athletes on the "Team USA" Athletics team.  Coaches each have a role to play-maybe as a event specific coach, like distance, or sprints or throws or as a more general coach.  In some cases I'd know that ahead of time, and in others it may take a day on the track to see where each coaches strengths are.

Doug had a quiet, restrained coaching style.  Technically, he was stronger in some events than others, but he was also humble enough to always watch and learn from some of the others.  That was his greatest strength. Athletes related well to him, as did all of us on the team.  He would do whatever needed to be done and at any time.  Doug was a consummate team player.

The 2011 World Games were held in Athens Greece with a couple days at the Isle of Rhodes for host town.  Volumes could be written here regarding the travel challenges, schedule, training and "hurry up and wait" that is the modus operandi of any Special Olympics event.  Doug was always composed through it all.  Our home during the games was THE Olympic Stadium in Athens.  Looking at the Olympic rings, touching the track, sitting in the marble trimmed stands...all hallowed ground for any track athlete and coach.

When Doug wasn't escorting, warming up or staging athletes, he could be found as a calming and reassuring force in our team "camp."  You could run ideas past him and could always get an honest reply.  He was a coach you could consistently count on.

I made this photo of Doug in Athens or Rhodes.  I loved this picture and I thought it captured him well. I think he liked it too. He had a gentle soul, a kindness toward all around him. He checked in with me frequently over the years asking about life in general, kids and grandkids (he was a grandpa as well by now).  I was most humbled to have him in my Special Olympics family. 

You will be missed Coach Doug. 

Run fast, turn left.

Vulpes vulpes

A month ago, when snow still blanketed the ground, I'd been noticing a lot of canine tracks-some larger, a coyote and others 2 fingers wide of a red fox.  The 3 properties I regularly hike through seemed blanketed with tracks and some I noted, went right past my neighbor Jeannie's shed and barn.  That seemed a little unusual, but the barn has sat empty for many years and may be fertile hunting grounds.

Approaching my turkey blind a couple weeks back,  I bumped into Vulpes vulpes, an adult red fox.  He or she scampered away from my tent, not in any big hurry and took the time to stop and watch me.  A moment or two later, it continued on in search of a meal I'm sure.  The next day, a ping on my phone from Jeannie told of fox pups outside of the barn using an old wood chuck hole as a den.  Ahh, that's the reason there had been so much activity on this farm-mouths to feed.

It turned out there are 3 pups holed up near the base of the old silo.  They would have born around March 6th, making them about 7 weeks old.  I decided to set a turkey tent up about 50 yards away and try to get some photographs-how can you beat cute fox pups for subject matter?  You can't.

They seemed to be active starting around 6:30 and would be outside the den for an hour or 2.  In another week, they'll venture out further and start getting trained by the parents.  I fumbled with the camera on my first morning, having just settled in as the first pup crawled out.  Locking down the camera on the tripod, I started firing away.  A second and third pup emerged as one of the adults returned with food behind the silo.  They'd return with a mouse or shrew, chew on it, toss it in the air and perform some of the classic fox pounces-which was hilarious.  Already at this young age, they had those hunting instincts.

I returned a couple days to make more pictures and was lucky to have good morning light as well.  They seemed to be coming out earlier and usually I didn't have to sit very long to see them and the adults coming back and heading out to hunt.  The vole, mouse, mole and gopher population would be reduced on the Reed farm-a good thing, as there are no shortages around here.  

I may return in a week to see how they've grown or if they have moved on to another place in the neighborhood.

Gopher for breakfast

Intent on Pigeon

Morning greeting

The Pounce

Anticipation

A taste of Normalcy

The big bend on Wedges Creek

 It was consciously awkward standing on the roadside discussing the creek we were about to paddle and work on.  The social distancing has now become ingrained it seems.  It's been just a month, but the importance of doing so, seems to be second nature.  There are masks tucked in our pockets as well if needed.

Jeff Polzin is a friend and retired doctor from Black River Falls.  I'd say he is kind of the paddling "instigator" in our area.  He's very active in the "Friends of the Black River" group, who organize paddling trips and keep the creeks and rivers clear for kayakers and canoes.  We're blessed with some of the finest water for paddlers anywhere in the state.  The Black of course, the East Fork (of the Black), Halls, Robinson, Morrison and Wedges creeks all are within a half hour of each other.  Mike Svob, author of many paddling guidebooks of Wisconsin, has said if he could only live in one place, it would be Jackson county, just for the exceptional water.

Like most outdoor clubs and groups, there are usually a very small number of volunteers that do the bulk of the behind the scenes work.  The Friends of the Black River is no different.  While the Black and East Fork are always clear being bigger rivers, all of the small creeks need help to keep water flowing.  Flooding, wind and heavy snow drop trees which can block safe passage for paddlers.  Once  there, they usually stay and just attract more debris, sometimes forming  huge jams.

I've helped Jeff before, and he takes the work seriously.  His truck is loaded with long bar Stihl chainsaws, chaps, helmets, fuel and everything else do do work in the water.  Watching the intensity of him clearing trees, I sometimes wonder if he doesn't like chainsawing more than paddling!

We dropped a shuttle vehicle at the takeout in the ghost town of Columbia on Wedges Creek.  It's at the halfway point if someone paddled the entire creek.  With masks on, we headed back the 5 or 6 miles to the put-in just below the Snyder Lake dam.  Jeff would tether the equipment boat with saws and gas in it behind his and I'd follow along and hop out wherever we needed to.

The day was sunny, 45 with some snow lingering along the banks yet.  Water was really cold, but dressed in dry suits, we'd be fine.  Approaching a jam or just trees in dangerous places, we'd beach the boats, don helmets and set to work chunking longs and limbs into three foot pieces.  In doing so,  they can slide through downstream without causing another problem spot.  I'd guess it's quite a sight-helmeted PFD and chap wearing guys sending up plumes of water from the saws doing their work.

The top section of Wedges (to Columbia) is normally about an hour and a half paddle.  On this day, we'd be on the water for almost 5.  The first major choke point was just a quarter mile from the put in and we'd spend almost 2 hours on that section.  Others downstream were simpler-maybe one or 2 trees in bad spots here and there and not too difficult to clear.  There is great satisfaction in doing this work.   Now I know why Jeff is so fanatical about it-if he had his way and the time, all these local creeks would be pristine with nothing out of place.

We floated and chatted (yes, keeping our social distance) and stopped where needed.  Water levels were good, so not too much bumping the bottom along the way.  This section has 2 little drops so no problem even for Jeff towing the second kayak.  Most the forest along the shore is county property so it really is beautiful.  Wildlife was a bit scarce-wood ducks, deer and beaver activity were about all we saw.

We did leave a few trees for next time, but for now it is perfectly fine for paddling trips. We found a good take out on 5 Mile Creek just above the Wedges' Middle Road bridge.  It's private property, but the landowner is kind enough to allow creek assess. Dogs and neighbors came out to visit and chat about the creek.   It'd been a long day on the water-I was tired and would be sore the next day from slinging the saw, but it's all good.  In a "normal" spring, I may have viewed this work differently, but in these times, it was appreciated as an escape and a little taste of normalcy.

The Bird & a 40 Year Old Gun

Bird and old 870

The turkey hunting business is a juxtaposition of long hours of waiting, watching and listening and a flurry of action and anticipation.  Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to it.  I'm okay with long hours, especially now, when I'm not taking even the little things for granted.

As I sat tucked inside my blind, protected from the strong cold wind, sipping the coffee slowly.  The spent 12 gauge shell still smelled of burned gunpowder and was tucked in my pocket.  The 40 year old Remington 870 leaned in the corner.  It had done it's job, as if there was any doubt.  The dead tom was still and 30 yards away, very near the 2 mismatched decoys.  I didn't have to run out there, I could sit and stay and warm my chilled hands up on my coffee cup.  My season was over.

The week of my hunt started out cold-just 9 degrees and 8" of snow on the ground, not ideal and I'd be lying if I said I was in the blind at the crack of dawn.  I wasn't.  The first couple days I'd head out later, sit a few hours, call and scout for tracks and would find none.  Two neighbors were kind enough to let me hunt their land, so I had options.  I'd need them.

One thing that I've always loved about turkey hunting is the sounds and unexpected things you see when in the woods as the day wakes.  Stepping out of the truck in the dark, I noticed the beautiful crescent moon over the farm field-stars out but also an oranging sky, then 2 deer heads with alert ears are silhouetted staring me down yards away.  They hustle away as I must have interrupted their morning feeding time on the alfalfa field.

In the cocoon of the dark blind, the sounds start.  Cranes unison calling, so loud, shattering the morning sky.  Pairs of geese coming off the roost.  Always crows and a boss mama robin.  The odd call of a hairy woodpecker then their hammering on dead trees echoing in the otherwise still air.  I call on the slate, but get no reply.  I repeat, louder and in different directions, but nothing.  This scene repeats for a couple days, which is fine. It's hunting.

Run and gun is a phrase some turkey hunters use when they call and hearing no replies, move on to the next spot to try their luck.  It works best early, when birds are still roosted of just hitting the ground and gobbling.  I had 2 blinds and by 7:00am, wasn't doing anything. I move on a mile distant to the Reed Farm.  It's odd waltzing across the field in broad daylight like that and the red fox ambling, then  stopping to check me out must have thought so too.  I'd seen tracks in the snow, but now could actually see him-not in any great hurry, but moving off to continue his hunt.  I'm sure there are hungry kits and a vixen nearby. 

High winds during the night did a number on my tent as it lay flattened the following morning.  A tom was gobbling just across the field in the dark, so I really needed to get this set up and deeks out.  He kept it up for a good 45 minutes, but never in answer to my yelping.  Frustrating.  The winds were still high, but I was pretty sure he could hear me.  A hen there?  Wait and see.  At full sunrise, the trees where he had been were lit up by warm light.  His calls were on the ground now and moving. I think he was romancing a date.  Sure enough-a hen appeared, 400 yards away, but no visible suitor.  She worked her way diagonally toward me picking along for 20 minutes.  I'd call for fun and she might look up disinterested.

The relentless wind didn't let up and had knocked my jake decoy off kilter. Fretting that my set up looked off, I belly crawled over to it and slit a hole in so the stake could keep it in position.  In the end, worth the effort of sneaking out when birds were around.  Two dark birds walked out in unison, distantly following the hen.  Now my call made them take notice-this might be game on?  They never gobbled, but now realized another "bird" was yelping away from the one they were perusing.   They eventually caught up to her, but she was still having none of it and the pair changed tactics and peeled off in my direction. They'd seen the decoys and walked straight across the hay field to them.  Shot gun at the ready, but they were side by side and getting closer-safety off, bead on the front one and wait til they they separated just enough to make a clean shot.  At 20 yards the hunt was over, new shell chambered and safety pressed back on.

That's how it goes.  There is a sense of thankfulness and respect at this point, so no need to hurry out.  The excitement of a successful hunt should be appreciated just as being out there is.  Let the steam rise and the sun warm take non of it for granted.

The Mask

I've been lucky enough through Special Olympics to travel to some amazing places.  From Ireland to Abu Dhabi, countries with great contrast, but wonderful people.  As such, it also means I've spent time in international airports,  there is a whole 'nother story) and something you'll see are masks.  Almost exclusively on the faces of travelers from Asian countries. While in Korea and Japan, I'd see the same.  I'd thought they looked silly and paranoid, but I didn't live in their world. Until now.

I'm wearing one.

I sat in the truck outside the grocery store.  First trip after things started getting really serious.  The store had taken precautions for employees and customers. They are keeping us alive. They were wearing masks.  I slipped mine on as I walked across the parking lot-feeling a little self conscious.  About half of the shoppers wore them, so I felt like-okay, this is how we live now.  I recognized a few people, but most didn't talk to each other.  Get in, get out, get what you needed.  Scurry through the store and keep your distance.  I guess one could only tell how others were feeling by looking at their eyes.

Out the door, wipe hands with sanitizer, wash them well at home.  The new normal.

By the 3rd and 4th trips, it wasn't a big deal.  This is what we have to do to beat this virus down.  Some sacrifice now for the good of everyone.  Then the protests start a few days ago.  Encouraged by our president.  He's claimed them as his people and is in favor of them in his own words and tweets.  Apparently, they are medical experts.  Apparently the rule of law doesn't matter, health department orders don't matter, they know better than our top endocrinologists.  They know better than the White Houses own recommendations to our governors.   They expose themselves and everyone else them come close to. They prolong this shutdown whether they want to or not-F'n no one wants this lockdown, but it has to be done.  I'm not willing to see any of my family or friends die so they can escape what we all have to do.  They will put a greater burden on our doctors, nurses and hospital staff and facilities.  We could be flattening out this sh*t, but their selfish acts will prolong it.

  Instead of coming together as a people, as a country, this is dividing us further.  It's us and them, and that is the last thing we need. 

I know I try to control only what I can control. It's all I can do. It's all any of us can do right now.  Stay the course. Wear the mask.

Infuences and Knives

 I have to admit as I start typing this-I'm not sure where it's going to go, but I know I wanted to say something.    I can trace the seed of this post back to a couple things recently.  I was looking at some finely crafted knives by friend Greg Wohlfeil on one of his FB posts-they are well made and the shape and design I appreciated.  I'd made and sold a few knives back years ago when I dabbled in  blacksmithing, so his work interested me.  Yesterday I ran across a carefully wrapped bundle in the bottom of some hunting supplies, a few of those very knives I'd made so long ago.  Which, in turn, lead me to think about the collage professor who taught me so much more than knifemaking and art metals. Then it was then a short step down the rabbit hole to other instructors who influenced me along the way.

Which leads to the rest of this story.

 I transferred to UW LaCrosse in the fall of 1979, enrolled in the "Broadfield Art" program-so I'd have a full art major, plus a full education BS by the time all was said and done.  Prior to that move, I probably liked painting and drawing the most, with some exposure to sculpture (at UWMC).  UWL of course had so much more to offer and I was mostly game to dive in.

The ground level of the fine arts building houses the art metal, ceramics and sculpture facilities.  I recall signing up for art metals-something I had never really done, but was willing to try.  This bushy mustached art professor with a quick smile, but also all business eyes set the workman like tone right off the bat.  The first few projects were heavy soldering artworks-if you're going to make jewelry, you have to be an expert at soldering.  After a few band rings, we set off on making a roman chain, which involves joining hundreds of tiny rings together with silver solder.  The work is tedious, but in the end, you've learned a valuable skill you could do blindfolded.  That's the way Bill Fiorini worked and taught and projected learning to his students.

For the 3 years I spent in his lab, I climbed up the art metals ladder, taking every course Fiorini... I mean "Bill," offered.  He was a PHD, but insisted we address him by his first name.  I worked hard in his room and spent every free hour back in there-it became my home base.  In time, I became like an assistant doing work study for him.  Silver and other metals became my passion and I loved designing and filling up sketchbooks.  Bill also taught blacksmithing, so I had a chance to jump into that as well, and of course forging knife blades pushed me in a new direction.

Fiorini made Damascus steel knife

I sustained interest in art metals after being hired in Neillsville in 1983. Back then, I taught middle school and high school art and could set up classes how I wanted.  Metals wasn't offered, so within a year, we had torches, centrifuges, rolling mills and casting furnaces.  NHS now could go full speed into art metals.  I continued knife making on my own and stayed in contact (through postcards and letters mind you) with Bill for years.  I have to admit, of all the teachers I ever had, he probably influenced me in my teaching more than any.   William Fiorini passed away June 4th 2011 at the age of 69.  I believe he taught at UWL for over 40 years, and thinking of him and those years, he's missed.

Bill Fiorini

So there is the knife to influences connection in a round about way I guess.  I'd be remiss if I left it there, for as long as I'm at UWL, I should mention a couple others.

Dewayne Lesperence's sculpture lab was also on that lowest level, just down the hall from art metals.  He had boom like cranes in there, plaster, welders, paper mache, plastics and just about every amazing material you could think of.  Dewayne had his sculpture students and maybe because I'd spent all my time in the medals lab I missed out.  Sculpture was never really my thing-I'd taken some at "The MC" and it never really pulled at me that much.  I loved his classes, but never produced anything amazing like some of the others.  He was a musician as well and played in several bands in the La Crosse area.  Always fun to party with (yes, we did that in those days) I can say he also shaped my art career, maybe in ways I didn't fully understand at the time.  I came back and visited and again letters and post cards were traded for many years.  We even exchanged works of art as gifts along the way.  He retired in 1995 and died in 2011 at the age of 78 after teaching 26 years.

Dewayne Lesperance

By my third year at UWL, I could not put it off any longer-I'd have to take ceramics.  If sculpture wasn't my favorite, then ceramics was even lower.  I'd tried it in high school and nothing clicked for me.  It was required for my major and I knew I'd face a lot of clay in my future, so sign me up-2 semesters to go.  I don't know how it happened, but somehow I was won over.  Maybe it was picking up wheel throwing quickly or the unpredictability of glazes. Or maybe it was Len Stach, the Department chair at the time and ceramics professor, who saw something in me and encouraged it.  Sometimes it just takes a word or two to push a student in the right direction-something I hope I passed along to my students from him.  I think also what happened was using a raw material so opposite from metal, it flipped my creativity.  Jewelry making is slow and meticulous and mistakes are paid for dearly.  I'd thrived in that, but now I had clay, and if I messed up, you just crunch and smash the clay back up and start over...in a matter of seconds.  That was freeing.  Len, of course inspired us to do just that.  Soon, I'd challenge myself to make the biggest pots I could physically throw.  Experiment with color combos, dive into salt glazes-you name it, I'd try it.  I think I only disappointed Len once-when we were required to do handbuilding, which I detested.  I made the bare minimum coil and slab pots, which were suitably ugly and during the critique I recall him almost laughing...like "What are these Mr. Meurett?"  Not my finest hour, but we put it behind us and I became the lab assistant in my final semester there.  What I could have done if I's not waited for that class. Lenard Stach is 86 years old, taught for 27 years at UWL and still lives in LaCrosse.

Len Stach

I had other instructors at UWL and enjoyed other media-printmaking, life drawing and lots of painting.  The art ed classes were a bit dry and sitting for hours memorizing art slides in a darkened room maybe wasn't the most fun, but I did learn.  The final influencer and most eccentric was Dale Kendrick, owner of the Behind the Brewery Gallery on 4th St LaCrosse (yes, behind the then J. Heilemans Brewery).  He was a crazy man-I'd never met anyone like him.  He taught me what abstract art really was, he made you feel alive and that you shouldn't be afraid to try new things.  Any semblance to restraint was out the window with him.  So in many ways opposite of Fiorini, but still as important for myself developing into an artist and teacher. I remember when graduating, he challenged us to always be an "artist-teacher," so in other words, don't stop being an artist once you're out in the "real world" (of teaching).  I took that to heart, and tried to continue making art as many years as possible while in the classroom.  Like some of the others, we continued to stay in touch for many years and he even invited me pack to talk to some of his newer art ed students.  Kendrick defiantly put his stamp on the art scene in LaCrosse until his passing on Halloween (so fitting, his favorite holiday) in 2003.

Dale and Betty Kendrick; Behind the Brewery Gallery

 
I can't recall if Greg was ever a student of mine-his mom was an educator at NHS as well.  It's hard to believe, but not everyone took art while I was teaching-in HS it was an elective (haha).  No matter, it's because of him and a little facebook post of his current work that took me down memory lane and back into the art world.  It brought back just how important people who cross our paths can be in our lives.  To these past teachers, mentors, instructors, professors, confidants and influencers, thank you.

First Paddles and CV19 Reality Check

Snyder Lake

My first paddles this year are late.  Usually, I'd be out breaking ice, drysuit on, hands freezing, but on the water.  Late ice, the job, anxiety over CV....all of it seems to have kept be away.  The refurbished Pack canoe was first-all new paint and repaired and so excited to put it to the test.  My work turned out fine, but paddling a short little boat like that made me realize I have to really perfect paddling solo.   With Snyder Lake just down the road, it's easy to put in there and journey upstream.  My second outing was with the Fusion, a small 10' whitewater/cross boat.  It has a retractable skeg, so I can paddle that pretty efficiently and get where I'm going.  Snyders is part of Wedges Creek and heading upstream 1/2 mile gets you to a shallow stretch not allowing further progress.  It's nice though, with a 100' wall and giant rock tumbled into the sharp corner.  I usually linger there, coast, make a couple pictures, then head back to the lake.

Paddle 3 was at Potters Flowage in the Jackson Co forest.  It's my go to body of water for I can paddle as far or as short as I want.  It's lined with tall white pine and reminds me of Canada in a lot of ways.  Usually I have it all to myself, especially the tributary end (Hawkins Creek, Morrison Creek) on the south where it's narrow. My 18' CD Caribou is the boat of choice for me here-slim, fast and comfortable to paddle in.  I had the water to myself except for one kayaker who pulled up as I slipped into the water.  A few strokes out and I was halfway across the channel-felt so good to be gliding along again.  There is some freedom in that.  Sun was high, slight wind in my face and I headed down to explore the narrow end.

Potters, Heading South

I always make pictures here-it's like I have to.  I shoot more than I'll ever use, but it is such a beautiful place.  Sometimes I don't make a lot of progress as I'm stopping and looking a lot-which isn't a bad thing either.  Some mallards kicked up, then a pair of hooded Mergansers.  A few woodies here and there tucked into tiny back bays.  Turtles slid off logs and mossy humps and a large garder snake did his best to get on board as he swam across the lake.  I'm not a snake guy, so I encourage him to continue.

I'd reached the end and just soaked in the sun a little.  The wind nudged me back the way I came, so the return was pretty effortless.  I poked the nose of the kayak into backwaters here and there and bumped into the other paddler, who, at a distance, crossed to the opposite side of the channel.  Things are different like that now.  I'd asked a couple friends to join me, Mark, my paddling mentor, but he was out of town.  Dave, who I'd asked to maybe connect someplace 1/2 way up north, decided we should probably stay closer to home. #paddlelocal I guess and probably smart.

I dwelled in one back bay at the end.  I have a geocache back there and it's a favorite place where a tiny feeder creek enters. Mossy and green and always some kind of wildlife to see.  This day it was just ducks, but that was fine. Little things.  I shot a couple pictures and then swung around to head to the truck.

The other kayaker was already back, the short plastic boat pulled up to shore.  She was sitting at the base of the tree having a snack.  I landed, and started loading and securing my gear and boat.  Sun was still warming everything and grabbing a beer, sat down next to the waters edge.  The reality of the CV times we are in right now struck me in that moment.  2 fellow paddlers on the same water, staying at extraordinary distances apart.  No words exchanged, which in normal times would have.  Neither of really acknowledged the other, even sitting on shore. I thought how sad we have to be like this.  The small joy I had from being out here was tempered by the day in and day out times we now live in.  Social distancing really sucks, but it has to be done or it'll never be done.

Easter is today as I write this.  Hope for optimism? I'm working on it.  Cold snowy storm moving in later.  That will shut down any first paddles for a while I'm afraid, but it's something I can't control, so I'll just leave that behind. For now.

History-Amos

Amos

I have no idea who Amos is. I can't make out a last name or year Amos may have carved his name into this rock.  I wonder-is this history or vandalism?  If Amos was here in 2019, I'd cry foul.  I have no doubt, but this was someone maybe over a hundred years ago. Why does that feel different?  I've done deep dives into platbooks from the late 1800s and early 1900s, but Amos remains a mystery.  Just some logger wandering by? A surveyor? An early settler after the virgin pine was harvested? 

These older names tend to stand out more than modern carvings.  Fire ravaged the area in the early 20th century and it almost appears the darkened sandstone was "baked" harder and preserved. I've seen the same at Levis Mound.  The letter styles are unmistakable and much different than the scribbling we do now a days.

These samples are remote, well off the beaten path and one would have to search them out to find them.  There are a few newer scratchings but the best last date was 1961.  I sure wish I knew more of the history of who left these marks. It was a tough time back in the 30's, when most of the land holdings went back to the state or county as farmers discovered the soils were poor. Homesteads died and the rail road moved on.

J.N. 1912

1918

16647?

T.T.

1906 plat

Solitude

I crave for the balm of Nature, the anodyne of solitude, the breath of Mother Earth.

This past month has been filled with anxiousness, fear, trepidation,  hope and solitude.  I'm reminded to take one day at a time, to control what I can and let go of what I can't.  I'm more successful at those intentions on some days than others.  

I've been taking to the forest, the farm fields, hills and gravel country roads on daily walks with the dog.  For most of the past couple weeks I haven't felt 100% and energy levels have been low.  I've had some kind of bug, a cold or something.  So I'm taking my time, walking slowly, taking as much in as I can.  Neighbors farm fields  are just starting to sprout, so for now, it's like walking a lawn-easy and aimless to some degree.  These fields also have well worn rounded hills where I can perch high above the surrounding flat countryside.  I can see the Highground, the Neillsville Mounds and my beloved Levis Mound 12 miles distant south.  

So I sit.  I've placed a few old chairs here and there so I have a modest destination to each jaunt. A spot I can sip coffee, pet the dog, stretch my legs and listen, think.  Purposeful mindfulness I've heard it called.  That's probably the biggest help during this isolation.  

Today was heavy fog.  I wanted to get out early and make a few pictures in this atmosphere, so it was out the door just as the dawn opened up.  Nothing but bad news-an election day that should have been postponed, but was fought by some to remain putting people at risk.  I'd made my thoughts known in emails and FB, but the tiny town hall down the road had cars already by the time I passed by.   Continue walking, head to a chair I thought.  

I approached from behind, the rain slowing enough I could tuck away the umbrella.  The white wire chair waited-looking east on a small rise 1/4 mile from the Reed barn.  It's a good spot.  A tom turkey was blasting off in the shelter woods below, a snipe rose and fell twittering by the cattail pond, bluebirds sang while deciding which nesting box to set up in.  I sat for a bit, but a cold north wind came up and I wasn't dressed for it. Keep moving, find another chair.  

Mara and I did-she busy rolling in dirt and flattened reed canary grass, I feeling the warmth of the coffee sipped deliberately in a slow way.  There is no rush in this solitude.

The Artifact

How far has this traveled? Who made it?  What were the circumstances that found this spearpoint in a farm field in the Town of Hewett?  What was it used for? Trading, hunting, protection? How old is this?  All questions that flooded through my head as I reached down to pick up and pull out of the wet dirt this oddly symmetrical piece of quartzite.  It stood out on the ground, surrounded by well tumbled stones and thawing dark soil.  How is it that I happened to stop for a second, call a friend and look down to see it just ahead of my boot?  So many questions, so many stories.  One never knows it seems where a simple country walk will lead you or what you'll discover.

(Note: This very well may be pure silica sandstone from Silver Mound, about 15 miles SW of where it was found.   More information follows)
The Hixton quartzite is a sandstone that has been cemented together by silica. Scientists say the sandstone here is different from others. It's pure sand and pure silica, and it's found nowhere else. For 12,000 years, Native Americans have come to Silver Mound to make tools and weapons. The earliest visitors were paleo-Indians who stopped here on their annual North-South migrations to quarry the unique stone they shaped into lance points and later into arrowheads. Archaeologists don't know how they found the hill in the first place, but this was the first place that scientists found evidence of people in what is now Wisconsin.
Steve Boszhardt, a researcher with the Mississippi Valley Archaeology Center at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, has said it is known that the stone was used 12,000 years ago - about the time glaciers retreated from Wisconsin as the last Ice Age ended - because people made Clovis points with it. The term refers to the shape of delicate, fluted points up to 8 inches long made by people all over America.
"Through time, the points people made changed shape; the Clovis points were first in America," Boszhardt said.
Oddly, Clovis points seem to have been made for their aesthetics as much as function. "The points are finely worked, well beyond what would be needed to be functional," he said. One reason people returned to Silver Mound may be that its stone "is pretty. It has lots of different colors, from white to blood red. And it's shiny - sparkly. Some think the points were traded like baseball cards," Boszhardt added. Collectors call the small ones bird points, but people hunted mastodons with them.  -Judi Schiller, Richard Schiller

Making a Picture

Antler Post

Somewhere along my photography journey I heard the phrase, "making a picture."  Not taking a picture, not shooting a picture, but rather consciously making a picture. I guess at the time, it struck me odd, as most of us with cameras in our hands don't say that or maybe don't even think that way. But if you've been photographing long enough I think it becomes intrinsic-at least if the quality of the work is going to be there.

What I believe it means is the photographer needs to put all the elements of the picture into consideration.  Subject matter-yes, light, patterns, color, perspective and point of interest, to name a few.   Other artists do this, painters for instance, have to skillfully employ all the ingredients" in their "toolbox" if a painting is to be successful, irregardless of subject.  They (and we, as photographers) also need to figure our how to "build" a good picture.   Perhaps it's just recording something-a subject that interests us.  Or an event. A mood or feeling or emotion.  Telling a story.  There is no wrong subject. But after that, how?

Firstly, cameras don't matter in making a good picture. Period. "Wow, that's a really good picture, you must have a really expensive camera!" Ahh no. Technically, sure, some are better suited than others-long lenses for wildlife, birding, wide angle for landscapes, short zooms for portraits.  Any camera can make a good picture, it's the decisions of the person pressing the shutter that are vastly more important.  When am I gonna have good light?  Wait, what direction is the light?  Is that distracting in the background?  What if I get lower for a different perspective?  What if I crop that little corner out?   Just a few things to think of in the hours or seconds before pressing the shutter.

I'll admit-I'll say "shooting" and "taking a picture" or "capturing" an image-these phrases are too hard wired, so no, I'm not a purest in sticking to "making a picture." I recall noted wildlife photographer Jim Brandenberg explaining using a flashlight to highlight an evening shot and addressing if that was okay.  "Does it matter?"  "Is that important"  "Sometimes you just have to make it work," he said. I agree.  I have no problem doing post production-Film masters like Ansel Adams did it years ago-tweeking photographs in an image editor is just as much a part of making a better picture as dark room work was a hundred years ago.  (Journalistic photographs are a different subject)

What got me thinking about this whole subject is the above picture.  I wanted to shoot something of interest on this walk-the light was good, it was early enough in the day, but I wasn't seeing any pictures.  It happens.  At times to break that block, I just start firing away, knowing that nothing I'm getting will be of any worth, but it sometimes primes the pump. I wandered around the 'hood and found a dropped deer antler.  Small, nothing special, but I do like finding them, wondering about when the buck lost it, where he is now, what he'll look like next fall. I like the smoothness of it, polished on some small alder last September and October.  I carried it along thinking it's not enough for a picture. Yet.  The Reed farm still has some remnant old wood fence standing here and there. Rusted barbed wire wrapped on some, ceramic insulators on others.  The corner post I approached divided  long gone cattle from the crop fields along a tractor path.  A fallen blue bird house hung there, with some interesting ochre color clinging to the wood.  The strands of wire seemed like it would work to wrap the antler-and soon I had an impromptu still life.  Some colors repeated in the antler and insulator, some good contrast between smooth polished and textured wood and a small dash of color.  Though the bokah isn't perfect from an iphone, it does well enough to dull the background and get focus where I wanted it.  Award winning image? Hardly, but I could walk away happy enough that I made something that interested me, and yes, I made a picture. Guilty. 

Sometimes, we just need to make it work.