FENCEROWS...The Old Duck Hunter’s Map
By John Luthens
“Look here, boy! I am fed up…Up to here! Get your fishin’ tackle, such as it is, and meet me in half an hour by yonder blooming lilac bush.”
- Mr. President, from Gordon MacQuarrie’s “Just the River.”
It only took a moment for a final load of gear to land into the back of my truck; a moment to think of the map. Then I was gone.
The stoplight at the corner turned red and I wavered for a moment. I worried that the dawn would break and catch me in the act of running. I worried about work that needed to get done.
But I knew what he would say. I could hear him talking in my mind. The light turned green and I rolled through the still sleeping town, following the map and heading north again, prodded the whole way by a man I’d never met.
Gordon MacQuarrie was born in Superior, Wisconsin, which was my own birthplace. He was born in the same month of July. We both wound our way into the Milwaukee area later in life; him working his writing magic to the top of the field, becoming the first outdoor editor of the Milwaukee Journal. And me; coming to find any job that would take me after four years of ill-spent college education in Lacrosse, time spent in blissful ignorance along the Mississippi Valley of southwestern Wisconsin, cutting class and exploring the surrounding miles of coulee trout streams.
MacQuarrie was a fine student of journalism, a demanding writer and editor who thrived under pressure and deadlines. I learned to write the names of almost a hundred beer brands in several different languages, along with a lifetime of trails and rivers in my four years. Not surprisingly, I left UW Lacrosse without a degree.
Gordon wrote of the outdoors with a passion and humor that couldn’t help but portray his passion for hunting and fishing. He invented the Old Duck Hunter’s Association, Inc. as a vehicle for his stories, with his real-life father-in-law cast as the role of Mr. President. Old Duck Hunter stories were in high demand by every major outdoor magazine of MacQuarrie’s era, and they remain as some of the finest outdoor writing ever put on a page.
It is the imprint of those stories that tie me to Gordon MacQuarrie. We came from the same city, share birthdays in the same month, but he was dead and gone nearly 13 years before I was born. As a student and master of journalism and outdoor writing, he has stood the test of changing times and media. He remains way out of my league, but he left a fine map to follow.
A volume of MacQuarrie maps.
I can still see a volume of “The Stories of Old Duck Hunters” laying on a dusty bookshelf in my memory. I can still remember the day I picked it up. MacQuarrie left behind written footprints, and I have followed those footprints off the pages, time and again, driving north and following to the places where his stories originated.
He wrote of pleasant journeys; “The day was too fine to mar with haste. Every minute was to be enjoyed, and remembered for another day.” He drove in autumn splendor; “Up through the north of Wisconsin, in a warm, mellow world of gold and yellow and brown and red.” Of the drives in more treacherous weather, MacQuarrie wrote; “I once drove 240 miles over ice-glazed highways in the preposterous time of fourteen hours. An eternity it seemed. But it was worth it.”
MacQuarrie spoke of a freedom to be found in the wilds. He was a pioneer of ethical conservation intertwined with the pursuit of fish and game. He felt the two were one in the same, and he went into northwest Wisconsin time and again to show it. Many who came after have followed his lead, followed into the realm of MacQuarrie country.
I have haunted the valley of the Bois Brule River, up and down and in all seasons. I have followed the path of the Namekagon River, from the reaches of the cold lake that bears the same name, winding below the town of Cable and through Hayward to join the mighty St. Croix. I have stood in the rivers and caught trout, wondering if this was the place he wrote about in this story or that; smelling the wet smells and hearing the sounds of certain birds, knowing that I was as close as I could get to tracking in his footsteps.
It is the same in the grouse woods of autumn, with crisp leaves underfoot and thunder flying from the tangles of sumac. I hear the echoes of his shotgun ringing from the past. I hear the faint laughter of Mr. President himself, laughing as MacQuarrie shot and missed another bird.
Standing on the shores of Middle Eau Claire Lake in southern Bayfield County, looking at the vacation homes, with fishermen riding the waves in pursuit of bass and walleye; it’s different now in modern times, but tucked somewhere away off the shores, MacQuarrie’s little cabin still stands, the one he built in 1936.
It’s easy to picture him rising from the small cabin early, heading out to the St. Croix River for some smallmouth bass fishing, or riding the waves of the Eau Claire’s to a favorite duck blind on a sheltered bay. With every duck that burns overhead, especially on cold autumn morning and if you have read the stories, you know you have followed MacQuarrie’s map into the heart of something timeless.
I follow the directions of a man that inspired me, as he has undoubtedly inspired countless others. I rise early, orienteering my way north and adding some of my own notes to the map here and there. But the notes are only scribbling on the margins of a map that was set in place long before me. The map will always be waiting for someone new to pluck off a bookshelf and ponder where it might lead. The Old Duck Hunter’s map of stories will remain long after I am gone.