We streak across the snowy surface of Elm Island Lake, the
humming of the snowmobile’s engine lulling me into a state of repose as I watch
the landscape pass by. Behind us, a young boy holds on and smiles with the credulous
delight we faintly remember but warmly embrace. He is tethered on to our
machine with some climbing rope and a sled; he holds on, trying to maintain his
course along our freshly blazed trail. Today we are headed out for my first ice
fishing trip, out onto this still frozen lake in search of panfish and while I
know not what to expect I look forward to something that is inherently
Minnesotan. I have a few native fishermen to guide me and as such I trust this
trip will be both amusing and a learning experience.
With the temperature hovering just above thirty and a cool
wind streaming out of the west you would think this day better suited for mid-March
than late April. “The winter cannot go on this way”, they repeatedly tell me
but as anomalies go in my life, this one takes the cake. The incessant
onslaught of winter storms and cold weather continue to turn me against a
previously loved season and I dream of spring every chance I get. But alas, we
are stuck, almost literally in my driveway yesterday, stuck in its grasp and
the most we can do is make the best of it.
A few weeks ago a friend from work finally convinced me to
go out and get my annual fishing license. It was not that I was hesitant because
I didn’t care to fish but rather because money is tighter than ever. And so I
did, heeding his words that the fish I would catch and the bounty I could bring
home would pay for the license in no time. And as a matter of fact an annual
pass for a non-resident was a measly $46, how can one argue with that? So I
packed up my cameras, said goodbye to the dog and headed out the door,
completely unaware of what was to come.
With the warming sun combating the cool breeze I just tried
to take in my first ride on a snowmobile; a machine with incredible power and
surprising mobility. We had already dove off hillsides that would have sent a
quad tumbling and skimmed across ice and slush that at times had me questioning
the safety of this endeavor, a thawed out river working its way towards us less
than 200 yards away. But the trip was most enjoyable and after a few short-cuts
and some fresh snow we arrived at our destination.
Initially, I didn’t know what to expect. As we began to look
for holes drilled by others I quickly realized this was not a sit and wait
game. Perhaps in the depths of winter when winter breezes bring the wind chill
to an oppressive -20 a small shelter and some heating source would seem prudent
but here, in the midst of a warm April afternoon, holes are abound and jumping
around is the name of the game. Even so, my friend pulls out to auger to drill
in his "best" spots and we are off and running.
The size of the fishing rods are almost comical; only about
12 inches long they look as if they were made for a small child, not a full
grown man. But in the end they are practical and with small fish, steady winds,
and the constant hole hopping, they serve their purpose well. We use mealworms
as bait and a little device called a Vexilar to detect fish. It’s almost like a
fish finder, detecting with variations in color and size what is below us in
the 30+ feet of water; given that it can detect my tiny worm at 25 feet, you
can be fairly confident in its accuracy. As fish come in you begin to find
yourself caught between the world of feeling for the “bite” and watching a
small digital detection screen, somewhere between your grandfather’s fishing
trips and an 80’s style video game. While I’m still not sure whether this would
technically constitute cheating I see that in this case, where a man is feeding
his family, it’s a compromise. Needless to say, it certainly is fun.
Before I can quite
get a handle on the operation the oldest of his boys has already snagged four fish
and is proudly gloating to his dad who in turns vows to make a comeback (after
he is done drilling a few more holes). I meanwhile can see the fish in my
little device yet find quickly my “closing” abilities need some work. However,
with a few quick tips on pace and rhythm I pull up my first panfish, a crappie
(pronounced CROP-IE) to my utter delight. It is small yet beautiful. From the
chilled water in this lake and up through 25 inches of ice it has found its way
onto my hook and up to my side. But I have barely a moment to enjoy before the
fish is swiped up and thrown into a bucket, “35 more to go” he says and I am
back to hole hopping.
With the sun warming my face I am down to only a light
jacket. As we sit on the lake the sun moves across the lake exemplifying the would
be spring sky. I continue to catch fish and while my technique is far from
perfected, I find myself enticing more and more fish to bite. Or perhaps, which
is more likely the case, it’s simply become later in the afternoon and the fish
are raring to go; I prefer the former. But what I realize throughout this
process is that the two boys treat this trip as something habitual, almost
perfunctory, but no doubt enjoying the experience in their own way. They share
stories of the untold numbers of fish reeled in earlier this week and of their
trophies caught on the bigger lakes; the younger one of only eight boasting
about a 29 inch walleye he caught this past summer. Their love of the outdoors
and fishing is almost ingrained in them. I believe I got more joy out of that
than actually fishing myself.
With the sun dipping below the tree line we packed up our
bags and headed back home, just short of ten fish each and our limits. I would
arrive at their house, grab a few cans of generic beer and head downstairs to clean
fish. In this moment I was witness to another kind of ritual that was equally
engaging and novel to me. The father of these boys and my good friend began to
show me how to fillet these fish, his fastidious and programmed movements
quickly turning a small fish into a meal. He talked about the weight of his
knife, the flex of its blade, and proudly pointed out the two new ones he had
bought for his boys, both embossed with their initials.
In this dim cellar below the main floor deer antlers, arrows,
hooks, lures, and reloading equipment litter the tables and shelves; an
environment that would make any hunter smile. With a few beers, the radio
fading in and out, and the warmth from the wood burning outside I felt myself
winding down. When all the fish were cleaned and the carcasses removed a few
pieces of crumpled up newspaper made quick work of the excess fish mix on the
cutting boards. The knife was wiped dry, the lights turned out, and the tedious
work complete.
We would sit down to a dinner of venison, sliced thin and
cooked over the stove. A few more beers would cement the evening and a Saturday
afternoon turned into night was over. I drove home with fish in my truck, meat
in my belly, and another adventure to reflect on. I think there will certainly be
some more fishing in my future and now the only question is, when do I get to
do it again?
While under most circumstances I would describe bird hunting
in my own terms, with my own voice, I have found several others over the years
who have elicited my own sense of passion; others who through their words and
pictures have transported me to the open range and put me to bed with dreams of
fall. When I find these authors, these men who capture the culture, I hold onto
them and continue to lose myself in their stories.
One such article that brought out the best in what it means
to hunt upland birds is called, “Magnificent
Obsession: Pursuing prairie chickens
may be the purest form of hunting…It’s surely the most introspective” by
Tom Davis. Published in a popular sporting magazine, Davis eloquently and cogently
wraps you up in the world of grouse, and more specifically, that of the prairie
chicken. If I had not even gotten past the cover photo (below) I would have
walked away with a smile on my face; it’s perfect, symbolizing rural America at
its finest. But alas, there is a great article that follows and the experience
is divine. From elaborating on the struggles in the field to reflecting on the
current state of grouse across the country, Davis makes us all want to head off
to the mid-west and try our hand at these elusory birds.
But enough of me, best to enjoy it for
yourself…
What has been a long, cold winter in which I have found
myself tolerating the onslaught of snow in three different states has perhaps
saved its best punch for last; the arrival of a mid-April snow storm in what is
supposed to be the time of year we are awaiting turkey season, not anticipating
icy roads. As I look to the sky I can sense that Old Man Winter is holding
tight and while his resistance is admirable he will soon fall as he always does.
It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff and his grip is flagging. While his
fingers reach and search for each and every crevice to dig themselves into, the
tremendous force of gravity will soon pull him down and give way to a new equinox.
As we await the change it is no longer a matter of if but when.
As I look back though I have little reason to complain as
this has so far been a month of firsts, a spring in which I have realized the
fulfillment of one of my most longstanding and sincere wishes; a month that
added an equally moving ripple to my wish and a month that as is by all
accounts, only half way past. I can only hope that the next two weeks live up
to the preceding two.
A few weeks ago I wrote an article entitled “Encounters of
the Wild Kind” in which I delved into the unexpected wildlife encounters we are
often confronted with in the outdoors. But there are other times in the course
of our lives in which we have these face to face meetings outside the hunting
world and find a very routine day turn into something entirely beyond words.
These days are the ones we talk about with friends for years to come as those
moments that keep the day to day living out in agrarian America exciting.
Without divulging what I do for a living I can say that I often
times find myself in the middle of nowhere, driving around in the land of no
cell service where getting your truck stuck means you and your shovel are in it
for the long haul (quick tip for rural living: make sure you have a shovel). Earlier
this week, shortly after the sun had risen I was beginning my work day when I
approached a small, inconspicuous town in east-central Minnesota. With the brakes pressing against the wheels I
could feel my rig begin to slow and then, there in front of me out of a ditch
came a broad figure, moving quickly and clearly intent on beating me across the
road. It took me only half a second to process the image but what I had just
seem emerge from the woods and take two or three bounds across the county
highway was a bobcat, my first ever.
He was beautiful and sleek, his powerful legs driving him up
across the road, his short bobbed tail following suit. His coat was lighter in
color, perfectly adapted for the winter wilderness. He moved with a speed and
art that clearly separated him from anything I had ever come across. He looked
powerful and stalwart yet realizing his vulnerability at that moment, decidedly
wanted to immerse himself in the woods once again. It was as I mentioned a
ripple, an anomaly, a break in the stillness of time as to go unseen by so many
but presenting itself right before me. That day is a blur, I’m not even sure
what I did or if I really accomplished anything but that moment was more than
enough to leave me feeling thoroughly gratified. However, I had no idea at the
time that the bobcat was only a precursor in what would soon be one a wildlife
week worth remembering.
The very next day I woke up, still picturing the cat in my
head and began my work before dawn. As the morning progressed I found myself
driving down an old dirt road and without warning I was removed from the
forests that lined the landscape and entered a stretch of open hay fields. With
the inclination to let my eyes wander I looked over to see what I had been
wanting to see since I was a teenager, what everyone should see once in their
lives; the animal that is both loved and hated and the center of much debate, a
wolf. And not some wolf kept for show or some wolf rehabilitating in a wildlife
facility but a real live, wild Minnesota wolf. The pleasure was something bordering
on ecstasy and to think about it now is to feel my cheeks tighten as a smile
works its way onto my face.
I had over the years wondered if I would actually be able to
spot a wolf if I were to come across one. You often hear these stories of
mistaken identity (a large coyote, a domestic dog) but when I laid eyes on that
animal at just over a hundred yards, I knew it instantly. His physique, size,
and stature were that of an apex predator and he looked every bit the part. His
head had weight to it, his body was muscular, his tail long, and his feet as
big as on any canine I have ever run across. And there he stood, literally,
looking dead at me, unsure whether he should run or go about his business,
everything in my head hoping for the latter. It was awe-inspiring and as it
turns out, unlike so many wildlife moments that are fleeting, he decided to
stay a while. I rolled down the window, put my seat back and watched him as the
morning moisture burned off.
I was tempted to reach back and get my camera but told
myself that the seconds wasted fumbling in the back would be precious seconds I
could never get back. I knew that I may never get this chance again and if I
was going to watch this amazing animal I was going to see him with my own eyes,
not through of that of a camera lens. And there he stayed, poking his head into
gopher holes, ignoring a group of sharp-tailed grouse dancing in the distance
behind him. He strolled along lifting his head every so often to look at me and
then back down to the ground. I just remember thinking he was so big, so unlike
anything I had ever seen in my life. It was as the Gods had seen to personally
taking my wildlife wish list and were presenting me with a gift. To whoever is
up there, all I can say is, “Thank you”.
Eventually the wolf would meander his way into a willow
stand and fade off into the distance and I had never been so happy. I stepped
out of the truck, put my hands on my head and smiled. Does it get any better?
And I have to wonder, if not for hunting, would I have ever noticed him. We,
over time, as hunters, develop a sort of peripheral vision, tuned in and locked
in to any small movements, incredibly wild in essence. But it gives us that
slight edge, that slight advantage that may just make a missed opportunity the
moment of a lifetime. This was certainly one of those moments for me. I still
can’t believe it, a wolf, a wild wolf. And despite the national conflict that
has emerged in the past 25 years there is still something to be said by
everyone in laying their eyes upon this secluded predator.
As we move onward the first will keep coming. This month is
only half over and tomorrow I make my way out onto the frozen Minnesota lakes to
drop my first line in for ice fishing. We’ll head out in the evening in search
of freshwater crappies and bluegill, a co-worker, a seasoned fisherman
preparing to show me the ropes, literally. With 30 inches of ice still bearing
down on the lake’s underbelly we are assured a measure of relaxation.
Bobcats, wolves, and ice fishing...what more could an outdoorsman
ask for?
To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Over the past few years
writing this blog has brought me a lot of joy. It has forced me to put down in
words what I was experiencing in the field and I have subsequently found myself
reliving intricate details of events that would have otherwise been forgotten. I
have found myself scrolling through photos which filled me with inimitable
happiness and recounted great successes. But I would be a fool to think that just
because I enjoy writing and believe that I have something to say, that that
alone would translate into readers.
I’ve had this notion in my head that if I wrote enough and
documented enough of our adventures people would begin to follow. But alas, and
not to sulk or in any way diminish what I have been doing, I fear there are
very few readers outside my immediate friends and family come here. I have
long thought that I could just put pen to paper and that the “people will
(would) come”, as Terrance Mann so profoundly proclaimed in “Field of Dreams”,
hoping somewhere along the line those readers would connect with me. And maybe
they have, maybe some reader or readers have visited and found something to
move or inspire them, something to get them out of their routine and enter an
unknown world; one can only hope. As they say, “nothing ventured, nothing
gained”.
As I see it though, writing alone is not enough. For anyone
that follows hunting sports the name Steven Rinella has recently come to the
forefront of American hunting culture and many, like myself, have become
fascinated by his adventures and moreover, jealous of his lifestyle. However,
in a recent interview I learned that Steven actually has a Master’s degree in writing,
a crushing blow to a small town, rural blog dreamer. However, recovering from
the knockdown I reminded myself that writing is but one dynamic of engaging an audience;
it is only one aspect of creating a world for people to escape the salt mines. To
engage others in this world is to employ multiple senses in a short period of
time. More and more, whether we like it or not our interactions with the
outside world and with others are perpetually being driven by a digital reality. Others
like me have been able to avoid the chaos but at some point, at some junction
we have to accept that to be a player in this game, one must enter into foreign
territory to be successful. And that unknown, that uneasy path, inevitably
leads to video.
I have never recorded or clipped together any film of any
kind. I have never been called a movie editor or really ever cared to piece
something from many parts into one. It just seems complicated. But I have
always known that I wanted to incorporate video into the blog. I have always
wanted to bring to life some of these adventures and with the latest addition
of a GoPro Hero 3 into my life, I may just finally have that chance. I cannot promise
anything spectacular or something that will end up with tens of thousands of
hits on YouTube but, it’s worth exploring, it’s worth interacting, it’s worth a
shot; I mean, hell, not like I have any readers to lose.
But enough of the internal processes that drift through my
head. Immediate results will be slow but hopefully by the time fall hits
the recording will be in full swing. Until then, it’s typing as usual. Check
out the blog, read our old posts, get to know us and wait for a revitalized
campaign, wait for Haines Hunters v. 2.0!
If it’s been said before, well, it’s worth saying again. A
large part of the reason we wake squinty eyed to the buzzing of our alarm
clocks in the waning hours of the night’s
darkness is not only to aspire to find the animals which we seek but also, to
encounter the ones we never planned on seeing in the first place. To come face to
face with another organism of whom we had no intention of visiting yet before
the day ends, an animal we will know well as either an antagonist or ally; the
latter being preferable.
These confrontations,
if you will, provide us with a spell of ephemeral amnesia during which we are
allowed, almost unsuspectingly, to enjoy life beyond a particular goal or
objective and just enjoy the woods for what they are…wild. I have had many such
encounters during my time in the woods, especially while hunting. I have seen a
great grey owl perched in a Douglas fir, watching over me as I wailed away on a
predator call, turkeys gobbling in the distance. I have been in search of early
season deer when I heard a bull elk crash through the undergrowth across a
ravine and then gazed up to see his chest distend and release a most euphonious
sound. And I have been fighting a head on snow storm crossing a barren, frozen
lake only to see a bald eagle burst forth from the adjacent tree line and soar
out over the white world, a potentate of this forgotten landscape. But these
moments are not unique to me; they permeate our backwoods and mountain tops.
They know no bounds and the men and women who fight their way every day in the
wilderness must have collective stories that would rival the publications in
the Library of Congress in sheer volume and content. What stories there must be
out there.
Most recently while out for a stroll with my dog we had a
meeting of a very different kind. I was not hunting nor was I actively seeking
anything but rest for my tired mind and some exercise for the dog; both of
which are necessities for my daily sanity. But while my brain was shutting down
my dog had spotted some deer across an open field and with the body clinching
that can only be described as a dog on a mission, he was locked in. Knowing
that the snow was some 20 inches deep I knew the deer would be long gone before
he could ever catch them and as I watched them watching us, I let the dog go.
Faster than one can blink he was off, working his little
heart out to make ground on “his” adversary. But the moment was not to last and
without warning, another foe was upon us. I looked quickly and saw the outline
of a robber, a thief, a masked killer, a bandit or, as is more widely accepted…a
raccoon. He immediately jumped in the air which I believe just about caused my
dog to leap out of his skin and then, without hesitation, the inquest was
abruptly begun. Wavering back and forth the two animals looked like ancient
warriors from a lost Chinese culture; my dog sporting his best “Contorted
Crane” while the raccoon chose a form of what can best be described as,
“Slender Dragonfly”. The scene was a combination of wanting to get my dog away
from the foe and wanting to let him handle his own encounters with the wild.
They would size each other up over the next minute, both no doubt feeling a
sense of imminent danger but unable to resist the attraction. However, I will
admit my dog was certainly more interested in the coon than the coon was in
him. But nonetheless, the chance meeting was something for all to enjoy. The
action was brief and once I pulled my dog away the small larcenist steadily
worked his way back into the woods, unsure how his afternoon had taken such an
erratic turn. And away we went, the image of an urban brawler now seared into
my memory bank.
These run-ins with wildlife and other organisms lead us down
all sorts of roads and while I have had many pleasurable interactions in my life others have not been so fortunate. There are examples right here in Minnesota
where birds hunters have been forced to make difficult decisions when
confronted with wolves, a man shooting one dead last fall as his canine
companion was in quick retreat. But overall these are the exceptions
and even though those stories can be harrowing ones, they will be told over
campfires for friends and posterity alike, adding to the diverse array of
anecdotes behind us. In the end though, the stories we hold on to and retell over
and over, occasionally embellishing as we get older, are all what make hunting
a unique American tradition. We keep these stories close to us, we keep them so
we can share them with the ones who will understand, and we keep them to keep
them. They are what make the hunter the hunter and the man the man. So, here’s to
our next encounter.
Our Bandit:
With my ongoing exploration into our country’s hunting
culture I have, over the years, been inundated with a panoply of backwoods
terms and common vernacular; phrases and expressions that when spoken out of context
would seem better fodder for a mythical children’s book than everyday gas
station chit chat. But while theses terms are common to all hunters and relatively
consistent across the country as a whole, there is often no accounting for
regional differences. And, like any language,
confusion and debate are likely to ensue.
The diversity of seasons and regional cultures provide us
with a plethora of examples of how across the country a word in one area meaning
one thing is the antithesis of a word’s definition in another. We see these differences in New England where a white-tailed
buck sporting eight tines would be referred to as an “8-point” or “4x4”,
whereas in the foothills of eastern Oregon that same buck would simply be known
as a “4-point”. We hear illustrations of these differences on the east
coast where the term “spike” simply implies a second year deer. But out west, where
elk also roam the landscape, a spike refers to a young elk with a non-forked antler
(or just one antler forked). I remember I once ran into a group of hunters
along an old forest road and, as is practically law, chatted with them about
their hunt. They mentioned they were looking for elk and after some casual
banter I told them I had only seen a spike (in my mind a deer) down the road
about 15 minutes earlier. They quickly bid me adieu and were off. I never
understood their rush but looking back, I could see that I had inadvertently
led them on a wild goose chase. Poor souls, ignorant me.
But there are other terms, much more basic in nature that as
you become enveloped in the culture you begin to say without even thinking. We
see evidence of this when we are out on a bird hunt and a guy asks what shot
you are shooting. You quickly holler back, “high brass 6’s” and you have
immediately passed on that information, nothing more need be said. When
out on a deer hunt a guy asks you what caliber you rifle is and you respond, “it’s
a .308”, again, immediately conveying a single piece of information upon which
the questioner can extract a wealth of information. They are basic terms and knowledge
but ones which until a few years ago would have had me thinking more about
algebra than hunting.
And then, for those moments when talking would only serve to
scare off your prey, hunting has developed a sort of sign language. It’s a
crude, coarse, and inchoate language that has no universal guide but one which takes
many lessons from the phrase, “necessity is the mother of all invention”.
Whether through finger signals, Special Forces hand signs or full body gestures,
the information to be conveyed is often simple yet highly informative. And when
hunting with a partner whom you have spent much time in the woods with, a sort
of pattern emerges. Something as simple as making the shape of a “C” with your
hand after hearing a disturbance in the forest below; the “C” implying the
noise came from a cow elk. On to the more involved signals such as quickly
pointing to your ear and following that up with two fingers placed together,
pointing downwards, and moving them up and down across the forest floor,
implying you heard a deer bounding through the woods. This would differ from an
elk in which your two fingers, instead of bouncing, would kick, or scissor,
back and forth, as elk aren’t quite as graceful as their smaller brethren. They
are very simply gestures but depending on which game you are after, those
non-verbal cures can make all the difference in deciding how to proceed.
The language of hunting is no different than any of the
other numerous dialects spoken across the globe. The more we immerse ourselves
into these worlds the more we learn. We learn not only basic definitions but
how they present themselves in speech. This jargon helps us relate to one
another and with this knowledge we inch ever closer to a secretive world hidden
from the national spotlight. Knowing and understanding this language means that
we can go anywhere in the country and immediately connect with another. In a
sense it is comforting to know these terms. While many of us may travel the
country and visit new states we will find that despite regional accents and
indigenous vernacular because we understand and speak English, we adapt quickly.
Thus, we can move on to understanding a place, rather than getting caught up in
the basics. For hunting, it is exactly the same. Once you get beyond the
beginner’s nomenclature a whole new world opens up to you and from there, the
adventures begin.
When I finally left Oregon three months ago it was preceded
by much internal debate and subsequently followed by great sadness. It was a
place I had learned more about hunting than I could have ever imagined and it
was there that I found a mentor to push me harder than I had ever been pushed.
I met many hunters along the way and was privy to elk bugling in the snowy
mountains and ruffed grouse flushing from the water soaked lowlands; all
experiences I will never forget but ones which are, ostensibly behind me.
Now I find myself in a very different land and one filled
with, at the moment, layers upon layers of snow accompanied by temperatures
that surely rival any of our other states. It’s flat, covered in hardwoods, and
true to its self-professed motto, it’s the land of 10,000 lakes. The land to
which I speak of is none other than northern Minnesota; a part of the country
that like much of the west has maintained its aura of wild lands and sports
some of the largest numbers of outdoorsmen in the lower 48. Its southern
neighbor Wisconsin sports nearly 600,000 deer hunters annually making it, in
pure numbers, the eighth largest army in the world. Even the name given to this
region by the southern metropolitans of “The Northland” brings to mind archaic
woodsmen begat from the Vikings and as of yet, still roaming about undiscovered. But more than its remoteness, it’s the wildlife that lays claim
to this place which has any sensible hunter itching for the fall, myself
included.
For me, the biggest draw of this region is the birds and in
no place have I ever been where so many grouse covered the landscape. Ruffed
grouse fill the woods in a seemingly endless supply. On average, over the past
30 years nearly 545,000 per year have been harvested from Minnesota’s
timberland. In the past decade spruce grouse have experienced annual harvest
numbers between 10 and 20,000 and the sharp-tailed grouse, while less common,
can still be found in many northern parts of the state. What more could a bird
hunter ask for? And to be bordering one of the most prolific pheasant states in
South Dakota I would dare say I have found myself in the bosom of upland bird
country.
But their big game is not to be overlooked and with so much
forested land and moisture abound, deer and moose find themselves perfectly
adept to walking through this state’s many wetlands and bogs. It should be
noted however that moose will not be in my future. For reasons as yet to be
explained the moose population has seen dramatic declines in the past five
years and as such all seasons have been called off. For both the greater
population and myself, that is a disappointing discovery, but nonetheless their
presence speaks volumes to the country forgotten by many. Knowing I may have
the chance to get out and chase deer through such a wilderness already has me skimming
over game units and planning my trips.
And of course there is the matter of wolves. I don’t believe
that you could ever talk about Minnesota without talking about wolves and as
was unknown to me upon my arrival, there are nearly 3,000 in this state;
multiple packs in my county. Needless to say I’ve
been keeping the dog a bit closer than usual. But wolves, like the cougars of
eastern Oregon, provide an added element to the woods that cannot be
overlooked. It heightens your senses and when you are out there, to know that
amongst such powerful animals is inspiring and exciting. However, that is not
to say that their presence doesn’t elicit the occasional pause in the woods,
but as a good friend once told me, if you spend all your time looking over your
shoulder, you’ll never be able to enjoy the adventure. Since that day, I’ve
never backtracked and have always kept my eyes ahead of me.
It will still be many months until I can pull out my gun and
head into the woods but when the time comes I’ll be ready. Until then, one of
the other wonders of Minnesota will have to keep me occupied.
When I arrived here I was quickly taken aback by the not
only the number of lakes but by the fact that they were all, well, frozen over.
And like a scene out of documentaries I have watched over the years, trucks
and ice fishing hunts speckled their surface. Upon telling a co-worker I had
never seen such a thing in my life, let alone gone ice fishing, he quickly
called together all his cohorts and began the planning. It would appear I am
soon to cut into some ice and bring home some fresh Minnesota crappies, oh boy.
Let the Minnesota boondoggle begin.
