New Year's Resolution: From 17-year-old Brian Nielsen: I resolve never to shoot another buck like the one I got in South Dakota last year. It was a 4-point whitetail with an unusual rack. Tangled in the antlers was another hunter's deer rifle.

Writer Kevin Wooster recently relayed the tale in the Sioux Falls Argus Leader. When Nielsen hauled the deer to the road he met another hunter who (you guessed it) recognized the rifle as his own.  Two days earlier, the other hunter said, he had shot the buck and laid his rifle on the antlers to take a picture when the buck awoke and ran off.

From me: There's a closet in my house that I resolve to clean someday (and I mean it this time). But it's not an easy task.

You see, my closet is full of hunting and fishing clothes. It's a rack of memories. On the end is a well-worn game bird hunting vest. It's not pretty anymore, what with dirt and blood stains and all; in fact, it probably shouldn't even be in the house.

But, golly, that vest and I have been together for many long and memorable walks in wonderful fields where, with dog ahead, a man never feels more alive and more free.

A few hangers down the row, there are more old and tattered shirts - a red flannel and an aspen yellow designer model - whose designer has been dead for years now. They should be tossed, but they seem to feel so much more comfortable than newer shirts do.

Next on the rack is enough camouflage to start my own army. But it's all good stuff and you need different togs for so many purposes, like turkey hunting, bow hunting, duck hunting, coyote calling . . . you know, going to the Mall of America.

On the next hanger there's an old pair of long underwear that I'll never forget. I took them to deer camp. Didn't realize those long johns belonged to my oldest daughter, Simone.

I'd give 'em back to Simone but I don't think she'll take 'em.

Next is a new hunting coat I plan to wear someday when I get rich and feel the need to look in fashion in a pheasant field. It was a gift from one of my strange relatives. It's a nice coat but I'm glad I can't afford it.

I could go on but you get the picture. It's a closet that needs serious thinning. That's my resolution.

And I'll get to it. Someday.

The name on the mailbox as I pulled into the farm driveway was
"Puffer."

It wasn't the name that made me stop, however. It was the weed
patch behind the farmstead. I had been in those weeds before, I
remembered.

A knock on the door brought the farm wife.

"Hi," I said, giving my name. "You don't know me, but I used
to hunt pheasants back there 30 years ago," I said, pointing.

"And you still can," she replied, smiling.

Quickly, I said thanks and explained that I was a kid when
Uncle Bob and I used to hunt pheasants around her place. She said
she didn't live on the farm then. But I was welcome, she said, to
walk back into the weed patch.

And back into time.

I certainly hadn't intended such a memory-producing romp for
ringnecks last weekend. But with Iowa's pheasant season nearing an
end (it closes Friday), I decided on a last-minute, quickie hunt,
loading the Labs and heading south.

With no better idea of where to go, I ventured to the ringneck
haunts I had known as a kid. Maybe the giant ragweeds and wild plum
had survived the years gone by, I hoped.

When Uncle Bob first let me tag along as a kid with a
single-shot .410 shotgun, the best pheasant hunting in Iowa was
centered at Davis Corners, which isn't far from Jackson Junction.

Davis Corners today is mostly just the name of an intersection
of Highways 9 and 63. But in the 1950s, it was the bird hunters'
mecca. It also was a title Davis Corners would lose by 1960 as the
surrounding flat terrain became more intensively farmed.

Uncle Bob discovered Jackson Junction, I think, because the
road ditches were still weedy. To hunt his birds, he liked driving
the roads instead of walking. And instead of wingshooting, Uncle
Bob preferred to plink a ringneck in the ditch with a .22 rifle.

Being a squirrel hunter from hill country, his aim was better
with a .22 than with a 12-gauge. The ammo was cheaper, too, of
course.

Back then, I think a .22 was a legal weapon, although Uncle Bob
always acted as though it wasn't.

As the kid in the back seat, I saw plenty of road ditches and
tried to match Uncle Bob's skills at spotting that white ring before
the birds ducked into the grass.

Once in a while, Uncle Bob would ask a farmer for permission to
hunt his shelter belt or weedy draws. Usually the only time he felt
like walking for pheasants was when he had seen them first.

I drove by one of those places the other day.

I remembered that an old woman with one eye (the other socket
was empty) lived in the unpainted farmhouse, which was surrounded by
lush pheasant brush and weeds. One day while we were asking the old
woman for permission to hunt, a hen pheasant flew into the big
parlor window and broke its neck.

The house is empty now. And the old woman died a long time
ago, a neighbor said. Interestingly, the weedy shelter belt around
the farmstead was still that, weedy.

Three sections or so from the Puffer place, there was another
farmstead that was split by the gravel road, meaning the farmhouse
was on one side, the barn on the other.

I remember it because of two incidents. Beyond the hill on the
farmhouse side, there was a large hummock slough that couldn't be
seen from the road. One day, my brother Robert and I wondered into
those hummocks and grassy clumps, and the place came alive with
long-tailed ringnecks. We nailed a few, but missed enough for two
limits.

When we returned to the farmhouse, I offered one of the birds
to the farmer. He said thanks and added, "Say, did I ever show you
my other big farm where you can hunt?"

It was a lesson I never forgot.

So I went back the other day where the road splits the
farmstead. But the farmer of my memories had moved away.

And the hummock slough?

Well, I went over the hill to find it and . . . what hummock
slough? The saddest thing about that is that someday nobody will
remember when there was anything but corn growing beyond that
hill.

No, I didn't go back to Jackson Junction with many illusions.
No pheasant mecca, no weed-patch refuge. I was expecting less cover
to hunt and fewer birds. And I wasn't disappointed.

There wasn't much Conservation Reserve Program ground,
either.

The CRP (retiring farmland for 10-year contracts) is the main
reason ringneck populations are rebounding all over the Midwest,
including North Dakota and Nebraska.

But where CRP isn't abundant, the story is different. Based on
my visit to Jackson Junction, there wasn't much CRP. And, for sure,
there wasn't the cover there used to be.

And there weren't many ringnecks, either.

It was a grim reminder. Today's ringneck bonanza is vulnerable
to the whims of U.S. agricultural policies. Nothing different
there.

But when and if the CRP bonanza ends, know this: The ringneck
pheasant count will be going back to a familiar level.

Sparse.

It's the time of year again when Minnesota lake tops turn into
piscatorial playgrounds for the old, the young and, sometimes, the
foolish. Winter fishing is one of those pursuits that many crave
while others watch and remain bewildered.

To help reduce this fishing information gap, we have prepared a
simple Q & A about this thing called ice fishing. Surely, the
answers will inspire appreciation for a sport that includes staring
at a cylindrical gap carved through the ice.

- Why do they call it ice fishing? Scholars for centuries have
wondered the same thing. These are the facts. Nobody actually is
fishing for ice. It's possible that ice fishing got its name
accidentally when Minnesota pioneers were asked what they liked
about spending long, cold winters in places such as Ely or
Blackduck. One of them probably replied,"Nice fishing."
Unfortunately, the response was heard as ice fishingand the name stuck.

- Is it true ice fishermen are heavy drinkers? Not at all. This
is a myth kept alive by people who chug-a-lug blackberry brandy and
then slur the phrase, "Nice fishing."

- Since there's a May walleye opener, why don't we have an
opening day for ice fishing? Think about it.

- If we had an opening day for ice fishing, would there be a
governor's party, too? A silly question. You must be a member of
the local media. Of course, there'd be a party for Gov. Jesse
Ventura to walk on water.

- Is there a best time to go ice fishing? The best time is when
the ice is safe. Minimum of four inches for walking; 10 inches for
driving. Other best times include daybreak and dusk when fish
feeding movements often begin.

- What's the easiest fish to catch under the ice? A favorite is
the perch, once viewed as a lowly game fish, but no more. Perch are
easily pleased, reasonably abundant and quite tasty in a frying
pan. Some perch also have little grubs in the filets, but they
don't taste bad, either.

- How do you know what's biting and where? The best sources of
ice-fishing information are Minnesota's local bait shops. Oh, yes,
you'll hear a few exaggerations, a few rumors and a few bad jokes,
but bait shop folks sincerely want you to catch fish because you'll
be a return customer. It's the silly angler who ventures onto
strange ice without asking a local bait shop or angler for thin ice
advisories.

- Do all fish bite under the ice? Yes, but some more than others.
It's a rare winter catch, for example, to haul up a bullhead or a
carp. Some big names in gamefish also are rarely caught, including
muskies, largemouth bass and smallmouth bass. Some fish species
seem to tolerate cold water better than others, said DNR fisheries
manager, Duane Shodeen. Trout do well in cold water but a bass just
wants it all to end. I think they're more warm-blooded.

- Why do eelpout bite in the winter? The winter abundance of
eelpout is the burden modern-day ice anglers must carry for the
sins and heavy drinking of prehistoric ice anglers. For proof,
simply attend the International Eelpout Tournament in Walker held
annually in early February. You will see up close how ugly the fish
can be as it wraps its tail around the contestant lucky enough to
land one. For the tournament contestants and the strange-behaving
eelpout, sobriety is not a requirement.

- Is eelpouting fun? Actually eelpout are delicious gamefish and
are caught more frequently in the winter because the fish move onto
spawning reefs where unwary anglers are fishing for walleyes.
Another fish species that shows up in winter but is seldom caught
in summer is the tullibee. Mille Lacs is full of tullibees but
summer anglers rarely pull in one. Go figure.

- I see ice fishing shacks on lakes in the Twin Cities, what's
going on inside? We're guessing the inhabitants are ice fishing
but, then again, you know how strange city people can be.

- Do the fish know they're living in the city? We hope not.

- Can there be fishing hot spots among 4 million people? Oh, yes,
most of those 4 million folks would get skunked in a fish shop. The
DNR's Duane Shodeen says there are about 200 fishing lakes in the
metro region and most of them produce winter as well as summer
angling opportunities.

- A few hot spots for panfish? In the north metro, try Forest
Lake or Chisago Chain or Coon Lake or Medicine Lake or Big Marine.
In south metro, Cedar (near New Prague); Marion, Prior Lake, Spring
Lake, ODowd and Rebecca (near Hastings). In west metro, Waconia,
Minnetonka, Whaletail, Sarah, Hydes and Independence. In east
metro, White Bear Lake, Square Lake, Bald Eagle, Phalen and St.
Croix River.

- What if I'm allergic to ice? You often can find open-water
fishing on the Mississippi River between the Ford Dam in
Minneapolis and the I-494 bridge in South St. Paul. It's largely
catch and release. Check regulations.

- Can you catch trout in the city? You can try. Trout fishing is
regulated by seasons (trout opens Jan. 15) in Square Lake (north of
Stillwater) and Christmas Lake (in Excelsior) plus Lake Cenaiko (in
Coon Rapids) and Courthouse Lake (in Chaska).

- Is this ice fishing a good idea? Hey, winters are long enough.
Besides, ice fishing is a sport of the new millennium with
increasing numbers of participants. According to DNR surveys,
roughly one out of every five anglers goes fishing in the winter.
Ice-shack counts are down, but more anglers are using portable
houses and removing them daily.

- Is winter fishing better than summer? Yes and no. On some
lakes, the DNR says, winter anglers account for more than 50
percent of the total catch. On Mille Lacs, winter walleye seekers
catch about 10 percent of the poundage landed by summer anglers.
But on Winnibigoshish, winter perch anglers take nearly 100 percent
of the year's total catch. DNR fisheries chief Ron Payer says the
luck of winter fishing varies from lake to lake and species to
species. Winter anglers also tend to be meat hunters more than
their summer brethren, who practice more catch and release, the DNR says.

- Has ice fishing reached the internet? Yes, two nifty sites we
can recommend are iceteam.com and fishingminnesota.com.

- Why is one hole in the ice often hotter for fishing than
another hole next to it? If I have the hot hole, it's because of
skill.

It's pea-sized, for sure, the cranium space occupied by the brain of a
wild turkey.

But head size obviously means nothing in the real world. If it
did, you and I would be in the circus running around in circles for the
elephants.

So what's really the lore of the wild turkey?

If it's not brains, it also can't be beauty. Despite the turkey's
gorgeous body, its face is much too vulture-like to win any universal
contests, I'm afraid.

Yet, clearly, there are some of us undyingly drawn to the wild
turkey. Me, for one. Two decades of stalking the spring gobbler has
done nothing but raise my estimation of the wild turkey's unique gifts.

Let's begin with luck. The wild turkey is clearly lucky it didn't
hatch as a domestic version, whose cranium space is hollow, thanks to
modern poultry science.

Then there's joy.

It's not that the wild turkey is joyful. It's the gobbler hunter
who seems filled with joy after the initial introduction. Trust me,
there are few pursuits more contagious than spring gobbler hunting - an
X-rated experience featuring seductive hen promises, amorous gobbling
and a woodland motel, so to speak.

Who can resist such a plot?

Not many, it seems.

"Today there are wild turkeys in 49 states," said Gene Smith,
editor of Turkey Call magazine, "and hunting seasons in 47 states. And
there's more wild turkeys in North America than ever in history."

Historically, the large, gallinaceous birds are native to 39
states. In the last two decades, however, modern wildlife-management
techniques have led to successful transplants, expanding the bird's
range into every state except Alaska.

Included in the massive expansion is Minnesota's own flock.

"Minnesota was the 39th state, in 1978, to have a hunting season,"
said Smith, whose magazine is produced by the National Wild Turkey
Federation.

The only states without a turkey season are Delaware, Nevada and
Alaska.

"I think it's safe to say the interest in turkey hunting has more
than doubled in the last 20 years," Smith said.

In South Dakota's Black Hills, the joy of turkeys sprouts in April like
the pasqueflowers. Being there and watching it happen is a springtime
passion of mine.

It is a real compassion, this spring thing, calling turkeys. Ask
Warren Panushka of St. Paul. For 10 years he had sought the bird and
then, a few days ago, it happened under a ponderosa pine.

Panushka claimed his first gobbler. He was euphoric. A man in
his 70s as joyful as a kid.

That's what the wild turkey does.

Coming close to turkeys also is memorable. Interacting with a
wild critter is the catalyst.

They are well-suited for the wild world: super sharp eyesight,
super keen hearing, fast afoot, quick to fly, flocked for safety.

So armed, the bird is not often casually waylaid in the name of
sport hunting. Not even with a shotgun.

Imagine, then, the plight of the bow hunter. Calling or stalking
the bird is difficult enough. But the archer must draw the bow, making
a movement that is easily detected by the sharp-eyed bird.

As a result, bow hunters rarely sit down to wild-turkey dinners.

Cecil Bell, in fact, might have wondered if he ever would win the
game between himself and the gobbler. It's the curse of the bow and
arrow. Oh, the sights he had seen, birds close, birds too close. Oh,
the chances he had had. Oh, the bird kills he could have had over the
years had he carried a thunderstick.

But no, he was a bow hunter, although sometimes in doubt.

So it was the other morning, when the dawn lit the ponderosa pine
tops, that Bell was going through the motions one more season: Hunt
but never bag.

After hours of observing the birds, Bell had built a blind. And
now, in the morning light, a gobbler would walk into bow range, less
than 20 yards away. This time, the arrow flew straight. This time,
when Bell walked out of the pines, he was carrying a giant wild gobbler
and a lifetime thrill.

A few days later, Ron Carlson of Mahtomedi attempted the same
feat. He, too, had never bagged a turkey with bow and arrow, despite
repeated attempts. But to Carlson, an addicted archer, there is no
compromise. As the predator, he'll eat with the bow or starve.

So it was the other afternoon, when the setting sun made the pines
glow, that a hefty gobbler strutted close to the brushy trees where
Carlson waited. Carlson had had a long time to think about the shot.
That's what archers usually have: plenty of time. And arrows. They
don't hurt much, and the turkeys seem to know it.

But even turkeys make mistakes. "I let her go," Carlson said
of his arrow. "The bird never even flopped. It was over."

Carlson was carrying his bird out of the woods when we met the
other evening. He walked softly. I thought it was the cushion of the
Black Hills pine needles.

On reflection, Carlson was higher than the ground. Lifted by the
wild turkey.

One more thought: It's not always the kill. In fact, more often
it isn't. Ray and Christy Croissant. Father and daughter. Father a
busy eye surgeon, daughter a busy college student.

But in April they take time to share together the joy of the wild
turkey. For the Croissants, there aren't many better reasons.

Welcome to deer camp.

It's that time again, time to gather, time to sharpen the
senses, time to honor the whitetail deer.

What had been a level and quiet patch of popple has become, by
Friday afternoon, a busy construction site.

First the tent, followed by the fire pit, kitchen table and,
lastly, a hole in the leafy ground, which will serve as the camp
biffy.

The camp bonding process takes over and soon the popple patch
has all the comforts of home. Well, almost all.
5:00 p.m. Friday

This season's camp attendees have finally arrived. They are
John Larson and son Scott of Burnsville; a brother, Rick Schara of
Maplewood; a nephew, Steve Schara of Plymouth; and Jim Braaten of
Nerstrand, who is acting camp manager, chief chef and deer hunting
consultant.

Braaten has the last title because he is the reigning deer
expert, having shot one a season ago.

The deer expert job is up for grabs again. And all of the
applicants come to deer camp in the usual way, carrying arm loads of
sleeping bags, deer rifles, Sorel boots plus backpacks full of
pre-hunt optimism.
5:15 p.m.

Chef Braaten announces the dinner menu, which includes peanut
snacks, followed an all-you-can-eat batch of delicious pasta, sauce
and small billiard balls that taste something like meat.

The evening meal steams into the woodsy air. The air is cold,
danged cold. Maybe 10 above. Maybe.

The usual fireside chit-chat is moved into the big-top tent,
where the pre-hunt braggadocio starts to warm things up.

Last year, the hunt was merely minutes old when Chef Braaten
managed to shoot the first and only buck in camp by hunting a
stone's throw away from the tent flap door. He attributed his
success to more skill than luck, of course.

"I am taking big-buck bets," he announced on the eve of this
deer opener. "I am willing to bet that none of you get a buck," he
snickered. Nobody called.
8 p.m.

The first to hit the sleeping bag is Bro' Rick, but he gets no
sleep until the other tent cots are slowly occupied.
9:15 p.m.

Lanterns out, snoring begins.
5 a.m. Saturday

Opening day, finally, and what a cold, dark dawn it is. Even
the campfire pit looks frozen.

On this opening day, leaving the sleeping bag is one of the
toughest tests of being a Minnesota deer hunter. You also question
your sanity. But the lapse is momentary. A cup of hot coffee
eventually eases the agony of jumping into cold, blaze orange
hunting togs.
5:15 a.m.

The orange army departs. One by one, the two-legged orangemen
peel off onto trails leading to their chosen hunting spots.
6:30 a.m.

Dawn seems to come quickly in the woods, aided by a thin skiff
of snow that brightens the forest floor. Gunfire is already echoing
in the distance. Somebody's deer season is probably over already.
The hike to my deer stand is farther than I remember, and I'm late
getting there.

The woods is eerily quiet and frosty. Not a chickadee chirps;
the squirrels must be sleeping in.

The wind wafts softly as if unsure of which way to blow.
7 a.m.

There's no guessing that deer season is open. Gunfire rumbles
steadily in the crisp air. During a 10-minute period, I count 41
reports. One shot is usually a dead deer, I figure. Two shots,
maybe. Three shots from the same rifle, probably misses.
7:30 a.m.

Judging by the gunfire, everybody is seeing deer but me.
7:45 a.m.

Suddenly, footsteps. Crunching in the brittle leaves. There
it is, a gray ghost slipping through the brush. Even in the
shadows, the glint of antlers is obvious. A small six-pointer. His
head is down. He sniffs and walks, first one way and then another.
The brush is thick. Better to wait for a clear shot. The buck is
now a mere 50 yards away. He raises his nose. It means trouble.
Softly, the buck wheels and walks away from the scent he did not
like. It was mine.
8:30 a.m

A doe and her fawn meander by. I put down the rifle and pick
up the camera. Click. Gotcha.
9:45 a.m

My God - my fingers are numb and my toes are the same. The
rest of me wants to shiver, except for my nose. It is running
hard.
9:46 a.m

Out of nowhere, a large doe appears. She has been running long;
her mouth is agape for air. Must be a buck chasing her, I figure.

The doe disappears.

Minutes later, sure enough, here comes the buck on the doe's
trail. But it is a small, spike buck.
10 a.m.

Wait. Another movement. To my left. Another deer. A nice
buck, an eight-pointer. Swiftly, he turns to disappear. One shot
from my .270 Winchester echoes through the woods.

And you remember what one shot means.