Everyone has been duped a time or two-but in the online world, if it looks too good to be true it probably is.  The outdoor world, specifically hunters, are not immune.  Maybe it’s the quest for trophies, or the pursuit of the largest…the heaviest, the widest, the longest…that makes our acceptance of fiction as fact on the internet.

This post was spurred by a recent photograph of a “212 lb.” wolf “shot near  Rosholt Wisconsin by a named hunter.  The image raced across Facebook, e-mail and even Wisconsinoutdoorfun.com’s Facebook page.  It featured a proud hunter holding his trophy-a “huge” black wolf-using the very creative classic fishing pose- low perspective wide angle, paws bigger than the guys head.  (I wanted to try that with my 65 lb. black lab) Like many, at first I thought it was a bear as well.  But it seemed fishy from the start-212 pounds would easily be a new world record and way beyond the typical weights of wolves in Wisconsin (75-120 lbs.).  The photograph was a mobile upload from someone in central Wisconsin and no one seemed to know who the  hunter was.  Curious and disbelieving, I started digging.

Within 24 hours the photograph suddenly disappeared from all shared Facebook pages for no apparent reason-another clue to it’s hoaxiness.  A day or two later, I found the same image posted on a Minnesota hunting page attributing it to a Gopher state hunter….in various locations and then finally it seemed to land in a guide from Alaska’s lap.  Made more sense and maybe closest to the truth-case…mostly solved.

Timing is everything and with the close of the deer gun season, all of a sudden a monster 400+ lb. Buck popped up on the internets.  The Holstein sized whitetail and “proud” hunter were located in Michigan somewhere-hmmmm.  In a state where almost every hunter shoots a “200 pound buck” (during late night camp stories-more like 150 or 160 pounds to be realistic) a 400 pounder would be something.  A thirty second Google query instead found that deer shot in 2009 or 2010 on a pen raised high fence game farm in Wisconsin…for an asking price of up to $15,000 perhaps.  Quite the hunter.

My favorite photos involve cougars; mountain lions, panthers-the ones that prowl on the decks of people in Eagle River, or Mercer or Hurley (hoax) or stalk a hunter from behind showing off his bull elk in Montana, Colorado…Wyoming (photoshopped images).  Maybe as a photographer, I love to track down those the most to expose the fraud.  Snopes.com is a great website to do a quick check as are thousands of hunting and outdoor forums where many of these images gain traction-or get debunked.

I’m not sure why I am such a pessimist when these pictures show up in my inbox or Facebook feed-maybe there a challenge to it.., a hunt to find out the real story behind the photographs that I kind of enjoy.  I know there will be no shortage of new pictures out there-the unbelievable  “Rib Mountain Walmart Buck” is true, but others I’m not so sure of;  a possible Wisconsin state record wolf taken near Marathon or Little Chicago or “3 miles from where I deer hunt!” (not really) and many others TBD soon.   We all enjoy passing on pictures of the unusual and the amazing, but a little check of how many times its been forwarded is a good clue to the authenticity, which isn’t to say we still wouldn’t click “send.”  For just like a good fishing or hunting tale, we enjoy the story more than the truth.

Opening days are a little different 40 years later. The hunting “gang” is now just my two brothers and Dad, with mom along to keep watch on the pole barn and have soup and sandwiches at the ready. My parents bought property north of Mosinee in the late ‘70s so we’d have our own hunting land near our home in Rib Mountain. Over the years it has seen it’s share of friends and family joining us for hunts and plenty of deer have been harvested-even an occasional bragging sized buck. The past several years have become quieter, as hunting styles have changed and frankly, the deer “herd” has changed. Each year I keep a running total hand scribbled in my stand of the deer I see or shoot. It recorded my daughter and son’s first deer and keeps a tally of changes in whitetails sighted…Mostly a decline. No matter, it’s still opening weekend, and I so enjoy this time in the woods. I also keep a journal, a habit I stared 20 or 30 years ago-sometimes rather sporadic and sometimes scribbled on whatever scrap paper I can find. What follows is my opening day, 2012.

“A little foggy and 37 degrees on the drive out on KK this morning. Changed in the shed, and walked through the ink darkness to the stand at 5:30. Dang backpack can be heavy.“ I pass a few scrapes along the way as my flashlight cuts over them and then arrive at my stand, a long walk from the shack. My heavier clothes are pulled on quickly and I settle into the darkness with my fading headlamp. Should have changed the batteries.

“6:09A.M. shot rings out to the south east. Really?” It’s pitch black out, and I always wonder the story behind those pre-shooting hours shots. A mis-fire while loading? A deer poached in the headlights? I don’t know, but none of it is good.

“6:30-shot to west, yep traditional first one of the day….man, it’s still really dark and foggy.” I can just make out my shooting lanes and I guess if a big buck were standing right below me, I might be able to zero in on it-but my hunter safety class of 42 years ago kicks in and no, I don’t think I’d flip the safety off. I close my eyes again and wait for the day to reveal itself.

“7:01-grouse flew up from ridge to west. Wonder why? What kicked it up? Still damp and foggy.” I love it when the day wakes-the colors start to appear-russet of the rattling oak leaves, brown and tans of the ferns and tufts of green here and there. The quietness is almost deafening and every snap or shuffle is magnified. The grouse made appearances throughout the day and every time I’d hear him beat his wings through the brush, I’d take extra notice to that direction and what may have startled him…if anything.

“8:30- a shot from David’s direction around 7:45…maybe a deer is down?” “There has been a bit of shooting, but not a lot-most from east toward the county land.”

”8:35-Mr. Red Squirrel returns and chats me up-at least it’s company.”

“8:43-Lemoine texts me a picture of a 9 pointer-nice deer.” “8:45-Kirks texts and asks if I saw Lems deer.” Mike Lemoine is a good friend and consummate deer hunter-he has land by LaValle, Wisconsin and always seems to attract bucks and doesn’t miss the opportunity. Kirk, my old college roommate is texting from some deep valley in the St. Joseph Ridge area near LaCrosse-jeepers….technology. I report back I’ve seen one tail at 6:30.

“11:05-sun finally burns the fog off and some blue sky appears-getting warm….maybe 45?.”

“11:30- sm. doe trots thru-scared? Saw fawns walk by at 10:45….there was another round of shooting about 10ish from south east again-maybe a drive? On opening day? Nuthatches arrive and pay a visit for a photo op. Second sandwich is downed.”

“11:50-small 11” 8 ptr walks through, nose to ground.” Along with the spike I’d seen earlier, they can come back in a year or two sporting larger headgear and I’ll think about making a shot. We practice QDM here, and even though we have a small parcel of land, I really don’t see the point of shooting a small buck when a doe would be fine for venison. Yep, maybe a passed buck will get shot down the road, but maybe not. If I take him here and now, there is no chance for him to mature.

“1:32-two sm fawns and doe cruise thru spookily way out in west shooting lane. Head to pines.” Around 2:30 the balmy sun gives way to a pick up wind and clouds-it’s almost 50, but things chill a bit now that I’ve stripped down clothing.

“2:33- a Barred Owl silently glides by and then as quickly out of sight behind grey tree trunks.”

“2:33.01- Red Squirrels who’ve plagued me all day are curiously silent.”

“3:00pm-After staring at the same trees for 8 1/2 hours, I realize they are the same trees I vowed to cut from my shooting lanes last year!”

“3:30- Final hour and no doubt which way the wind has been from today. Paper products are being made down in Mosinee.” The last hour is almost like the first-my attention is called upon to address every small sound-the wind calms down, dampness settles in and usually, if I’m going to see a deer, it’ll be any time now. Luck was not on my side this opener and after a 20 minute hike back to the shed, the stories from dad and the brothers were the same. Like most hunters, optimism still rides high for it’s only the end of the first day. With so little shooting in the “neighborhood” we feel there are still plenty of chances for deer to show and we’ll put in our best effort tomorrow. Unlike my first season or two, sleep will come easily this night and coffee will replace hot cocoa in the morning. But like back then, I will be buoyed in the hope that a whitetail buck will make a mistake, stroll along and give me something a little more than red squirrels and nuthatches to write about.

The shortening of days now at the tail end of autumn is something I’ve never been a fan of, but it’s out of my control, so I make the best of it.  Flying home after work, lacing up boots, sliding the 20 gauge into a case and loading the lab seems to be the best way to deal with it.  It’s a half hour drive to my favorite bird hunting spot, which leaves barely 30 or 40 minutes to roam the tall grass prairie to hunt pheasant, before the sun sinks.

Birdless?  Well, not entirely true.  Birdless because the safety was never slid off?   That much is correct, like so many hunts-especially in the grouse woods.  Because I missed?  Also frequently true, I’ll never win any wing shooting competitions. Birdless just because Molly and I never had the chance to take a shot or put game in the bag and that was the subjective score.  It still was a bird hunt, a successful one at that.  I’m realizing I frequently write about this same thing over and over-what “success” in a hunt really means and as most of us know, it changes over time.

The “Birdless Bird Hunt” started as the quivering black lab leapt from the back seat, barely waiting for her collar bell and for me to slide 2 shells into the gun.  She seems to sense when we’re almost to the field while driving-her tail thumping speeds up several notches.  The sun is already touching the arched horizon and colors flood the sky.  The birds will have to wait as I pull out a small camera to take home a few images.  Molly isn’t as patient, her nose already pulling her in directions I can’t imagine.  Off we go and I follow the dog wherever scent steers her-I have no agenda to cover the entire field, just to watch her work.

Over the course of the past two seasons, I think I’m starting to read the labs movements; starting to know what she’s sensing and when to be ready… and when to be really ready for a flush. There seems to be a “I think there is a bird here somewhere” search of the grass in front of her and a “I know there is a bird here!” frantic scouring of every inch of ground.  She either slows way down (except her tail) or speeds up to track down a moving bird.  That’s when my thumb slides up to the safety and I scan carefully the terrain she’s probing.  More often than not, the her nose was right and if I trust in it, we put a bird in the air.

Flush or not, I’m finding that proudly witnessing a few of those “I-gotta-find-this-bird “ frenzied sessions by Molly is what it’s all about.  As darkness steals the color from the sky, I snap a couple more pictures of tall grass and abandoned sunflowers against a deepening cold blue horizon.  I’m satisfied….cradling the double barrel in the crook of my arm Molly settles in alongside knowing tonight the hunt is over.  Her nose is always working however and pulls her away for a couple detours in the dark.  I slipped the bell off her collar and the gun into its case and settled in for the drive back home, content in knowing that even a birdless hunt can be some of the most enjoyable an appreciated time spent outdoors.

November.  For me, it’s that “Tweener-Time” of year.  In between the warmth and color of October and the white cold starkness of December.  I often joke with friends that I’d trade the summer months for having all of the fall off from work-there is just too much to do, too many sports, too much autumn air to soak in and too many things pulling me every direction.

The mountain bike is under me pretty religiously through the summer and finishing with the last races of the season in September, but once hunting starts, the fat tires seem to gather cobwebs.  That’s unfortunate, for some of the best fat tire riding of the year is during those cooler days leading up to and through October.  Bow hunting was always my sport of choice growing up and even after my move to Clark County-it’d be a made dash out of work to the car-filled with camo, to dress along the way and climb into my favorite stand.  That love is still in me, but now a black lab has other ideas.  It’s a high-pressure sales pitch by her tapping paws and wildly swinging tail to “force” me to grab the over/under instead of the bow.  She’s got me pegged.  I don’t mind.  So although I still managed to say “no!” to her once and a while and get in a tree stand, we usually jump in the car and head on down to the county forest to scramble through cut overs for grouse and woodcock or state land to try our luck on roosters.  Whether we connect on any birds or not, just hunting with a dog makes for an enjoyable hour or two.

If my fat bike had expression (and it seems to at times) it’d be pouting when we arrive back and unload in front of it.  I think- “yes, yes….I’ll get to you as soon as I can.”  And I usually do….after the rifle hunt.  Another direction you see-luckily, it’s short and intense and I can set aside those 9 days to gather with family, talk smart, spend ungodly hours never leaving my stand and maybe put some venison in the freezer.  All those quiet hours also lend themselves to writing, taking notes, sketching tiny pictures and waiting for the tiniest snap of a twig nearby.  (last year the score was zero for the whole season!).  I miss a few days because of work, but try to make my traditional last day hunt at our local trail system (Levis Mound) -half hunting, half checking to see if things are in shape for skiing.  As I write this-it is snowing, turning everything out the window white-the first snow of the year-just love it.  Of course, seeing flakes pulls me into the cross-country ski mode and I think I need to wax up the boards and have those ready pronto.

The skis and poles are in my man-cave (basement) next to the black powder and muzzleloader, so that late season is also on my mind.  Like the regular gun season, it’s short and I always make an attempt to be out in that much colder weather to try my luck with the smoke pole.  The tweener season overlaps here again, and I have been known to ski and hunt the same day here in Clark County (the ski trails are only closed during the rifle season).  It seems even though the gun is in my hands during this season, my mind is more on anticipating kicking and gliding and a bountiful snow season.  “Oh shoot!” Molly is still  tappin her claws on the kennel floor, so we manage to squeeze in a couple more bird hunts, and if it’s in the snow, even better.

If “winter” is like last year, the Tweener season just continued.  The hunting  seasons ended, taking them off my plate, and the purchase of a fat bike begged me to ride again-and so I did.  Snow was almost non-existent, so the big fat tires rolled about everywhere I could find.  And it was awesome.  As great as the riding could be, there was a little nagging question inside-would this new sport weasel it’s way into all my other activities?  Maybe…probably…. most defiantly, but oh well, somehow I’ll do my best to get it all in for it’s all outdoors and as long as I’m there, I’ll be happy.

The snow is still coming down and it is early November-heart of the in-between season, the lab is resting in her basket and the mountain bike, bow and shotgun are snug in the garage. Off to work soon and I’m wondering which  of these things will win out today.  Maybe I’ll throw them all a curve ball and pull out the camera and hiking boots instead-should be some great photographic opportunities today!

It’s always hard to explain to outsiders what Twang Fest is, what it means and why we continue each fall.  It’s far more than a bow hunting trip, yet that’s where it all started and that remains at its core.  But if it were only that, I know in my heart we wouldn’t have continued every year for thirty additions.  Life would have moved in and we’d move on  as well.  It’s the hunt and everything else that keeps the calendar marked each November to gather again.

This journey started while in college-young nimrods in the woods taking a break from classes each Sunday morning for dark drives north from La Crosse to Jackson County.  An entire weekend of camping and hunting would be better it seemed, and Twang Fest was born.  Quickly after the first addition, we moved into the real world-graduation and new careers, families, changes of jobs and in later years sadly, losses to our family.  That was the start and those were the changes and yet we still made time to make it all happen again and again.

Huddled in a blind the first night I made a note in my journal about all the things that have remained the same.  Twenty years ago the fest began very similarly-my friend Mike and I started a day early and like then, it was raining-didn’t matter, we were so happy to leave the work world behind and start this.  On that date, the rain turned to snow overnight and by the next morning the “Great Halloween Snowstorm” was born.  Even through 20 plus inches of snow, all the Twangfesters arrived at some point and we carried on.  This year, raining oak leaves replaced snow, loosened by the gentle breeze and landing with a thud on the forest floor (amazing how quiet a woods can be). Like twenty years ago, the murmur of the interstate miles away and a distant train horn were background sound only pierced by warning squawks of squirrels.  Yep, being a participant in the hunt, being in the woods and soaking it all in will always remain.

Over the years, “everything else” has included impromptu mid day football games, a mock ridge wedding (coinciding with the first Twangster getting hitched), skits of all sorts (including political debates), documentary footage, scrap paneling bowling, late night hay rides, golf, Friday night steak feeds, campfires and of course music.  I sometimes shake my head in amazement at the talent that dresses in camo each year and provides entertainment at Twangfest.  We are fortunate to have such gifted musicians in our group and it never fails that as soon as the bows are unslung, guitars are out and the music jam begins.  There are almost an equal amount of bow and guitar cases lined up in the camper and each have its place during the weekend.

As in all things that one looks so forward to, it goes by too quickly.  Other obligations pulled one brother away at a time in this 30^th year, and by the final hunt Sunday morning, only three made the trip to stands in the dark.  Maybe appropriately, for the last day is a bit melancholy anyway and all too soon everyone has left and all that clings to Twangfest is the dust cloud on the ridgetop dirt road- we’re off heading in all directions back home.

The statement by close friend Norbert maybe summed up some of my feelings as well and kick started how I wanted to write about Twangfest this anniversary year:

“It is a sacred part of my life I don’t like to share. …I just want to keep it away from people who don’t understand and never will.”

For those of us who do understand and always have, we will continue until we no longer can lace the boot strings or pull back the bow or strum the guitar…. for everything Twangfest is, most importantly-it remains a sacred part of our lives.

My Black Lab Molly and I managed to run about 45 minutes to some state land after work, in the remote chance that we could put up a couple roosters in the last light of the day.  It’s the rut now, and part of me wants to grab the archery gear and head out to the woods, but after a day in the kennel, the tip-tapping of Molly’s claws on the garage floor tells me she has other ideas and I give in.  The double barrel with be in my hands instead arrows and a bow.  I don’t mind.  The drive is calming and quiet after a day in the classroom, and petting an excited labs’ head along the back roads isn’t all bad at all.

The property is very hilly, tall grass, old sunflowers and thick brush-perfect.  It’s a couple weeks into the season and it gets pounded hard on the weekends-this day, like most now, it’s just me.  A storm front is moving in and although sunny, a bank of red and orange clouds are moving in and it makes for a perfect backdrop from my vantage point.  Molly charges into the field and races to find the first scent of the day.  From time to time, she locks up on something, her nose snorting like a wild pig and my thumb instinctively slides up to the safety.  Then, with a huff, she moves on and I watch and follow to a new patch of cover.   Her body pauses by a small pine, tail wildly whipping and I’ve seen this before-the gun is at the ready.  She dives into the grass and pulls out…. a pheasant wing.  Well, it’s the right bird, but one that met it’s demise by most likely a coyote or fox.  She drops it, knowing that’s not what we’re here for and we move on.

We cover a lot of ground in the next hour, but don’t put anything up-the light is fading so I take Molly through a patch of flowers we’d missed at the start, within sight of the truck.  She starts to get birdy, nose to the ground, her tempo picks up and she works circles in front of me trying to narrow down a direction.  There are a couple false starts and then her body drops lower and she’s locked on one bearing.  A cackle and beating of wings and the rooster is up-I miss on the first, then actually concentrate on the second pull and the bird tumbles, the lab in pursuit.  Molly’s on it and before I slip the bird into my vest, I admire how really beautiful they are-not native to our land, but maybe the finest introduction of a species a bird hunter could want.

Molly pulls alongside me knowing her job is done for the day- I pop out the two casings, and tuck them into a pocket.  It’s a short walk, he truck just a 100 yards away and I smile thinking we got our last ditch bird today and sometimes that’s all you really need and all you really want to end a perfect hunt.

Molly made her home at the Meurett camp 2 years ago and even though she has a stellar pedigree, one never knows until feathers hit the water so to speak. She had a prolonged training period since signing on with her hunting partner (me)-a major injury kept her out of her first fall, but we resumed working in the field as soon as possible after that. A considerable worry for all hunters is gun shyness, but a gentle introduction to the report of a shot proved no problem for the excited dog chasing pigeons. Good friend Jamie (a master with German Wirehaired Pointers) provided the birds and encouragement through Molly’s indoctrination to the gun.

Last year became her first as a hunter, even though she was four years old. Prior to her joining me in the pick-up, she lived at a breeding kennel and had no field experience, despite her championship bloodlines. I remember vividly her first hunt at some DNR property where pheasants are stocked-she could be exposed to a few birds there and we could take our time to work them. She became birdy within minutes, speed and urgency surged through her body and soon a rooster was in the air. A fortunate shot brought it down and Molly knew exactly what to do, returning it to hand through the tall grass. I was so proud. She went on to have a great autumn, doing well on pheasant, grouse and woodcock. Upland game is one thing, but waterfowl, quite another.

We never had a chance to hunt ducks or geese last year, so it was a priority for this fall. I was given permission from a neighbor down the road to hunt a small marshy pond for one weekend-a rainy cool weekend, perfect for ducks I’d hoped. Being on private land, I didn’t have to worry if Molly totally failed at figuring out a retrieve on a woodie or mallard, we could be patient. This would be the perfect location to see if all our water work last summer would pay off. It’s been 2 years since I donned waders, tossed out decoys, and slid 3 steel 12 gauge shells into a gun. Man, I’ve missed that. Molly didn’t know what to think of all those bird looking things floating around in the water-they sure looked like her retrieving dummy. I figured as much, so I tossed her fake duck out a few times and let her thread her way through the bobbing decoys to see if she could distinguish between the two. She could. We settled into a makeshift blind behind willow branches I’d cut and the natural cattails getting pelted by the rain and waited. I’d brought my two favorite calls along, but realized any bird that flew near this pond was going to land here with no encouragement from me. That’s exactly what happened-I heard a splash and glanced to see 3 woodies already swimming toward the decoys. Molly did as well and spun out of the blind and in seconds, I managed to stand and drop one of the birds in the water. Molly was interested in perusing the flying birds, but quickly saw the flapping in the water and was in, instincts taking over and she was back with the bird in the blind. That was her first duck, so I snapped a few pictures, which she seemed ho-hum about, it was like she was saying “that’s what I do dad-dahhh.” It would also be the last bird we’d see that day, but it surly was a successful hunt.

We returned the next morning a bit late (still pelting rain) and quietly approached the pond-I sensed maybe there would be geese on it as I’d heard some flying earlier nearby. Sure enough, as we crested the dike, birds were in the air everywhere and I picked one and dropped it on the far side of the water. Again, Molly had it pegged and swam across to pick up the large goose and returned across the water with the bird seemingly half the size of her. I think all labs get really jacked up about geese, for her compact body and tail were just quivering. So our second trip to the water was also a success as she’d made her first goose retrieve and I couldn’t have been more proud.

We returned one more time, but birds were scarce and soon decoys were packed in oversize bags and the clumsy hike in waders back to the truck began. I’ve found that hunting with a dog changes everything. If I’m by myself, working brush or a swamp for hours and never click the safety off, it can feel like a poor hunt. With the dog along, it’s fun just to see them work cover, get birdy and in the end, trot alongside you as we return to the pick up-they are just happy to be out there, as I am. I hope we have many more years together in the field and marsh, for seeing how Miss. Molly did on her first retrieves I know all the summer “work” pays off and there will be many more proud moments for this hunter and his pup.

I spent way to long reading comments on the “Wisconsin Wolf Hunting” Facebook page, that WOF had linked a photograph to.  It was a male 73 pound wolf shot near Boyd, Wisconsin.  The proud hunter and friend held the wolf up, in an unflattering pose and a photograph was snapped.  The hunter had every right to do so-he’d applied for a tag, was selected for a kill permit, hopefully did his scouting homework and killed the game. I’ve gone through the same process many times on deer, game birds and waterfowl, but this image reminded me that we still need to treat all hunted animals with respect.

“One does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted…If one were to present the sportsman with the death of the animal as a gift he would refuse it. What he is after is having to win it, to conquer the surly brute through his own effort and skill with all the extras that this carries with it: the immersion in the countryside, the healthfulness of the exercise, the distraction from his job.  Jose Ortega y Gasset, Meditations on Hunting”

I’m also reminded of an old world tradition, of cleaning up the dead animal and placing a sprig of evergreen in it’s mouth as a sign of thanks and respect to the animal for giving it’s life to the hunter.  There should be a moment of mixed joy and remorse at the killing of an animal.  I know it always has been for me.

The Facebook picture sure generated a ton of comments-101 “shares” and 371 comments as of this morning.

“Killing just for sport is not cool. Eat that Muther!”

Wisconsin Wolf Hunting: “I agree.The blood should be more centered in frame.”

Wisconsin Wolf Hunting: “You know where the door is, Traci *****. Isn’t reality A BITCH? I hate to break the news to you, but Wolves really aren’t mankind’s last defense against vampires. And unicorns don’t really exist.”

“Wow that was taken not far from my back yard and maybe it will make my cats and dogs a little more safe. Way to go Dennis.”

“hunting is a right and in this instance a necessary evil when there is overpopulation, but I never relish this kind of savage imagery, it would be better for the hunters cause if they must show carnage to show what the wolves do to the domestic animals. Hunting in this case, necessary, yes, images in this case, disgusting yes, and sad and unfortunate all the way around. ”

“When you posted this, you were fully aware a controversial outbreak would result. & DON’T EVEN THINK OF TRYING TO BULLS**T ME HUNNY”

“Indians hunt wolves you moron…. They have always hunted them…. Do you think this is ok? But I am not going to explain anything to animal rights bull *&%#… Use your time to fight for abused animals that need your help…. If you dont like this picture or wolf hunting then dont look at it…”

“you people complain about the wolf hunt but what happens when there is no deer left i have no does or fawn left in my woods and i havent shot one of them here in 8 years because of all the wolfs and bear so what happens when they run out of food your kids and humans and their pets are next so lets control this now congratulations on the kill”

“GOOD JOB ! they should shoot all of them ! the wolves should have never been brought back !! they were gone for a good reason.”

I guess I was saddened by some of the really personal attacks and even racial comments on display by this Facebook page and many of the comments to the photograph.  I agree with one writer, that probably the reaction to the image was known and maybe even meant to stir up controversy.  I am a hunter, and I’m not against hunting as a population control, but I also believe we shouldn’t treat a big game species as vermin either, respect must come into play.

The wolf hunt law was written hastily, unscientifically and by politicians-a recipe for a poorly executed season.  It’s not known what impact even culling a modest number of wolves out of Wisconsin’s packs will do during the five month hunt.  If taking specific members of a pack will actually increase wolf depredation cases.  This excellent story in the Wisconsin State Journal addresses many of these concerns, and they make sense to me.  It’s worth a read.

Perhaps lastly, and I realize this, my opinion is colored by the fact that I held a wolf in my hands this past summer-one captured and radio collared for study-scientific study.  It was injured, perhaps by another wolf and I couldn’t help but hope for it’s survival.  He still lives and not far from one of my deer hunting areas.  I don’t begrudge the wolf of killing deer for food, for we share this thing called nature with them.  My hope is that somehow, a well managed and intelligent hunt will evolve, and those who pursue the wolf do so with the respect this animal deserves.

The 2012 edition of Gnomefest made its way back to its roots-the Nine Mile Forest near Wausau Wisconsin, where it all began.  I’m a relatively new participant to GF, having served as trail liaison for the past several years when the festival was held at the Levis Mound trail in Clark County.  Although never a registered participant, I watched, photographed, rode and helped as much as I could as a trail host, but knew this could be something fun.

Craziness is not in short supply at a Gnomefest, but at the heart of the event are people that love mountain biking and riding and gathering together in a shared love of the sport. For myself, it seemed everyone at a GF knew each other and I was just an outsider- the local guy at Levis, but in short order I had new friends who welcomed me into the GF circle. Long after the last of the bikes left the trail, these new relationships grew and frequently we’d have a chance to ride again at one trail or another.  I loved pulling into camp and rekindling these friendships once again.  In this years addition, I dragged  (not kicking and screaming) friend Dave (a Ladysmith trail builder) along to join in the fun and meet new people  on a perfect early fall weekend.

The fest is sort of like the Midwest Pedro’s Fest of years gone by, but run a little looser.  There are organized rides -the ladies ride lead by the first Womens Mountain Bike World Champion Jacquie Phelan, as well as night rides, morning rides, you name it.  Several semi-completive events, like random derbies, the Dirt Cat and ever popular nighttime Dwarf Cycle race really highlight the weekend.  A chili cook-off and home brew contest along with awesome door prizes (some supplied by the riders themselves and of course awesome bike shops and sponsors) kept everyone happy.  The potluck dinner and kiddy beer pool during awards and raffle were just the way to add even more new friends to the my rider list.

Although the forecast for the weekend looked perfect-cool temps and clear, mother nature tossed in a fair amount of rain smack dab in the middle of the Dirt Cat, while riders were miles from the trail head.  No matter, most participants kept pedaling (often confused and going every-what direction) seeking out obscure check points in the maze of trails at Nine Mile.  None would finish in less than two hours and as in years past I teamed up with friends to complete the event together-much more fun in my book.  We ended up surprisingly third and scored some awesome sculptures by recycledartwerks.

All too soon, the weekend reaches the final morning ride on Sunday-the slow pace and a lot of photo-ops are well appreciated after events of the previous day and evening. Those pictures will soon be shared in photo pools throughout the web to relive some of the weekend or perhaps entice new riders for the following year.   Finally, I believe there is nothing worse than having to break camp…knowing a long drive lies ahead and unpacking at home will be a sobering reminder that another year will pass before we do it all again.  Maybe worse is having to say good bye to all the “gnommies,” some of whom you may never cross paths with again, others who will share many more miles of trail down the road. The 9^th Gnomefest return to Marathon County was a chance to once again ride trail that started it all and I look forward to the rumored stop next year at the phenomenal Nicolet Roche trail system-a fitting home for the tenth anniversary to be sure.