Wildlife Art, and Art on Wildlife

     When I first started writing this column, I was concerned that I might eventually run out of material because I need calamitous events to happen so I have something to write about.

     But then I had a happy thought: Why is it necessary that these events happen to me?

     So look for a hilarious account of how my buddy broke his leg in an upcoming issue. Only thing is, he won't break his leg until the second day of this year's muzzleloader season. Guess I can't count on that.

     I was also concerned that as news spread of my ineptness in the woods and on the water, I'd find myself short of hunting and fishing partners.

     This indeed seems to be the case.

     I stopped by my parents' house recently-- kind of a pop-in after a trip to Green Bay-- and asked my dad if he wanted to try a few casts off of the breakwall at High Cliff State Park on Lake Winnebago.

     "No thanks, son," he stammered through the door as he barred the latch. "I have to help your mother pick out dried flower arrangements."

     So now I'm having a difficult time finding someone to hunt squirrels with this fall. My friend, Hodag, would be game-- he was always up for anything-- but he's gone on to his just reward, and by that, I mean heaven, and not the return of 10-point bluebills.

     Fact is, not many people hunt squirrels anymore, and if you mention that you're going, folks look askance at you and exclaim, "Tree rats! What do you want with them for?"

     It wasn't always that way, of course. Kids used to get their start in hunting, as I did, by chasing squirrels. And bushytails were a hunting mainstay of a lot of sportsmen and women even in adulthood.

     I admit that I haven't spent a whole lot of time hunting them in recent years, but I'm not joking when I say that I still dream about my favorite Calumet County squirrel woods, even though I haven't been there in 20 years. I can still feel the roughness of a shagbark hickory against my back, and in my mind's eye, I can see sunlight filtering through black walnut leaves as I sit listening for the patter of falling cuttings.

     I used to have squirrels on the brain the way most hunters nowadays go bonkers over big bucks. I checked out books on them, and even kept them as pets-- I didn't see any contradiction in feeding city squirrels in the morning and going out to hunt their wild cousins in the afternoon. And I live-trapped squirrels in our backyard.

     I trapped them for an advanced biology class I took when I was a senior in high school. That was the only advanced class, except for art, that I've ever taken. If you'll allow me to digress for a little bit, I'd like to talk about that art class before I return to advanced biology.

     I had won promotion to Sister Carla's Salon of Artistes on the strength of a watercolor I painted of a smallmouth bass-- a painting which, against all odds, turned out so well that it won a few awards.

     The advanced art class was full of studious artists. Nothing excited ever happened, except for when I got my tie stuck in a lathe in front of a girl I had a huge crush on. Thus freed of any further concern about scoring points with her, I was able to concentrate on my masterwork. I spent a whole trimester chipping a large plaster block into a small one, which I then painted brown and called a rock.

     True genius is amost never recognized in its time. Being a giant smart-aleck, however, almost always is, and I richly deserved the "F" I received on that project. My classmates from back then probably all work in commercial graphics now, or are artists-in-residence at the Louvre. I, however, am back to having other people draw when I play "Hangman."

     O.K. Thank you. Back to advanced biology.

     A major part of the class consisted of a field project, followed by the dreaded presentation in front of the class. I had the idea of live-trapping squirrels, marking their tails in some manner, and then releasing the squirrels in a far-off neighborhood and observing to see if they returned to their home ranges. The only real hitch was in the marking, as far as I could tell, so the first day of my project found me kneeling next to a closed box trap in the backyard, with a can of yellow spray paint in hand, wondering what all wildlife biologists wonder:

A.) Should I use a primer?
B.) Why are the neighbors staring?
C.) How on earth am I gonna get steel wool anywhere near this critter?

     In the end, a long plastic tube attached to the nozzle of the paint can worked fairly well. Over the course of a couple of weeks, I marked and released a dozen squirrels.

     In case you are wondering, yellow-tailed squirrels do return to their home ranges, and when they come home, they're moving at a pretty good clip.

     As an aside, I repeated this experiment in college for a class in wildlife biology, only this time with people. The results were much the same, only they didn't return to their homes, they returned to mine, and when they arrived, they were plenty peeved.

     As you spend time afield this fall, I ask that you refrain from shooting yellow-tailed squirrels. Instead, please write the date, time and circumstances of your encounter on a 3x5 card and mail to: Kurt Helker, c/o Mrs. Stecker's Remedial Art Class, Toki Middle School, Madison, Wisconsin.