FENCEROWS...Of Wild Pigs and Sturgeon
By John Luthens
We walked from the boat landing on Black Wolf Point and into a thick fog that rolled across the Lake Winnebago ice. Trucks swung around through the shoreline snow and passed as we pulled our sleds. Lights sprung from lighted shack doorways across the darkened ice and flags were raised from shanty rooftops. Across the plain, the miniature lake city sprung to life once again. Sturgeon spearing 2013 was dawning.
“Why aren’t we driving out here like everyone else instead of pulling our gear and trudging through the snow?” My son asked.
“I haven’t been out here yet this year and I’m not sure of the ice conditions,” I told him, defending my choice of transportation. “There’s plenty of ice where we’ll be fishing, but there are cracks and slush further out. Your mother has seen me stuck often enough, so promising we’d walk was the only way she’d let you come with.”
We’d come out for the opening of the spearing season, to fish for perch and watch the action, maybe see a sturgeon or two dragged from one of the spearing shanties. It’s a fantastic tradition to be a part of.
The registration stations come alive with stories of water clarity, ice conditions and speared monsters. It comes once a year with the same appeal and excitement as the opening weekend of deer hunting. It’s a spectacle that draws curiosity and envy from outdoor enthusiasts across the country.
We drilled holes, set our portable shack, and sat down on our buckets to let the show take us in. The clouded water hung green in the ice holes. We waited and watched.
“The perch bite is a little slow.” I said.
“We haven’t had a bite - that doesn’t even qualify as being slow,” replied my son.
“I forgot my watch. What time is it?” I asked.
“You have the phone. Give it to me and I’ll check.” He said.
I grabbed for the phone out of my pack, all the while intent on my jigging, so it was mostly my fault that the phone slipped between our exchange, ending up down the hole where the perch were swimming without a second glance at our offerings.
“Nice catch,” I told my son as he snagged the phone. In another second, it would have sunk into a permanent spot in the storied legacy of Lake Winnebago sturgeon spearing.
“Mom wouldn’t have been happy with that,” said my son. “No wonder she gets nervous every time I go fishing with you.”
“I have a long history,” I said.
“I’ve got time to listen. You said the sturgeon weigh-in and registration doesn’t start until noon. Maybe they’ll be some big fish hanging.” said my son. “Maybe the cell phone will dry out by then.”
“It started with wild pigs,” I told him.
“That sounds about right,” said my son, blowing Winnebago ice out of the phone battery compartment and shaking his head in my direction. “No wonder mom is so nervous.”
But I was already off, reliving past glories.
It was late winter up in Douglas County. The snow was still two feet deep, slushy and soft during the day and crusting up hard at night. We were playing Monopoly and I had been steadily losing all day. Cabin fever set in.
Somebody made an off-hand remark about a neighbor who had cornered a feral hog under a bird feeder. The big boar supposedly weighed in at 300 lbs. Another voice joined in, telling about someone who had witnessed feral pigs escaping from a game farm through a drainage culvert.
I landed on Boardwalk with full hotels, went bankrupt, grabbed my slug-barrel shotgun and snowshoes, and hit the cabin door at a dead run. Cabin fever will do that to a person.
My information led me to a lunch gathering at a local restaurant of famous repute. Great hunters and fishermen have tramped through the doorway of the place in Brule, Wisconsin. In season, hunters come in blaze orange and fishermen are known to walk through the door still clad in waders. Colorful members of the Brule community gather in the restaurant, and someone always knows something in the back room.
I found a regal lady of maybe seventy years, but possessing vitality half her age. I told her so; flattery gets you everywhere, and along with liberal applications of steaming coffee, the location of the game farm was revealed to me.
She traced a map on a corner of a paper table cloth. Granted, the curving roads and intersections were drawn with a blue color crayon, taken from a center cup on the table that was meant for a diversion for restless children waiting on french-fries, but it was a path to the wild pigs nonetheless. I stuffed the table covering in my pocket and headed out on my search.
I found myself in a vast network of open fields alternating with deep wooded valleys. I drove past ramshackle buildings whose peeled paint told the stories of Finnish and Swedish settlers cutting a farmland existence out of the Lake Superior shores.
“Does this have a point, dad,” my son interrupted my reverie. “I thought I wanted to hear it, but I’m getting bored.”
“The point is, son, I was so intent on taking in the scenery, that I took a few wrong turns. Maybe the map should have been done in red crayon instead of blue. I found myself on a logging road, and the snow pack collapsed under the weight of my truck. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“How did you get out?”
“Well, that’s sort of complicated,” I said. “It involves snowshoeing about three miles, crossing a river with my shotgun, snowshoes-not to mention all my clothes-held above my head to keep them out of the freezing water. I finally hit a highway and hitchhiked to town, and found some local boys to bring their four wheelers back in there and winch me out. It took until midnight, and by then the snow froze back up-so it wasn’t too bad. I only had to pay the boys $100.00 to do it. I think they liked the idea of a challenge. There was a milk jug full of homemade wine involved in the whole affair-but that was in my younger days-so no need to tell mom about that part.”
“Did you find any wild pigs?” asked my son.
“Never saw a track,” I said. “Want to call it a day and go to the registration station to look at some sturgeon?”
“Sounds good,” said my son. “I think the phone is working again. I’ll call mom and tell her that we’ll be home early.”
“Trust me,” I said. “Mom will be waiting at the door.”