Tradition and challenge are just a couple of the things that make hunting at our deer camp special. For over 20 years we have been camping and deer hunting in the big woods and wilderness of Douglas County Forest in far northwestern Wisconsin at our rustic army tent deer camp. The tradition of old friends, stories and mentors, and the toil of hunting in a difficult region where deer numbers are low, the forest is a varied expanse, and predators have the deer on edge year-round. After the events of the past year (we missed 2020 due to Covid) this year has given me perspective on the reality of how special and uncertain the experiences are at our deer camp.

For many years I hunted faithfully during Wisconsin’s rifle season during the late and post-rut and would rarely see a deer. In the most recent decade, we have begun placing more focus on bowhunting during the better phases of the rut, and it has definitely made things more interesting. For myself, I have had a nice run of luck the past four years, during which I’ve been able to take a number of bucks. That hasn’t always been the case, but some constants have been the evolving forest due to logging, and the wolves. As a young man it was always a spine-tingling treat to hear the wolves or cross their tracks during my brief time up at deer camp. It was always so surreal like they weren’t even really there. Occasionally, we’d have the distinct pleasure of waking inside the dark tent to the distant, or not so distant, sound of the wolves howling in the middle of the night. It’s intriguing to hear and see people’s reactions to our stories whether firsthand or not.

One particular guest to our camp and now camp regular was alone in camp one night and after just such an episode of waking to the howling of the wolves or having a particularly vivid dream; we can’t be sure; he believed he heard a wolf sniffing around the outside of the tent and barricaded the tent door for his own safety. He won’t live that one down anytime soon.

On another occasion the same member of our camp had shot a buck and brought his sons out to help him drag his deer out, in the dark. It just so happened that the wolves saw fit to start howling quite near to them while they were out in the dark, dragging a deer and heading the general direction of the wolves. The adolescent boys had a lesson in primal instinct, fear and “manning up” that night.

One time the wolves had a very different effect on me. I was in high school and bowhunting on a prime rut morning when I managed to call in the most beautiful buck I had seen with my own to eyes to that date. He came in on a rope to 25 yards, but high school me was less experienced and the bout of buck fever I got had me utterly convinced he was too far to shoot. So, I proceeded to obnoxiously blurt out every grunt, bleat and rattle call I had at him to convince him to come just a few steps closer. I’m sure all of you are guessing how that turned out. So as this beautiful, tall, white-horned 10-pointer walked away, now certainly out of range and out of my life, I felt sick to my stomach. This was the best chance and frankly only chance to date that I’d had at a trophy buck, and I blew it, and I knew it. Now that he was stomping and blowing at me from just out of sight, I had to come to grips that this was it and my season was basically over. I might as well just jump out of my treestand right now. So as all of this is going through my mind and I’m feeling like a hopeless failure, a chorus of wolves lit up directly to the south of me, overtaking and filling the mostly silent woods. It was an incredible and humbling experience. From missing my opportunity at a trophy buck to the awe and insignificance I felt listening to those wolves howl — in a strange way it snapped me out of the depression I was feeling after that missed opportunity with the buck. It wasn’t fear that I felt in that moment. It’s hard to say what it was, but afterward I can tell you it was thanks that I felt for the profound feeling of being a part of nature, and in those same woods a part of the existence of those wolves and not separate from them.

To set the stage for my 2021 hunt, the past several years I’ve been hunting a spot that I inherited from my father since he isn’t as mobile as he was once. The spot is a natural travel corridor and has stood the test of time with many different sections logged around it, and it has been a good spot for the entire 20-plus years we’ve been hunting these woods. As with most hunting gangs, we have unique and thoughtful names for our spots, and I suppose this particular spot is not an exception. We call it the Black Ash Stand because, well, it’s by some black ash. So maybe that one isn’t our most colorful name, but it is accurate and has been the source of the most action I’ve experienced in that country. And not all the “action” has been with deer.

In 2019 after taking a busted up 8-pointer with my bow, I had a lone wolf come trotting quietly by my stand the next morning. No doubt searching out any remnants of the gut pile I had left the prior day. That was my first time in the (almost) 20 years hunting there that I had actually seen a wolf. This is the same area where my father had two wolves walk up to 30 yards while he was resting on a stump, carrying out a stand seven or eight years ago. Then, it happened again in 2020 while I was solo camping for deer season in our normal camp spot. During the night I half awoke, in the dark of my tipi tent, to the clear sounds of the wolves howling south, toward the “black ash.” It should’ve registered more in my brain the next morning, but the mysterious thing about the howling and dreamlike state I was in is that I wasn’t even sure it had happened. I didn’t question what happened next, however. Mid-morning during my sit I heard the faint sound of stepping. One of the members of our camp is a connoisseur of “stepping,” and even he may have had trouble making out this one. It wasn’t quite like a deer coming in, it was softer and less sharp. Then I saw movement through the balsam and grabbed my bow. What struck me was how the colors were off and unlike a deer. Sure enough, it was another wolf, seen from the same stand two years in a row! I started filming with my phone, and to my shock and consternation the large lead wolf (with a collar) was followed by a flurry of rustling wolves. It’s difficult to count in the short video I took, but I believe there were seven wolves altogether that came by between 15-25 yards from the base of my tree. It was as short-lived as it was awe-inspiring and disquieting.

Fast forward now to this season. I was heading into the 2021 season with only one weekend to hunt at deer camp with a pregnant wife at home. Typically, I choose the weekend that hits closest to Nov. 7-9 to hit the peak of rutting action and hedge my bets as most writers and shows would advise. And we’ve found that holds true for our woods as well. This year, however, I would have to wait until the following weekend, Nov. 13-15. So, I was hoping that the lockdown phase would not be limiting my chances. Luckily there looked to be a cold front on the way and my anticipation was high. I was looking forward to spending time with my dad and the guys at camp. Also, the prior weekend those that were hunting at camp had some action. Pete shot a very big-bodied 9-pointer, and Eric had a very good chance at “the biggest buck he’s ever drawn his bow on.” He unfortunately drew only belly hair at 12 yards. I was planning to hunt the Black Ash Stand again since there had been little pressure there, and I felt lucky there despite having seen wolves from that stand both the prior two years.  

What does that really mean to us in terms of hunting success and planning a hunt? Hard to say, because the wolves are a fact of hunting in those woods. A factor that seems to make the deer more wary and hunting there more difficult, but we believe the lack of hunter competition, high buck-to-doe ratio, and wilderness make it worth it. Are we afraid to hunt there and hike in and out after dark? No.

The eight-hour drive to deer camp went swiftly with the anticipation of the coming days’ hunts, a fresh venison dinner, a stiff beverage shared with my dad and old friends over a card game, and the peace that comes from sitting by a crackling barrel stove late at night (8:30) in reflection. The first day’s hunting on Saturday was mostly uneventful with just one doe coming by late morning, no buck in tow. That night’s card game, stiff beverages, and a late breakfast conspired against my hunting plans such that I left the tent for my tree a bit later than I’d hoped the next morning. Oh well, I’ll have to sneak hunt and have an arrow ready on the way in. I used to stress about such things, but now I tend to roll with the flow. I had a fresh bottle of Pete Rickard’s Indian Buck Lure and began my scent drag at my usual spot on a trail on the top of a little ridge heading down into the balsam (bedding) and the creek crossing where the deer tend to cross along the travel corridor heading north/south. We’d had 4 inches of fresh snow that night. The walk in was muffled by the fresh snow, so I was able to sneak in fairly effectively, or so I figured. When I got to my stand, I had an inkling to create a mock scrape, so I went about kicking up leaves and dirt on top of the snow in the typical “V” shape under a balsam branch about 10 yards from the base of my tree. I topped my creation off with nice drizzle of Pete Rickard’s, or Peter Richard’s as my dad insists, and it was time to make the climb. After strapping myself in with a safety harness, I sat down with my bow hung and ready. I hadn’t even been sitting long enough to cool down and was lost in contemplation of planning my afternoon hunt and trying to ascertain the particularly annoying squeak and crack of the bare ash trees, when to the east I heard a similar, yet decidedly different, crack of a branch, or was it branches and steps? The sound came from the northeast along a route across the black ash that I’ve seen several bucks come from. Maybe five minutes went by, and I’d pretty much forgotten what I’d thought I’d heard, when movement across the white backdrop of the snowy ground in my peripheral caught my attention. Sure enough, heading south along the usual trail east of my tree was a buck! Surprise initially gripped me, but preplanned action took over as my impression was that he was a shooter, and I grabbed my bow. The route he was taking would bring him broadside 25 yards away, and I’d draw as soon as he was behind a particular balsam to take advantage of the cover. All this happened exactly as it had a couple times before except that he didn’t emerge from behind the balsam as expected. Instead, he poked out 5-10 yards closer and was coming to inspect my mock scrape. “Even better, now he’s only going to be 15 yards away,” I thought. Except, “S**T he’s facing me, no shot yet.” I double-checked my peep sight, sight level, and anchor point alignment at full draw. Almost before I could be frustrated about the lack of a shot he turned broadside, and I released my arrow. The arrow struck home, and I felt pretty good about the placement if only a bit high. It was a severe angle because of the height of the stand, but I could immediately see the blood trail in the fresh snow as he crashed off through the brush continuing south for the 100-150 yards that I could see. I’m not usually in too much of a hurry to begin tracking. I let Storme and my wife know that I had shot a buck. Storme was planning to be sitting in the direction my buck had sped after the shot and said he’d head my way to help. I leaned back against the tree and reveled in the moment, basking in the disbelief and elation. I felt good about the shot but figured there was no hurry. I decided I’d wait about 45 minutes to an hour before climbing down to begin the tracking job.

It was not difficult to find hair and my arrow sticking into a tree directly behind the spot where he had stood when I shot. The disappointment in losing my last lighted nock was washed away by the blood trail that began immediately in the direction he ran. I began following along, careful not to disturb the tracks and blood trail in the snow though it seemed this was going to be an easy and enjoyable track job. The blood appeared to be spraying mostly from the exit side, and the trail continued to the south until he veered sharply to the southeast at the edge of a creek crossing. This meant he was headed toward the edge of the open marsh. Seems I have always recovered my deer and elk at edges in logical shelter locations, so I began to look ahead with more earnest. Across the creek and up into the timber I noticed some tracks that stood out as I was following my buck’s running tracks. These were much more defined and were noticeably smaller than my buck’s tracks. Upon closer inspection they were clearly those of a small/medium-sized wolf! That’s interesting, I thought. Quite coincidental seeing as how the snow was fresh from the night before. They sure did look fresh. The lone wolf’s tracks were headed north, and I was heading southeast on the blood trail at this point. The excitement to find my deer was building as I’d gone maybe 250 yards at this point. I didn’t put much more thought to the wolf’s tracks. It wasn’t until they crossed the blood trail again another 20-30 yards on that something triggered in my brain. This wasn’t coincidence.

Did I mention that I found my first bull elk, a very respectable 5×5, with the aid of a coyote just this fall in September? That’s another story, but the quick version is that I had gut shot the bull on a 45-yard severe quartering away shot. My buddy Craig, he’s named after the town in Colorado, and I tracked that elk the next morning for over 700 yards without a single drop of blood. We found a few fat globs and somehow miraculously trailed the bull to the edge of some dark timber where we spotted a coyote heading into the timber stand where he’d begun feeding on the elk.

After the wolf tracks now began trailing along with the blood trail I now peered around with more discerning intent. I wasn’t just looking for a buck lying dead in the snow anymore. Had I heard a rustling ahead when I was moving across the creek? Thoughts flooded my mind as I now paused to look ahead to the edge of the marsh. That’s when I glimpsed him, my buck lying at the edge of the marsh tucked up against a small alder. Excitement and relief took over and I forgot all my other concerns. I let out a breath of relief with a smile of awe as I approached my deer. But wait, “that seems like an excessively large exit wound in his side,” I thought to myself as I was still 20 yards away and nearing. The realization came as I got to within 10 yards of the carcass, I was not the first to find this buck. With that realization a sudden pang of panic and a chill went down my spine as I now looked over my shoulder and spun in a full circle to better survey my surroundings. “Holy S**T, it’s probably still nearby,” my distracted mind now told me. “Do I need my bow ready?” my irrational side thought. “Get hold of yourself, this isn’t ‘The Grey,’” my rational side countered. It was just then that I heard rustling and a branch break directly to the west of me. My eyes shot that direction to view an upright shape clad in snow camo moving through the “blow down” in my direction. “Oh, hey there!” I blurted out to Storme who was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

As I began to field-dress my buck, we inspected what the wolf had done in the short hour since I had released my arrow. It had begun at the arrow’s exit wound and tore in through three ribs to pull out some of the more savory organs, making a nice mess for me to clean up. As we chatted with excitement and disbelief over the happenstance, it became evident that I had likely chased the wolf off the kill as I approached, unbeknownst to me! For the third year in a row, at the same stand, I encounter a wolf during my annual pilgrimage to the big woods of Douglas County. Not only had this wolf found and begun feeding on my buck while I was just a couple hundred yards away, but it had also done so in under an hour.

Another small chill went down my spine as we began “the drag” out along the marsh edge to the fire lane. I had taken my kill back from another predator, but one has to wonder if “finders keepers” applies to the wild which we take part in each fall. By our logic I had hunted and killed that buck, so it was mine to claim, but what about the woods that the wolves call home? What claim do I have there? It occurred to me as I dragged my prize, it’s one thing to see the wolves from 25 feet up in a balsam but an entirely different one when on their level. My mind has since imagined that wolf in a dozen scenarios, such as tucked down under a snowy balsam 50 yards away listening and watching me field-dress “his” deer, just waiting for its chance to finish the meal. Truth is that besides the evidence left behind, I was never alerted to the wolf’s presence. I now know they (the wolves) are more present around us in the big woods of northwestern Wisconsin than I’d realized. We just don’t see or hear them. The reality is that in the wilderness is gained a perspective that cannot be found on social media, or in the ebb and flow of debate and legislation on the topic of wolf and wild game management in the modern day. So, it is with the perspective the above experiences offer me that I judge the wolves of northern Wisconsin. Though it may be unnerving at times, such as with my most recent encounter, it is also part of the spice that makes hunting there the profound experience that we cherish at our deer camp and keeps me coming back year after year. After all, we are just another participant in nature’s ebb and flow which still exists some places.

The time in these woods is fleeting and full. It is tempered by toil and tradition, calm to commotion, and countless cold snowy hours. It is warmed by the timeless tales that are bolstered by whiskey and woodstove.