What to do when the hunting season is over but you want to hunt? Visit your hunting grounds armed with a camera.
My stand sits empty.
The lush grasslands are frozen and snow covered.
The spring pond attracts deer and coyotes alike.
A rub from last fall.
Deer tracks cover a logging road.
Next year's buck?
Sunday January 8, 2012
Opening Days are easy, childish things. It seems that every hunter and fisherman participates in one Opening Day or another.
Camaraderie is often cited as the reason most join in. Everyone loves Opening Days, yet they are usually over-rated and nearly always disappoint.
Manufactured build up and unreasonable expectations, meet cold, hard reality and an empty bag.
I've put away childish things. Hunting late into the season will convince a man to do that.
By January, most hunters in my neck of the woods have put away their bows and guns.
Solitude marks the days of hunting late season. Compared to the heady days of late September, the landscape is now barren, lonely even.
The animals that live here are different, too. Wild things are engaged in a battle of survival every day that they walk the earth, but in the early days of winter there is a quiet seriousness that settles upon the hunting grounds.
Deer spend most of their time bedded down in secret thickets. A calorie saved is a calorie earned, you know?
Expectations, as well as temperatures, are lower now. Is a buck spotted from your stand in January more thrilling than one spotted in September?
Of course.
I spent the last hour of this year's Wisconsin archery season in the same place I spent the first: twenty feet up in the air in a treestand in western Dane County.
In between the first and last hunts, there have been 105 days. I didn't hunt every day, but I thought about hunting every one of those days.
Today, it ended.
No deer were spotted. The January woods were deathly still. I sat in my stand until sunset. I walked out of the woods as a hunter for the last time this season under the light of a full moon.
It was a good, sweet end.
After a wildly successful bow season it was a predictable, if not true, statement that I would make to anyone who cared to listen that "It really doesn't matter if I shoot a buck during the gun season. I've already had a great deer season."
My statement sounded good, but rang hollow. I really wanted to shoot a deer during Wisconsin's gun deer season.
Opening Day dawned with me in a familiar perch in Washburn County. Few shots rang out across the big woods as the morning progressed. I had promised myself and my hunting partner brother that I was going to sit all day in my treestand.
Pre-season optimism gave way to minor despair when by 11:45 I still had not spotted hide nor hair of a deer. All of the deer sign and live deer sightings from throughout the fall meant nothing now; the deer in our area simply were not on their feet.
However, at a few clicks before noon, the telltale crunch crunch crunch sound of a deer walking quickly upon the carpet of dead leaves made its way to my ears. I turned in my stand and spotted a large doe quartering away from my position. Minor despair, meet unexpected joy. I found the left front shoulder of the deer in my scope and squeezed the trigger.
The doe died quickly and just like that I had another deer on the ground. My brother helped me get the deer back to the house and we were back in the woods by the time the first snowflakes started collecting on the ground.
The snow picked up in intensity as the afternoon waned. A perfect afternoon sit. But, no deer sightings.
Back home in the cozy cabin we warmed up and dried out. We prepared venison backstraps on the grill. We went to bed tired and without complaint. It had been a great day.
Sunday morning we were back in our preferred treestands. Again, a slow morning with no deer sightings by 10AM. I texted my brother that we should descend our trees and make some one man drives to each other.
I was driver on the first effort, moving slowly, stopping often, working across oak ridges and thick evergreen swamps. The fresh snow revealed fresh deer sign. But no deer worked past my brother on his stand.
Next we tackled a piece of the property that is more hilly and open terrain, but usually holds bucks during the rut. For this one, my brother did the pushing, and I took up my stand near The Ski Hill, a distinguishing landmark and pinch point where deer from our past have crossed a skinny grown over logging road.
When I had been waiting 30 minutes I grew more aware, knowing my brother would be approaching soon. Deer drives seldom work out as hoped for or planned. But guess what? This one improbably did.
In the exact space I was staring at a large buck appeared, dropping over the lip of a ridge, then plunging down and across the logging road, 40 yards to my left. I attempted to stop the buck with a vocalization of a doe bleat, but he ignored or didn't hear my call. In between a fast walk and a slow trot, the buck moved quickly through the wooded cover. I found him in my scope and he dropped at the report from my gun.
I quickly walked closer to the downed buck to make certain he wasn't going anywhere. A minute later my brother appeared coming down the same ridge edge as the buck. We walked up on the buck and could barely believe our eyes.
Men of action are favored by the Goddess of luck. Good advice from an old deer hunter.
I found myself in a familiar place; a treestand in rural Dane County.
The Wisconsin bow season was 6 weeks old, and I had hunted every weekend since the Opener.
My outdoor surroundings were as routine and familiar to me as the rooms in my home. The distant ridgetop now rimmed with a picked cornfield. The little spring-fed pond fifty yards distant, home to wood ducks and visited by thirsty deer. I knew every downed tree limb and stump. I knew the grass and clover-covered trails by memory.
Yet, as well as I knew this place, everything was about to change.
You see, the date was October 29, and an event not governed by man's calendar, but rather by natural forces like rising moons and fleeting sunlight, was about to announce itself. I knew it was coming. I did not know it was coming today.
The whitetail deer rut is an unpredictable thing, a wondrous thing, an event to celebrate.
At 8am I rattled and grunted in a small buck I have seen many times in person and on my trail cameras. He approached my stand with a purpose, then became slightly nervous when he could not see the source of the sound he heard of clashing antlers and grunting vocalizations. He wandered off.
Fifteen minutes later I brought the antlers together again. Perhaps ninety seconds elapsed when I spotted a large buck coming towards me from across the creek bottom. I took my eyes off of him as I reached for my bow. When I returned to spot him I saw a doe running fast away from the buck.
The doe ran within 40 yards of my position, then peeled off down a grassy trail. The buck continued his purposeful walk, faint grunting sounds signaling his excitement.
When the buck reached the spot where the doe veered away from my position, I let out a single, deep grunt from my call. The buck stopped and looked my direction. A few seconds later he started walking again towards the doe, and I grunted once...twice.
The buck was magnificent. His neck swollen, his antlers wide and tall. He looked every bit the boss of the woods he was.
Good fortune was smiling upon me this morning. The buck did an uncommon thing, and ignored the path the doe took, instead angling towards my position.
He took the very trail I take to enter my stand. His nose was to the ground as he slowly walked. When he reached a shooting lane I had cut, giving me clear shooting to the lane, I loosed my arrow.
Just like that, more or less, my hunt was over.
"I been feelin' like my old self again . . .and if you ever see that sun come shining in. . . well get born again."
—Cory Chisel
In a life spent outdoors, I've tried just about everything hunting and fishing related.
When I was young, I took a "Jack of all trades, master of none" approach to the outdoors. Those years were carefree and fun.
As I grew older, passions like duck hunting, trout fishing, and grouse hunting graduated from passions to obsessions. I became single-minded and serious.
Too often my outdoor pursuits were more task oriented, complete with a good measure of self-inflicted pressure. I expected the dog work to be perfect. A missed shot was cause for self- flagellation. When days did not go according to my plans, as they are wont to do, my play became more like work.
The hubris of young manhood? Probably. With age comes reconciliation and reflection? We'll see.
A result of all of this was that I stopped doing things that at one point in my life brought great joy.
Like shooting a bow and arrow.
As a kid I'd walk around the woods and fields near our house and plink with my old Bear recurve bow. I had blunt and judo pointed wooden arrows. I had some arrows with Flu Flu fletching. I'd shoot at stumps and squirrels and rabbits and pheasants. Every once and awhile I'd hit what I was aiming at.
I even killed a deer with my old recurve.
Today, I find myself a born again bow hunter, smack dab in what is arguably the greatest time in modern history to be a Wisconsin deer hunter.
My younger self could have never imagined the technology available to hunters today. That kid would be blown away by the awesomeness of my new Mathews Z7 compound bow, it's quiver full of carbon Gold Tip arrows armed with 3 bladed mechanical broadheads. And the mind boggles at how much fun the young me would have had with a trail camera.
Nor would that younger version of me have recognized the current season framework I am today happy to find myself in. The 2011 Wisconsin Deer Archery Season runs for 113 days. Where I live I essentially can shoot as many anterless deer as I want. And, for each anterless deer I shoot, I "earn" an additional antlered buck tag.
This is a far cry from the days of my youth, where deer regs were pretty simple—one license, one buck.
It's already been an eventful season. Many little dramas have unfolded in front of me, as I sit perched 25 feet above the earth in my treestand.
There have been close encounters with big bucks, curious does and fawns, howling coyotes at dusk, and dawns breaking across crimson and gold fields. I have a great story about how I killed my first deer with a bow in over 20 years.
Stay tuned.
Gathering wild food is a favorite pasttime of mine. It goes beyond the natural goodness wild food delivers in the manner of exquisite flavor and freshness. Finding this good food in nature, rather than a grocery store, is probably my favorite reason for seeking it in the first place.
Spring in Wisconsin offers a variety of wild food free (almost) for the taking. How about a fish fry featuring freshly caught panfish or walleye, served with side dishes of wild morel mushrooms, and a wild asparagus and ramp salad? Pretty easy to put a meal like this together, and shopping for the ingredients is alot more fun that driving to my local grocery store.
"Head to the woods when new oak leaves are the size of a squirrel's ear," the Old Man would advise when asked when to pick wild morels. Not terribly scientific, but when you consider that soil temperature and moisture content have much to do when morels flourish, using your backyard oak tree as your guide may indeed be the place to look before you head afield in search of your wild meal.
Where to look for morels?
Again, the Old Man; "Morels are where you find them."
Um. Yeah. Great advice.
I look for dead or dying elms, old apple orchards, old ash stands, poplar tree thickets. I have even found them among the needle litter of pine plantations. Hmm. Maybe the Old Man was on to something.
I like to carry my harvested morels in an old trout fishing landing net. Some say this allows the spores from the morels to float free and propogate future morels. I don't know about such things. I do know I like carrying trout fishing landing nets.
Asparagus is my favorite wild vegetable to scavenge. Not many folks I know hunt for the tasty spears.
There is a husband and wife team who target a local patch. During peak growing time I do my best to aggressively stay ahead of them and pick the patches before they can get to them.
Based on weather conditions, aparagus spears can seemingly shoot forth overnight. You have to stay on top of your game if others seek the same prize as you do.
Get your ass outside and pick the best food ever.
No spring. There is no sun, no warmth. There is no hope.
Dead ice stretches to the horizon; bruised, pockmarked, unsafe. Traffic cuts through the center of Horicon Marsh along a frozen ribbon of blacktop backlit by a hint of sunrise far to the east.
Ice and snow lock land and water. Every day is numbingly the same. Hospital corridors as white and blinding as the stubborn snow outside. Lives reduced to waiting.
Spring migrations, driven by mystery and instinct, have begun despite an atmosphere insisting that winter lives.
Winterlong dead cattails own height from here to the horizon. Now, the geese have arrived, and they alone reach any significant height above this dead world. I understand why the geese make frequent sorties across the sky. What creature would choose to be earthbound in this unforgiving frozen world?
The world turns, the universe advances, men wonder. Some things are unstoppable. This brings joy. This brings despair.
We drive when the world is dark. Our eyes locked ahead following the glare of headlights that cut a foggy March night. Dawn leaks light slowly until finally one realizes it’s a new day. Returning home our bed becomes our refuge. Hands are held and reassurances exchanged, some of which are actually believed. Sleep comes grudgingly, troubling dreams follow, until one day ends and another begins. We march on, but not forward.
I am mad at God. Not forever. Just for now. Don’t tell me “things happen for a reason” when the subject is our doomed unborn baby. You don’t want to have that discussion with me right now.
This marsh is world famous but it’s mine because I know it, remember it: it's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. In a black and white world I plied the back bays and potholes with my Dad. We visited every fall because that's where the wild birds were. The world was hopeful, then. Even dead cattails and the end of a season could not dampen our enthusiasm. We huddled together in cold darkness, sharing sunrises and sunsets. Family.
I was a child. My Dad took me places that shaped the way I view the world. We shared a vision and a place and it wasn’t through words that we experienced the world and grew closer.
One night, long after returning home from a hunt, I became upset and couldn’t fall asleep. I was young, but not so young that my Mom should have had to comfort me. My father had shot a goose that day and it had not died well. The vision of this dying goose troubled me.
I have a quirky habit. When a flock of geese fly over me, whether driving or hiking or whatever, I will, very quickly and accurately, count the flock. I admire their flight, their strength, and the music they make.
Erin and I are the reason there is this sad story to tell, but it’s not really our story. This is a story that is too short, a story that ends before it truly begins.
This is Anna’s story, but she has no voice, so by default it becomes our story and I am left to write my way out of it.
I am damaged and lost. Without hesitation I would trade my life for Erin’s life; I would trade my life for any of my kid's lives. We don’t get these choices, do we?
This story is about my baby girl that never had a chance. She has a story and I keep that story close and will tell it for as long as I can count birds in the sky.
A new show recently debuted that captured my interest.
The Wild Within on the Travel Channel chronicles the adventures of Steven Rinella as he travels the world in search of wild game. His angle is the pursuit and transforming of wild game into food.
Here is an interesting review of the show.
Most of my dissatisfaction with televised hunting shows lies in the fact that rarely do we see game celebrated as table fare. It is the rare show that brings witness to proper field care and preparation of wild game.
Thankfully, The Wild Within focuses on this under-featured part of hunting and fishing.
I recommend you give it a watch...and let me know what you think.
The woods of my dreams are empty now.
Well, empty of man, anyway: empty of hunters.
Conclusions of seasons always leave me feeling bittersweet. Always there are fond memories. Always there is sadness and longing that it has past.
Deer woods seem somewhat melancholy to me, but only when empty of deer. Once a deer enters the space I can see, life returns and the woods come alive.
Now in winter, there is mostly snow and gray tree trunks and cold northwest wind.
Much of the animal life is static, waiting out the cold. The hunter is mostly quiet, too, back to living his life, looking ahead to the next season.
There will be trips afield to scout new stand locations, treestands will be pulled down. A few small game hunts will take place.
But the big times of October and November are gone.
Thankfully, future meals of venison will fuel the hunter's imagination and trigger memories that warm his heart.
The long days spent perched high in a treestand waiting for deer that never show are remembered as pleasant and fun. The numb feet and deep boredom are conveniently forgotten. This is a good thing, this stuff of memories.
It is also good that this land is empty of man now. The deer and other creatures go about their tough business of making a living with one less thing to worry about. That is good.
Really cool story here from Paul Smith from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.
Muskies are King here in Wisconsin. Thanks to catch and release practices, many trophy fish are caught, and released, every year.
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