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)

Thoughts of My Own

     The little man squawked last night from his upstairs crib.  I  ascended the brown carpet to his room, finding him upright, reaching through the bars towards his favorite corner of blue-blanket that had somehow found its way to the floor.  I retrieved it for him and gave him one of those father-son squeezes that brought the inkling of a smile to the outside of his pacifier… as well as to the inside of my heart.  Quickly he was back asleep.

     I stood, more awake now it seemed.  I got to wondering what the future will hold for our little man?  Will he be good with words and letters like his 4 year-old sister?  Will he always laugh when the cat dodges his outstretched hands?  Will there be a fondness in his heart for the outdoors like his old man? 

     Will he be able to roll his tongue and pat his head while rubbing his tummy?  Will he be honest and responsible?  Will he protect his older sister when they are in high school together, and those senior boys start making jokes about her?

     Will he remember to aim at the back of the rim on his free throws and learn to keep his eye on that curveball when the count is 1 and 2?  Will he tackle with his eyes up and feet moving?  Will he be a leader or a follower?

 

     Man, there are sure a lot of ‘what ifs’ and ‘I hope so’ feelings involved with this whole Dad thing.   First things first; let’s just make sure that blue blanket stays in the crib for a little while longer. At least for tonight.

-TGI

New Beginnings

Nothing beats a good sunrise.  You’ve heard that one before, right?  It’s a nice thought, but not necessarily true.   There are quite a few things in my life that give streaks of crimsons and yellows and oranges of all shades, peaking over a hill a good run for their money.

In no particular order, the following come to my simple mind:

 I once used a yellow lab puppy to help me propose to my beautiful wife…and it worked!…A time or two over the years, there have been students or players who went out of their way to say thanks, and meant it…Sometimes I sing songs, and people dance, or even cry, and that’s pretty special…  When you enter the house after a long day and that same lab is there to greet you, all while fending off two special kids who are bear-hugging each leg…that’s priceless.

Sunrises get great competition from the feeling of watching a rising trout slurp in one of your homemade flies.  Or, picking a couple black queens in the blinds of a game of sheephead is nice.  As is finding a crumpled ten-dollar bill in the front pocket of your favorite jeans.

Sunrises do not make any promises.  They do, however, provide hope.  And hope is pretty darn special.  They give hope that you are going to be better today than you were yesterday.  Hope that you are going to get a couple things crossed off that bucket list.  Hope that just maybe, that co-worker who gets under your skin, will be out of the office today.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love sunrises.  And fortunately, I live in a place where there are some special ones, so hopefully you do as well. Or at least places you can visit.  Here’s a few local attractions.

I love to see fog starting to burn off a duck marsh in the Tiffany Bottoms. There’s not a painting sweeter than a patch of water cress and brook trout fins in the foreground, as the Pine Creek Valley comes to life.  It would be worth your while to scan the bluffs to the north of Merrick State Park; blazing orange as the sun announces its presence; giving a hint that it may darn well slow down the now frantic pan fish bite.

There are things that beat a good sunrise…but not many. 

Kids, Fishing & Small Fry Constellations

     With help from Jerry Wilber, the following rambling made me smile.  Hopefully it strikes a nerve or brings back a memory or two for you.  I thought of some very special people when writing this. First and foremost my own father. Growing up he always made time to take me fishing and teach me about the precious outdoors.  We were able to spend a few hours of boat time this weekend!  Hopefully his promised retirement produces even more time for us to figure out some fish together. THANK YOU DAD!                                       

                                                        

     Next I think of 'Grandpa Guy.'  Oh those countless trips to the cabin north of Rice Lake.  Pulling in  bluegills as fast as you could get your bobber to plop down near that special patch of lily pads 40 feet to the left of the old green dock.

     Finally I see good friend Dave Peterson.  He has a passion to get kids (his own and others) excited about enjoying the wild around us.  He is a great role model for those of us, who would rather selfishly keep our fishing holes, turkey blinds and deer stands to ourselves.

Small Fry Constellations

      I have taken kids fishing, and I believe the philosophy of it to be a sound one. But there are many things that go along with taking a kid fishing.  Most of it has little to do with wetting a line.  I've built castles in the sand and roasted marshmallows.  I used to be good at stone skipping, but now a 4 or 5 is the best I can do.  I am a bit nervous about other prerequisites of kids' fishing trips.  You know, like cannonballing from a limb of a riverside pine tree, or banging a couple rocks together to start a campfire after gathering enough kindling.

     I'll probably be able to beat most of these kids in arm wrestling...maybe.  I'll lose the contest of holding your breath under water.  Though I'm not as quick as I once was, I'll hold my own in catching frogs and painted turtles... I am smart enough to leave the snappers alone. That race to the top of the bluff and back...well count me in, albeit bringing up the rear.

    Yet, like those kids, I will still toss and turn in a sleeping bag waiting for the treasures that a wild sunrise will bring.  I will spit on my knot before tightening it on the hook shank like my Dad taught me.  I will go without fear, 2 miles upstream, or paddle to the far end of the lake, or make a portage, or cross a 40 degree river in shorts if it gets me and my fishing parnter a better shot at a trophy. 

                                                                    
    In my mind I will forever keep the following: the sounds of a morning filled with the cries from loons; the sound of bacon sizzling over a campfire; and the gentle splash of a canoe paddle as it enters the crisp gin colored water.

     Like the kids, I will marvel at the flaming colors of native brook trout.  I will search carfefully for the pie-plate shapes of spawing bluegill beds.  I will truly enjoy a shore lunch on paper plates with my friends of all ages. And certainly, I will be reluctant to call it quits when it is time to head back home...back to the real world.

    A person could do worse, I suppose, than go fishing with kids. You should take the time to try it.

     I could take up a couple pages in listing those who I thought of during this rambling. For sure Dad, Grandpa Guy, and Dave Peterson from above.  For those that don't see your name, please know your were in my thoughts as well:  Grandpa Lowell, Uncles Brian and Kurt, Little Denee, Big Hoff, Griz, 'Split Lake Jimmy,' Gilly, Johnny B, Lester and the Chippewa River Crew.

Thank you all-

-TGI