Grouse Hollow Journal for December 3, 2015 by Greg Koelker
It is Sunday night, the end of the Big One, the 2015 Wisconsin Gun Deer Season. El and I just got in from hunting with our neighbors. I took in the last minutes of the hunt behind our tobacco shed as sleet started to fall in the dimming light.
Memories were made once again.
We got out of Dodge early on the Friday before the Wisconsin Gun Deer Season. After spending the morning spoiling a suspicious Scout, loading up gear, food, and the four-wheeler, we headed south to Grant County a little after 1 p.m. We hoped to beat the forecast blizzard rolling in from the southwest. The sky was quiet when we stopped for fuel in Prairie du Chien at 2:30, but by the time we got checked out, it was starting to spit some drizzle that gave over to snowflakes at Bridgeport. The snow was sticking and visibility was declining by Patch Grove. Hurray! Snow for deer hunting - tongue in cheek for sure.
There was maybe 3 inches of powder and a swirling snowfall at Barb and Chuck’s when we rolled in. Nephews Chris and Zach Wright and their friend Travis pulled in from the Twin Cities a couple hours later. They hit the first heavy snow somewhere north of Lansing. After a supper of some of Ellen’s sister Barb’s scrumptious vegetable beef or chicken noodle soup, Chuck and I drove down to Burton to the war council in brother-in-law Bill Hauk’s shed in a near white out. Inside the crowd was smaller than usual, pared down by the blizzard swirling around us. It was good to see that nephew Brian Fure was there after he apparently leapfrogged from California to Dubuque over the impending storm that morning. The talk was of the snow and cold, but mostly it was about deer hunting and the first drive and wonder at how we would get around the next day. Besides joking about sleeping in, everyone knew they would be out there in the woods come first light.
We woke up to nearly knee-deep powder, cold, and swirling winds on opening morning. I could hear Chuck running a skid steer outside, plowing the driveways when I came upstairs. Fortunately, he had moved the trucks, including ours into a shed the night before. I also woke up to wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. Barb had two pots of coffee going and Ellen had French toast casserole in the oven. The girls packed boxes, filled thermoses, and made sandwiches while I stayed out of the way and watched the weather. It was still snowing with temps in the teens. I kept wondering what the heck we were thinking.
Ellen’s breakfast casserole was bubbling and ranked up there with the best ever. I poured sorghum molasses over my piece and tucked in, only burning the roof of my mouth a little. The room got an orange tint to it as people finished breakfast and coats, hats, and gloves appeared. Hunting knives were strapped on while bullets jingled and radios, phones, candy bars and cookies were stashed into pockets. Food boxes were carried out to the trucks, shooting irons were strapped on, trucks and four wheelers started, and “Good Luck” became the watchwords of the morning as hunters disappeared into the storm.
Eventually, it became necessary for me to go out. When I found the light switch in the shed, the feeder calves began bawling for breakfast. All they got from me was a blast of cold air when I opened up the big shed doors wide enough to drive the Ranger out. I left the truck running in the still falling snow while I loaded up the Stolen Cooler and food box. Ellen joined me in the almost warm cab and we were off. Township highway patrolman Louie Liebfried and his snow plow had done at least one pass on Dutch Hollow Road when we pulled out, but I still locked in the four-wheel drive.
The road down into Chaffie Hollow was sketchy at best. We met Louie and his plow coming the other way, snow flying. The lane to the Bench wasn’t plowed yet, and I had my doubts about pulling the truck and trailer off the road into the field driveway and deep snow. We got it parked and loaded up our rifles, added “Good lucks!” and headed out into the snowy gray dawn. The snow was nearly knee deep on me. I took my time so as not to get sweated up. I chose a different place to set up my chair than usual, leaning up against a young oak tree that was surrounded by high piles of snow pillows along a field edge where I thought I might hide better and have a better view.
Snowflakes still swirled around and of course, the wind started to pick up, amping up the cold. I am not a snow fan, but it was beautiful with snow sculptures covering trees and weeds like frosting. I thought, “No deer in its right mind is going to get out of its warm bed and come out here this morning unless someone or something pushes it out.” I was right; I only made out a dozen shots in the distance in three hours. Usually, there are four or five times that many on opening morning near the Bench. Anyway, it was a pleasant enough time until the wind started getting down my neck. By ten, we were back at Burton, deerless and ready to warm up a bit. No deer were hung by our party.
The Burtson Deer Hunters organized a drive over Burton hill next. Four of us took fourwheelers down the long river bottom, plowing deep snow and dropping off standers as we went. The drivers came in from the top and had quite a time, slipping and sliding on steep slopes and hazards covered with snow. The wind blew right in my face the entire time as I watched across the corn bottom and up on the hillside, making swirling snow devils. This drive takes a couple hours under the best of conditions, but eventually there was a shot up on the hill; I learned later that Ellen shot a doe. Two deer came bounding down the hill, pausing by the fence and then breaking out across the bottom in between me and my niece Katie who was three hundred yards down river. She fired first and one of the deer collapsed. I fired and the second deer ran to the river and crossed without a scratch. Later a doe came across in the same spot, but by then there were drivers on the hillside, and someone was driving a four-wheeler across the bottom to the south and I didn’t think I had a safe shot. I wished I was quicker on the draw with my camera as the scene of swirling tufts of snow framing the doe as it picked her way down the river bank and leaped off into the iron blue river water and bounded up the other side. It was one of those rare moments that only happens in that instant at that place. The deer walked up river on the other side and I might have had a shot, but it was on the other side of the river, so . . .
Ellen had made lasagna for supper. As always, it was outstanding and after a couple adult beverages and a belly full of hot lasagna and cold weather, I went down for a hot shower. I never made it back upstairs. We learned later that nephew Brian had taken a doe on his evening stand. Oh yeah, the Badgers were robbed! How is that not a touchdown?
Until next time, get out - I really like that we can register our deer by phone or computer; however, I am puzzled. Ellen used a phone in the shed at Burton to register her doe. She had tagged it on the ear as directed by law, making it nearly impossible to put a 10-digit confirmation number on it. The doe was already hanging in the walk-in cooler, so she wrote the confirmation number on the back of her back tag until later. I am puzzled about why we need to put a 10-digit confirmation number on a tag that has been put on an ear or antler and is sliced with the date and time already. I don’t know about you, but sometime I want to watch whomever came up with that idea do it after the tag is on a deer’s ear in swirling wind and snow or rain or sleet - as directed. The muzzleloader season is on and archers can still take to the woods if they can brave the cold. More memories of the Big One next time. Enjoy.
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