Crossing the Rubicon
Since the mid-1960s we had been travelling from our dairy-farm operations in the Town of Hartford to the dairy farm my brother was operating in the Town of Rubicon.
I remember Mom and Dad saying it was “five miles from driveway to driveway”. That time-consuming trek at least twice a day became a daily routine of a minimum of 20 miles a day, with my brother still living at home and the dairy herd requiring twice-a-day milking. Often we traveled many times more in between.
Obviously this took time and fuel; caused wear and tear on tires, vehicles and equipment; and produced a list of expenses which were well above my level of involvement in the discussion. I do remember being quite young and becoming very proficient at changing tires, lubricating and inspecting steering mechanisms, repacking wheel bearings, and more, as the farm machinery was used at both locations and needed to be transported or driven the 20 minutes each direction, sometimes several times a day.
While I was not yet very involved in the financial side of the discussion, I rather enjoyed the process of moving between the two operations. While I was unable to “legally” drive a car or truck on the public roadway (although there were a few rare occasions when the rules were bent a bit), at that time no such rules or laws pertained to farm tractors, engine-powered and rubber-tired machines, or the transporting of equipment.
I would routinely be driving a tractor with equipment in tow, out the driveway on Lee Road to the west a hundred yards, a mile north on Taylor Road, turning left and going two and a half miles west on Pond Road, north a mile on highway P, and left one mile to the farm.
What started out to be a trek grew to be a familiar routine. It was more than just an exercise in learning to drive, towing equipment, and managing the process of towing wide equipment with oncoming and following traffic. It was also a means to grow my independence by doing things I was previously unable to do, while being a helpful part of the farming operation.
I admit it was fueling my own vanity and pride that I liked the most. I was able to drive past all the neighbors and to see what went on once I left eye-sight of “home”. I knew all the farms and houses along the way, as well as the occasional rented parcels of land in between or nearby neighbors. I would wave to exchange cordial greetings to all who were outside as I drove past.
It is just a courtesy that all neighbors did, and for me I admit I was able to “show-off” by demonstrating that my parents were confident and trusted me to drive equipment down the road.
First there were the obvious close neighbors like the Mennigs, the McCrackins, and the Gerbers. Then there were the Jahnkes, and “Old Lady Radschlag” at the corner. Then came the Pauli farm with the new neighbor who just moved in. Next were the Irles, then Lester Horst, and the Hamptons and the Hackbarths, then Ralph Held, Ben Radschlag, the Grinwald farm, Louis Burrow, Earl Gilbertson, David Klink, “Lottie” Multhauf, Erwin Gehring’s farm, Leo Becker, and finally John & Earl Aufdermauer if they were out, while I turned into the driveway.
With every trip I had nearly 20 opportunities to say hello non-verbally, traveling in either direction, not including those I met on the road while in transit, and to show off or garner the pride in being able to transport equipment.
It was a reciprocating advantage. Just as I got to know them, they got to know me. As I matured, building relationships with them was like shaking hands with an old friend.
Also each neighbor, farmstead, and home was a milestone and a lifeline. If we were to have trouble on the road, a breakdown, flat tire, or even an unexpected thundershower, each was a potential wayside. While we never wanted to be an imposition, “if we absolutely had to,” each would be a place of refuge.
There were no cellular or mobile methods of communication back then, so the ability to stop by or walk a short distance to make a phone call home for help, or emergency assistance, was a recognized necessity and appreciated event.
Of course any call even for an emergency would be limited to calling our home for Dad, Mom, or my brother Clarence, who conveniently had installed a phone in the barn. But this is how neighbors were back then, always willing to help each other out and be “neighborly”.
So it was important to know who lived where and a little bit about them. Just in case we needed to, we could at least greet them with due dignity by using their name when we introduced ourselves, or needed to request a favor.
Emergencies and roadway breakdowns were a rare but occasional occurrence, so for the same reason it was equally important to know the landmarks along the way for reference purposes. Roads, intersections, the neighbors’ names, a fence or tree-line, and the bridge, were all universally known in our family as landmarks by which we could identify the location of any incident or place, depending upon the subject matter and discussion.
None was more distinguishable than the bridge across the Rubicon River. It was an obvious and irrefutable landmark along the way. Maybe it is my love for bodies of water. Maybe it’s the fact that I remembered and relished the creek I spent days at a time playing in. Maybe it was the dream from my youth, of traveling the path of the river in a canoe, but I loved that river and the bridge that traversed it.
The intriguing fact that the water flowing under the road would find its way into the much larger Rock River, and into the Mississippi, and eventually empty into the Gulf of Mexico, was never far from my mind.
My parents were concerned both about my fascination with bodies of water and that the bridge was the narrowest passage along the route. Mom and Dad were concerned about the event of meeting a car on the bridge, and they stressed the rules of the road and the protocol I needed to follow.
But the Pond Road Bridge across the Rubicon River was nearly the midpoint of the route, and always an interesting experience as I crossed. Being on a tractor and sitting in an open air seat three feet higher than the sight-line of a more restrictive car or truck, I was always able to peer over the edge and look into the running water passing below me.
Despite the numerous warnings against stopping along the way on a roadway (to Mom and Dad, that was the ultimate in safety infractions), I often would stop just to take a look at whatever caught my attention at the time.
Sometimes it was the glimpse of a large bullhead making its way near the surface of the murky mud-laden water flowing by. Maybe it was a school of several carp stirring and churning up the mud, or one sunning itself or feeding in the shallow still water near the cattails.
Maybe it was just the high water level after a summer rain, or the accelerated speed of the flow from the rain-swollen torrents passing beneath the bridge.
Maybe it was just because I love bodies of water. But crossing the Rubicon River was always the midpoint, and the most memorable part, of the trek.
When we moved to Rubicon in 1972, we bought a farm which was an advancement for the dairy operation, but Mom was a bit less than enthused with the move from a quiet country road to the state highway with the traffic and close proximity of the house to the busy roadway.
Dad wanted Mom to be happy, and he immediately set out to remodel the house to give Mom the kitchen and lower living level she would be proud of, and the upper level would be a secondary project. He knew his strength of having Mom as an ally, and he needed to reward her sacrifice and cooperation for the move by being sure she had something to be proud of for her own humble vanity, as he was for his.
The move was an advancement for the family in more ways than not. It was a logical response to a number of circumstances, not the least of which was the much closer proximity of the two farms to each other. The second was better quality and quantity of land, out buildings which were in better repair, and larger facilities to house more cattle.
None the less we moved from the Town of Hartford to the Town of Rubicon, and despite it being only five miles away and among many of the same neighbors we had known for years, we had moved and were the new- comers to the community.
We were the outsiders who needed to gain the approval of the community, but true to our history, we were willing to go it alone and lead and allow the community to follow. Any way you look at it we had “Crossed the Rubicon,” and a new chapter in my life and for the family was opened.
Adventure on Beaver Dam Lake
I recently drove through an area I used to frequent. It now generally lies outside of my region of travel.
In my younger years when I was single and in search of adventure and a suitable companion of the female persuasion, I would pass through the area from time to time on my way to a nightclub, and I now lament the days I first explored the area.
While some of the landmarks have changed, the memories of an adventure decades ago came back into my mind as fresh as if it were yesterday.
I was traveling outside of the City of Beaver Dam on County Highway G northwest of the city, on a short stretch of rock-lined road that separates the lake, which is joined by a single culverted flowage under the road. The rock-like covering which supports the road was constructed in that fashion to eliminate the need and cost of a bridge.
I was riding my motorcycle on a Sunday afternoon exploring the countryside highways when I first came upon the crossing. Always intrigued by bodies of water, as well as the female bodies frolicking upon the water, I stopped along the roadside by some fishermen to see how the fish were biting.
This gave me a safer means and excuse to survey the area a bit more closely and ask about the prospects for fishing, while at the same time taking stock of the view of those sunning themselves nearby as well.
As I approached a few of the fishermen who were lined along the roadside, I was struck by the beauty, atmosphere, and environment of the surrounding area.
The open waters of the large lake on both sides of the road provided several hundred yards of manmade shoreline. People could sit lakeside and bask in the sun while looking to catch a meal of the lake’s bounty.
The array of fishermen ranged from older gentlemen sitting on beach chairs sipping on various adult beverages, to a few women on blankets with cane poles in hand, looking for a fresh catch of bullheads or pan fish for supper.
Some younger kids were trying to latch onto a trophy deep-water walleye or Northern Pike. They were hoping they could lure one in closer to shore. Accepted wisdom is that the bigger fish lurk in deeper water, but every now and again, a huge fish is landed on shore, proving us all wrong.
On the southeast corner near the approach to the expanse was a tavern, which as an added attraction catered to the lake-goers with bait, fishing supplies, and even some boats for rent to those wanting to make their way out on to the lake, but lacking the water-vehicle to do so.
Lined up along the shoreline were seven or eight green-painted wooden row boats. For the bargain fee of six dollars I could rent a boat, row my way out onto the lake, and fish, sun-bathe, or just row about the lake for the entire afternoon.
A week later I returned to the tavern. I remember being around seventeen, as I was still underage to partake in any of the liquid wares offered, but I stocked up on bait, took temporary possession of a green-painted wooden lake-going vessel, and set out to explore the lake in the newly-rented row boat.
It took a few minutes to develop the rhythm and coordination needed for rowing a boat, but soon I found myself becoming proficient enough to row out to the bog floating about a half mile from where I had parked. The lake is relatively shallow, likely ten feet or less, but still deep enough to claim a life every now and again of those who do not respect the perils of water travel.
Being by myself and making my first venture off shore far enough to be considered out of the safety of land, I felt adventurous enough to make the adrenalin flow from the boldness of exploration, with a healthy dose of caution out of respect for the unknown.
This was the first of many trips I would make across the lake to harvest some fish and enjoy the lake. But one sunny day turned into a near-deadly disaster of epic proportions and created a memory and lesson for life.
Like many days before, I arrived, paid for my boat, and loaded in gear that included my tackle box, cooler, poles, floatation device, jacket, and transistor radio.
By mid-morning I was rowing my way to a cattail-laden bog or island. The place provided some privacy out of the pathways of boaters towing water skiers and disrupting the fishing. It allowed some solitude and additional pleasure in the lake experience.
The bog or island never seemed to be quite in the same shape or place, leading me to believe it was in fact a bog. It was always interesting, with cove-like openings that I could row into and enter my own little private open-sky room of watery foliage.
It was not uncommon to find some of the larger bullheads, pan fish, some rather large walleye, and even pike lurking about the cool shade of the cattails. The bullheads, being bottom feeders, were equally comfortable in the shallow cool water feeding among the roots and sod-like vegetation structures. The larger game fish, who fed on the bugs, minnows, and smaller pan fish, seemed to prefer the cool shade over the open shallow waters.
So I was out about a half mile from the shore, nestled into the cattails, enjoying the sun, and comfortable in my seat cushion floatation device, with a cold can of soft drink at my side, listening to a local station on the battery-powered radio, watching one pole with a bobber waiting for a pan fish, while trolling a twister for walleye or pike.
The summer breeze, barely noticeable in the protection of the cattails standing five feet above the water level, and the warm sun bearing down, made it a wonderfully satisfying day of fishing, while baking in the sun in minimal clothing. I always experienced an added benefit when I took a young woman on a “fishing-date,” which a few had been known to enjoy.
But today I was solo, and simply enjoying the day in search of fresh fish and relaxation. I had already hauled in a dozen or so nice-sized bullheads, a few crappies, and a small but legal length Northern, when the radio station I was listening to broke in with an annoying Weather Warning Signal.
It noted that the “Thunderstorm Watch” which was in effect for southeastern Wisconsin; had been changed to a “Tornado Watch”, and that proper precautions should be taken. A Tornado Watch simply means the conditions are right for the formation of funnel clouds and care should be taken to beware of changing conditions.
I promptly ignored the warning. As just then I had a strike on my twister bait and began to reel in a nice walleye.
Nearly a half hour later I noticed a change in the clouds and air. I decided it would be prudent to take a closer look at what might be in store. It was nearly time to head back anyway, as I needed to be home for chores. So I began the long rowing trip back.
As I was preparing to exit from the cattail cove, I retrofitted my second pole with a second twister. I reset my first pole at the opposite corner of the boat and a 45-degree angle, to troll behind the boat as I made my way to shore.
I figured, As long as the boat will be moving at a rowing speed, why not drag a line along and troll for gamefish along the way?
Just then I noticed more static on the radio, with an increasing frequency that caught my attention. I was just about to begin my laborious cruise toward shore when I heard a second weather alert. A Tornado Watch was issued for several counties, including Dodge County, which I was in the middle of.
I was not terribly concerned. It was a “watch,” meaning conditions were right for the development of a tornado, but a funnel cloud was not imminent. None the less it was time to make my way back to the shore and call it a day, before inclement weather ended the day for me.
As I began rowing away from the bog, and was about a hundred feet out from the cattails and entering open water, it was evident that a threatening weather front was indeed moving in. The previously fluffy silky white clouds were developing into a darker shade of gray and forming a bank of thunderheads off to the northwest.
The air was heavier as the humidity changed. I had no doubt it was time to get off the water and back to the safety of my car. This took me by surprise. I had been so content in the cattail cove. I had limited vision of the horizon due to the height of the cattails.
When I saw the clouds’ appearance change, they had already been visible on the horizon for quite some time. I was just now seeing what should have prompted my escape maybe 30 minutes earlier.
Still not panicked, I methodically kept rowing and kept a heading toward the road crossing and the parking lot where my car waited. The radio was crackling more frequently, indicating that while no lightening or thunder was evident, it was already in the upper atmosphere. It was not visible, but it was indeed present.
I sped up my rowing as now I knew a weather front was moving in. I could row only so fast, as the physical exertion was draining. The prudent action was to seek the safety of a structure, or at least the shoreline. I was still nearly a thousand yards from shore, but the lack of wind allowed me to make good progress, and I was confident I was only ten or fifteen minutes away from my car.
I was not the only one in the predicament. Off in the distance I could see some boats still pulling water skiers. Another small fishing boat apparently had been fishing well off the other side of the bog. It was making its way to shore in a different direction. The impending change of weather was evident, but not yet threatening.
Just then a power boat approached and slowed so as not to create a wake. It was the Lake Patrol, and as they came to a drift off my port side, they asked if I needed “a tow to shore”. I thought for a second, continuing to row across the still water toward the shore, and replied that I would be ashore soon, they best help some others that might need help, and reassured them I would be fine.
They asked again, and if I was sure, and I confirmed that I was sure, and I nodded in appreciation for their offer as they powered off on a wide sweeping turn toward the direction we had seen a boat pulling a water skier a bit earlier.
They had no sooner left than the situation began to change quickly. The radio was crackling consistently now, the clouds were darkening, and the wind began to pick up a bit, making my progress toward shore a little more challenging. The wind was not blowing the direction I was focused on moving.
I was tiring, but not to anything near exhaustion. Rowing a boat in water, and contending with the wind to stay the course, is an exercise in cardio that would make the best strain under pressure. I was keeping an aggressive pace, and the exercise was beginning to take its toll. But failure was not an option, as I rowed ever nearer to my destination.
Then the situation suddenly flipped from bad to worse. The wind began to gust, making navigating my course even more challenging. While the two poles were still in search of fish, I had no desire to stop for fish. If I were to stop, not only would I delay my extraction from the water and weather, but the wind would make short work of blowing me down wind, which was nowhere near my car or the shore I was making my way to.
Then things got still more concerning as some apprehension began creeping into my mind. The radio crackled that a funnel cloud had been sighted near the community of Fox Lake, which is only ten miles north and upwind of where I was at the time.
If that wasn’t enough, the now-darkening gray clouds were in a slow rotation and looking increasingly ominous. The wind was beginning to pick up substantially, causing waters much rougher than just a few minutes earlier. Some low-decibel thunder had also injected itself into the equation to provide some audio enhancements to the ambiance.
It was getting difficult to row now. Rowing the boat, I was sitting facing opposite my direction of travel. Water was beginning to splash over the bow behind me, and every time I looked over my shoulder to see if I was still moving in the shortest direction toward my vehicle, the wind would turn me off course. I had to fight my way back to the right direction.
The now-obvious circulating storm clouds were turning from a blue hue to dark gray approaching black, and they were traveling perpendicular to and behind my path. The tumultuous weather was not to be taken lightly and was announcing its arrival with occasional streaks of electrical decorations to make me aware that the clouds were harboring still more adventure for me if I didn’t heed the warnings and hurry.
I was not assured of the success of my efforts. The vessel I was in was not what I would consider “storm worthy”. It was made of painted cedar boards and powered by a single man, with oars and no rudder. I was wet from the water splashing into the boat from almost every direction. My radio was so static riddled, it was of no use, but it was no loss. I no longer needed any weather warnings. I was well aware of the weather. It was my chief adversary, and it was determined to test my ability.
I was no longer enjoying a relaxing day of fishing. I was thankful I was not entertaining a “fishing-date”. The terror in my eyes would not be reassuring to her at this point. Certainly this was no longer the typical day of fishing, or of any form of sea-faring experience worthy of the happy ending fairy tales, or of maritime history entries.
I was a mere 150 yards from my destination, but there was no question that I was in peril. I was not panicked, but suitably terrified at the prospect that I could be lost at sea in a ten-foot row boat in a lake that is not more than seven or eight feet deep! Not the tale or tombstone epitaph I sought or desired.
Strange things went through my mind. Things like, what happens to me if I’m in a wooden boat on a lake and lightning strikes the lake? Does wood, as an insulator, protect me from the millions of volts of electricity? Or does it light me and the boat up like a fourth of July sparkler and turn me into a lump of ash to be lost in the wind? If in fact a tornado funnel cloud were to suck me and my boat up out of the water and decide to deposit me in some pathetically strange place, would the floatation device I was required to have with me in case of an emergency, cushion my landing?
It was clear the storm was passing to the east of me, and now the painful pelting of the drops of rain the size of gravel stones was inspiring me to move faster, despite the fatigue. There was a resigned sense of humiliating relief when I landed the boat on the gravely shore, hastened to pull it safely out of the water, and finally was able to reel in the two poles which were still trolling a twister, as they had through the entire ordeal.
I stood in the steady downpour of rain and proceeded to unload my gear, my bucket, my stringer of fish, and my cooler. I placed everything into the trunk of my car.
Just then the Lake Patrol came through again. They slowed to a crawl and saw me looking like a drenched ship-rat that had been washed overboard. They smiled and nodded as they cruised closer to shore, and we exchanged a consolatory wave in acknowledgement.
Exhausted and soaked, I could not help but think, why didn’t I accept their assistance nearly forty minutes ago?
I walked to the bar to retrieve my deposit. As I entered I noticed the combination of smirks and bewildered looks on the faces of the bartender and the seven or eight patrons facing the windows with a view of the lake and docking area. Those expressions reinforced what I must have looked like.
I was dripping wet and looking like a tattered soul who has just battled a tornado. The bartender quietly handed me the deposit and asked if I wanted a beer. I replied I was seventeen and still underage, to which one of the patrons said, “Hell, give ’im a beer! With the show we just watched of a guy trying to row a boat in a storm for the last half hour, you deserve a beer.”
So after a hamburger and “an adult beverage,” I was on my way home again. The weather cleared when I was about half way there, and I was back in time to do chores like any other day. But it wasn’t just any other day.
And still today, and any day I am near the area, or I think of fishing in inclement weather, or I even drive west of Beaver Dam, I recall the Adventure on Beaver Dam Lake.
The Creek
My entire life, from youth to current day, I have always been attracted to bodies of water. Rivers, ponds, lakes, oceans, all stir memories and tales from the past, but none are fonder than my earliest explorations in the small creek across the road from where I grew up.
From my earliest recollections, the creek was not just a favorite playground but a source of education and learning for a lifetime. There was never a greater source or display of wonderment for me, and a source of worry for my mom, than the creek.
When I was a child at a still tender age, I was already provoking a good measure of worry and fear for my parents, a skill I carried into adulthood. But early on it was my excursions to the creek across from our house that kept my mom walking over to the window to peer out to see if I was still okay. Mom was always worried about me drowning or falling to whatever dangerous demise could occur of a young boy in a stream or fast flow of water.
I was always inspired and mesmerized by the numerous and varied aspects of what the creek represented. The creek originated in the swamp just west of Maher’s Gravel Pits and meandered west and crossed under Lee Road, past the Heimermann house, and into our land. Our own drainage ditch emptied into it. Then the creek crossed Lee Road again into Harold Lepien’s farm, west to the narrow grass fields across from our house. Then it crossed both Taylor Road, and west Lee Road, both within two hundred feet, before meandering through the Roemer farm, crossing Lee Road again, and eventually emptying into the Rubicon River.
I was fascinated that the water which flowed through this creek would find its way into the Rubicon River, which emptied into the Rock River, which empties into the Mississippi and eventually finds its way into the Gulf of Mexico.
This fascination was further enhanced by the topography and character of the Lepien farm, which had a wide-open grass-filled field that was never mowed or planted. It was mere wildlife cover for some marginal land.
The tall canary grass and over-hanging box elder and ash trees which adorned the sides of the winding earthen channel, provided play stations for me and my neighboring friends as our imaginations could run as wild as the water down the swift creek after the rain or early spring snow melt. It was our own tiny paradise, which through the eyes of a child might as well have been a country within itself.
“Going down to the creek” was a near-daily adventure for me, much as if I were plunging into the deepest parts of the jungles of Africa, South America, or some exotic unknown place beyond the world as I knew it. In the spring with the snow melt, the torrential rushing waters, in our minds, were a vivacious river fraught with peril, as the toy boats or make-believe crafts made of sticks or discarded cardboard were swept away into some unknown place beyond where we could follow.
Our imaginations ran wild with the thoughts of adventure of sailing, and the make-believe lives and occurrence we made up for the poor souls who rode the waves of the creek into oblivion in our imaginary boats and sailing vessels of sticks and cardboard.
During the summer when a thunderstorm deposited a few inches of rain on the area, the creek would swell in size to epic proportions, further enticing us and fueling our need for adventure. But the difference was with summer rains the temperature was not prohibitive if we had wet feet, pants, or worse. The summer water was a tolerable temperature, and even more alluring in the wading pools which could comfortably hold three or four of us at a time as we stood and sometimes sat waist deep in the watery classroom and playground.
Days after a rain ended, the creek still provided ample supplies and flows of water, which allowed our imaginations to sprawl beyond the confines of the creek water and include the surrounding trees, grasses, and culverts, which were a source of play and wonderment.
This was a treasure-trove of discovery, as the water would bring continuous deposits of washed stones, sticks of various shapes and sizes, and biological specimens of snails, shells, water bugs, frogs, minnows, or even an occasional snake or salamander for us to catch, attempt to domesticate and study, or take home to our parents for their scientific observation.
But more than anything the creek was an inspiration to our imagination. Keep in mind we were children, and the size and proportions of the seepage of field runoff and drainage of rain-infused marshes were far greater to us than to adults.
What they considered a pot-hole, we considered a lake. When they saw a hundred feet of creek, we saw a raging river of winding, twisting, churning, water. What they saw as a culvert under the road for crossing, we saw as a scary but enticingly looming and adventurous way to cross the road undetected, and a means to traverse the confines of the field we were ordered to stay within. The creek was a place of wonderment and childhood growth between childhood friends and nature.
We could not map the creek, because we simply lacked the ability for an overhead view, but that didn’t stop us from identifying the different segments of this creek. There was the pool, the rapids, the curves, the bend, the crossing, the flats before the culvert, and the tunnel, which was a square cement bridge that brought the comfort of concealment without the confines of a culvert.
Each had separate stories and tales of adventure, exploration, friendships, and experimentation that were a sense of worry for our parents, especially our mothers, all contained within two or three hundred yards of grass and brush-lined creek.
The canary and swamp grass grew well with the moisture and fertile soil, and the proximity to the creek assured that it would not get mowed or harvested, as any tractor coming too close was sure to get stuck. So our imaginary forts, houses, and hideaways, which concealed us from the evil intervention of adult’s intent on ruining our fun, were generally secured by the natural vegetation of the creek.
A trusted tree would provide shade, and an imaginary roof over the matted four-foot-by-four-foot grass paradise, where we could sit or lie down undetected, and have a picnic, exchange dreams, secrets, plans, and even tales of romances, while watching the bubbling brook of the creek carry away the cares and concerns of the world.
Formerly untold dreams, secrets, concerns, and thoughts were exchanged between neighbors, and childhood friendships were forged. Our imaginations, once afire with wild thoughts of exotic places and adventure, lived on in our minds long after the water disappeared or the winter overcame our desires for outdoor play.
As we grew older, our minds moved to places and things well beyond the trees, grass, and waters of the creek, but the memories live on within us.
Today when I drive by the creek, the great open grass fields are now tilled croplands, having been drained and brought into production. I see a thin band of grass along a shallow channel of trickling water, with a few brush groves spaced along the meandering water-filled maritime trail.
But to this day when I drive by, the memories, friends, neighbors, and adventures we shared at the creek are still alive and well, deep within my mind.
Farming With Horses
Recently I was at a Heritage-style local park where they had old antique horse-drawn farm equipment on display. It reminded me of the occasional displays I see at a county fair, or on display or outside a restaurant, to give the impression of the wholesomeness of their food.
As if the memories and times reminiscent of the “good ole’ days” when farm-fresh food was not only a staple of everyday life, but the key ingredient of only the best wares, to emphasize their restaurant’s superiority over “store bought” run-of-the-mill brands of others.
It brought different memories back for me. I remember that when I was a young child my, dad was one of the last farmers in the area who retained a team of draft-horses, commonly known as “work horses”. I think their names were Girlie & Flora, They were a pair of huge draft horses, and they were an early key to his success.
The advent of motorized rubber-tired tractors was hastening the demise of horse-drawn equipment. Girlie and Flora were his trusted team of horses. He not only respected and cared for them as a source of his livelihood, but he had a deep personal relationship with them, as anyone would have with their pets.
Few people have pets that weigh in at more than a ton each, eat feed by the truck-load, and provide manure by the bushel daily. But Dad lived in a time when the day of horse-drawn equipment was slipping away as new mechanized technology was being introduced at a rate and efficiency horses could never compete with.
Draft horses were reliable but slow in comparison to tractors and more modern equipment. They needed rest where mechanical engines did not. They needed occasional veterinary care and a few days off to heal, which was not needed with machines.
There were fewer and fewer farriers available as the “lost art” was showing diminishing returns for income, and even breeders for replacing stock with new horses were quickly becoming limited. Few were able to provide anything more than show quality horses, as the work horses were becoming as antique as the equipment they built the nation’s agriculture industry with.
I still recall the array of old rusting equipment behind the shed where it was out of the way, but not forgotten, but gradually falling into disrepair by the year. There was a mower, a hay rake, a hay loader, an old plow, disk, and cultivator, all equipped with a seat for the driver, hand brake to set the wheels, and the appropriate controls for the equipment itself.
We used to play on it, sit on the seats and pretend we were driving, and handle the controls to whatever make-believe equipment we thought it was. It brought a sense of realism and fun to our make-believe jobs and play time.
What I didn’t know was the emotional and economic significance of the equipment that my Dad had. There was a reason he was not parting with the outdated equipment. They were the last vestiges of his early days of farming and the team of horses he had paid for his farm with.
While his loyal “friends” Girlie and Flora were gone, the equipment they made his living with was still a source of pride and remembrance. There was little or no monetary value in the obsolete machinery. Some could be retrofitted to be used behind a tractor, but it was akin to shoveling the driveway clear of snow using a tablespoon, as the action being performed was more important than the result.
One by one the old equipment disappeared, and the pile of mechanized iron became overgrown by weeds and vines, until one day it was all gone and lost forever.
I do remember the old wooden-spoke wheeled wagon that Dad would occasionally pull behind the tractor. We used it a few times to pick up the wire-tied bales of hay, and we kids would sit on the bales up on the wagon for a hay-ride, as the fun of the ride entertained us. Eventually it too disappeared from sight as newer more modern equipment showed up.
Every now and again I recall being small enough to have Mom carry me to the field when I was still unable to stand or walk on my own, to give Dad a drink of Kool-Aid. I remember that he walked behind a three-section drag drawn by his team after planting oats in the spring.
I remember the cloud of dust as he approached from the far side of the field and shouted commands to his steeds, as they made a swooping turn, coming to a stop in front of us.
The gray dapple horses were well-mannered and stood quietly resting as Mom and Dad talked before he picked up the long reins and shouted a command again and walked off behind them, making a cloud of dust again, a tell-tale sign that the dry ground was being leveled by the drag.
I seem to recall him also cutting a field of hay with a sickle mower outfitted with a metal seat as he drove his team precisely at the right distance for the mower to cut a swath of hay from the standing crop. I remember Mom again with me on her hip, walking to the field from the old GMC truck we drove to the field in to take him lunch.
She was commenting about why he was not using the new mower that pulls behind the tractor he bought. He said the marsh was too wet for a tractor and the horses would do what the tractor couldn’t. He said this would be the last hay they would cut. I think it was his way of enjoying his team, and a lifestyle soon to be lost, one more time before abandoning it forever.
I remember Porter Oyer, an elderly neighbor, and Norbert Pauli, also a neighbor, visiting with Dad one day as they stood by the horse stalls off to the side of the barn as Elmer Epson fitted new shoes on one of the horses.
They were discussing the benefits of horses over tractors and how it was a “sign of the times,” Porter said, that tractors were the future, and horses would be a “thing of the past”. The men stood there with their arms folded on top of the iron pen bars and their feet propped up on the bottom rail.
As I recall it was too far off the ground for my short legs to reach, and Dad constantly told me to be careful and not fall as I stood on the bottom rail with both feet. I believe this is when Dad had finally decided that a new home was in order for his team.
It was a sad day when Dad sold his team. I recall it as the first time I saw him cry. I think he felt he had abandoned his old friends. They were no longer needed, but he so wanted them to remain. But they fetched a price which would be used to pay for a tractor and improve the farming operation, and there simply was no place for a team of horses left on the farm anymore.
I remember the man who bought them driving them out the driveway pulling an old wagon while a truck followed slowly behind as they turned and walked out the driveway and turned down the road. I remember Dad watched as they went south on Taylor Road out of sight past Vernon Weber’s farm, and Dad walked away quietly to continue to work on whatever project he had, to take his mind off the farewell.
I don’t recall any horse-drawn equipment after that. I do remember the new combine arriving and the kids all getting their pictures taken sitting on the tractor tire, with me being held by my brother as Mom took pictures of the farm’s new pride and joy.
I remember Dad painting the Massy Harris 44 tractor the same color red it was when it was new, giving it a new look with the bright red paint he carefully brushed on so it looked professionally done, and adhering new decals to make it look newer than it was. He also was bending some tin to make a few modifications on the new combine before putting it to use.
Dad was proud of his new equipment as a farmer’s line of machinery and equipment is always a source of pride, today as it was then, and maintaining it, and keeping it looking good was a reflection on the success and image of the farm and farmer.
But nobody knew the sorrow Dad had for his departed horses, and I can’t help but think it over shadowed his pride, as now his equipment would both show tribute to; as well as reflect the love and care that Dad gave to his team and the true sorrow he had when they left.
Dad once told me he had paid for two farms with his horses, and they were the kick start to his life in farming. A memory of days gone by, and a bittersweet reminder of the team of horses he held so fondly. They were more than pets, they were his tools, his “lead team” and business partners and his livelihood from his early days.
Dad had a reputation for being a man of integrity, honesty, hard work, and success, and it was reflected in his equipment. As agriculture moved into a new era with newer, faster, more efficient equipment and methods of farming, Dad evolved with it.
He was known as a progressive farmers who reputation was second to none. But I still remember him from the days my dad built his foundations in agriculture while farming with horses.
Dad Clearing the Land
Today when I sit in our woods hunting and look to the south, I see a stone “line-fence” marking the southern border of our land (the old Strowig farm). Our land is now four or five feet lower in elevation than our neighbors’ to the south, as their land has heavily eroded soil on the slope downward to the fence line. Had it not been for the rocks piled in a row along that fence, the erosion would’ve been greater.
Thus there is a literal rock retaining wall between the properties creating the difference in elevation. Being a conservationist at heart, I think about how this wall has saved thousands of tons of top soil from eroding away and how it came to be constructed in the first place. It is just as much a source of pride, since my father helped build that wall.
That farm was once owned by a friend of my dad by the name of Norbert Pauli. When I was a very young child, my father and Norbert were neighbors and friends. We lived just south of the Pauli’s at the corner of Lee and Taylor Road at the time. The Pauli farm was maybe a mile away to the north on Pond Road.
It was a time when horse-drawn farm machinery was being replaced by tractor-powered equipment. My dad, being a young upstart and using the new changes coming to agriculture, had just bought a Massey Harris Model 44 tractor. The tractor had 44 horsepower of brute strength at the time.
While work horses had their unmatched advantages as far as traction, soil compaction, and maneuverability were concerned, a tractor could do things a team of horses could not.
Norbert, being older and nearing retirement age, was still using teams of horses and was unwilling to change. Tractors cost a lot of money and many were still clinging on to the old “affordable” means of farming.
I was about three or so (according to old photos), but I recall snippets of conversations that I overheard between Mom and Dad, about Dad taking “The Big Massey” up by Pauli’s to help him “clear his back field”.
“Clearing a field” or “clearing land” is no easy task by any means, as it is hard, back-breaking work. First you have to cut and clear the trees. Years ago this was usually done to utilize the lumber for building barns or houses, and for firewood.
Most often this was done in the same time frame that cattle were used to keep the grasses down and provide some feed at the same time, while creating paths and a means to navigate between the trees and brush at the same time. As row and broadcast crops could not be harvested with the trees and rocks in the way anyway, allowing cattle to clear the grasses and make navigating the brush easier was an easy means to an end.
Clearing land generally had a progression or order, which had a sort of process to it without a timeline. After the trees were logged off and used for lumber, and smaller trees removed for firewood, then cattle were grazed for a number years. This would not only provided some low quality summer feed for the herd, but also exposed the boulders and rocks between the stumps from the trees.
This eventually reduced the brushy re-growth from the trees and those that did grow were of lesser quality due to the hoof damage to the roots, and were likely useless for logging for lumber.
Then you would need to hand-dig, blast with dynamite, pull out or excavate the stumps, then remove the boulders and pick up the smaller rocks, which were either used to build foundation walls or just piled along the fences to further define land boundaries, which was the case with the Pauli farm.
Little by little as the stumps rotted away or were removed, the farmer would remove the surface rocks and boulders a few each year to expose more “cleared land” for growing legumes for “improved pasture” land for grazing, until the time would come when the best and more productive option of “clearing” would turn the land into a place for row crop production.
“Clearing Land” was not just a process, but often a requirement. “Back in the day” as Land Rights and “Homestead” permits were issued by the government or even in some cases bank loans, they often and usually required making improvements such as building a house or a dwelling and living on the land for a specified period of time, building a barn and raising cattle on the land, or “clearing” the land for crop production, before full ownership was achieved.
It was a means to ownership and a requirement our forbearers accepted as a part of the price of ownership and the hard, back-breaking, manual labor was as pathway to a better future for their family.
There were no machines to do it, and as they did become available, they were too expensive for a new land owner to afford. So they used horses and made their own devices to assist. The five most common devices were dynamite, shovels, levers, cribbing, and the infamous “stone-boat”.
Dynamite and shovels are pretty self-explanatory, as shovels were used to dig down all around the stump or rock to place dynamite, to break, loosen or expose the rock or stump for easier removal. Any chance to remove it or what was left of it required that more than half of the rock or stump to be exposed.
Next a ramp was dug next to the rock even deeper to be able to put a chain around the rock below the halfway or midpoint on the heavy earthen entrenched rock to place levers. Then with the aid of a team of horses or a tractor was “hitched” to the chain to attempt to pull the rock toward the ramp, and loosen it from the grip of the soil, and “roll” the rock free, where it could then be loaded and transported to the nearest area clear of the proposed field.
Levers are nothing more than either a steel “crowbar” about six feet long, made of hardened or tempered steel with a flat chiseled end to use to pry rocks or other items loose without bending, or the use of poles or planks to be used as cribbing or levers. We used cribbing as a base to pry against to keep the lever or “crowbar” from sinking or being pressed into the soft dirt, to provide leverage to lift or move the rock before extraction.
Depending upon the size of the rock or boulder being extracted, it was not uncommon to be digging, pulling, prying and cribbing a boulder for hours and sometimes days before it could be extracted. Which is why in extreme cases dynamite was used to “crack” the boulder into rock-sized pieces and “loosen” the grip for easier removal.
Clearing the land was not only incredibly hard work, but equally as dangerous. Dynamite, working with horses, and the threat heat stroke were all potential ingredients for disaster.
Dad had two stone-boats, one of which I replaced and build a new one myself when I was a teenager after I found the cut materials at an auction and nobody knew what they were, and I purchased them at a fraction of their true value. We still have at least one of them today.
They are a simple design of three white oak planks (for the durability) about seven feet long, rough cut at a sawmill, with one end cut with the end foot to be tilted with a ten to fifteen degree upward angle. We bolted the planks together with cross members on top, so the bottom side and the upward tilt were smooth.
The stone-boat could slide across the ground without the front edge digging into the ground. We bolted a thin edge to the sides so rocks could be rolled on over the side edge and didn’t roll off while being slid across the ground. We drilled a hole in the center plank on the upward tilt in front. This was to attach a chain or harness to be attached and pulled by a team of horses or a tractor.
This way, a boulder, often weighing a ton or more, could be rolled, or loaded on to it with levers and a team of horses. When it was pulled by the chain through the center hole. The weight would cause the front with the upward tilt to rise a bit, causing it to ride up over the dirt to pull more easily, much like a boat planes across the water: thus the name “stone-boat”.
This simple design was instrumental in the nation’s farmers clearing millions of acres of land to create the most fertile and productive crop land on the globe. It was hard and often dangerous work, and in this day of mechanized equipment and machinery, hard to image in the shear amount of blood sweat and tears that were invested and lost in efforts to build this land into a nation.
So I don’t know what arrangements Dad made to help Norbert. I don’t know if Dad got paid, or they exchanged labor, but I do know Dad and his “big Massey” and stone-boat helped clear the field on the back of Norbert’s farm. Years later Norbert died, and the farm was sold to a prominent businessman in Hartford who ran a Ford dealership.
They eventually planted most of the farm back into trees, and this little piece of history was lost. Except when I sit in that woods and look at that rock wall and think of the thousands of tons of topsoil that were saved from erosion. I think of the thousands of tons of rocks and boulders that lie in that fence. I think of my father, Armand, and how he was part of building that wall. I think of Norbert Pauli and “Dad Clearing the Land”.
Riding on Tractors
There is nothing bigger in the mind or more enticing for a young man on the farm than to be able to ride on and drive a tractor. Since the day we see the image and hear the sound of a tractor, it becomes something every boy yearns to do.
Maybe it’s that we want to emulate our dads, maybe it’s our imagination, and perhaps it’s a genetic testosterone thing inside our body and soul. But every boy alive cannot wait until they can go for a ride on or drive a tractor.
For me it was at the age of four or five. I know that sounds like a dangerously young age, but some context is in order. It started when Dad always wanted to spend as much time with me as possible and have me with him either to teach me farming techniques or more likely for some babysitting purposes.
He went to Epson Welding and had Elmer Epson weld together an old bicycle seat and miniature handlebars to bolt onto the fender and floor plate of the Massey 44 tractor.
This way he could have me safely at his side on the “clutch-side” next to him, where there was more room, and I could “hold on” without being in his lap or having to “ride on the fender” as was customary when we were little.
This was Dad’s ingenuity at work and on display for me to be able to ride with him as he went about his fieldwork and daily routines. Several neighbors and others who saw the device commented positively, and I saw the pride in Dad to be able to have “his boy” with him as he worked. Several neighbors that it was far “safer” than the traditional manner of standing while holding on to the fender or sitting on the fender as others afforded their own children.
This afforded me the pleasure of being able to ride along with Dad as he worked in the fields while being a younger age than most, and a safer than normal means of riding was provided. It also allowed Dad to “babysit” or at least “keep an eye on” me while he worked.
It also gave Mom the flexibility to “run to town”, do laundry, gardening, or do whatever she needed to get accomplished without having to watch me. I just thought it was fun to be with Dad and ride on the tractor and make believe I was an integral part of the farming operation.
Riding on the tractor was an exercise in exploration and learning that few are afforded at the age I was privileged to have it. I cannot begin to tell you all the lessons I learned during the daily routines I was able to experience with Dad, as I was always full of questions. Dad was always there to answer or at least provide a thought-provoking response.
I remember learning through an endless litany of questions and observations the boundaries of the farm, the roads, the neighbors, the different fields, the crops, the wildlife, the machinery, the cattle, the feed, the types of trees and bushes we used for landmarks, and which ones provided edible treats.
I remember stopping along the way to and from the fields with Dad to pick berries, asparagus, wild plums, goose berries, elderberries, wild-grapes, hickory and hazel nuts, and even bouquets of wild-flowers and bittersweets for Mom. Each came with a lesson of sorts to inspire and expand learning and dreams for the future.
None of this sounds very intriguing until you remember all this “hands-on” education was being learned by a child younger than the age when most are still learning to correctly ride a tricycle. It was a foundation in education that would become the building blocks for a lifetime of learning, all beginning with riding on a tractor.
A Solo Hunt
There is somewhat of a whimsical and intriguing aura about hunting for big game on a solo basis. Man, against the world, mono-a-mono (Spanish for Hand-to-hand), braving the elements to pit yourself against the odds and succeed and be the personal hero of a story only you will know.
Those who appreciate your efforts, are also those you share the rare fraternity with, who also have ventured forth in similar fashion, will fondly be reminded of their own adventure and be reminded or recognize, appreciate, and admire the effort. But for all practical purposes, it is a very personal and deeply motivated adventure few will ever dare or be able to accomplish.
Truth be told, most of all hunting is done on a solo basis, or with a close friend, partner, dog, or youth in a mentoring or teaching event. Some hunting is best performed as a small group like for upland bird hunting, hound hunting, even “hunting parties” are formed as small groups of friends who bond and band together to achieve better results or share expenses.
One of the reasons Hunting and Sportsman’s Clubs are found on the outskirts of nearly every small town across America. There is a great fellowship and comrade formed among those who share the common bond; reveling in stories of the past, repeating inspirational or entertaining events from years gone by, and a common friendship between like-minded folks who share a common passion.
But a true solo hunt is the sort of adventure that books are written about, fables and historical recollections are built upon, and in some cases, reputations are created with. For me, it’s always been a deep seeded internal motivation to live out a recurring dream.
Stories of Davey Crocket, Daniel Boone, Jeremiah Johnson, Grizzly Adams, Ben Lily, Jack O’Connor, Teddy Roosevelt, Saxton Pope (Pope & Young), Art Young (Pope & Young) Christopher “Kit” Carson, and Fred Bear, are all childhood frontiersmen and heroes who inspired adventure.
These heroes who encountered danger, endured weather, lived upon and off the land in their true embrace of the wild, and their forays where few others dared and emerged as the modest successful all who gave honor to their prey and plight. Who wouldn’t list them among their adventure heroes while growing up?
As much as I enjoy the comforts and ease of modern-day life, deep within my heart and soul there is an Adventurer who wants to live off the beaten path, outside the safety of a living room and studying Gods creation and living off what was created for us to utilize and enjoy.
Anyone can get in a car and drive from hotel to hotel across the nation, eat in restaurants and tour America while seeing the sights, but it takes a Frontiersman to adventure into it, or at least an Outdoorsman to live among it.
The Wisconsin Black Bear, aside from the still protected Wolf and Man, is the apex predator of the region. They are typically found in the northern portion of the state but are also found in some parts of central regions, and rarely in the southern portions where I reside.
So, a solo hunt for the state’s most dangerous and wily predator; requiring travel away from the familiar regions of home and venturing deep into the most remote areas of the Midwest is an adventure which could not be passed up.
So, while a solo bear hunt is a mere distraction to the attraction of the great outdoors and the wilderness, it is a far greater step off the path than a walk through a museum. This story is about years and months of preparation for a few days of hunting to experience a taste of the banquet of outdoor adventures. The following vignette of “My First Bear” is a short journal of my first adventure for a Wisconsin Black Bear.
My First Bear
This is a long story which ends with me having one of the most fulfilling weekends of my life from a hunting standpoint. I know to some of you, that seems odd, but if you’re a sportsman / hunter, this was one of my highlights of my life to date.
This all began a year ago when for the first time in a decade and a half I was able to return to my favorite sport of hunting. I had lost a significant amount of weight, regained my health, some of my energy and relearned to enjoy the outdoors and being physically active.
As a result, after a fifteen-year absence from the sport. I was again going out and walking for exercise and hunting was a natural progression and return to my old self.
… On Friday morning, I woke up at 4 am, and headed north for my first bear hunt. I arrived at the farm in Washburn County and met up with the property owner, who claims he already had suffered thousands of dollars in crop losses.
He and his son are both deer hunters and have several tree-stands in place around the large expanse of property they farmed, much of which borders over a few hundred acres of bear habitat woods and river bottom. The son does bear hunt during the regular season, but was not yet ready to hunt this year, they already have tree stands located in the most probable areas.
We decided on a spot on the northeast corner of a 40-acre corn field, bordered on the east, north and west by heavy timber and bottom lands.
My stand was 25’ up a 50’ oak tree about 14’ in diameter. It was a great location, and while it did sway a bit in the wind, it gave me a clear view of two open passages along the edge of the corn, as well as a view along the bottomlands where they have been seen coming from to feed in the corn.
…I parked my van in an acceptable camping spot on the west side of the corn field for the next few days, just quarter mile from my tree stand. It was mid-afternoon and I was ready to hunt.
After changing into my camouflage gear, uncased my rifle and with some bottled water in my backpack, I immediately headed for the stand. I was walking along the edge of the corn field, when I came across a large crop-circle like display of bear damage.
It was all flattened down and pulled onto a pile in the center, where the bear will then sit and lunch on the milky corn kernels until full, then move on. In a few hours when they are hungry again, they will repeat the process and create even more damage, as with many wild game species, they want new fresh food sources and will not eat the previously collected food source.
I immediately noticed that the broken stalks looked quite fresh, as it was 89-degree temperature, and the stalks were not wilted. Indicating that this was still quite fresh, and a bear could likely be in the area. I didn’t walk another fifteen feet when I spooked a large black bear, and it took off through the corn away from me.
I didn’t get a good look at it, but it was big, swift, and made a lot of racket as it plowed through the corn on its way away from me. Of course, I was making just as much noise running in the other direction! I must have looked like one third of the “three stooges” cartoon act. Then the thought sunk in that I am the one holding a firearm, as the realization set in that I had already failed and embarrassed myself from the interaction.
Bears are nothing to fool with, and a surprised one can be every bit as dangerous as an angry one. But I was irritated that I may have lost my only chance at a bear as it was unlikely it would return any time soon. But I took comfort in the fact that I was in the right area.
I walked the remainder of the distance to the tree-stand, slung the rifle over my shoulder, and climbed the ladder to my perch. I was settled into my stand about 2:00 pm and the watching and waiting began.
… I was wearing light camo pants and shirt, which was very warm but necessary for the ever-present mosquitoes, and a hat with face netting for the same reason. It was hot, well beyond warm or comfortable, but this is the price to pay for the opportunity to be bear hunting.
I needed to sit, watch, listen and wait, as this would be my home for the next couple days.
… While bears usually lumber about slowly and seem quite nonchalant, they are both quick to bolt, and fast, able to run up to 30 mph. The “target areas” I was hunting over were the narrow spaces between the corn and the bottom lands, and would only be 6 to 10 feet wide, which means would only be visible for maybe 3 seconds or so, as a bear crossed from the cover of the brush to corn or vice versa.
… When sitting in a tree-stand overlooking nature at its best, it is easy to get lost in thought. I was thinking about how grateful I was. I told Mary weeks earlier, that would be happy if I were to find someone who would welcome me to hunt, I’d be excited if I even got to see a bear, I cannot imagine how I would feel if I were to actually get a shot at one, let alone imagine the elation if I were to harvest one.
Most hunters never hunt bear, and those few who do, only a third are successful, and some hunt for years and never even see one let alone harvest one. I was just happy to have the opportunity and be where I was at the time. Not only was I grateful for being able to get the chance to hunt, but for having a wife that would tolerate me taking off a couple days to go hunting in the first place.
…. when I caught a glimpse of movement about 120 yards out. It was a bear! All I could see way the outline of the top of its head and its ear and the top curvature of the withers of its back as it quickly moved from my right to left thru the grass from the bottom lands and disappeared into the corn before I was able to get off a shot.
I flipped up the covers on the scope and moved the hammer to firing position, and brought the gun up, knowing that if I saw it again, I would only have a second to shoot. A few seconds later she emerged at the edge of the corn and stood on her hind legs and took a second to look around.
I already had my crosshairs on her and just as she looked square at me. A single shot caused her cartwheel and bowled over, as she disappeared into the corn. It was a well-placed hit. As I instinctively ejected the spent cartridge and prepared for another shot, but as I expected she was in the corn in an instant, and there was no time or need for a follow-up shot.
… I waited about twenty minutes to be sure to give enough time for her to bleed the life from her body, before starting to track her. The last thing I wanted to do is scared her and either drive her away wounded or anger a wounded animal and be at the receiving end of the vengeance of a wounded bear.
I descended the tree stand and walked to the target site. I was glad to see there was a good (heavy) blood trail to follow, and it is a sound indication of a mortal wound. I slowly walked into the corn with my .357 sidearm drawn, as I didn’t want to fight a long rifle in heavy corn stalks and sighted for a long shot, for what might be a very short distance shot.
I was hoping there was no need for a second shot anyway, but this was no time to assume anything in lieu of safety. If she is still alive, and I wanted to be ready and swift. I cautiously walking into the corn about 50 or 60 feet, listening for any hint of movement with every step.
… and again, with sidearm drawn, we retraced the blood trial into the corn. We went maybe 20 feet beyond my last trek and found the sow, clearly dead from the perfectly placed bullet from right to left directly behind the shoulders thru both lungs.
… It was a good harvest of a mature Wisconsin Black Bear, and I was elated.
The Winds Of Change
When one door closes another opens. It’s not that I have a problem walking through doorways, is just that the cold, drafty hallway in between is so often so uncomfortable, we avoid the change.
But life is about change. We are on journey, a journey of joy, challenges, failures, and achievements. Too many people look at life as if it were some sort of amusement ride.
A ride where you pay the price of admission; and then feel as if we deserve a ride of enjoyment. The price being the challenges and bad things we endure, and the ride they feel they deserve, being the rest of their life of freedom, ease and fun.
It’s not like that. There is no “master plan” as to how your day or life is going to go, and how our day or life goes’ is a result of the decisions we make, and how we respond to the challenges and dangers which arise along the way.
We are beautifully evolved biological creations, designed by God or at least a superior energy force; depending upon your beliefs, placed on a on a small green planet to exist as imperfect beings, trying to live a perfect life. We live, we make decisions, and we live with the results of those decisions.
Whether we learn from those decisions, or we ignore the lessons from both our failures and successes, will determine if we will advance to a new level of achievement, or cower from adversity; and accept or complain about the direction our life is going.
The direction of our lives is based upon the decisions we make, and how we respond to the challenges, failures, and achievements we incur along the way. That is the “master plan”.
In my life, and in conjunction with my life together with Mary, had brought an unfathomable number of changes to our lives. We had seen and endured so many changes, some good, some bad, all a part of the journey we were on; either alone or together.
When these changes come, they do not always introduce themselves in a kind unintrusive manner. Something they are thrust upon you, or you are thrust into them, and you either must embrace change, and explore what comes with them, or curl up into a defensive position and accept whatever wrath they bring and are subservient to the results.
For Mary and I times were changing. The dairy industry was changing, the economics of an industry I had been involved in for my entire adult life was changing. Mary joined me in life to be a wife, business partner, mother, and friend, and build a future together, and in some ways, I felt had left her down as a result of the changes we had made, may not have provided the life I owed her.
We too were changing. We had been to hell and back, regarding our struggle with our business, our children’s education, our own paths in spirituality and our parents were ageing and we saw a future unfolding we had for the most part not anticipated but were accepting.
We began to look at our own life and calculate the math between the two generations and wondered about the future us and our own children.
We had survived astronomical odds in our career, to eventually excel in the dairy industry and were now nearly at the top of our game and wondering where we should go from here.
We were parents who took on a behemoth bureaucracy for the education of our children, and they were achieving beyond all expectations.
We watched our own surviving parent’s age, and took stock of their actions and plight, and learned from their lives, and balanced them against our own future, dreams, and abilities.
Once again, I could feel the breeze of change are starting to tickle the hairs on the back of my neck. Much like in weather when you can feel the changing humidity, smell the approaching rain, or hear the distant thunder, I could sense the weather which precedes a new opportunity was growing.
The winds of change were about to pick up, and it would either be a false sense of concern like we have felt so many times before, or a storm was brewing. A storm I would prefer to avoid, but full knowing it may be another battle, in which we will need to secure all we can, fight for our family, and future and once again emerge triumphant.
It was once again time to review our circumstances, assess our surroundings, take stock of what we have, what we have accomplished, achieved, and explore our options, as we started moving forward as “The Journey Continues”.