Originally published Nov. 23, 2008
I went into town this morning for coffee and the Sunday papers and, while waiting for the barista to foam my latte just right, chatted with Dr. Bob, my neighbor from down the trail (and not to be confused with Artist Bob, Pool Bob, Park Bob or any of the other Bobs who haunt the place). Like me, Dr. Bob was wearing red but when he asked whether that meant I had walked into town I shook my head and said no. I might be wearing brighter red than Bucky Badger’s game-day briefs but during this one week each year I leave woodsy Wisconsin to others.
My Wisconsin Native bona fides are as respectable as those of anyone you’ll find but I must admit to having been born without the hunting gene. I don’t mind, and the hunting lands are probably safer places without me and a loaded gun taking up space. So most years I spend the nine- day deer season (also known as Exotic Dancer Full Employment Week) in cities with sidewalks and manicured lawns where any deer that do appear are viewed as pests and not targets. This year, though, circumstances required my presence in Bayfield so I found myself Friday on the road north with much of the Grand Army of the Whitetail, where I couldn’t help but make a few observations.
No one goes hunting in a Prius. Roads leading to the hunting grounds were filled with pick-em-up trucks, usually carrying a four-wheeler in the back and sometimes also pulling old trailers not much bigger than fishing shacks that would serve instead as hunting shacks. In case anyone could miss the obvious, a few trailers had antlers tacked to the back. On the radio a DNR spokesman was explaining how, for a mere $24 hunting license, a man could provide lots of venison for his family in these hard economic times, but he didn’t say anything about the $30,000 truck, the $5,000 four-wheeler and the $5 blaze orange stocking cap he’ll also need.
Not to mention the 30-can twelve-pack of Bud.
Hunters are not necessarily vain, but they do favor vanity plates. I saw a truck license that read HNDGUNR, and knew instantly the driver was a hunter. Same with R U HUNTN, and while the owner of the truck with the license plate FARVE might have spelling issues (though it did finally look right) I was reasonably certain he, too, was a deer hunter.
The car with STYLIST? Not so much.
Outside of Brantwood I noticed a sign for Venison Road, but there was not a tree stand in sight. I’m no Daniel Boone but shouldn’t that be a clue? (And speaking of clues, riddle me this: What’s up with blaze orange camouflage? Now you see me, now you don’t? Isn’t that right up there with jumbo shrimp on the oxymoron chart?)
What was most obvious was how important the gun deer season is to the northern economy, and there the Grand Army was doing its part. Cafes were packed, stores were busy and in several towns charities had set up brat stands to take advantage of the hungry horde. One of those was in Phillips, and I might have stopped myself if I hadn’t been struck dumb by the sight of a fisherman sitting way out in the middle of the lake, staring into a hole in the ice. I just shook my head. A week earlier he’d have needed a boat to do that.
It reminded me of a story. God was at the gates of heaven sorting out the newcomers by IQ. One man said his IQ was 130, so God said “Welcome, why don’t you take a seat with the rocket scientists over there.” The next new arrival said his IQ was 110, so God directed him to go sit with the teachers and reporters.
The next guy said his IQ was 60. God said, “Welcome. How’s the ice fishing been?”
I guess I lack the ice fishing gene as well.
Photo by Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
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