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.
No comments:
Post a Comment