Taking in the Winter with a two Belgian Hitch

　Ann called them a two ton pickup, maybe two tons of pickup, but Don says the truth is, they are a touch short of that. Obviously, they are at least the equivalent of two horse power, and that would be mighty horse power. Rudy and Scott are Belgian draft horses who live their pampered lives hanging at Don and Kelly’s farm north of town. I say pampered because they do not have to run off to work every day toiling in the fields, turning soil or boating stones. Don treats them like farmyard pets, probably talks to them and provides nutritious hay to the string of equine comrades who loaf about the farm.

They do work when work is available, and like all working animals seem to enjoy doing what they do best which is pulling things. We took the countryside tour on a crisp overcast day a few weeks ago by riding on a sled stacked with summer’s hay. While I never was able to actually have an extended talk with the brutes, it was obvious they were enjoying the outing as much as we as they zipped along over hill and dale with bells jingling and harnesses straining. At a brief pause, they nudged us as if wanting to be petted but seeing their heads were bigger than the average dog, it was difficult knowing where to rub. When a dog gets a belly rub it is not unusual to see it's hind leg start to rythymatically thrash about, for a horse of this bulk, that seemed inappropriate---with a leg weighing in at 300 pounds and a gigantic hoof shod with steel.

Through the years, we have had an interest in draft animals, I suppose for many reasons, but initially for the artistic possibilities they present. Horses have served man much longer than, say, the internal combustion engine. While horses have toiled, they also have provided a certain aesthetic to settings in which our ancestors lived and worked. They are a part of our history, almost a part of our very existence, part of our culture, maybe a forgotten part but still an astounding part.

Horses have worked without reward in many cases, sometimes treated poorly, sometimes wasted in war. Many times they were elegant and beautiful in the hands of knights, or Napoleonic potentates, or simply traveling through the back woods of Wisconsin, maybe on the way to find a young man's delight in a distant village. Don’s team was magnificent, strong, almost friendly, and willing to trot through the winter wonderland hauling the local royalty, that would be us, of course.

On the day he hitched the team, the land was covered in Wisconsin’s muted light, the clouds were low, the sun hidden away, but this was how it was, and has frequently been through the years, no different then and now. We headed out to the north. We passed by the woodlots and hayfields no different than 150 years ago. Don was part of the team and knew every stitch of the hitch, every function, every oddity of the animals, and the gear. That was his job on this day, as it was back one hundred years ago----not that Don was there---I don‘t think. These teamsters had no heated cabin, no radio, no GPS to guide their movements, just the reins and the open air and the warm clothes of a family farm.

In the past, trips like this might have been to the neighbors or to the forest to cut timber. There would not have been the smell of diesel nor the noise of the engine, nor the speed of a modern machine. There would have been more time to take in the day and breathe the air of winter. There would have been more labor, more wear on human hands, and less done on any given day. At the same time the farmer would not have had to make a payment on a $50,000 tractor. The sled, including the one we were on, was made by a blacksmith and constructed with hand-hued wood from the local forest.

As we moved through the outermost field, the two Belgians walked in stride pulling the sled with ease. Ann and I thought of a sculpture by friend George Carlson called, “Of One Heart” that featured two draft animals pulling hard together, back legs dropped to concentrate their combined strength. Team work. Two beautiful horses pulling together as a team. Rather an interesting metaphor for all of life.

As we roamed about the fields, one had to wonder at the changes, and wonder at values moving from one generation to another. Having this experience was in itself a great experience but to watch the beasts of burden, to watch the work of men and animals was intriguing, almost foreign. It seems to me there is more to this. Hard to put a handle on it but while it is easy to see the labor of it all, the sometimes grim existence of a different time, there is still an organic feeling of something that is more right than we might imagine. Is it of a slower time, less complications, less fuss over money and possessions. It is indeed, closer to the land, the mother earth. Is it just a romanticized distorted memory? Not sure. I will say I am pleased to know that Don and the working horses are still out there and the image and tradition is being kept alive. Never know when it might come in handy---even if it is just for a wonderful sled ride on a December afternoon.

Grouse Hunting and the Cathedral Pines

I don’t need much of an excuse for an outing that includes a winter snowshoe in majestic pines and the possibility of hunting the illusive Ruffed Grouse.


In other words, I didn't need to be shackled and dragged by Dennis and Jeff  to peruse the Cathedral Pines in Oconto county. This stand of trees is thought to be one of the few remaining remnants of old White Pines in the state, except for those on Native American reservations.

To throw another bone to this old dog, they also suggest we make an end-of-the-year effort to hunt Ruffed Grouse in some of the surrounding state forests. We had tried this before but had been beaten back by  two feet of snow and ended up cowering sheepishly in some dismal bar lamenting our miserable failure. Still, with the news of only six inches of snow, we beat it north as if we knew what we were doing.

We headed to the State Park in what turned out to be very much in the middle of nowhere, that was bad, but the snow was not six inches in this “nowhere“, maybe on the road,  but not in the forest. The normally open roadway to the great trees was unplowed, a little iffy but for the Subaru fair game---at least for the first two hundred yards. After what might be called a “little sinkage”, we parked in the middle of the road and walked the half mile in pristine new snow.  Not a single fresh sign of human beings stood in our way. There in the deep forest, stood one hundred and twenty foot, straight White Pines of the vintage one only sees in books. Snow clung to the branches high and low.  The cold forest atmosphere was motionless and quiet.  The forest floor appeared almost sterile, it would seem. Aloft the green canopy towered , with only an occasional Chickadee, and interestingly, the ever-present chatting crow.

Not long ago, maybe one hundred years, during this time of year the forest would have been full of men and machinery cutting and hauling away the last of the majestic timber. We were seeing what it looked like prior to their arrival or as they saw it on their  first intrusion.

In the back of our minds, and some say there is not much back there, we had visions of a delectable grouse dinner of quickly cooked breast in olive oil and butter. Then there was the drama of the hunt.  Dennis particularly seemed to almost rub his hands together as a twinkle flashed through his glazed eyes. Jeff and I, being somewhat doubtful of this snow-encumbered endeavor, lumbered along with fascination, but also apprehension, as the snow was not six inches.

The faithful car slipped its moorings in good form and we headed north to our favored grounds only to find the road well totally impassible. It was our fate, fifteen miles north the snow had deepened by eght inches.  As Dennis and Jeff dropped into the thicket, the fresh powder covered their aging knees.  So the fun began.

Within thirty yards, a single bird bolted from a tall Spruce and sped off and away.  Nary a single gun was lifted, still it was a sighting and that drove the two fearless hunters to a solid three-quarter mile walk through almost impenetrable alder thickets and spruce bogs, exhausting them like two wet dogs. On the trail, I trudged westward like Dr. Zhivago on the Russian steppes.

Losing some of the air in our old canvas sails, we decided to go back to another spot marked on our map thinking the snow was thinner back fifteen miles south.

Unfortunately, Jeff’s smarty phone didn't do snow depth, (no app) although the spot was gorgeous but still had been blanketed by eighteen inches of snow.  Again, we were struck by the beauty, the remoteness,  and the frozen peacefulness.

 Dennis recalled some story of survival in the far north as a away of inspiring us to more foolishness. This may have been motivated by the fact that neither Jeff nor I were willing to go back into the deepest forest. We told him we didn’t care if we lived or died. If we were going die it would be on the trail.

Jeff and I remained on the old logging road struggling to negotiate the ruts but still interested in Dennis driving the many birds to us. As Dennis disappeared into the bog fifty yards in, we started hearing him incoherently yell,  possibly hinting at the fact there were Grouse tracks. Finally, Dennis yelps some indiscernible babble which we later learned was done to find out where we were because he didn’t know where he was.  Obviously disoriented and confused, if not dazed.

By then he was getting more excited because a single grouse had been jumped. Even though both he and Jeff saw it, neither was remotely able pull a trigger. I was sure by now Dennis was seeing his life flash before him as he reflected on the earlier story of survival.  Dennis was in a dither as he claimed he has found a snow cave. I was one hundred yards off and it appeared from the ruckus, he was either in a bear cave going hand to hand with a bear or there had been a Bigfoot sighting.

Up on the road, Jeff and I didn't want to confront either, so we were either going to  just have to write Dennis off or go see it.  Finally Jeff realized Dennis, who describes himself as “post modern”, now actually has a smart phone and all he has to do is take a photo and show it to us. I’m thinking if he can’t make it out, he could email it. Then we would have it and just leave him to his own issues.

To our amazement, he took a picture and then slogged out unharmed---and I might say quite full of himself.  While in his post-modernist frenzy, he has a photo of a Grouse cave, one that a bird makes to spend the night or dodge an enemy.  Next to the small distinct cave was the mark of the birds wings and even its beak. We couldn't tell if the marks had been made in landing or in flight, but still, what a find.

So while the intended target, and the thought of the meal, may have been paramount at one moment, and it was not life threatening, the success of the day was, huge untouched trees in a pristine forest, and the sight of two snow caves designed to protect the lives of the forest Partridge. A day well spent---and that is not counting the fellowship of three snow-covered quasi-adventurers.