Wisconsin has a “9-day gun deer season.” Gun Deer Season. I’ve thought that’d be a good name for a band. Maybe a head banger group or an edgy country band. Regardless, each year about a half million people, clad in orange, heavily armed, go out in the woods to blast at whitetail deer. Wildlife management is the official line. About 190,000 head were culled from the herd this season according to reports.
Deer hunting started and ended after two seasons for me. Hunting was something we did as a farm family. Small game like rabbit, pheasant, and squirrel mostly. We ate what we shot and put the guns up for the season. Oh, the guns would come out if a racoon got in the chicken coop or a rabid skunk turned up in the barnyard. Useful. My dad liked pheasant hunting. One of the few times he’d take a break from farming. He also joined some friends on a trip up north most seasons during the nine day gun deer season. That ritual ended one year after suspect circumstances never fully explained.
My hunting was solitary. Just me and my pointer dog. A neighborhood friend, Gary, went rabbit hunting with me with some frequency. Both of us were solitary by nature so we worked well when we did hunt together. One year I decided to try the nine day gun deer season. I went out in the woods by myself. It was great. I did see a few deer but never took a shot. Just no big motivation. In the following season, Gary asked if I’d like to join him and some of his friends for a hunt over in the next county. That idea seemed cool so I went along.
That day we met a group of guys on a town road. Interesting cast of people: a spattering of kids like me; some older guys; one woman. One of the older guys was in charge, or at least had a plan and was giving instructions. Some of us would take up positions on one end of the woods, the rest would go to the other end, spread out, and march toward the standers. This was a “drive” he said. The idea was to walk though the woods and “drive” the deer out. “Shoot ’em when ya see ’em,” he said and he and the rest of the drivers piled into trucks and headed for the other end of the woods.
My spot as a stander was part way up a hill not far from the road. A couple of the other standers went up the hill one stopping on the top the other going over the other side somewhere. This “drive” business was new to me as much as was hunting with a group. While certainly plausible, the plan had one obvious hole in it I couldn’t help but notice. In short order there would be a line of people with guns all walking toward me looking to shoot deer. Our orange garb was our bullet proofing, I guess. Also trusting the guy pulling the trigger to notice. I knew Gary and another fella Steve, but the rest were strangers.
I took up a spot next to a tree where I could see around me. Truthfully, I was hiding behind the tree and peeking out. Suddenly: BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAM BLAM. Some kind of battle broke out. BLAMBLAM BLAM overlapping gunfire. Here comes a deer running full tilt. Reflex seized the moment. I pulled up, lead the fleeing animal along and squeezed off a round. BLAM. It went spinning tumbling over where it lay struggling to stand. Shit. I went over to it and shot it in the head BLAM.
A couple more shots went off up the hill then it got still. I was looking down at the dead deer at my feet. What a damn mess. It dawned on me I was having an okay day in the woods up until that moment. The first shot went through the hindquarters. Kiss any decent meat goodbye there. Then here comes this guy down the hill yelling, “I GOT IT! I GOT IT.” I was still torqued up and my impulse was to clock this stupid ass because there was no way this deer was his. He kept repeating, I got it I got it I got it doing a weird dance-like thing, eyes bugged out of his head, waving his gun around.
“Whoah fella. Take a breath,” I told him. While I was still in the mood to argue about the deer on principle, it dawned on me I didn’t want this damn mess anyway. Out behind our barn were six half beed Angus steers eating themselves fat on corn silage and grain. Meat wasn’t needed for anything and the concept of sport had died with a bullet in the brain of this poor dead deer. “Helluvashot there buddy,” I told him. “Oh, thanks man! Will ya help me out here?” Still being on edge myself I managed to mumble something back at him about a nice hunt or whatever. Then I turned around and walked out of the woods.
EPILOGUE
Twice more I participated in the nine day gun deer season. In both cases I had a license but didn’t carry a gun. Wise to the whole concept of a drive, I volunteered into the driver side, dropped people off and then left. By myself in the woods I was fine. Deer, I learned, were also wise to the drive. They’d lay low and still, let the hunters walk by and then run the opposite direction. Out by myself, away from the hunt, I saw a lot of deer.
It’s not often I do anything with this web site but perhaps I should. In fact, I’m gonna try to add a picture here. I see the interface has changed since my last visit.
Prairie grasses fascinate me. I don’t know why, really. Maybe it was 10 years spent in Kansas. Perhaps because I believe myself a creature of Wisconsin’s glaciated prairies and woodlands. Whatever caused the intrigue with prairie grasses, they’ve been hard for me to picture to my satisfaction.
For years I’ve hunted for the scene that’ll generate what I feel when looking at prairie grasses. Native flowers are awesome, breath-taking, and demand pictures. The grasses, though, are laid back; backgrounds and unassuming. It’s hard to see the grass for the grasses. I’ve tried and I think I have some fun pictures of prairie grasses. But not “the” picture.
One fine Wednesday afternoon I was in Walking Iron County Park adjacent to the Village of Mazomaine. I’d been delayed getting to the park and once in the park walked into an active logging operation. The trail was obliterated so I was picking my way into the edge when a log skidding machine began approaching me. Because I was inside the logging zone, the operator decided to make contact probably thinking he’d have to tell me to read the damn signs and stay away.
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It was here, at Lake View Sanitorium, where my father came to recover from tuberculosis. This is an example of how going about taking pictures can lead you down some unexpected trails. I knew my dad had TB and had spent time in the sanitorium. And I was aware of the building as it is obvious to all perched on top of a big hill. But I never visited and didn’t think much about it until one day I went to get pictures of people sledding.
There I was, up close to the building thinking, “my dad once stayed here. Right here, right where I now stand.” Questions tumbled around in my head. Which room was he in? How long was he here? When, exactly, was he here? What was it like for him? My dad had TB long before I was born. My mom told me once he’d been sick and had to go to a sanitorium, that was all the info I had to go on. So I consulted my older sisters. Neither of them had any specific memories. Both were very young at the time. One recalled his return to the farm and the kids had to be quiet so he could rest in the afternoons. The other had some vague memory of going up to the building for a visit but couldn’t tell me anything specific.
No doubt there are county medical records somewhere I can look up. Haven’t got that far yet. Even with that, what’s missing is the story. What was it like for him? Did he get TB because he was a farmer and the close association with cows? What’s the bigger context? Building sanitoriums was a public response to a health crisis. Sanitoriums sprang up in many places. That’s a very different response to a public health crisis than the response we’re currently experiencing.
Island Lake is a small body of water located south of Madison, Wisconsin in Dane County. Much of my youth was spent in and around Island Lake. Horseback riding, walking, swimming, hunting, (but oddly, never fishing) were all part of the spot. I still don’t know if there are fish in Island Lake. There are no fishing reports that I am aware of.
Water levels have fluctuated wildly over the years. I remember at least one season when neighboring farms grew crops almost to the island shore. More recently, water levels have gone up and the surface water area has expanded. The island is a genuine island right now. It’s just my guess, but at the time this picture was taken there was 600 or 800 acres of water. That’s just a wild guess.
For me, Island Lake was and is an inviting intrigue. The island is hard to get to because you need a shallow draw boat or kayak. There are bogs and muck to get stuck in if you’re not careful. Once when I was 10 or so, I decided to cross on the ice one cold January day. I got lucky and learned about ice, and springs, and getting soaked in sub freezing weather far from home. The ice gets thin over the top of a spring. You now know that, too! Lucky? Yeah! I got out and got home to safety so I am alive to pass my knowledge along. Or to confess my youthful stupidity.
More often, the trip to the island was made in a flat-bottom boat. Once, and only once, on a horse. Swimming a horse over was stupid, too. Boats, not so bad; just a certain amount of grunt work pulling on the oars. You can put your dog in the boat. You can hunt ducks from the boat, too.
What’s the island like? As a kid, it was mysterious if for no other reason than you had to put so much effort into getting there. Basically, it was a woods surrounded by water. While I haven’t been back in many many years, it looks the same from the road. I never spent the night out there but I knew a few people who claim they have.
One day, I plan to rent a kayak and return to its shore. Hmm, maybe I’ll take along a little tent and spend a night…
The image may invoke or imply a number of things. But this abandoned silo found along the Verona Segment, Ice Age National Scenic Trail, is a memory vault for me. You can see the ladder on the roof by the open hatch and another coming up the side from below. Ladders are for climbing, right? So that is what I used to do. Our family farm had a very similar silo. There were also rungs on removable doors inside the chute you see on the left of the old silo. Climbed up and down that route, too.
You’re looking at a concrete block silo likely built in the late 40s or early 50s. The concrete blocks were tongue-in-groove so they’d lock together usually with the help of mortar. Rolled steel rods were wrapped around the whole thing and tightened with a type of turnbuckle. Early models used steel roofing but that quickly gave way to aluminum. The chute also is aluminum. (go to page 2)
It took only a few minutes for Peter to begin seeing the difference between a red raspberry and a ripe, black berry. The black berries are good, sweet and juicy. The red berries are still sour and tart not yet ready to pick. He wouldn’t try either. But using his young eyes he could spot the black ones and point them out.
Soon, he reached into the bush to pick some of the berries. Doing so, he learned another difference. Ripe berries slide off the stem easily. Berries not yet ready to pick cling tighter to the stem. Peter then examined the berries more carefully. Black berries defend themselves with prickly stems and hide under leaves. He learned that, too, using his magnifying glass.
Seeing these real time, real world lessons take hold is like watching a miracle. How much any of this will stick with a three-year-old down the road I do not know. Yet, there was cause and effect, reason, memory, logic. Lots of little gears get turned.
The COVID summer of 2020 is a classic example of a monkey wrench jammed in the gears. Everybody is affected to one extent or the other. My family and I are privileged and fortunate enough to have coped successfully. At least so far.
Our success isn’t without its sacrifices. My plan for the year was to finish hiking the eastern half of the Ice Age National Scenic Trail. What was left was roughly Mauthe Lake, east of Campbellsport, to Potawatomi State Park in Door County. In the midst of a COVID storm, I decided to forgo my notion.
Besides, there are more important things. First is to take care of the family as well as possible. In that, the Summer of COVID created a remarkable opportunity. Two days a week, I have traveled to Milwaukee to take care of my grandson, Peter. Preschool ended abruptly for him. No word, no heads up, just one day open next day closed. Peter’s mom and dad both work as essential employees. It was a scramble to find care in the face of a pandemic and I was blessed to have two days a week to jump in.
The majority of the time, I make only basic adjustments to my pictures. Usually only enough sliders to make the picture better reflect what I recall seeing when I took the picture. My recollections about a picture are no doubt influenced by what I want or think I saw; yet, most of what I adjust is pretty common stuff.
My attempts at using the bigger toys available in the photo software usually leave me feeling unsatisfied and uneasy. It’s a step too far for my tastes. While I love the abstract and distorted, fully creating an image in software, or twisting an image into something else lays beyond my creative vision and ability. I’m pretty lame.
The other day I was out taking landscape pictures during a snowstorm when a scene snagged my eye. Two birch trees, side by side, with wet snow clinging to the bark. Their trunks created a symmetry against a chaotic background of snow-covered bramble and branches. Snow was still falling heavily muting the world into a shadow less quiet. What drew me to this little spot I do not know. It was a feeling as much as anything.
Later, in the software, one of the versions of the pictures I took of the two trees made the initial cut. Then it made a second cut and I started working on it.
All of the standard things I tend to do to a picture in processing left me flat. There was a feeling taking that picture, on that day, at that time, in a snowstorm, and I wasn’t feeling it as I went through my routine. So I went to bed.
During the next day I kept thinking about that picture. Could I somehow use the photo software to get close to the feeling I had when I snapped the picture? It was a discouraging question since I have only limited experience to pull from. Starting with a raw image and taking it from there to a specific result, one I could only feel, was annoying. Maybe I need to know more about my feelings; or maybe I need more technical mastery; or perhaps I should forget about it.
Finally, I went back to the picture. The process I typically relied on didn’t work so I decided to reverse everything I normally do when editing a picture. Intuitively, I started using the software to soften, mute, paint. It was unnatural to me. Several times I went back and forth on a single move abandoning it to try something else. More than once, I returned to steps taken earlier to see if it’d make a difference with a new set of conditions. I walked the dog, ate something, tried to nap, turned music on and off, walked the dog again, returning the picture after each interlude.
Then I stopped. I kept looking at the image that emerged on the monitor. It had a feeling I liked but I was wary. After all, I was pretty far down the river on these two dumb trees and they’d not been a study in objectivity. Could I trust my feelings? So I went to bed.
Following a decent sleep, oatmeal breakfast, a languid coffee time, and a sub-zero walk with the dog, it was time for a fresh look at my two trees. As with so many pictures, you arrive at a take it or leave it moment. No matter what you started out to do, there’s a point where there is no more you can do. In the freshness of morning, my two trees seemed good enough. To me, at least, the picture was mellow and still while holding onto the strength of forest timber. That was it.
Bob Conners Article
Once in a while you get to use what you know for a good cause. This summer, the Ice Age Trail Alliance magazine Mammoth Tales, carries an article I did for them regarding a philanthropist. It was interesting to do and outside my usual sandbox.
As of this writing, the alliance hadn’t yet posted the magazine online but the dead tree version is arriving in mailboxes. Hope it does some good. There are an endless number of good causes to support, many which are more pressing than the Ice Age Trail, but the trail is part of the puzzle of life quality for everyone.
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