For the last five or six years I have finished the trout season in southwestern Wisconsin, in an area known as the driftless region. The glaciers that scoured out the Great Lakes and most of the rest of what
It started, as it usually does, subtly. The seed heads of the grasses lining the roads and in the fallow farm fields ripened and began to cast a tawny brown hue across the landscape. The long green stems that had
The honking of a skein of Goose on a late October day always raises a sense of urgency as they sing to Autumn melding into the coming of winter. And honking on a morning in late March wells up hope
A few weeks ago, I attended what was advertised as a Gordon MacQuarrie “pilgrimage”. I put pilgrimage in quotes because Gordon MacQuarrie was not an overtly religious man. He was an outdoor writer who passed away in 1956.
My usual morning walk route takes me past a significant stretch of restored prairie. The big blue stem grasses stand a full six feet tall. Walking on the road I am high enough to look out over acre upon acre.
I remember playing hide and seek as a youngster. Whoever was “it” had to count off to the designated number and once there, had to yell out “Ready of not; here I come!” Of course, if you weren’t ready, meaning
