Think I'm In Love - Part#1 In The U.P.

I had a day.  Not in the typical sense of it being bad, overwhelming, or more than I could handle.  I literally meant I had a day!  I had about 24 hours to myself before I promised to meet up with family.

The day before leaving, I spent a few hours looking up some possible get-a-way locations in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (U.P.).  Once I had narrowed down the possibilities, I called the Ottawa National Forest Visitor’s Center.  I was able to talk to a representative named Karl who answered my list of questions; everything from out of the way places to camp, to rules on collecting firewood, and his thoughts about local trout fishing.  He was super helpful & encouraging, which energized me to start packing!  I could hardly wait to explore a new area I had never been to before.  Granted, I had driven by the general area about a dozen times or so over the course of my lifetime, but I had never veered east to the actual rivers and woods I planned to immerse myself in while camping and fishing.

Early the next morning I rose with the birds and grabbed my running gear for a 5 mile run through the town near our home.  The run was cold and drizzly; a bit atypical for the later part of May, but I cranked it out.  Once back home, I said goodbye to Cindy as she left for work.  I showered and cooked up a respectable breakfast; the kind of breakfast that’s perfect for the iron skillet that sits permanently on our stovetop for just such a purpose.  It was the kind of breakfast that would either make you really sleepy 20 miles down the road, or stick to your ribs until you reached your destination hours away.

Despite the constant rain up through Wisconsin, I drove with purpose and made good time.  The Visitor’s Center was scheduled to close at 4:00 and I needed to get one of the few remaining maps that Karl had said were left.  Like a good salesperson imploring a scarcity marketing tactic, he had convinced me that I needed to get that “collector’s edition” of a map.  I love maps!

After a quick stop in Eagle River, Wisconsin, I made the final push and arrived at the center with time to spare.  Karl, who I had spoken to the previous day, produced the map for me to purchase.  I broke out my reading glasses and we spread the map out on the countertop.  Together we poured over it so I could pinpoint various features and ask questions that came to mind as I looked at the squiggly blue lines of rivers and twisting gray roads marked as gravel, dirt, or the two tracks “not maintained for passenger cars.”  Gleaning as much information as I could gather was my purpose, but it worked inversely.  The more I gained and stored in my brain to recall later, the more giddy and anxious I was to get going as soon as possible.  With a wave and a promise to swing by later to let them know how it had gone, I headed out, trying to drive away respectfully and not squeal tires in excitement!

Actually, under the suggestion from Karl, I drove the short distance west to Sylvania Outfitters and talked to the owner, and apparent local legend, Bob.  He gave me a brief history of the local Watersmeet Gneiss metamorphic bedrock which had recently been determined to be the oldest in the United States.  You could tell he was proud of the distinction over rocks found in Wyoming and the Canadian Shield of Minnesota.  I thanked him and bought an Ottawa National Forest Sticker.  I was in the midst of the maiden adventure voyage for my “new” 2004 Jeep Liberty, so I needed to start the usual collection of fun, out-of-the-way stickers I like to have outline the back window of my vehicle.

Within minutes I was driving the dirt roads of the National Forest.  It felt good.  It felt right.  Curvy dirt roads have a sensual attraction - especially through thick coniferous forests.  I pulled into the small campground of choice a little after 4:00.  Only a handful of sites were there, and only one was occupied on the opposite end.  For all practical purposes, I had the area to myself and it felt perfect.  I chose a site that was under a grove of red pines.  From there the river was still clearly audible.

What the campground lacked in people, it made up for in blackflies.  I tried ignoring them while I unpacked some of my gear and set up the tent.  Hiking back into the woods, I found a few dead maple trees that I bucked into manageable lengths for an evening fire.  I stacked the firewood behind a massive red pine.

Since the late spring days were gradually growing longer, I still had time to go fishing at a nearby creek I had seen on my drive in.  The creek felt more personal and intimate than the larger, faster moving river next to the campground.  I put on my waders and began walking alongside the bank; careful to watch my footing and avoid both the vibrations that would scare the trout, as well as the numerous beaver slides between the water and clumps of tag alder, dogwood, and willows.  The large rodents had clearly been busy.  As busy as a… Well, you know!

The terrain was sublime, with plenty of room between the creek and the thick forest of spruce, balsam, birch, and tamarack that lined each side.  Two things stuck with me as I made excellent cast after excellent cast on this, my inaugural trout fishing trip of the season.  The first was that the temperature was quickly plummeting; which sent the blackflies packing!   In fact, they completely disappeared, never to be seen again.  The second was that although I wasn’t hooking into any fish, I had seen a few, and that was encouraging.  I knew it would be tough fishing with the falling temperature, winds out of the north, and the rising air pressure.  When you stand in such a beautiful setting, however, you really don’t care what an ichthyologist (fish biologist) or a meteorologist may say about how weather affects the fish.  I don’t tend to think much about such things anyways, focusing instead on nature’s vivid elegance.

Periodically I looked ahead; expecting a moose or black bear to walk out of the brush at any moment.  Such a spectacle would have been natural and proper in such wild terrain.  And although it was possible, I’m not going to lie that it probably would have surprised the heck out of me!  Still, I smiled to myself at the likelihood and continued walking and casting undeterred.  I was already falling in love with this creek and forest and we had just met!

As I started to consider heading back and cooking dinner, I saw movement a few creek bends up in front of me.  I wondered to myself what it was.  It didn’t really match anything I could picture, and yet its motion was constant.  After a minute of two, a man sitting in a canoe came into focus.  He had been fly fishing with a streamer and casting ahead as the current carried him along.  I gathered that it was his truck I had seen parked in the woods just off the dirt road where I had started.  We talked as he paddled, and I hiked on the bank beside him.  Apparently he had had about as much luck fishing as I had, but he admitted that he had done well in the past.  I didn’t doubt it.  We told stories of big animals we’d seen before and fishing trips of the past.  I asked him questions about the area, and for being a local, he appeased me and answered them as best he could.  Just before I got back to the bridge and gravel road, I came upon a wood turtle.  He seemed pretty chill and didn’t seem to mind my presence, but then again, maybe it was the nippy temperature that was slowing him down.  You know, being a cold blooded reptile and all.

For dinner I boiled water in a pot for rice while slicing up a yellow pepper, mushrooms, pineapple, and a big tomato that I cooked together within my camp skillet.  It was more than I could eat, but with a yeoman’s effort I attacked and polished off a good amount.  The leftovers were packaged and thrown into a small cooler, before I washed down the meal with some hot chocolate.  The temperature, while continuing to fall, was now dipping below 40°.

Unlike when I had camped this past winter, and the temperature had bottomed out at a flatline zero, I knew my sleep system was going to work perfectly to keep me comfortably warm.  I was counting on it.  In fact, I was looking forward to it!  I was in my tent by 9:30, but wrote in my daily journal for a while before falling asleep around 10:45.

I woke at 4:00, listened to the waterfall at the river for a while, and then slept again from 5:30 until 7:00.  According to my thermometer, it had gotten down to 32.4° during the night.  But I was comfortable despite forgetting my pillow and having to use my fleece pullover stuffed inside of its own sleeve. I got up and boiled some water on my campstove.  Down on the rocks beside the waterfall and river, I ate a breakfast of oatmeal topped with granola, raisins, strawberries, and a drizzle of honey.  Finding myself easily captivated by my surroundings, I felt like it was darn near perfect.  And while I’ve been to some beautiful places, and have witnessed some spectacular vistas, I think I was falling in love.  The constant roar of the water and rising sun shining off tree tops began to stir me to get going and move.  I wanted to begin exploring!

After cleaning up my dishes, and straightening up my site, I looked over my new map and headed off up a national forest dirt road.  Within a few miles I stopped to check out a small creek.  I considered fishing it, but thought I might have a better chance further downstream as it gathered volume.  I decided instead to take a little detour and go look at a tiny body of water called “Corpse Pond” - while wondering what the long forgotten story was behind its name.  The two-track trail off the dirt road started out promising, but eventually petered out to little more than a foot path.  Several times I got out and sawed up a couple of downed trees to allow my blue Jeep through, but it was of no use.  Between the narrowing brush and squadrons of mosquitoes attacking as a united front, I quickly realized that if I continued any further, my desired destination of Corpse Pond was going to come into fruition when I became its poster child namesake!  I pictured an unlikely autumn hunter stumbling upon my remains out in the middle of nowhere beside a shallow swale, chock-full of algae.

With a shudder, I backed up, turned around, and made my way back to the dirt road; with the windows down to suck out the blood thirsty skeeters.  I checked on the same small creek a couple of miles down, and although there was a nice clearing to access the water, the creek itself was clogged with beaver dams and choked full of brush.  I'd be next to impossible to fish it.  It would have to remain a sanctuary for small brook trout to survive and flourish unencumbered.  In the end, I elected to head back to the creek I had fished the night before.  It was wider, deeper, and I had much more yet to explore.

At about that time the wind picked up considerably, which in turn pushed the mosquitoes for cover.  Neither hide nor hair was seen of them for the remainder of the day - which was a godsend!

After pulling on my waders and putting my pole together, I yanked my fleece hat down over my ears, zipped up my coat, and put on my polarized sunglasses.  Doing so allowed me to see through the reflective surface of the water and into the depths below.  As I had found the evening before, with the edge of the creek clear of brush, I was able to carefully walk the bank instead of wading against the current and tippy-toeing through the dark, deep bends.  I love those deep cut bends as they are mysteriously alluring, but they can be downright scary too!

Within the first couple minutes of fishing I came upon the same wood turtle I had seen the night before.  It was in a different spot, but the same section of river bank.  He was eating earthworms, and undaunted, allowed me a close up picture while he ate.  Ten minutes later I had a solid hit from a fish.  The brook trout went airborne; dancing on the liquid silver surface of the creek.  Wild trout have so much spunk no matter what size they are.  As I reeled it towards me, I peered over the high bank and into the dark water; wondering how I’d scoop it into my net.  Fortunately it leapt again and took care of the issue by throwing the spinner and its hook.  I was just happy I had seen a trout.  Maybe they’d start feeding as it gradually warmed.  A few minutes later I caught a spunky 10 inch brookie and elected to keep it.

Catching and holding that native trout helped put the wax seal on finding a special area to camp and fish.  Surreal was the word that resonated in my soul, since I hadn’t even known of its existence until a couple of days ago.  The area definitely had the kind of vibes that grabbed my attention and I was intrigued by its aura!

After fishing for another hour, I began repeating the mantra of, “just one more bend.”  I knew the end was near.  It’s the kind of thing that a person who fishes hears echoing in their head when they’re absolutely loving what they’re doing and never want to stop - but know that they need to soon; it required a reaction minus the stomping and whining.  Very soon I was going to need to put the hammer down to hike back, pack up my tent and gear, possibly cook a lunch, and then drive another 80 some miles further North to meet up with my cousin Brad and his son Jack.  I looked ahead and saw a series of beautiful bends.  I promised myself that I’d stop there, break down my pole, and begin the trudge back.

Just before I reached that stopping point I had another solid hit.  I could tell the fish was bigger.  I worked it over to the bank and lifted it within my soft rubber net.  Native brookies are absolutely beautiful!  The green, worm-like marks across its camouflaged back belie the beauty found on the remainder of this trout’s sides and belly.  A brilliant white streak trims their orange and black fins.  Yellow spots speckle their flanks beside blue halos that surround pink dots.  I decided to end my exploratory fishing then and there.  I added that 12 inch brook trout with the one I had caught previously and knew that I’d share it the following day with my cousins; cooked somewhere special I was sure.

Before hiking out, I paused for a moment and tried to take a mental snapshot of where I was and what I was experiencing.  I was both speechless and spellbound.  Here within the loving embrace of the Northwoods, beauty ran deep.  From soft needles on a tamarack bough to the delicate flower petals of a forget-me-not or serviceberry bush.  I held that beauty to my heart.

Forget-Me-Not

Serviceberry (a.k.a. Juneberry)

Closing my eyes, I pictured the layout of my location on the map I had purchased.  If I remembered correctly, I thought there was a trail marked a little ways into the wood from where I stood.  I debated whether I should walk back the way I had fished in; along the many twists and turns of the snaking creek, or if I should hike into the wall of green and hope that I’d stumble upon that unknown path.  I chose the latter, and risked wasting time wallowing through underbrush and getting lost.  What I found surprisingly took me back to the Jeep within 15 minutes.  It was well worth the gamble.  The whole trip was playing out that way.

CLICK BELOW FOR A QUICK VIDEO OF

A WINDY DAY ON A BEAUTIFUL TROUT CREEK:

Once back to my site I carefully packed away my gear and then thought about whether I should just get on the road, or cook the final meal I’d been looking forward to.  I elected to fry up the beef stew meat, boil water for some noodles, and then combine these with a can of cream of mushroom soup.  I ate beside the river’s waterfall again and then saved the rest as leftovers to be eaten on a later date.  On the way back to my campsite I picked up a bag of various pieces of garbage that had been left behind by others.  It was the least I could do to feel as though I was giving something back to the forest.

Looking around the site as I stepped into my Jeep, I felt contentment creeping through my body.  I had spent just shy of 24 hours in the Ottawa National Forest and yet I already felt as if I had known her my entire life.  I think I was in love.  In fact, I was sure of it!

See you along The Way…

Fringed Polygala

New Growth Of A Balsam

Skunk Currant

Wood Anemone

Marsh Marigold

Doubled Up Backwards

It probably sounds fishy to tell a story backwards while reviewing through the events and details that develop its skeletal structure.  But that’s exactly what transpired within this tale!  The script itself ended within the early fall days of 2024.  That particular week we had a partial lunar eclipse on September 17th while in the midst of the Harvest (Full) Moon, which ironically coincided with the Super Moon.  You know, that time when the moon circles closest to Earth and appears larger than usual.  It was then that Cindy and I cooked up the pike I had caught at the end of August.  The tasty fish and pleasant evening was comforting as we ate out on our deck; belying internal stress and sadness.  The following afternoon, after a day with family in the healthcare center, Cindy’s Mom passed away.

A Partial Eclipse Of
The Super-Full-Harvest Moon

A Pike Fillet & Vegetable Stir-Fry Dinner
Out On The Deck

Three weeks prior to that, up beside one of the many lakes straddling the Oneida-Vilas County line in Northern Wisconsin, I tried practicing what my Uncle Bob preaches for filleting a pike.  The meat is sweet, flavorful, and oh so delicious when cooked in original Shore Lunch Breading and Batter Mix.  Some people don’t like to fish for pike because you risk losing expensive lures and tackle with their vicious strikes if you don't prepare with quality equipment.  Others don’t like to fish for pike due to the skeletal Y-bone along each side of their backbone when trying to fillet them out.  I’ve often kept a pike and simply filleted them out - leaving the Y-bones in them.  I don’t mind digging through the bones to experience the taste.  But on that date, with that pike, I watched and re-watched a video I had recorded of my uncle cleaning a pike enough times to make an attempt at cleaning it correctly while removing the Y-bone.

(Click here to watch my Uncle Bob filleting a Northern Pike)

I graded the first side of the pike I filleted with an “A”, but the second side received a self assessed “C”.  I still managed to harvest all of the edible meat on that second side, but it came off in several scrap pieces.  After cleaning the pike I packaged the meat in a zip-lock and packed it in ice for my trip back home and the dinner I mentioned out on the deck a few weeks later.

I had caught that particular pike while drifting in the northeast corner of a lake on which my parents have rented a cabin a couple of times each year since 2009.  They say it's so they can continue to get their “Northwoods Fix” after having moved to Southern Wisconsin from Northern Lower Michigan back in 2001.  As a rule, Dad keeps a detailed fishing journal and wrote about the events from that morning as we fished together.

Captain’s Log:

Wed. 8/28/24

Up at 6:45.  Cool, cloudy morning.  Temp. 60° Dew pt. 54°. Light NE wind.  We got ready.  Mike & I were on the water by 8:00.  We are still using Josh’s bigger, wider 16’ boat with the 25 hp. Motor.  Nice : )  We went to the far NE end of the main lake.  It was calm water, maybe 5 mph wind allowing us to drift and cast along the whole shoreline.  We made 3 or 4 passes of drifting and casting for pike or bass without a strike.  We both used gold #5 Mepps.  Finally I tried a Dardevle, then a #5 silver Vibrax with a red blade.  Nothing.  So we drifted closer to shore [under the watchful eye of an osprey] and went to casting worms and a bobber for panfish.

We caught a few “gills” and I caught a few crappies.  As I was bringing in a bluegill, a big pike zipped in and grabbed it.  Excellent!  The pike must be starting to feed.  Mike grabbed his Mepps and I my Vibrax.  He cast North and I cast South.  Within a couple of casts we both had a pike on at the same time [known as being “Doubled Up”].  Mine made 3 jumps on the way to the boat.  His stayed down.  Both pike ended up coming into the same side of the boat at the same time. 

Mike got a video of them beside the boat.  Then he took our big net and netted them both at the same time.  Mike’s pike had a big head, and measured at 29.5” and 5#.  My pike was 24.5” and 3#.  We dispatched them both, put them on a stringer, made a couple more casts for good measure, and headed back to the cabin.  We were back by 10:30.

CLICK BELOW FOR A QUICK VIDEO OF

DAD AND I DOUBLING UP ON PIKE:

With those two pike on our lines, it made for a fun but hectic few moments.  For that reason, we were relieved when they both threw their lure off while thrashing together in the net.  We removed the lures and untangled the lines before hoisting the fish for a couple of pictures.

Having us each catch a big fish at the same time was the climax to a quick trip Up North to see my parents.  They had the cabin rented for several days, and since I had time available, retirement allowed me the opportunity to join them for two of those nights.  It was the kind of spontaneous autumn get-a-way that keeps you dreaming of time on the water and time with family - especially as the colder months creep closer.

The first night after I had arrived, my parents fixed some hamburgers.  We struck out fishing afterwards, but were able to enjoy a great sunset over still water in a nearby cove.  It took a while to fall asleep that evening with hot humid temperatures; fans in the bedrooms saved the night!

The second day of my visit was a mixture of activities such as solo fishing in the rain, having a hearty breakfast with Mom & Dad, sitting in the back seat while heading to town for a quick shopping trip, and then after a little lunch, Dad and I fished again.  We both caught bluegills and I managed a large mouthed bass that measured just shy of 15 inches before it started raining again.

We fixed the fish for dinner that evening and topped it off with some ice cream at Cathy’s in Saint Germain.  It’s a tradition to go there at least once per visit as it’s hard to beat a night-cap of Moose Tracks or Mackinac Island Fudge.

We all hunkered down that night with chilly temperatures outside that were a 180 degree turn from the evening prior to that when we needed the fans to survive.  The following morning, unbeknownst to us at the time, we’d be busy and doubled up with those pair of pike.

Before I had even headed North to meet my parents, the story actually began with a teacher retiree breakfast.  For years I had pleaded with my former colleagues to keep it going until I could join them for their “Beginning of the School Year Gathering.”  One of the past educators had once commented to my plea by saying, “It’s really not that big of a deal Mike.  It’s just a bunch of old people getting together to eat.”  Ha Ha, That was funny!  I replied that it was important to me, because it meant that I’d finally rejoined the colleagues I had originally taught with back when I had first started my career at Prairie Hill School.

To show their appreciation, they put me in charge of organizing the shin-dig since I had the contact information for the retirees.  There’s nothing quite like being baptized into the fold with a rookie initiation like that!  Regardless, the breakfast food, coupled with a reunion among good friends, gave me the energy needed to drive North and meet my parents at a rented log cabin.  Who knew that 48 hours from that retiree breakfast, Dad and I would be doubled up with a couple of rambunctious pike on a favorite lake!

See you along The Way…

A Few Colleagues After A Prairie Hill School
District#133 Retiree Breakfast

Ridin' The Storm Out

REO Speedwagon released a song titled, “Ridin’ The Storm Out” in 1973.  A couple of years later the live version of that song was recorded at several U.S. concerts and was added to their 1977 album named, “You get what you play for.”  Undoubtedly its the live version that rocks, as songs go, beginning with the the sound of a wailing storm siren.  The lyrics were written after band members survived a snowstorm following an ill-advised hike to the top of a mountain. While I wouldn’t say my plan was ill advised, it could easily be argued that I pushed the limits.  I wanted to winter camp in snow and cold - to ride the storm out as they say.  I probably got more than what I had asked for, with the accent of extremes falling on the snow and cold.

My mid February drive up North was immediately met with snow covered highways and slow traffic.  Stopping for a quick break at the REI store on Madison’s west side, I randomly pulled into the lot since the parking lines were hidden under several inches of white fluff.  I looked around at various selections of gear and settled on a pair of Kühl Renegade brand pants that as advertised promised to be quick-drying, abrasion & water resistant, in addition to being lightweight and built for both action and motion.  They were undoubtedly an excellent addition to my arsenal, especially considering the fact that I had room to wear several layers under them.

Unfortunately I forgot the one thing I had stopped for, a box of hot hand warmers to try to ward off the extreme chill that was promised.  Although my hands happened to survive the trip just fine, my toes would hold some disdain and resentment for a solid 12 to 14 hours regarding my forgetfulness.  They eventually forgave me, but only after I promised to never subject them to such conditions again without adequate defense.  It was probably because I had worn new and exceptionally thick wool socks within a new pair of Rocky-Blizzard Stalker boots - which are both waterproof & insulated with 1,200 grams of Thinsulate mind you.  My toes could at least sense that I had had good intentions of trying to take care of them.  Although I’m a little apprehensive to say it to their “face”, my toes are borderline hyper-sensitive; understandably so after having been frostbitten numerous times back in the day.  It’s a beast to come inside when you’re having fun playing in the snow as a kid, or performing at halftime of a Northern Michigan high school football game during a snowstorm - wearing little more than thin, black, band shoes.  Those are the kind of events that can come back to haunt you when they begin to thaw, or decades later when you’re tucked away in your tent and out in the woods while the snow is falling.  Like the halftime performance, or the last few runs down a hill on a sled, apparently the show had to go on - or so it had seemed like it should at the time!

So on snow covered single lane state highways, and a handful of back country roads, I drove Northwest.  Anything approaching 40 miles per hour felt borderline too fast.  I aimed for the village of LaFarge and the Kickapoo Valley Reserve Visitor Center.  Once I arrived, I came inside and talked to the staff at the front desk.  Like the lady I had talked to on the phone the week before, these people were very friendly and helpful.  I bought a season pass for parking and access; knowing that I would be back in the summer.  I had already reserved my campsite for the night online.  Jason came out of the back offices and went over a map with me so I could see exactly where I could park.  From that point I would sledge my gear down towards the river’s edge.  While I have been to this area numerous times for spring, summer, and autumn trips, this would be my first time camping on the west side of the Kickapoo River; all while in the middle of a winter snowstorm and under arctic temperatures.

I drove a few miles North to where “X marked the spot”; literally since I had reserved campsite X.  It’s the only site in that whole section along the Kickapoo River, and back in off the nearest roads, which helps it feel remote.  Nobody else in their right mind was out there anyways - which probably helped explain a few things!

The access drive went up a steep hill.  It was what allowed farmers to drive equipment into the neighboring fields.  I liked the protection afforded by the hill since it helped hide my old, silver, Jeep Grand Cherokee from passersby down on the small road.  It wasn’t like it was easy to see my vehicle anyway, as the snow was still driving and temperatures were nearing the single digits; far below the 32 degree freezing point for Fahrenheit.

I got out and changed into my cold weather clothes and new pants.  The process was only slightly awkward and chilly.  I tried to quickly warm my fingers and load gear into my sled, peering out over the snowy valley to the east with squinted eyes, and then began trudging through the corn stubble remains of the past season’s harvest.  The hike took me down through a couple of fields and tree lines.  Site X itself is typically only accessed by canoers during warmer weather.  This time of the year the river is sealed under several inches of ice in all but the fastest of currents.

The Frozen Kickapoo River

The site looked good when I arrived, other than the wobbly 30 foot free standing trunk near the tent pad area.  I might have been able to push it over but was nervous that the top might give way and snap off midway up in the process.  You have to think these things through when you’re on your own and the night is quickly approaching.  I decided to pitch my tent within a fairly level cluster of trees and off to the side of the firepit; away from any possible sparks pushed from the light breeze out of the North.  It wasn’t until the following day that I realized that this too was below a large broken branch hanging in the canopy; often referred to as a widowmaker.  Fortunately the wind wasn’t too strong and what you don’t know can’t keep you awake at night.  These are the things I try to learn from though so I can be more vigilant in the future.  If I was a betting man, nobody had probably camped here in almost 4 months, so a lot can happen in the woods in that amount of time with storms and blowdowns.

Once the tent was up, I set about cutting some deadfall into firewood to cook my dinner and heat my body.  It worked on both accounts.  For dinner I had gotten a thin ribeye and wrapped some potatoes in aluminum foil.  I’ve never cooked a steak like that in a skillet before, and in retrospect, I wished I would have stuck with a meal that was tried and true.  It was, however, somewhat edible, and I had accomplished the goal of trying something new.  I made a mental note to myself that it doesn’t take long to cook a steak over a hot fire.  And when scrambling to right that wrong I nearly over cooked my potatoes.  Luckily I’m not picky and can eat most things.  I was getting so cold that I felt like I needed to move quickly from task to task and didn’t have a lot of room for error.

I drank some hot chocolate and took a beautiful evening walk to get blood pumping through my body before packing away the loose gear and getting into my tent.  It was time to hunker down and ride the storm out.  The falling snow was so dry in the extreme cold that it made a cool sound when it built up and slid down off the tent fly.  My tent is by no means a cold weather tent.  It is a shelter, however, and blocks most of the cold breezes and it keeps me dry.  So there’s that.  I imagine that those who have camped in a hot tent with a small stove, experience winter a bit differently.  My experience was intimate, personal, and cold!

It was at about that time that I realized my error in not purchasing hand warmers.  I peeled off my outer layers and jammed them down next to the hot water bottle inside of my sleeping bag, and added a few more clothes, a fresh hat, and dry wool socks.  I had a sleeping pad rated with an r-factor of 2 and an insulated pad rated at 4.8 for a total of 6.8.  The total possible rating was an r-factor of 7, so I felt protected from cold seeping up from the ground.  My sleeping bag, which states that it’s good to 15 degrees F, was wrapped in a double layer of wool blankets.  With the layers I had on I felt fairly confident that I would be protected from the penetrating cold that was certain to come looking for me throughout the night.

I spent a few minutes journaling on my day and then laid down.  It wasn’t rain on a tin roof that lured me to sleep, but I did have the sound of snow plinking off the nylon tent fly.

Give or take, I slept throughout the evening in 2 hour stints; waking to either pee or check out February’s full moon which is ironically known as either the Snow Moon or Hunger Moon.  Both labels were deemed appropriate!

The Full Moon Through The Canopy

Moon Shadows

Once the snow stopped, and the skies cleared, the moon became visible like a huge nightlight in the celestial sky.  It cast dark, distinct shadows like on a hot summer’s day; except it wasn’t.  Temperatures inside the tent hovered at 15-16 degrees.  Outside registered at 0°!  I’ve winter camped before, when outside temperatures were in the teens, but this was going to be at another level.  Honestly, after waking each time, looking around outside of my tent, and then laying back down, my toes struggled for a while before they’d warm up and I’d drift back off to sleep.  Each time the moon was at a different location in its arc across the sky.  If not for my cold toes, I’d have otherwise slept fairly comfortably!

Inside The Tent At Night

Outside The Tent In The Morning

That all changed after getting up at 6:00.  The toes on my right foot just wouldn’t cooperate and warm back up to the point where I could feel them.  They were all done trying to keep up with the rest of the system.  I laid there until 7:00 and then finally got up.  I walked down along the river to a few different places.  The rising sun in the blue skies off the white snow was absolutely blinding and beautiful at the same time.  When I cut across a field to a couple of bluff tops of sandstone that overlooked the Kickapoo, I saw tracks that indicated that the local deer population had had a late night dance party; playing, prancing, and pawing through the snow in search of hidden kernels of corn.  Out on the frozen water, coyotes had used the ice as a highway.  Otters had climbed out of select slots of open water to run and slide to a neighboring hole.  Tracks of all sorts of critters were abundant, but I didn’t risk going out onto the frozen river to identify what I couldn't see with the naked eye.  Brave they were to venture forth in such extreme cold, but I was glad to see signs of life left behind in storybook form.  As the lyrics from REO’s song states, “It’s a hard life to live but it gives back what you give.”  They’re words to live by on multiple levels.

Once back to my campsite I heated water for a bowl of oatmeal with several toppings of fruit, granola, and brown sugar sprinkled together on top.  I may have melted a few small plastic storage containers trying to semi thaw them.  My toes continued to remain numb with cold, but I kept moving and began packing the gear, dismantling my tent, and loading up the sled.  It was hard to believe that my total stay had been less than 24 hours with as much work that I had put into each decision and action, but I felt good about how my winter overnight had gone.  While the cold had been an issue that demanded my continuous attention, the natural beauty around me was unprecedented, and brought to the forefront in the now cloudless, clear, crisp air.  Thank goodness this unique driftless area was saved decades ago from being flooded behind a proposed dam in what is now known as the Kickapoo Valley Reserve and protected by both the State of Wisconsin as well as the Ho-Chunk Nation.

After Coming Down Off The Hill
Where I had Parked For The Night

I was not finished with my outing though, as I still wanted to hike and explore some of the snow covered footpaths.  Upon reaching my Jeep, I brushed off the snow, loaded my gear, and drove to a nearby trailhead.  Once there, I parked and cranked the heat.  I removed my boots, laid my wool socks over the dashboard vents, and wrapped my hands around my toes.  It took a while, and there was some minor pain involved, but I eventually started to regain feeling.  Socks, boots, and snow gaiters were put back on before I stuffed a backpack with a sit pad, small camp stove, my iron frying pan, utensils, and ingredients to make a backcountry skillet.  With that, I hit the trail!

A Massive White Pine Growing
On The Lip Of A Limestone Bluff

The freshly fallen snow emphasized the fact that my human tracks were the only ones out exploring along with the occasional deer, rabbit, squirrel, and curious coyote.  My footsteps squeaked in the several inches of crisp, cold snow and after the first quarter of a mile, I was plenty warm; hiking uphill on the switchbacks.  It was still brisk to say the least, with temperatures in the low single digits, but I was content to see the sun as I hiked along the trail.

While walking, I only stopped once when I checked out some deer beds left behind by a small herd that had been hunkered down in the snow, but scared off by my approach.  At the one mile mark, I stood on a bluff overlooking a distant valley that faced in two different directions.  Clearing away some snow, I broke out my stove and set aside the necessary ingredients for a skillet breakfast.  As I cooked the potatoes and cubed up Johnsonville brat, I had to place the eggs with them - still in their shell.  They had froze of course and broke through their shell as the insides expanded.  Eventually they were added after they thawed.  Once cooked, I sat on a downed log and ate; savoring both the moment and the experience.  It’s one I won’t soon forget!

Thawing Frozen Eggs!

My Classic Backcountry Skillet

As the time edged into mid afternoon, I began the return hike with the sun high above me.  I was glad for my sunglasses with the glaring reflection off the snow.  Even with the lingering frigid temperatures, I could feel my face being slightly sunburnt.  Being cold was now a forgotten memory as I was easily generating heat, trudging through the winter wonderland.  On my drive back home, I again stopped by the Kickapoo Valley Reserve Visitor Center.  I talked a little bit to some of the workers at the information desk and filled them in with a few of the details from my overnight.  They had wondered how it had gone.  I looked through their museum area that explained the land, the water, and its history.  I also bought a T-shirt to commemorate my excursion.

A Display Marking High Water
Floods From Previous Years

As outings go it had arguably been a bit on the extreme side of an adventure.  And although not perfect, it went about as well as I could have hoped for as I settled in, camped alongside the frozen river, and found myself ridin’ the storm out!

See you along The Way…

And I’m not missin’ a thing

Watching the full moon crossing the range

Ridin’ the storm out

Ridin’ the storm out

(Lyrics from REO Speedwagon)

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