Sarah Nigbor

The greatest nine days of the year (according to my husband) are almost upon us: The Wisconsin gun deer hunting season. It’s a sacred week in our fine state, when thousands of hunters pursue that illusive “Turdy Point Buck.” While I will not be hunting this year, I have many fond memories of past hunting seasons and will be an enthusiastic supporter of my hunting brood.

There’s something about the gun season that is special and inexplicable, almost like walking into Lambeau Field for the first time. It’s part of our heritage, the fabric of Wisconsin, just as much as cheese curds and brandy old fashions.

I didn’t grow up hunting, but I watched as my grandpa and uncles took part in the great chase. When I became an adult, I made up my mind that I was going to give it a try. I wanted to take part in one of the greatest traditions in our state. I felt like I was missing out. I didn’t want to be stuck at home while the boys had all the fun. My friend and I signed up for hunter’s safety in Maiden Rock, taught by the knowledgeable Doug Sjostrom (I hope if he remembers me in his class, it was as a good student). We were two 20-something year-old women in a room mostly full of teenage boys. No matter, it was great fun and I learned all about the different gun actions and the rules of TABK. I was already a good shot, since I liked to shoot clay pigeons with my college roommates. I was proud to outshoot my farm boy roommate Dave, who had to take me out to dinner as my prize. Ha! And no, I didn’t let him make me buckshot-filled pheasant a la Shore Lunch.

With my hunter’s safety certificate in hand, my friend Adam took me shopping for my first gun, a Remington .243, and my blaze orange ensemble, which I still wear. I had visions of shooting a giant buck and showing up everyone. Wouldn’t that just tickle them pink, if I got one and they didn’t? Adam warned me that I couldn’t talk in the woods and that I had to be very patient. He needn’t have worried about me. He was the one who couldn’t shut up. We saw two does, but they bounded away in a blink before I even had time to think. That was all we saw opening weekend that year.

That first hunt, on public land near Black River Falls, yielded no giant buck for me. I did, however, get a nice sweatshirt at the bar we ate at when it was time to take a break.

The first time I went hunting with my ex-husband, he sent me through a cow pasture in the dark early morning hours to the side of a steep bluff in Vernon County. He swore the cows weren’t in pasture that time of year, so needless to say when two of them emerged in front of me on the inky black trail, I almost had a stroke. They were snuffling and snorting like crazy, but I soon realized I was being stalked by cows, not a hungry bear.

The next year we went hunting in a double tree stand and he told me no matter what, I’d get the first shot. As dawn light filtered through the valley, I saw a nice buck in front of us eating apples. I elbowed my ex, and he nodded. I waited for a good quartering away shot, as the buck was taking his time and didn’t seem to notice us, but I was startled by a gun blast next to me. Of course, my ex shot the buck; he was too excited he said and couldn’t help himself. My only consolation was that it galloped down a steep ravine, which made it difficult for him to drag it out. Served him right!

I have hunted in heated tree stands, sitting on a cold rock in the middle of a forest, in a tent/blind and in open air stands with drizzling rain and snow stinging my face. I loved every second of it. The camaraderie of “driving around the block” to see what the neighbors harvested. The tall tales told around supper tables after a day in the woods. The pride in my stepson’s face as he showed off his first buck. The excitement of a good shot. Spending time with my family and showing my daughter that girls can hunt too. While I’ve never gotten a big buck, I will someday. 

Good luck to all the hunters out there this weekend! Be safe and send us your deer photos to publish at sarah@piercecountyjournal.news