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.

Happy Surprises

Snyder Lake Tube

A couple years ago during a torrential rainstorm, actually following a day or 2 of rain, all creeks flowing to the Black River were out of their banks.  Wedges Creek is just down the road and a small dam there form Snyder Lake.  Wedges eventually flows into the Black about 10 miles distant.  Also feeding this system is Meadows Creek, which passes east of the house and then turns west into Snyder.  Arndt Road passes over this small tributary and at the time of the flood, was under repair. An old large diameter steel culvert was being replaced.  From evening til the next morning, the force of high water blew out and mangled the new steel and dumped an excavator into newly created void. Quite a sight.  Eventually, everything was repaired and back to normal, ready for the next 100 year flood, which means we are due again.

All that is just some background I guess for this image.  I've made pictures here many times in a kayak, so in the inaugural paddle of my repaired canoe, I just had to swing by and take another image.  I didn't think much of it at the time-not until I pulled it up on the computer and look closer.  Of course, it was in color and I felt like it wasn't bad-then I noticed all the squiggly lines formed by the culvert reflections in the water and thought, I'd bet that would pop out even better in black and white, so it was converted and yes, so much better.  Not everyone who saw both versions agreed, but it's mine and to me, the line patterns, the "mysterious" nose of the bow plate and the well used idle paddle worked well.  Perhaps it's also because it's different from any other picture I've made here that I'm drawn to it.  In any regard, sometimes we have happy surprises from the shutter to the "print" so to speak.  For me, it's a keeper.

Grandpa Glaze Hut

The Grandpa Glaze Hut

There will be a day when you can do all the things you normally do, and there will a trade off: you won’t able to do what you can do today.
You’ll have a that day but you won’t ever get this one again, and it would be a tragedy if you wasted it, waiting to be released by someone else. -John Pavlovitz

These word from Pavlovitz's recent piece about living in CV times seemed to hit home.  I hate to think I've been wasting days, but in truth, there does seem to be some waiting....for that day. To be honest, some evenings, I just want to get to bed, sleep if I can, and get to the next day-one day closer to ending this nightmare.  But I also have time to live in the present and am doing my damn best to follow that path.


Which leads me to Grandpa Glaze's Hut.  With more time on my hands, and nothing pressing, I've dove back into writing this blog and making pictures-both things I've neglected for a long while.  Daily walks are almost a requirement now- to soak in what's around me and appreciate more. With camera in hand, they have also become daily photo walks where there is a pressing need to make at least a few good images.  


The sun was up early and that pushed me out the door with Mara sooner than I had been.  I made a picture of the Reed Farm landscape while sipping coffee, of a deer skull and an old no trespassing sign.  Grandpa Glaze's tiny hunting stand is atop a hill on the Miatke farm.  I almost felt from the start I'd end up there this morning and I did.  If I recall correctly Dean (Grandpa Glaze's son and my dear friend) made this little box stand many years ago.  It's been moved around a few times, but now has settled here overlooking several hundred acres of cropland.  During deer season, it's fitted with an LP heater so one can just kick back, sip coffee and eat cookies all day without worrying about any deer bothering you.  Knowing the Grandpa Glaze deer reports every year, that pretty much is the case. ;)


Grandpa Glaze is a story teller for sure and his exploits of spotting far off bucks just by their walk and ability to drop 'em in their tracks at vast distances are renown in our neighborhood hunting camps.  It's not unknown for him to take a few breaks, wander around the adjoining woods and even stop in at the Reeds farm or our house for coffee and conversation.  That has always been his preferred hunting technique as long as I've known him.  Like so many of us older hunters, it's no longer about getting a deer, it's about being there with family and friends and living in the moment.  GG Glaze is in his later 80's and still settles into this hut and other scattered blinds and tents (he does like variety!) come every rifle season.  I'm reminded of him every time I walk or snowshoe or ski past this stand, and look across the fields wondering about those 300 yard shots.  I think about his stories of him still being out here and I look foreword to next November when the hut is occupied again.