Fencerows: A Winter Bear Hunt
By John Luthens
It was late December when an acquaintance approached me with a question regarding one of Wisconsin’s bear hunting zones, which seems straightforward and simple. But before my twisting answer was over, I’d adventured through about 350 miles of gas, fired my way through a box of .22 shells, wore out one dog, and broke the law to boot.
The question involved Bear Zone A, which stretches up the north-central region of the state and ends up in a fingering loop into Bayfield County, with Bear Zone D, and the Chequamegon National Forest, bordering either side of the finger like green waters around a peninsula.
“One of my buddies wants to apply for a bear tag up there,” the question started. “If he is hunting in that upper stretch, he might end up in either zone, and we can’t figure out which roads or natural boundaries the state followed when they decided to break it down that way.”
I should be used to the questions by now, but I’m still amazed when they happen, and once again, my mouth got the better of my common sense. “I know the area like the back of my hand. In fact, I’m heading up that way in a week,” I said. “I’ll personally find the answer for you. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
Gravel pit target practice.
While I write on a regular basis, often on a variety of outdoor topics, there is an extreme range of target difference between writing about and actual proficiency. God found sound reasoning when he created me with a higher aptitude to sight in with a pen and shoot off my mouth than to track and sight in on a bear. I can look down the barrel of a pen and end up with at least an ink blot, while, even with high-powered optics, I usually end up just hitting a tree.
Bears have never taken a particular interest in me, and I’ve never taken the necessary steps to bother them. I will say that a bear hunt has always been on my bucket list but, if I ever drew a tag, the first thing I’d do is hire professional guides. And calling someone who actually knew something about bear zones is what I should have done to properly answer the question in the first place.
Instead, I voyaged from my hometown in Grafton to my base camp cabin in northern Douglas County and made the necessary preparations for the winter bear hunt. The morning dawned bright and snow covered. I loaded up my son and our 6-month old black lab, and threw in a .22 rifle on the off-chance that a late season grouse might take a mind to cross our paths.
I also left a note for my wife. She was the smartest member of our hunting party, and was still huddled beneath blankets at such an early hour. While the morning had dawned bright, it had also dawned cold and windy, with the thermometer stuck at 10 below zero and the wind chill plummeting off the charts altogether.
“Took your Jeep, going bear hunting, be back when we’re darn good and ready,” I think the note said, though it might have read, “Love you, stay warm. We won’t be gone long, and I’ll be very careful not to bury your Jeep in a back-road snow drift.”
We got sidetracked for breakfast at a local restaurant in the village of Brule, and sidetracked a bit more in Iron River, where we stopped to buy .22 rounds. It was getting along in the day when we finally wound onto the logging roads to investigate the bear zone boundaries. The sun coming through the pines turned purple shadows along the snow, and I stopped at every intersection to take in the scenery and pour over my maps, the dog and my son becoming more restless at every confusing and tree-lined turn.
“Not that I mind stopping so much, but do you even know what you’re looking for, or where you’re going, dad?” my son asked. “Woof, agreed the dog, itching to get out and into the snow to do some ground-sniffing reconnaissance.
“I’ve been back in here plenty. It’s just that everything looks different in the snow. How old are you?” I added.
“Fourteen. I’ll be fifteen at the end of the month.”
“Then you’re old enough. Take the wheel and drive so I can get a better lay of the land. Drive slowly and keep the window open. We won’t see anybody on these logging roads except snowmobiles, and you can hear those coming a mile off. Keep an eye on the gas gauge, and don’t spin the wheels and bury it a snow bank, either. If we get stuck, it’ll be way after dark when we finally hike out of here, and I’ll tell mom it was your fault.”
My son smiled one of those smiles that only come around once in a lifetime, and I have to admit, after we made the switch, it was smooth sailing along the snow packed trails of the Chequamegon. It was technically illegal, but even the dog seemed more at ease with my son behind the wheel.
“I see it!” I finally shouted
“Bear or grouse?” my son asked, hitting the brakes and skidding to a stop.
“No, it’s an old gravel pit that I knew was around here somewhere. Grab the dog and the rifle, and let’s get some target shooting in before we have to head home. If the dog is going to be a hunter, we’d better get her used to the sound of gunshots.”
And that’s how the bear hunt ended. The dog didn’t exactly hold a steady point at the sound of the .22. In fact, she seemed to care less about the soda cans we steadily mowed down. She was far more interested in scampering around in the snow and marking her territory. She finally got cold, jumped back into Jeep, and fell sound asleep.
“This bear hunting is chilly, but it sure is a blast,” my son said, as we piled gear in the back and headed for home through the wind-swept snow territory of northern Wisconsin. “But you never did find what you needed to answer the bear zone question.”
I figured we needed to make good time getting back, so I retook control of the steering wheel. “No, but luckily all the bears are hibernating. That means there are no witnesses. And it means there’s still plenty of time left for me to find a professional guide who knows the answer.” I answered. “Say, you don’t remember which trail we take to get out of here, do you?”