These are the seasons for me

Some people divide years into months, weeks and days. I divide them by seasons. The number of seasons in my life are as diverse as the weather we experience in north Wisconsin. 

Most people call the time where we are at now as winter, but at least for me it is simply cross-country ski season, the season in which I push myself to head out at least five days a week on the excellent cross-country trails we have here in our neck of the woods. For years I took my cross-country skiing level, such as it was, to a place where I could attack the famed American Birkebeiner race trail 28 times. 

On seven of those years, which immediately followed the year I finished my 10th 55-kilometer Birkie, I skied the 28k Kortelopet race which is a companion race to the Birkie.

Then, in a moment when my brain betrayed me, I returned to the full Birkie, continuing until I completed my 20th to join the Birchleggers Club, an award you earn by completing 20 Birkebeiner races.

But enough of skiing. Winter used to be the season of ice fishing for me. In recent years I have abandoned ice fishing as a season. Whether too preoccupied with skiing or maybe losing my desire to lose fingers, toes and ears to frostbite, I have simply lost my desire to keep ice fishing season as a large part of my yearly seasons.

I aim to change that at least a little bit this winter. I still have a few Beaver Dams I haven’t given away, an old 8” hand auger, three spuds in case the auger blades are dull and a smattering of minnow buckets, panfish ice rods and other gear that will get me going on days when the temperature is tolerable.

When the ice fishing season wanes, I’ll begin my spring wandering season. Might be in March, might not be until May depending on when Mother Nature decides to get spring going.

Woods wandering is a season of simply enjoying the freedom of roaming anywhere and everywhere I please without fighting knee-high snowdrifts. It is a season of hearing robins singing as they return from their winter homes

It’s a season of listening to ruffed grouse drumming, to watch the earliest ducks, geese and swans returning north, even if lakes are only partially ice-free and to spy the first chipmunk to forage for sunflower seeds spilled from hanging bird feeders all winter.

After that comes a season I deem as camping season. It may begin with a trip to the famed Bois Brule River to seek the treasure of the trout it holds. Camping season will continue throughout the summer calendar at campsites throughout the Northern Highland state forest, the Nicolet-Chequamegon forests, the vast wilds of Upper Michigan and the ever-beckoning shores of Gitchee Gumee in three states, just to name a few of my favorites.

Along with camping, a fishing season comprised mainly of going after bluegills, perch, northern pike and bass on my part kicks in at full bore, continuing throughout what most people consider summer and fall.

While that time holds much wonderment, the coming of September and October means my favorite time of all chasing after fall turkeys, trying to bring home a partridge or two and especially—most dear to my heart—heading out on the long trip to North Dakota where I revel for up to two weeks wandering the prairie pothole country to hunt and very often just watch some of the millions of waterfowl that call North Dakota a part-time home.

When it is time to put down the scattergun in favor of the deer rifle the next season begins. It used to be deer season was the peak of all seasons for me, but as I have aged it has become more of a pastime enjoyed only as much as fairly mild weather will permit.

Sure, the hope is always in the heart of bringing home a buck, but no longer is it the season of all seasons for me.

Finally, then, we come to what is maybe my favorite of all seasons. It actually spans all four of what are normally called seasons--spring, summer, fall and winter. It is called Christmas tree season.

It is a season when I finally choose the perfect Griswold Family Christmas tree. The season is always on, be it May, July, October or November, but it peaks in December. All year, every balsam I see is categorized as maybe, could be, decent, good, excellent and “the one.”

My Christmas tree season this year ended a week ago as I wandered through a large property owned by a good friend who doesn’t mind if I take a balsam or two each year.

This year’s tree may not be a “10” but is a solid “8” in my ranking system. It is cut and waiting for another week until it takes its place in our home to reign supreme over our living room until the first week of January.

And that, folks, is how I count the seasons of each year.