Twangfest 2015

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 33^rd, 34^th, or 36^th 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.

The 30th Twangfest

 2012 marked the 30^th anniversary of Twang Fest.  Or thirty-first.  We never know exactly when year one was or we’re just bad at math.  Either way it’s fine, we began this journey while young and are still gathering here in the woods each year to hunt, laugh, sing and just be together.  In the past three decades, so much has changed for all of us, but maybe more importantly, so much has stayed the same-that’s why we’re here.

It’s always hard to explain to outsiders what Twang Fest is, what it means and why we continue each fall.  It’s far more than a bow hunting trip, yet that’s where it all started and that remains at its core.  But if it were only that, I know in my heart we wouldn’t have continued every year for thirty additions.  Life would have moved in and we’d move on  as well.  It’s the hunt and everything else that keeps the calendar marked each November to gather again.

 This journey started while in college-young nimrods in the woods taking a break from classes each Sunday morning for dark drives north from La Crosse to Jackson County.  An entire weekend of camping and hunting would be better it seemed, and Twang Fest was born.  Quickly after the first addition, we moved into the real world-graduation and new careers, families, changes of jobs and in later years sadly, losses to our family.  That was the start and those were the changes and yet we still made time to make it all happen again and again. 

Huddled in a blind the first night I made a note in my journal about all the things that have remained the same.  Twenty years ago the fest began very similarly-my friend Mike and I started a day early and like then, it was raining-didn’t matter, we were so happy to leave the work world behind and start this.  On that date, the rain turned to snow overnight and by the next morning the “Great Halloween Snowstorm” was born.  Even through 20 plus inches of snow, all the Twangfesters arrived at some point and we carried on.  This year, raining oak leaves replaced snow, loosened by the gentle breeze and landing with a thud on the forest floor (amazing how quiet a woods can be). Like twenty years ago, the murmur of the interstate miles away and a distant train horn were background sound only pierced by warning squawks of squirrels.  Yep, being a participant in the hunt, being in the woods and soaking it all in will always remain.

Over the years, “everything else” has included impromptu mid day football games, a mock ridge wedding (coinciding with the first Twangster getting hitched), skits of all sorts (including political debates), documentary footage, scrap paneling bowling, late night hay rides, golf, Friday night steak feeds, campfires and of course music.  I sometimes shake my head in amazement at the talent that dresses in camo each year and provides entertainment at Twangfest.  We are fortunate to have such gifted musicians in our group and it never fails that as soon as the bows are unslung, guitars are out and the music jam begins.  There are almost an equal amount of bow and guitar cases lined up in the camper and each have its place during the weekend.

As in all things that one looks so forward to, it goes by too quickly.  Other obligations pulled one brother away at a time in this 30^th year, and by the final hunt Sunday morning, only three made the trip to stands in the dark.  Maybe appropriately, for the last day is a bit melancholy anyway and all too soon everyone has left and all that clings to Twangfest is the dust cloud on the ridgetop dirt road- we’re off heading in all directions back home.

The statement by close friend Norbert maybe summed up some of my feelings as well and kick started how I wanted to write about Twangfest this anniversary year:

“It is a sacred part of my life I don't like to share. …I just want to keep it away from people who don't understand and never will.” 

For those of us who do understand and always have, we will continue until we no longer can lace the boot strings or pull back the bow or strum the guitar…. for everything Twangfest is, most importantly-it remains a sacred part of our lives.

Twangfest 29

Norb in Game Face Mode

There are things that we sometimes do that require effort, that are outside of our daily routine.  Things that would be easier if we didn’t bother, if we stayed in our comfort zone of modern life instead of stepping outside (literally) to live something greater from time to time. To live life.  Those were my thoughts on the first late night of Twangfest this past week when I looked up into the night sky at all those billions of stars, listening to the darkness and the muffled sound of guitar and song from inside our trailer.  Yes, this weekend does require effort-gathering all our hunting gear (if we can find it), driving or flying hours to arrive here in the Black River country, buying food and supplies and leaving everything else behind for a few days.  But the payoff could not be greater, a chance to be back together with hunting partners and friends every year at this same time.  To spend countless hours in the stand, seeing, hearing and smelling what we miss in our usual routine.  To be a participant in the hunt instead of an observer and to ever dream of that chance at a trophy.  Trophy or not, time spent in the woods at Twangfest is always a success.

Movement in the Pines

This year was the 29th or…….30th anniversary of “Twangfest,” a term coined many years ago for a weekend campout and bow hunt in the hills near Black River Falls, Wisconsin.  At that time, we were young, mostly in college at UW La Crosse and would make weekend pilgrimages to hunt whitetails as a break from study and jobs.  Soon an idea was born to camp and hunt-requiring a lot of scrounging for a bunch of college kids then.  Years rolled into decades, and we all moved onto real jobs, families,  and other locations. New family came into our lives and sadly, the loss of family members as well, but one thing remained a constant-our annual return to the archery deer camp called Twangfest.

The Nixter

Our love of the hunt and hunting brought us together then, and remains the key ingredient even now, but the camaraderie, brotherhood and music, food, drink and laughter is what bring us back.  It is the first thing on my calendar each year.  It has always amazed me that for many of us, this is the one time each year we see each other, but it feels like yesterday.  That is how strong the friendships are here.  The first meeting is the best- real man hugs and a genuine joy of being back together.  That lasts for all of a few minutes and then the unloading of tons of gear begins-quivers and bows to beer and brats.  Sleeping bags, guitars, and the latest do dad from Gander Mountain and Cabelas.  Piles of food, and camo clothes and boots lay scattered inside the trailer in an instant.  There is also a sense of urgency as well-this IS the first day and we have had dreams of that big buck-fueled by recent game cam photos and smart email chatterin in the days leading to this.  Within an hour, dust is settled and civilian clothes are now exchanged for camo clad men, fittling with sights and arrows and few practice shots.  Soon the sound of my tapping toe impatiently waiting to “get going” and begin the actual hunting phase of the weekend.  We eventually are bouncing down the logging road and soon hours pass in the stand we again realize how much we are blessed to be able to experience this.  Yes, it took effort, but to be out here…in nature, in the woods, is primeval and beautiful and deep down something we long for I believe.

The Morning Hunt Report

Each morning and evening hunt (with just enough time for a sandwich in between) is always followed by the deer report.  “What did you see?”  “Okay, what’s the scoop?” And of course, there are tales of misses (me this year sadly at a large large buck), getting nailed down by a too smart doe, “bambies” milling around and the grunts of big bucks chasing.  The stories are again re-told at every stop as we pick up all seven of the hunters on the way back to camp.  Sometimes the stories even change, which is all okay with me.  Over the past 29  (or thirty) years, we have had many good years of harvesting a deer or two…or three.  Some does, some very nice bucks, but not always, and that is okay as well.  It’s all about the hunt and the brotherhood.  Funny, I don’t think I use that term (and I do mean it)  in any other context all year, except in describing these guys I spend the first week of every November with. 

Lem on Johnny Cash

Besides the pursuit of deer, music has become a central element in the fest.  Our group is blessed with several talented musicians (not including myself) and before the meal is done and dishes washed, guitar cases are flung open, cheater glasses on (to read lyrics now a days) and endless tuning begins.  Requests are made and familiar songs ring out inside the trailer or around the campfire.  Favorites include “Ladder Stand,” “Paper Products (from Mosinee)," and a new hit-“The Easement Blues,” along with lesser know songs of Elton John, Peter Gabriel and REO Speedwagon .   Song and laughter continue until the realization that the wake up call (my duty it seems) comes early and we better retire.  Music has entertained us over the years, as well as skits, impressions and other ridiculousness  which we so love and leave our guts sore from laughing all weekend.

The Bus Stop

The “last day” feeling always starts for me on the evening hunt Saturday.  Knowing  that this is the last night stand, that our time is drawing (pun intended) to a too quick end leaves a pit in my gut.  One last chance for that well placed shot and maybe a buck of a lifetime.  Not everyone can stay til the end- too long of travel back home or family commitments take some away early and there is a sadness when each guy pulls out of the logging road.  The final morning is the hardest….knowing that getting a deer today will require a lot of extra effort to get back to camp, pack, transport home and process before the work week, but we just have to try one more time…this still is about the hunt and you have to put the tree time in-there are no shortcuts.

The Mid-day Break

All too soon the packing and cleaning start in a flurry.  A good friend lets us use the old trailer (and his land) as our Twangfest HQ and to him we are indebted.  So we take extra care to leave everything better than we found it and leave behind enhancements (hopefully) for the other hunters who stay here.  Since some of the guys live out of state, they usually are on the road first-hours of travel for them ahead.  I’m the lucky one I guess, a short half hour drive to Neillsville and I’m back home, still wanting to turn around and drive back up those bluffs to hunt a bit longer.  But the one key thing would be missing, and it would not be the same until next year, when that band of brothers return to again to live Twangfest another year.

The Twangfesters of 2011