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In the spring, summer, and fall, we have a beautiful bike trail that runs along Old Abe Lake, a flowage backed up behind the Jim Falls dam. (More about that one of these days.) It presents an ever-changing panorama of flora and fauna as the year progresses. In the winter, however, the going through the snow gets tougher. Our bike path becomes a snowmobile trail. The snowmobiles pack the snow down, making it possible to walk without sinking in up to our knees. One winter, we made our trek daily, but dodging speeding sleds made us think twice before returning the next season. And so came the idea of building our own trails. That took some work.

But it is truly worth it. Not only to us but to the many visitors we get, mainly of the furred or feathered persuasion. Some prefer to come right to the yard.

Nonetheless, many enjoy the convenience of our well-trod trails instead of traversing the deeper snow. We don’t often see them, but we see evidence of their passing. Allow me to illustrate.

As we all know, deer make the great outdoors their home. That means their bedrooms and bathrooms are out there, sometimes on the trail and sometimes just off it.

It’s easy to identify turkey tracks, but they are sneaky birds.

Some birds leave other tokens of their presence.

Sometimes we have sightings of unexpected visitors, like this one on a slightly above freezing February afternoon.

And finally, one very clear set of prints. Is it a lynx? A bobcat like our friend Goldy? Or is it…?

These are only a few of the visitors to our trails in winter. Rabbits, squirrels (Verle and his buddies), raccoons, and others frequently leave their marks. We often wonder if they feel gratitude to us for packing down these much-easier-to-follow highways amidst the deeper, sinkier snow. From our standpoint, we are happy to share our domain with so many creatures who must make their way through days of scarcity and sometimes bitter cold. I can only guess that they feel our relief this week as springlike weather eases the grip of the frosty times. We hope that our trails have been happy ones for all.

Here in the sticks, all is not always sunny, verdant, and bursting with fresh life. If winter is coming somewhere, it has come here already. So far, not with the vengeance of other recent winters, but with enough force to silence the woods except for an occasional “Dee, dee, dee” of a chickadee (Gee, I wonder how they got their name.), the haunting hoot of an owl, the panicked rush of a flock of turkeys flushed from their roosts, or the drumming of a woodpecker.

The picture above is what we would call a dusting. As of mid January, we haven’t had much more. In fact, we have yet to match in total the freak snowfall of October 20. There is no such thing as a “normal” winter around here. There’s always something different as when over a week’s worth of cool, foggy days left the trees coated with a rime that persisted for days.

While some residents of lower latitudes may long for the gentle white blanket of new fallen snow, those of us in the “frozen tundra” of Wisconsin may be quick to remind them of the cliché regarding taking care about what one wishes for. Two years ago we enjoyed a mild start to the season, only to suffer through the snowiest single month on record, the notorious February of ’19.

In December, the new snows add to the festive atmosphere of the holiday season, but now that feeling is long gone. Yes, in the hopelessness of January, when we feel the lament of Narnia where it was always winter and never Christmas, we seek a cure for cabin fever, especially with the added isolation of a pandemic. We turn to skis, snowshoes, skates, and shovels. But we in the sticks, at least my corner of them, have a secret weapon. More on that soon.

As my bio and picture indicates, I don’t live in New York City, Milwaukee, Madison, Eau Claire, or even Chippewa Falls. I don’t even officially live in Jim Falls. I guess no one does because, despite the fact that the 2010 census lists the population of Jim Falls as 237, it is not incorporated, so the boundaries are pretty arbitrary. In fact, I live on the opposite side of the Chippewa River from the (unincorporated) village of two taverns, two churches, a Cenex station, a cafe, an elementary school, one of the biggest dairies in the state, and a baseball field (Much more about that in a future post.)

There are a number of advantages and disadvantages to “living in the sticks.” To me, the former far outweigh the latter. In time, I’ll make note of many of both, but for starters, I want to consider my lawn.

I have plenty of friends and relatives who live in Suburbia. Many of these poor souls are bound by neighborhood compacts to keep their lawns thick as a 60s shag carpet and green as the tops of the pool tables in our two bars. No dandelions allowed. Wildflowers need not apply.

Then there is my lawn. For a good share of the year I don’t mow everywhere. Is it because I’m lazy? Well, maybe I am, but my mowing eccentricities mean extra work and judgment. What should I circumnavigate? Where do I need to be ruthless, and where do I draw the line?

I guess I’m slightly in love with some of the wild plants (The unenlightened call them weeds.) that I grew up observing in the pasture. Seasonal flowers provide beauty and a bounty of nectar for the bees (the nice ones, not the ground wasps that nailed me last night when I was mowing). I’m always trying to promote milkweed, the cornucopia of the monarch butterfly. And mullein, ah what a versatile plant with more bee friendly blossoms that ripen to seeds for birds to snack on. But the best thing about mullein is the stem that dries out to yeild spears for target practice the next year.

Well time to quit bending your eyes for one day. I will forgo rhapsodizing about gooseberries and blackcaps for now. One day, maybe. The uptake for now: I love living in the sticks.