Guest Post - Whitetail Deer Hunting in Wisconsin

I asked talented writer and Huntress Extraordinaire, Kari Murray of I Don't Wear Pink Camo to the Woods, to supply an overview of the Wisconsin Deer Hunting Experience.

Kindly, she obliged.

Personally, I enjoy learning about the hunting in different states. The whitetail is a fascinating critter, adaptable to a variety of environments and influences. I'm forever curious to observe how they are managed by local game departments and how hunters alter their methods to successfully fill a tag in their neck of the woods.

So thanks to Kari, and be be sure to check out her fantastic blog when you have a moment.

Known for big bucks, Wisconsin is often sought out by hunters in search of a trophy whitetail. It is listed as one of the top three states for overall entries in the Boone and Crocket record books, but it’s not all about the trophy animals. Each year around 700,000 deer hunters take to the woods, with over 470,000 tags being filled and around one billion dollars added to the state's economy.

Although most of the Wisconsin deer herd is thriving, Chronic Wasting Disease, or CWD, is a concern in the southern third of the state. The disease attacks the nervous system, leaving the animals unable to thrive and faced with certain death. The state’s Department of Natural Resources has a surveillance program in place and since 2002 has tested nearly 160,000 free-ranging deer, of which 1,353 have tested positive.

Hunting license/season options for Wisconsin whitetails fall into three basic categories: archery, firearm, and muzzleloader.

Archery season is open for hunting with a bow with a minimum draw weight of 30 pounds and arrows tipped with broad heads 7/8“ or greater, or a crossbow with a minimum draw weight of 100 pounds, working safety, and bolts 14“ or longer tipped with broad heads. Crossbows are only legal in Wisconsin for individuals over the age of 65, disabled persons, or persons who have obtained a special permit. Archery season starts mid September and continues until the beginning of January, with a break for the nine-day gun season.

Firearm season, or more commonly called gun season by residents, is a nine-day hunt towards the end of November. Weapons that can be used, some in restricted areas, are:
• Shotgun- 10, 12, 16, 20, and 28 gauge. A .410 bore shotgun is illegal.
• Rifle- .22 cal or larger
• Handgun- .22 cal or larger with a minimum barrel length of 5 ½” measured from the firing pin to the muzzle with the action closed

Muzzleloader season starts immediately following the nine-day gun hunt and is open for ten days. Legal muzzleloaders are of a .45 caliber or larger if smoothbore and a .40 caliber or larger if rifled barreled.

Bucks in the state are defined as a deer with at least one antler that is 3” long or longer in length. All other deer are considered antlerless. It is legal to shoot bucks still in velvet and spotted deer but the hunter needs to contact a warden within 7 days of tagging the deer to request written authorization to keep either the antlers or the hide. Albino or white deer may not be harvested without prior written authorization from the DNR except in CWD units.

Baiting is legal in 44 of the 72 counties within the state. There is a two-gallon limit per 40 acres on parcels greater then 80 acres and parcels less than 80 acres are only allowed two gallons total. Baits must be placed at least 100 yards apart, even on public lands. The only exception to this rule is for private lands adjacent to each other, with baits on each, and cannot be distributed by timed or gravity feeders. Bait is any material that is placed or used to attract wild animals. Including but not limited to: scent materials, salt, minerals and grain. Water is not considered bait.

Styles for hunting whitetails are very similar throughout the state. The use of tree stands and ground blinds are most the popular with both bow and gun hunters, but the most popular way, and a long-standing tradition in Wisconsin is the group hunt or deer drive. It is only legal during the gun and muzzleloader seasons but during this time, you can shoot a deer to fill the unused tag of another hunter in your party as long as you are within sight or voice contact.

For more information on hunting in Wisconsin, visit the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources online at http://dnr.wi.gov/org/land/wildlife/hunt/

The Federal Duck Stamp

Why do they make you sign your name across the Federal Duck Stamp? I mean, each year dozens of artists compete for the honor to display their handiwork to millions of hunters, and we are law bound to splash ink across their sweat and labor. It’s like kicking over a child’s sand castle or lighting an effigy of Smokey the Bear – just fundamentally wrong.

This year’s stamp features the wigeon – which sounds like the love-chick of a wren and a pigeon!

Ha! No? OK, whatever, it would have slain in Ornithology 101.

The wigeon is a demure dabbling duck. In the waterfowl world, they’d be the cute math girl who blossoms into a hottie when she’s pulled away from the cheerleaders, let’s her hair out of a bun, and drops the nerd glasses. Without the designer make-up of the wood duck or promiscuity of the mallard, the wigeon is attractive in its own right - unlike that ogre the gadwall.

Wigeon aren’t as common in FL as other ducks, preferring the Western Flyways, probably because they lack the size of the mallard and the maneuverability of teal to defend themselves from the Greater South Floridian Elephant Mosquito. Remember the black globs at the end of Ghost that pulled the bad guy down to Hell for murdering Patrick Swayze? (You just remember the clay molding scene, don’t ya, Sally?) That’s what our skeeters could do to a wigeon.

Of course, wigeon are downright plentiful compared to the winner of last year’s stamp, the long-tailed duck. I’m dreaming of the day when the stamp is dedicated to a waterfowl species that calls Florida home year-round such as the mottled duck, anhinga, or flying fish.

Fifteen dollars for this stamp. I could dream up some financial figure for how much of that actually goes to wetland conservation, but there’s a website out there already that cranks out “facts” like this.

Wikipedia states:

For every $15 stamp sold, the federal government retains $14.70 for wetlands acquisition and conservation, so very little gets lost in the system for overhead.

If they say so, I’m good with it.

In addition to graffiting across the face of the wigeon, I must also affix it to the back of my Florida hunting license which is essentially a receipt. General hunting, WMA permit, muzzleloader, archery, alligator trapping license, migratory bird, deer management, and state waterfowl. I won’t total this all up for you, but it leaves me precious few pennies to actually hunt or upgrade my gear. My camo resembles the rags Nazis used to make torches to set fire to their book piles, and I assume I am getting Punk’d every time I hear of low funds for game departments.

The sad part about this back-of-a-receipt arrangement is by June 30th, the stamp is mashed and destroyed, like a butterfly kept in a sandwich bag and slipped into a jean pocket. I feel far worse for the artist’s effort than any wigeon that splashes this season.

And as I understand it, a certain demographic of folks pays the 15 bones to, what, just collect the stamps? Have I left out any aspect of this exciting process? Needlessly collecting things for the sole sake of having them? My wife may argue I do the same thing with firearms, but she clearly doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

I shouldn’t pick on others’ hobbies. After all, I pay for this stamp for the sole privilege of slipping into leaky waders and humping through swamp bottoms and across tidal flats while battling the aforementioned mosquitoes and the occasional reptilian. Duck hunting is not so much a recreation as it is a severe mental affliction for which there is no cure - waterfowlaphilia.

Still, I am happy to fork over the cash. I admire the work of the winning painter. This year’s winner was Robert Bealle from Waldorf, Maryland. Sorry, Mr. Bealle, for defiling your talents.

But thanks for contributing your labor towards the opportunity to set out again this fall to lay a few decoys and study the horizon in the hopes of a successful shoot.

TWL Classics - Wood Duck Jump Shoot

Two years ago I started my volunteer outdoor writing service through a local newspaper's public blogging site. Unfortunately, through powers beyond my control, my archives from that source are gone and lost forever. Luckily, I saved rough drafts of this work on my computer, and once in a while I'll re-introduce a past column back into the wild of the World Wide Web. Enjoy!

Originally Published January 2009

Floating on the water, drake wood ducks resemble shiny toys. Or maybe Christmas ornaments. Either way, they are handsome, tropical-looking birds that I almost, almost hate pulling the trigger on. Unfortunately for them, they are serious-good to eat and a great deal more fun to hunt!

I’ve sometimes wondered why they bothered domesticating the mallard or Muscovy when this treasure of a bird would make every child’s Easter basket special. And then I remember what all I go through to put a duck or two in hand – these birds were never meant to be tamed. Where they live is too wild. Wooly river swamps, booger bottoms, small ponds, lakes and ditches – heck, as fledglings they enter the world by leaping from treehole nests and splat into the water below.

No, these birds can’t be broken, at least not without help from a solid hunting plan and a salvo of #4’s

On my lease in Georgia I have two places to shoot woodies. One is a beaver pond where the birds arrive early in the morning to assemble and feed in the shallow water. Here, I construct a small blind from branches and small saplings, cut courtesy of that buck-tooth rodent.

Not too long after first light I hear them whistling in flight, and make it rain as they pitch down to the water. Timed correctly, the whole hunt is over in maybe ten minutes. It's fun, but often I’m back in camp cooking eggs and bacon wondering why I didn’t spend the morning deer hunting.

The second place is a bit more exciting to hunt as I jump-shoot the ducks and can do it after the a.m. deer sit.

A lease member showed me the site. Essentially a hole in the middle of planted pines and thick swamp, he had originally scouted it for deer – and indeed the scrapes in here were mythical – but found it too tight for a blind, stand, or anything else. But I did jump woodies off a small creek - my grandfather would call it a “crik” - each time I went to explore. And the wheels got to turnin’. By creeping from the road through the pines, I could peer down at the crik, charge forward ten yards, and flush the birds. Even without waders, I’d have no problem retrieving my bag in the narrow waterway.

In theory.

My first attempt last year was a success. I pummeled a beautiful drake that’s still at the taxidermist – looks like he was scared from the sky without a noticeable mark or ruffled feather. I simply took a branch and pulled him from the water and that was that.

This year I was again determined to utilize this tactic after deer hunting. So the plan was hatched. Hunt deer until ten, then slip down to the hole, bust my limit and be back in time for lunch.

Well, the deer didn’t cooperate, but the ducks sure did. I slowly stalked through the pines up to the edge of the hole armed with my do-anything Mossberg pump. Didn’t see them immediately, but as I glanced to my right, I caught just the smallest ripple, then movement – a drake. The ducks, at least twenty of them, were a few yards downstream, brush screening them from a charge-and-shot.

I snaked back into the pines to circle their position. I crept within 20 yards and relocated the flock. Still not presented with a clear shot if they flushed, I crouched and willed them to paddle my way to a small opening ahead.

Over the years, I’ve waited out many heads of game holding for that perfect shot, but I chuckled that I’d put this much effort into three ducks. The woodies fed in the grasses, effortlessly blowing about like leaves on the water.

Finally, they blew my way.

All at once I lunged up and shouldered the scattergun as the ducks scrambled to the sky. The first shot caught a drake, and a hen dumped with the second. My third was a vain attempt at a fleeing male, who circled around with his buddies and put as much distance between us as possible.

After everything calmed down and I assessed the situation, I let out that groan Bucs fans make when a routine third-and-inches play becomes third-and-ten thanks to a holding penalty – the duo dropped too far out into the crik to snag with any available branch. I tried to find a dry route to retrieve them, but to no avail.

Forget it. I pulled my boots off and waded up to my crotch into the cold creek, clinging to a slimy, fallen gum tree trunk, straining to reach my prizes, hoping that Georgia swamp bottom wouldn’t swallow me alive with no sign of me ever again, save my keys, wallet, and pump gun sitting on the bank. But I got them. Totally worth it.

Next time you get a chance, check out your own piece of property to see if there’s a little ducky hidey-hole somewhere, and give the jump-shoot a shot. Just remember to bring your waders.

Or a fishing rod to snag the birds out.

YouTube Video of the Week - The Ale Swaling Axis Deer

A perfect companion for your Labor Day weekend. Especially when folks start getting hungry. Beer infused axis backstrap. Yum.

I wish someone would tie me to a fencepost after a couple rounds of suds!

Seriously, everyone have a safe holiday weekend!!!

Tale of the Green Flagging Tape

Hunters get awfully peckish when their honey-holes are trampled upon by interlopers. I’ve been in the game long enough to witness a few unfriendly interactions. Know of once great campmates refusing to speak to each other when one person or another did not respect a buffer zone. It’s childish, sure, but like any large land predator that’s staked a hunting area, trespassers that aren’t immediate kin of the pride are treated with hostility.

Upon entering my favorite oak hammock last Saturday, Dad and I were greeted with disgusting, foreign ribbons of green flagging tape, marking a trail back into “my” spot. When we got in there, someone had also wrapped this ribbon exactly where I sat in a ground blind the previous year. This person was probably thinking the same strategy when he or she toilet-papered the tree with ribbon. I was incensed.

Let’s backtrack, though. We are talking about Duette Park in Manatee County. They lotto hunts to the citizenry every year. I would call it semi-public land. The hunting is good. For the last five seasons, I had been hunting this particular hammock – Dad before that.

Now, there’s nowhere on any map that names this locale “Nance Hammock.” In fact, I have for years avoided putting up flagging tape for fear of drawing attention to the area. I know how to hunt this spot and have spent hours and hours and hours and hours in its warm embrace.

I hung my lock-on stand near the creek bottom where the deer typically travel in the morning. I hung a ladder stand – only allowed two stands on this property – near the palmetto flat under the live oaks that drop the acorns that fuel the evening feed. All this time, annoyed that the problem of this other person may interfere with a long-standing and successful plan. Assuming we drew the same weekends, I can assure you there’s no room for a third stand in between.

Let’s backtrack once more, lest you think I am a filthy pig for obviously and fragrantly trampling upon another’s rights. Duette Park allows hunters to hang stands a few weekends before the season starts. This year it was Saturday, August 28th. Gates opened at 8 am. We showed up at 7:45 and dutifully waited our chance to enter. Given the number of people there and the logistics of the property, there was no conceivable way another person could have driven all the way out there, walked the ¾ mile into the woods and hung tape without us seeing that person or finding fresh tire tracks leading that direction.

No, what happened was, dollars to doughnuts, is that person went out some time before us on a day that was not permitted to hang stands and wrapped their presence in hopes of warding others off. If this were allowed, I can assure you I would long ago have erected a barbed wire fence with a wooden Ranch Sign at the entrance called, yes, “Nance Hammock” along with “No Trespassing: Ye Has Been Warned” notices on the fenceposts.

Of course, that can’t be done. I will concede, though I abided by the letter of the law, hanging my stands was a bit of a buster move. Clearly, someone had the intent of hunting there. I don’t know why I am having this ethical personal conflict, but I am. I can’t rush to judgment on who this other person may be, but I am not willing to cede to an individual circumventing the rules.

Maybe the sickest feeling, and I am compelled by Redneck Nature to consider this, is the inevitable retribution. The very least – an angry phone call (contact information must be attached to the bottom half of any stand, another rule he or she committed to violating). Worse, maybe I will have to kiss those stands goodbye, though they are locked onto their respective trees. I was tempted to de-ribbon the oaks, but decided against this, not wanting to ignite an obnoxious tit-for-tat.

Worse still is that I climb my stand one morning and fall into my pre-dawn snooze and am awakened by Elmer ratcheting a climber up the tree next to me and the inevitable problems there. I don’t like these conflicts. I am there to hunt and enjoy peace in the woods.

Maybe, just maybe, things will work out OK. A few years ago, I hung my stands and returned to hunt and discovered someone put a tripod not 30 yards away. We apparently didn’t draw the same weekend because I never saw that hunter. The same could happen here. Out of like ten weekends offered, I drew three hunts, all primitive seasons. Better than a puncher’s chance I don’t cross paths with this individual.

Better still would be what happened two years ago. I broke the rules. I had waited out a thunderstorm before heading to my hammock to place my stands. I saw vehicle tracks when I arrived, but no stand or flagging tape. A couple weeks later I was in Gainesville for a Gators vs. Hurricanes tilt and received a phone call from a gentleman wondering why I had so egregiously violated another hunter’s space.

He and his grandson wanted to hunt there. He had fought the rain and placed a climber on a tree before I arrived, but had hid it in the palmettos where I did not see it, concerned, and rightly so, that someone would steal it. We exchanged civil discourse and explained what weekends we would be there. The hunts that overlapped, I sat in one of Dad’s stands. All went well in the end.

When you share the woods with others, things like this happen. I do feel pangs of ethical guilt. Again, though, by rule I was in the right.