Two mornings ago, it was minus 19 degrees and the windchill somewhere south of there.
The kind of weather we hope our friends living in more hospitable climates hear about and marvel at the hearty nature of North Dakotans putting up with such nonsense.
The kind of weather that we’ve long said, with a wink, keeps the riffraff out even though it doesn’t.
When I left my pickup an hour ago, it was already 35 above, with the promise of it climbing somewhere north of 40 degrees.
The kind of weather we embrace in mid-January because we know the recess from what’s unsurprisingly on its heels is short.
I haven’t been in the woods for some time.
It’s been too long, really.
Down here, in the shadow of cottonwoods, elms and oaks, the 200-plus acre piece of public Missouri River bottoms looks significantly different than last winter and the one before that.
The difference isn’t a change in the terrain, the addition or subtraction of trees and brush, but the confusion of deer trails tramped into the snow.
While this doesn’t seem significant, it is considering the untold number of whitetails killed in 2021 during one of the state’s worst EHD outbreaks in memory, followed by a brutal winter in 2022-23 that was equally cruel to those deer left standing.
Last winter — and the one before that — deer sign in the snow in these bottoms was mostly absent by comparison.
While wildlife biologists caution us that the rebound from such significant hurdles is slow and not over, this is a good sign.
My pace this morning, like the recovery for whitetails from disease and Mother Nature, is also slow.
I’ve been in the woods for almost an hour, and I haven’t moved more than 50 yards.
I would like to believe that I’ve caused a limited amount of disturbance, have watched my step, and only leaned against those trees with low-hanging branches that provided some additional cover.
No matter, I haven’t seen anything.
If it weren’t for the untold number of tracks from deer and other animals, I could be talked into believing that I’m the only thing in this river bottom with a heartbeat.
I urged agency officials some years ago to extend the squirrel season until the end of February, rather than shutting it down with pheasants and other upland game in early January, so I, and others like me, could take advantage of a nice winter day and head into the woods with a loaded .22-caliber rifle and a purpose.
I’ve often wondered, something that’s easy to do when you’re leaning against one tree and then another for minutes at a time seeing zip, if I kneecapped what good karma I had with the fox squirrel community by opening my mouth in the first place.
I’m certain I will test this nagging theory again before the season closes when we’re again blessed with another slice of nice winter weather that begs me to head into the woods with a loaded .22-caliber rifle and a purpose.
