The Gift List

It’s getting pretty close to that big day around these parts.  You know the one that puts visions of sugar plums, jolly and plump red-suited elves, and now I-pods, X-boxes and smart phones dancing in the heads of wee ones.  And those a bit older as well. 

So here I sit struggling to come up with something to give my two kiddos at home, along with the 20 I have in my classroom. With all these different kids, it doesn’t seem quite right to give them all the same manufactured craft or card. I am stuck… and close to being out of order. 

So, I go to the garage and get my summer tackle boxes out of storage and go through them. I sharpen and replace hooks, put the top water baits back in their spots, and make sure the deep diving cranks are apart from the shallow runners.  Jigs, plastics, hooks and spinners are once again arranged by size, shape, and color.  I can almost feel June’s warm breeze in my face…pitching an offering to an eager smallmouth bass waiting along a rocky shore.  I feel much better, because when my tackle box is clean and ordered, it kind of cleans and orders myself as well. 

Like a rock thrown from a tire that wallops your unsuspecting windshield, it hits me.  I can give these kids the gift of adventure… although I am going to need a little help.  Not to mention a whole lot of wrapping paper.  If we set our minds to it, I think we can take these kids from a life of watching, to a life of doing. We could make presents of zoo-going and eagle-watching and stone-skipping. We can teach them to take things apart just to see how they went together, and show them it’s ok to get their hands dirty. 

We can prop them up with pine trees or white oaks.  Show them the difference between gray squirrel and cottontail tracks in the snow. Maybe have them identify five different types of woodpeckers here in our neck of the woods.  Perhaps it would be good for them to learn how to crack eggs with one hand like mom used to do, or to roast marshmallows over open flames. 

It would take quite some effort, but together we could show kids of all ages the gift of gratitude. Tell them how the Earth is actually sacred ground, and they darn well better mind their manners when they are on it.  We can show them humor, teaching them to giggle at toads, gurgling catfish, and red fox pups in a July alfalfa field.  Teach them to not take themselves so serious.

Patience would be a good gift too.  We will need to branch out into canoes, flat bottoms, or even pontoons and allow them to soak in the simple pleasure of waiting for a bobber to go down.  Let ‘em tag along on deer stands, duck blinds, or turkey fields to wait for creatures big and small to appear. 

I think I will try to show them responsibility.  Teach them that those texting, gaming and smart phone fingers could be used for tending campfires on the Chippewa River, unloading a couple wagons full of 3^rd crop hay, or even the 2 o’clock to 7 o’clock rhythm of dry fly casting.  

Let’s give these kids the independence to be free thinkers and leaders and optimists. Don’t hold them back…let them make mistakes because they try something new and then figure out a better way to accomplish their goals…Society holds them back enough.   

WHO’S WITH ME?

DO YOU THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH WRAPPING PAPER?

-TGI

Whirling Wisconsin Wings 

The Thanksgiving leftovers had long since been cleaned up and stored in the chest freezer for a later date. Most of those partaking in outdoor activity were either clad in deer hunting orange or dressed in Packer green and gold to cheer on their favorite men of the gridiron. Some were even sharpening auger blades and organizing tip ups and pan fish jigs.  The hard water season would be truly kicking in less than a week.  400 miles to the north, near the Canadian border and beyond, lakes, potholes, and ponds will not see open water again for another 4 months. 

Dad and Big Hoff looked a bit skeptical as Griz and I dug our  layout blinds into an 80 acre, Pierce County plowed cornfield.  My yellow lab Murphy and Griz’s dog Fritzy, frolicked and ran amongst the 6 dozen decoys placed in a ‘J’ shape that pointed directly into a biting 20 mph northwest wind.   Nugget Lake was 5 miles to the north, and Lake Pepin 7 miles to the south.  Thousands of migrating mallards and gadwalls were rafted there.  Our scouting trip the previous day had revealed clouds of waterfowl, looking more like swarms of mosquitoes in July than ducks, piling into the fields with twenty minutes of shooting time to spare.  As we put the finishing touches on the spread, and flipped on 4 spinning wing decoys, we all were hopeful the birds would appear. 

Fritzy neatly waddled her way into the dog blind Griz had for her.  Murphy on the other hand gave me that “I’m not going into that thing look.”  Luckily Dad had a bag of jerky and a Ziploc of salted peanuts to use as bribery.  Murphy was still trying to make himself comfortable as Big Hoff warned us, “Huge flock at 2 o’clock.” 

There were a solid 500 birds that obviously wanted into the field.  From a distance of  ½ mile the specks banked hard to the left and wings started to lock.  We could hear the grunting and feed chuckles as the birds dropped their landing gear over the patch of woods to our south. 

The main flock circled behind us as a single hen and 4 drakes dropped at our feet.  Murphy could stand no more as he burst through his corn shuck hiding place flaring the biggest portion of the flock.  A volley of shots rang out as 3 green heads were dropped not far from their landing space.  Murphy and Fritzy grabbed the downed birds and Griz hid them underneath a couple of our goose shells.

I was sending apologies to the group for Murphy's eagerness as a pair of greenheads dropped from the graying November sky.  Orange feet and solid white neck rings were clearly visible as the drakes realized far too late that they had been duped. Doing the 'ducky back pedal' the birds tried to climb to safety.  Dad and Big Hoff rose and each folded one up.

We were feeling pretty proud of our set up and shooting skills, when 20 minutes later a group of 50 vectored from a giant flock that had left Nugget Lake to feed.  There were several ‘Just abouts’ as the birds skirted the edge of our predetermined landing zone.  Griz finally suggested we should take ‘em on the next pass as they seemed to be losing interest.  A fat hen promptly plopped into the hole and pulled 2 dozen of her friends with her.  How the 4 us managed only two birds in 10 shots is a bit of a mystery.  But, we had little time to feel sorry for ourselves.

 Flock after flock continued to tornado above us, around us, and in front of us for the next two hours.  The company of family and good friends was outstanding.  Murphy and Fritzy performed 16 retrieves that made their owners proud, even if we did run out of peanuts and jerky.  Our shooting could best be described as ‘inconsistent.’

  A short list of excuses included: “The sun was in my eyes…the dog was in my way…my blind doors are stuck…I didn’t want to shoot the spinner…I forgot to load my gun…I thought you were going to take that one…when I pulled up, there were only hens in front of me…I didn't miss! 

  The laughter and storytelling continued long after limits were reached and shooting times elapsed. As we stacked the decoys into the darkness, the nearly full moon lit the way for several more thousand pairs of whistling wings.  They dropped from the sky like fighter jets, and took off again from corn stubble and bean fields with full crops and gurgling voices.

The whistling wings of Wisconsin will not be here much longer.  Soon, the lakes that hold the rafts through the night will be frozen.  The fields of grain and corn will be blanketed with snow.  Its’ now plentiful bounties will be covered until the thawing rays of  March and April melt the white stuff away.  The birds will continue to journey southward, but will hopefully return again next season.

 

Until then, I like to think of waterfowl hunts gone by.  Fond ones include trips down the Chippewa with my Dad and Uncles and Lester, as we ventured into the Tiffany Bottoms.  Waiting for the fog to lift off Maiden Rock Bay, as green wing teal buzz the bobbing decoys; Crouching on a diversion dike with cousin Sam as wave after wave of  diving bluebills bombard us on their way back to Devil’s Lake;  Swatting gnats as the dew and humidity of a September morning stand in the way of dozens of early season Canada geese; Hearing the ‘clickety clack’ of ice from the late Belle’s tail as she fixed her eyes upon circling gadwalls; Remembering  the squeak of oars against locks of crooked flat bottom boats, and feeling the mucky spray of wet labs, that always seem to shake themselves off in front of you. Waiting anxiously to hear the words "Take Em!" over the whirring cupped wings and rattling cattails or wild rice.

Are you lucky enough to have heard, seen, felt and replayed any or all of these things?  Lucky the soul like me who has!

Keep your eyes to the skies and hold your hunting memories tight.  The winter season may be long, but the whirling wings will return in good time...and I'll be waiting.

-TGI

Stan's River

The river doesn’t look like much to the untrained eye. There are only a handful of spots deep enough swim.  Pick any place you want in a ten-mile stretch and you can pretty much cast from one bank to the opposite side.  The water runs cooler and cleaner now than it did 30 years ago. The trout are smaller and thinner, although they are more numerous.  After the first couple of weekends in May, fisherman are quite scarce.  Most opt for inland lakes, or larger rivers with easy access and open casting pockets.

 I like to call it Stan’s River.  That’s not the name you’ll find on the county maps or the state listing of fishable trout waters if you ‘Google’ it. The name fits though. For others, it could have a name like Brule, Rush, Kinni, Eau Galle, Tomorrow, Cedar, Plum, Cannon, Bear, Powder or Flambeau. The true name doesn’t really matter, nor does the location.

You see Stan grew up on this stream. His dad brought him here to pluck plump rainbows and native brook trout from undercut banks in the warming sunshine of May and June. This was before Stan could ride a bike absent of training wheels. That was six decades ago.

Through elementary school Stan and his cronies headed to the river often. To fish, swim, float on tubes, trap muskrats,and pass shoot wood ducks and teal at dawns and dusks of fall.  It wasn’t the best place for small town boy to spend his free time…it was the only place.

Most of the high school kids in the 60’s found other interests that kept them away from the river.  Not Stan. He took his younger brothers, sisters, and neighbor kids with him along the way. Teaching them the best places to wade, where the trout were hiding, and how to fashion an old screen door into  homemade minnow traps.  He taught them to catch crayfish, by scooping them from behind the tail, because they could only swim backwards.  He showed them the best feeder springs for drinking and the ones where the peppery watercress grew. He showed them the best banks for harboring wild black cap bushes, and near-by ridges to find bittersweet plants.

Stan also showed the young ones how to avoid some perils of the riverside shores. In those days, it was best not to tangle with any of the Tachshire family; known Moonshiners who didn’t want any one else near their land.  He also helped them identify poison ivy, stands of wood nettles,and patches of wild parsnip that would be the undoing of many unprepared riverside travelers.

Yet, for each negative curveball Stan’s river doled out, it repayed us with dozens of positive attributes.  The simple serene gurgling of water dancing across flat rocks; the blazing spots, stripes and fins of wild trout; the jet black nose and quivering lips of a month old fawn sneaking in for a sip; the laughter of splashing children; the rendezvous place for grandfathers, dads, sons, and moms to spend some time together wondering what might be around the next bend or what was lurking below the water’s surface. These and many more scenes have been replayed over and over, and they will carry on long after we have passed.

Stan still finds time to venture to the river.  His legs may be failing but his mind is sharp as ever.  He remembers countless details of the trips he’s taken, and the conversations had with a lifetime full of outdoor partners. It may be tough for Stan to retie dry flies onto 5x tippet now, especially if he leaves his glasses in the truck.  But his vison of  60 years worth of memories made on and around his river are as fresh and vibrant as morning dew on a streamside trillium.

Rivers and people are in continuous states of change. Evolving, improving, steadying, rising and falling. So it is with the river and with Stan. For he is as much a part of the river, as it is a part of him.  


-TGI

Musky Madness

This musky fishing outing came as a bit of a surprise.  My wife, Hayley had volunteered her newly acquired garage sale services to younger sister Norah who lives in White Bear Lake, MN with her husband Mark. 

Knowing that spending the first Saturday in June at a garage sale could drive any outdoorsman stir crazy, Hayley suggested, “Maybe Mark will take you musky fishing?”

“Do you have room for me in your boat?” I questioned.

“Yeah, it’s just me tomorrow for the opener,” Mark answered giggling, “My friends refuse to musky fish with me anymore.”

So it was set…

At  4:30 a.m. we pulled into a parking lot.  From all of the vehicles, I wasn’t quite sure if it was the boat launch or the outside of the Mall of America on Black Friday.  Obviously there were lots of other crazy people after Esox masquinongy as well. 

Without too much trouble we were soon bopping across Lake X in Mark’s new rig and 90-horse Mercury.  Killing the motor, we glided towards a mid-lake hump and began heaving our offerings.  I was using one of Mark’s homemade top water baits called a Click Fin. It was a jointed green and black job with three large trebles and a silver prop.  Upon retrieve, it clicked, chugged, spit water, and scared most of the lake’s local waterfowl to the backside of the nearest island.  The teeth marks the lure sported proved that it had fooled a fish before.

Mark chose a two bladed spinning buck tail that musky enthusiasts and bait shop owners affectionately call a ‘Double Cowgirl.’   To best describe this monstrosity, picture a 20 year-old hula dancer’s skirt sandwiched between a pair of cymbals from the local high school marching band.  If you add a grapple or dredge hook to the back, Bingo! You have yourself a state of the art musky catching machine. 

The eastern sky was turning from charcoal to a light gray as we worked our baits with no hint of action for the first hour.  Dimples on the surface and scattering baitfish here and there, led us to believe there was something big lurking in the waters below.  90 minutes later, I gave my arms a break. To keep from getting ‘skunked’ I rigged my ultra- light and pitched a tiny jig towards a weed bed.  Three small crappies in as many casts at least made me feel a little better about buying an out of state license.

The sun was climbing high in a clear sky, so Mark suggested I try a buck tail.  Thankfully he handed me a single bladed number to use, as retrieving a ‘Double Cowgirl’ for any length of time is like trying to reel in a submerged open umbrella.  Mark changed baits often; alternating between wood, rubber, and hardware creations.  To be honest, some of the offerings looked more like Halloween costumes than fishing lures. 

Mark boated a couple small pike, but the less than ideal musky conditions of bluebird skies, calm wind, and heavy pressure from dozens of other fisherman seemed to have the deck stacked against us.  Then it happened…

“Ohh, big fish,” Mark more gasped then said.  “He missed it!”

The mid 40 inch fish had taken a boat side swipe at a bright colored jerk bait. The following fish restored some confidence as we continued fan-casting the area in hopes of hooking up.

Mark explained, “It would be best to let him rest for 20 or 30 minutes, but with so many other boats around, we’ll work him a bit.”

It sounded like a good idea to me, but like most other musky fishing strategies, it did not equal a fish at the end of the line.

We had time to work one last spot before our 9 a.m. curfew set by our wives, children, and mother-in law would be up. We headed for an underwater emerging cabbage bed where Mark had boated a 49- incher the year before.

    About a dozen casts in, I was watching my bait track to the boat as I heard “FISH ON” from Mark standing on the bow. The musky had inhaled a crappie patterned jerk bait that was slightly smaller than a Volkswagen van bumper.   A tail, fins, and sharp teeth thrashed at the surface as Mark steered her toward the starboard side of the boat. The fish was certainly not fond of this situation, so it whirled and headed toward the bow, trying to shake the bait.  Mark led the fish deftly past the trolling motor, to the starboard side, where I was waiting with the net.  The battle was surprisingly short, and I am not sure who was more surprised…Me, or the 30-lb giant that was finning in the mesh that I held in the water. I am sure we both had that “What the h*%! Just Happened” look. 

After a high five, Mark reached over the side and removed the last remaining treble hook from the fish that would measure 47.5 inches.  A couple quick pictures preceded the rocking/ reviving of the trophy fish. With a powerful whip of the tail, she disappeared back towards the cabbage bed from where she had come. 

Ten minutes later a 45-incher followed my slow rolling offering to the boat.  I attempted to make a ‘figure-eight’ to entice a strike, but it was feeble at best in terms of musky fisherman standards.  Like a swimming ghost, the fish returned harmlessly to the depths. Feeling like a toddler who had his favorite toy snatched away, I shrugged and went back to casting.

Mark offered some advice. “Next time reel up nearly to the leader, and push your rod down into the water as far as you can reach. This makes the fish look down. If they are looking up, they see the boat like that one did.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “That would have been good to know a couple of minutes ago!”

We chuckled as Mark started the motor to head back to the landing.  We know better than to keep our wives waiting.  I am far too mentally stable to become a full-fledged musky fishing addict. Hopefully in time, Mark will allow me back in his boat and share some of his secrets about chasing the mysterious musky. 


The preceding rambling is dedicated to Holly Lunde who passed away suddenly on June 2, 2012 at the age of 52. Holly was a tremendous lady who worked for 17 years at the Plum City Public Library, and who also helped me edit some of my blog posts.  She was passionate about turning people of all ages on to literature.  Thank you for everything Holly, may God bless you and the family and friends you leave behind.


-TGI

May I ?

I blinked a couple times somewhere after the ice went out of Lake Pepin in early March and what do you know, we find ourselves in the middle of May.  It’s a fine month…this May is, but I guess that’s my humble opinion.

The fifth month on our calendar gets high marks from me for several reasons. The mud of April has long since firmed up. Flowers are all popped out now, with the threat of snow and frost losing ground in our rear-view mirrors. All our farmer friends are working frantically to finish up the planting.  Some have even cut first crop hay.  We like to send  friendly waves to these workers of the land don’t we?  Except for when they pull those big planters or wagons out in front of us, on county roads when we are already running late for Junior’s spring piano recital.

May brings out in full force the local boys and girls of summer. Aluminum bats sound off here and there, as the sparse crowds cheer local heroes and heroines around the diamonds.  Charcoal grills send out aromas of sizzling burgers, brats and maybe a chicken or two turning golden and delicious, over the top of a can of brew.  Great Grandma’s potato salad recipe is being copied and served all around the tri-state area.  Some of these imposters even taste pretty good…I like mine with extra yellow mustard, and rustic chunks of a dill pickle.

May cruises along, as high school and college seniors make their way up the aisles for graduation, turning pages on this book called life. Students, parents, and teachers are getting ready to shift gears from the rat race of spring mayhem, to the more subdued and relaxing tenants of summer.

The parkas, gloves and stocking hats of winter have been pushed to the back of the closet in favor of flip-flops, shades, and sunscreen.  In no time at all, of those beach towels will make an appearance as well.

Those that want, can now head to their favorite trout stream and use hooks with barbs, and bait them with angle worms found while weeding gardens or flower beds.  It’s now ok to keep a 15-inch brown or 11-inch bookie and serve it with fresh asparagus tips or even some earthy morel mushrooms if that’s your thing.

May keeps a watchful eye as fuzzy goslings and ducklings are steered by mother hens around the Chippewa River backwaters.  They are trying to avoid toothy pike, bedding largemouth bass and the occasional snapping turtle that are all out for an unsuspecting lunch.

The forests and fields are mazes for wild turkey and pheasant chicks.  They peep and waddle through the playground decorated by sun colored wood poppies, and brilliant white bloodroot flowers. Sunsets are closer to 9 p.m. now, compared to 4 p.m. a few months back. That mother May is a damn good exterior designer. 

I think May smiles down on all of us as she makes her way towards June. I tip my hat and smile back.

-TGI

Parting Ways

Around and about mid-January, my wife Hayley proclaimed, “We need to have a spring garage sale!”

  

True enough; the kiddos have grown faster than crab grass and dandelions in a dry July.  Their wardrobes, toys, and gadgets certainly need a downsizing. Amidst rompers, princess crowns, dresses, Hello Kitty pajamas, trucks and various plastic things that ring and sing, I have decided to part with a few outdoor supplies of my own.

It would break the outdoorsman’s code to sell things that are not of high quality. It would also lead to years of ‘bad karma’ in all future hunting and fishing adventures. Be assured the following items that will be making their way from my life to someone else’s have many good trips and high memory-making potential left.

In general, I am pretty tough on my outdoor equipment.  The stocks of my shotguns are scratched from too many trips through hillside prickly ash and Tiffany Bottom buck brush. I do not take them apart enough for proper cleaning after being out in damp or snowy weather. They are hunting guns, not display guns. 

 

My fishing reels do not get oiled enough.  I try to put new monofilament on them at regular intervals.  But usually it takes snapping off a 3-pound small mouth or a 13-inch crappie at the boat to remind me to do so.

Fishing rods are in grave danger each trip out with me.  Car doors, truck topper latches, storage lockers that are 2 inches too short, and a few too many hefty hook sets over the years have been the undoing of a dozen poles or so.  Yellow labs jumping into the boat, and little, or not so little kids trying to jump out, have also claimed a few. 

Nearly all of my hunting clothes and boots, regardless of age and value, have been exiled to the garage for storage.  They were sent there by my wife; whose interior design color palate does not include any shade or form of camouflage or blaze orange. They now hang as neighbors to half-used bottles of Round Up, extra weed whipping cord, and unsharpened lawnmower blades. However, they do anxiously wait being picked for their next adventure!

Hats of mine generally have crooked brims and small holes in various places where treble hooks or game feathers have imbedded themselves. Gloves that I wear seldom match, and if they do match it won’t be for long.

The equipment that I use has had a rugged life, but a good life. It has its share of bumps, bruises, rips, tears, rust spots, and hang- ups.  But, be sure it also will leave with a fair share of great memories.

 They follow in no particular order-

My Game-Hide upland vest that carried the first pheasants of the late Belle, Hugo, and still living Murphy…whoever claims it, may you garner 100 or more flushes from roosters or grouse.  Hopefully some will offer straight away shots, rather than those dastardly left to right crossers at 70 m.p.h.

I bid farewell to some tip-ups, fishing rods and a 1-man ice shack that can no longer house the growing Ingli family.  Hopefully there will be some lunkers at the end of the lines for someone else…please take pictures and practice some catch and release. 

The portable Eagle fish locator will be able to mark schools of baitfish and drop-offs for you perhaps…much like it did 15 years ago in Canada’s Forty Mile Lake.  The day when Dave and I left with aching arms from catching so many Lakers and Northern Pike will always be on my mind.

The aging goose decoys that I will sell for 20 bucks owe me nothing more.  They will probably have a few stories to tell their new owner.  Whistling mallard wings in the darkness and soft honks from a flock of Canadians lifting off the St. Croix River still ring in my ears and echo through my soul. Hopefully a lucky water fowler will hear similar sweet sounds.  Better yet, hopefully they can share these things with a father like I have done, or a true hunting friend like Griz…I say thank you as I wave good-bye!

The list of gear is much shorter than the list of ‘kid things’ that are now propped, folded, or hung on racks throughout our garage.  If this rambling has piqued your interest, or even if it hasn’t, stop into downtown Lund and have a look for yourself.

The memories await your arrival.

-TGI

The Economics of Turkey Hunting Failure

Joe sadly looked at his empty turkey tag last night.  He dropped his head in shame, wondering how an animal with a brain the size of a marble had outsmarted him again this season.  He bought those fancy new decoys for $70.  The ones that have a warning sticker  because they are SO LIFE LIKE!  Didn’t the turkeys read those stickers? 

He watched 16 hours worth of calling videos and You Tube clips.  Will Primos, Knight and Hale, Babe Winklemen, and others told him how to cluck, purr and yelp.  Turkeys have access to those, right? 

He dressed in the best camouflage. You know that stuff that the deer can’t smell and the ticks avoid?  His jacket and matching pants look like pine trees, oak limbs and alfalfa stubble all at once!  A line up of attacking Navy Seals couldn’t notice him in a 20 square foot flower garden!  BUT, how then, did those 2 jakes, the most easily fooled of any turkey specimen, pick him out of a 40-acre band of hardwoods and ground shrubs, like he was wearing a blinking neon bar sign?

He entered the woods by 5:00 each morning and let the area settle down for a good hour.  The robins were barely peeping when he left the house for goodness sakes. He approached carefully, all of his set ups; landing the heel of his boot first, then the toe.  He didn’t rustle the leaves or snap twigs.  The one time in five days when he got that tickle in his throat, he coughed into the “Cough Muffler” that only set him back $39.99 from Ebay.   The stealth was so great, if Joe had to walk through soft mud, he even whisked away his tracks with a spruce limb so the smart gobblers wouldn’t see the imprints.  Regardless of the painstaking measures, 11 times during his season, after cresting a knoll, he saw turkeys running faster than Olympic sprinters in the direction totally opposite of  he.

Joe went nearly 72 hours without hearing a single gobble; even though he tried all the turkey sounds and locator blares he could muster. His new call budget for 2012 was a modest $100.  Coyote yips, owl hoots, goose honks, and elk bugles apparently fell upon deaf turkey ears. After his last ditch effort Sunday afternoon, he collapsed in exhaustion into his black Toyota Tundra. His elbow bumped the horn, and the ridges around his parked vehicle erupted with no less than 17 gobbles from multiple toms… “Go figure,” Joe responded to the Turkey Gods who were not listening anyway.

Ah…so Joe wearily sits in his armchair in the den. Like an aging punch-drunk fighter, he riffles through the pages of Turkey Hunter Magazine and has the Outdoor Channel on his flat screen, as he nods off to sleep.  Of course, his dreams are not about the nightmarish shortcomings of his past turkey hunting failures.  Nah… he anxiously imagines slowly snugging his $500 shotgun to his cheek, as a full strut gobbler dances into his very own decoys…you know, the ones he ordered 15 minutes ago at Cabela’s Online. They are sure to be here in time for his second tag of the season…beginning on May 4^th.  


-TGI

Drop-tine (Part 2)

Grandpa Lowell picked me up at 6:30 the morning before Thanksgiving 1990. The inside of his gray 85 GMC was the temperature of Borneo Rainforest when I climbed in.

“Morning Grandpa,” I managed while taking off my stocking hat and unzipping my down vest.

“MORNIN!” he bellowed back over the roar of the panel heater and the cracking of WCCO AM radio.  “Good game last night…23 points isn’t bad against Elk Mound…Shoulda had 26 but you missed those free throws.”

He winked at me and I could tell he was proud.  Grandpa was always talking about the accomplishments of his grandkids.  It was my turn now, but soon he would be just as happy to share things about Josh, Sam, Molly, or Tyler. 

“The boys are trying to cut Ol’ Droptines’ tracks…We’re supposed to meet them at Big Coulee Road by 6:45…  I am sure they have something up their sleeves.”   It would take the full 15 minutes to get from our house to the rendezvous spot, as it had been more than five years since Grandpa’s truck had reached more than 42 mph.

We arrived at Big Coulee Road to find the boys standing outside the trucks.  I could tell by the way Dad and my uncles were talking and pointing with excitement, that someone had seen something.  Grandpa rolled down the window and turned Sid Hartman of WCCO down. 

“Drop-tine,” Uncle Brian said smiling.  “Dan seen him heading out of Chilson’s and he’s now in the upper end of Brunner Coulee!”

“You sure?” 

Brian answered, “It’s him.  Dan said he’s 20 inches wide and there is no way another buck that size has a limp like that.”

Like two playground quarterbacks, Dad and Uncle Kurt began drawing stick scribbles in the snow to get positions for the members of our party.  Brunner Coulee was a place we hunted often, and the whitetail escape routes would be manned.

Kurt laid out the game plan;  “Okay, we can’t wait for the others…someone else might get in there after him.  Brent, Troy, you jump in with Grandpa.  Cover the two fence lines just past Fox Rock.  Someone get on the bottom of the ridge where that prickly ash meets the scrub oaks.  Last time he was in here, that’s where he snuck out!”

Dad chimed in, “Kurt, Brian and I will make the push.  I know we are going with the wind, so be ready for him try and slip back through the drivers.  We’ll give the standers ten minutes to get set up.”

Brent headed to the bottom stand while Grandpa manned the fence line close to the field road.  A survivor of three strokes, poor circulation and struggling to walk,  Grandpa usually ‘hunted’ from inside the pick- up. Today though, I watched as he got out a small green chair and plopped down while holding his scoped 870 over his lap.  I was the last line of defense, so to speak, covering a hardwood ridge about 200 yards to the north of Fox Rock.  From my elevated position, I could see Grandpa and Uncle Brent.  If Drop-tine were in this drive, I would at least get to see him.

Ten minutes after the drive started, I heard Uncle Kurt’s 870 bark from the valley near the start of the drive.  In those days, a single shot from an Ingli driver meant merely there was deer coming the stander’s way.  Four minutes  later Uncle Brian rapped off two quick shots.  I thought I could faintly make out  “Drop-tine heading out the top” from his muffled voice. I kicked a few leaves away from the base of the scrub oak I was next to and readied my shotgun.  I didn’t want to be caught off guard if the giant whitetail headed my way.

Turns out, Kurt jumped the buck in a gnarl of blow downs crossing the first ravine of the drive. Drop-tine didn’t seem to be in a hurry to bust out of the top of Brunner Coulee.  He worked his way up, then back, staying just ahead of the drivers.  When Brian got off the shots at him, the monster quickened his pace and headed to the topside of the ridge. The plan drawn on the snow was coming together, as the legendary buck was now in a space only 400 yards in diameter, and six Ingli’s seemed to have the escape routes covered.  On instincts, Dad figured Drop-tine might sneak out before reaching Grandpa’s fence line.  I saw him ‘hoofing it’ for Fox Rock.  From the perch, Dad could easily cover the hillside that Brent couldn’t reach from his position at the scrub oak stand.

Two minutes after Dad reached Fox Rock, I saw ‘Drop-tine’ coming his way.  The monster was picking his way through the briars and stepping over logs.  He would go a few steps, and check his back trail, and the steadily approaching drivers.  When Dad heard a twig snap, I saw him carefully raise his 1187 to the shoulder.  If the buck would cross one last ravine, Dad would have him a mere 15 yards below the big rock. Drop-tine limped across the ravine, then, turned sharply to the north, with intentions on cutting out the top towards Grandpa’s position on the field road fence. 

My heart was pounding as the story unfolded in front of me.  We were finally going to get the most elusive buck known to Western Wisconsin!  With the buck’s new course, Dad swung around, and was steadied to take the shot when the legend stopped in a clearing at just thirty paces.  I said under my breath “Shoot Dad...Get him... it’s Drop-tine...He’s ours...”

I waited, but the shot never came!  I watched as Dad slowly lowered his gun.  Drop-tine continued on his new path, lumbering towards Grandpa Lowell.  I then heard my own father’s voice...with high-pitched excitement, “Here he comes Dad!” 

Even though Grandpa Lowell didn’t hear so well, he had seen the monster buck jump the fence past Dad and Fox Rock. When ‘Drop-tine’ cleared the last rise before Grandpa’s green chair, he was about 40 yards away. He started to veer slightly to the east as Grandpa rose from the chair and shouldered his shotgun in the same motion. The big buck was more lumbering than running.  Broadside and passing at 15 yards, he slouched as Grandpa’s 870 roared.  Two more bounds and the legendary buck fell motionless a few feet from the field road.

 Dad was the first person to reach Grandpa and the downed deer.  By the time I  reached their location,  I heard Grandpa giving my Dad a good old tongue-lashing.    “What in the hell are you doing not shooting at that deer?  Why, if he would have doubled back like he’s done for five years we would have never seen him again!”

Dad was grinning ear to ear, taking in all of Grandpa’s rumblings.  “Well, I guess I just thought you’d maybe get a shot at him.”

Grandpa responded, “You  GUESSED!...Maybe get a shot!...  Oh boy…that’s a doozy…if that buck woulda got away, or I would have missed I bet your brothers woulda had a piece of your hide! … To think, all these years and you decide to let the Drop-tine Buck run free…  If you think you’re so damn smart, get this thing gutted out and dragged to my pick-up…we got some stories to tell the boys in town.”

‘Drop-tine’ was clearly not the buck he previously was, but was still a trophy.  His inside spread was just shy of 20 inches.  He had 12 points and heavy main beams, although his tell tale drop tine was broken off below the G2. The buck would score a very respectable 142 inches, Grandpas largest deer in more than 50 years of hunting.

I sat back and watched my Dad and uncles as they took their time field dressing and dragging the animal out to Grandpa’s truck.  There was true elation in the air. Stories were swapped, traded and certainly exaggerated a bit, as only true hunters…and brothers know how.  All of us knew with Grandpa’s health, this would likely be his last year of hunting. 

Later that day, word had spread through the county that Lowell Ingli had gotten the ‘Drop-tine’ buck. Huge crowds would gather around the old gray GMC, outside of Greg’s Corner Bar, as Grandpa retold the story over and over.  Grandpa was sure to point out to every one, “That crazy damn of son of mine, Greg, could have shot him, but he took the chance and let him run to some lucky old man!…hee hee…now how do ya like that?”

“Drop-tine” is proudly displayed over this computer as I type now.  His name still comes up at coffee shops, watering holes, and church events from time to time. 

‘Drop-tine’ is a constant reminder of all the things that are special about hunting with family and friends Western Wisconsin. The tradition of a November deer camp means many things to many people. Hopefully the preceding story brings back some memories for you.

-TGI

Grandpa Lowell's Drop-tine Buck (Part 1)

The Drop-tine Buck

In the late 1980’s near the Pierce-Pepin County line, a whitetail buck, more legend than animal, had been giving the slip to some of the most successful hunting groups in the area…for several seasons.  Known throughout the bluffs and cornfield country simply as the “Drop-tine Buck;” He was the source of hundreds of conversations at local watering holes and restaurants.  When the October air starting turning the sumac leaves red and the sugar maples orange, his name surfaced at coffee shops in Durand, at the breakfast counter in Plum City’s Pondview, and over pickled pork hocks and saltines at Exile Bar.

Heck, by early November, Father Blenker was even mentioning this monarch at the end of his sermons at St. John’s Church.  He wished those that were in the building safe hunting and thanked them for taking off their blaze orange hats before taking communion.

Ol’ Droptine was a genetic freak of nature for that time.  At his peak, he was a main frame 12 point with several stickers on each side.  Mayme Olson got a Polaroid photo of him just 3 days after the 1987 gun season.   ‘Drop-tine’ was munching on suet and sunflower seeds from the Olson’s cardinal feed only 40 paces off their back deck.  In the photo, he sports 16 countable points, including a 7 inch dagger dropping straight down from his left side G-2.  The feeder he was next to was roughly 2 feet wide, and the inside spread of the monster buck nearly framed it perfectly.  Experts at the Rod and Gun Club estimated his rack to be more than 190 inches at that time.

‘Drop-tine’ had survived a few close calls over the years during the hunting seasons. This made his legend grow like a snow ball on a slushy November playground.  During the ’86 archery season, Kurt Ingli had the monster at 20 yards in a shooting lane below one of his favorite Wildcat Coulee oak trees.  ‘Drop-tine’ had his head down nibbling sweet acorns when the veteran bow hunter released his arrow.  The aim was true.  For some reason, the giant buck snapped his head around as the arrow screamed toward the point of his front shoulder.  A subtle ‘clang’ from aluminum hitting calcium was the result, as Kurt’s offering was harmlessly deflected by the massive main beam of Mister Drop-tine. 

The Clare hunting group were hot on his tracks the final two days of the ’86 gun season.  Vernon Clare managed a shot at him from 80 yards the last minutes of daylight on Saturday.  The buck showed no signs of being hit, as he calmly jumped the fence into Nugget Park.

A couple small drops of blood on sixes of snow led to hope that evening that the ‘Drop-tine Buck’ would be in the back of a pick-up come Sunday before the Packer game.  No such luck.  The Clare’s called on the Biederman’s to help with the tracking effort.  24 hours and nearly 2 miles later, not one of 13 members saw the animal.   There was worry the buck didn’t make it the winter.

The following July, while making the rounds bailing hay, Jack Luebker saw the buck in full velvet on the family farm.  He counted 14 points including the trademark drop-tine hanging down the left side.  Hunters were all hopeful as the fall neared that they would get another shot at the legendary whitetail.  Bow season and gun season passed with nary a sighting. 

December 1^st of that year, the old buck nearly met his maker as he jumped a guard-rail on county road S near Maiden Rock.  He cleared the rail but ran smack dab into the front quarter of Howie Anderson’s county truck that was plowing 4 inches of heavy snow.   The giant buck cart wheeled and limped out of the ditch trying to climb up a steep grade near a small rock quarry.  Unable to make the climb, he retreated, and headed straight up county road S for more than 300 yards.  He disappeared into the berry bushes on top of the hill as Roy Inabnit swerved out of the way to miss him.  Roy avoided the deer, but could not avoid Ardvid Schwake’s mailbox.

Several hunters saw ‘Drop-tine’ in 1988, although none were close enough for a shot.  It became a passion for hunting parties such as the Clare’s, the Ingli’s, the Biederman’s, and the Unser’s to pursue this majestic animal.  The unmistakable rack of the deer was matched with a now pronounced limp from the buck’s injured right leg; no doubt a result from the collision with the county truck. 

Gordy Luebker had ‘Drop-tine’ inside of thirty yards during the muzzle loader season of ’89.  The giant was sneaking back through a 4-man drive and didn’t realize Gordy was waiting for him behind  a Morgan Coulee jack pine.  An excellent marksman, Gordy slowly raised his Thompson Center Muzzleloader and settled the sights behind the left front shoulder.  There was a small click as Gordy locked the hammer back. The now broadside buck raised his head and locked eyes with Luebker who was beginning to squeeze the trigger. Instead of the typical large ‘boom’ and cloud of black powder, the only thing Gordy’s gun emitted was a small pop and puff of gray smoke from a spent cap.  The powder inside the gun had failed to ignite, and ‘Drop-tine’ trotted up a ridge to another year of safety. 

However, this would be the last of his Houdini-like escapes.  (TO BE CONTINUED)