Category: columns-outdoors

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Frost and Flurries

By Christian Begeman

A year or two ago I was explaining to a co-worker about how I was trying to shoot really good photos of hoar frost and she quickly stopped me mid-sentence. She told me to quit making up offensive words. Apparently”hoar frost” was a new phrase to her and the way I used it did not jive with how it sounded. Pulling up the term on Wikipedia, I quickly proved to her that the phrase was real and not a cause for concern in the workplace. In fact, I think it now makes for a good topic for my latest photo column.

So far, December in South Dakota hasn’t seen much snow, at least here in the southeastern part of the state. I’m not complaining, mind you, but if you are on a quest to find holiday and/or festive outdoor photos, it can be difficult to capture the”Christmas Spirit” without the white stuff around. Here is where hoar frost can be your friend. I know most of us don’t think frost is very photogenic, particularly as we scrape a quarter-inch-thick layer from our windshields in the morning, but trust me, frost is a beautiful thing.

I find it especially nice after (or even during) one of those early winter, thick foggy days we often get here in this part of the world. The water in the air that causes the fog begins to gather on the windward side of any protruding object and soon beautiful, wonderful hoar frost appears. Recently I discovered that in some places you don’t even need fog. I happened to be below Lake Vermillion in eastern McCook County the other morning and noticed the banks of the river below the spillway were shimmering with frost in the early morning light. The running water from the spillway was moving too fast to freeze, but its vapor formed frost along the colder banks. Since the early morning sun was out, it allows me to take my macro lens out for some super close-up shots of the frost detail.

Still don’t like frost? That’s OK. Try snow flurries. Just over a year ago, my wonderful mother was able to capture a really nice shot of grouse perched in one of the evergreens in her yard in the middle of a heavy snow flurry. Ever since I saw that, I wanted to get something similar. A couple weeks ago there were some heavy snow flurries moving across the state as I traveled and as usual, my camera was at the ready and by my side. Southeast of Ft. Pierre, I drove up on a half dozen deer who wonderfully stood their ground and watched me watch them as the snow came down. All this watching allowed me to shoot a couple frames. The result was interesting. The heavy snowfall between my lens and the hilly background makes the shot look like it could have been painted by an impressionist painter of the 19th century. Well, sort of. The point is, don’t let the lack of snow or accumulated snow stop you from wandering out and looking for wonderful early winter images.You might be surprised what you find.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Yes We Can. No You Can’t.

By Bernie Hunhoff

Yes, I’m a part-time politician. But I’ve always tried to not be a Corps-basher. I know a lot of good and caring people work for the big bureaucracy that dammed our favorite river. Many of them are friends and neighbors here in Yankton.

But only one word comes to mind to describe the two-hour meeting on Wednesday night (Nov. 30) at the Kelly Inn, a rifle shot away from the wild Missouri.

That word? Frustration.

Four Corps engineers came to report on a six-year study of the sedimentation problem on Lewis and Clark Lake. The lake was 25 miles long when Gavins Point Dam was built 60 years ago. Today it is 17 miles long. The upper portion has become a delta (the Corps word for it), or a swamp in layman’s language.

Some 2,400 acre feet of water storage has been lost, which compounded the flooding this summer. That represents 22% of the lake’s total capacity.

Sedimentation has already affected fish and wildlife species and the overall ecosystem. It will eventually damage water recreation and economic development. It is a serious problem.

So a hundred people — most of them, knowledgeable river rats who love the Missouri — gathered at the inn hoping for a vision. For answers. For leadership.

So at last comes the Corps study on sedimentation. Yes, we can flush the lake and remove sedimentation, said Paul Boyd, a hydraulic engineer. We can remove the silt and clay. The sand? That’s another matter. It’s really hard to move the sand out of the reservoir.

Paul Boyd speaks for an hour, showing graphs and charts of the computer modeling.

Then an old-timer in the rear of the room stands up and drawls, “How much of that …. delta … at Springfield is sand and how much is silt and clay?”

It’s mostly sand, said Mr. Boyd.

Furthermore, the lake would have to be almost entirely drained, then flushed with huge releases from Fort Randall Dam, and then refilled — all in a three-week cycle that would entail discharges of 88,000 to as high as 176,000 CFS. The latter is higher than the highest discharges this summer that overwhelmed the river valley, ruined farmland and destroyed homes and gardens. All of that to remove the silt and clay, which really isn’t the problem.

There were not that many more questions. I am sure that everyone in the room — even those most in support of a sedimentation solution — were silently thinking, “is this all there is … after a six-year study?”

The engineers stressed that they only asked the question of whether flushing would work. They didn’t study the social, political, economic and environmental aspects.

I imagine that will take four more studies at six years each.

This is a country that built the Missouri River dams a scant two generations ago. We won two world wars and a cold war. We invented the threshing machine and the automobile and the internet. We made free education and home ownership not a dream but a right. And today it takes our federal government six years to say yes, we can flush the lake and flood your homes if you want us to?

Is it any wonder that we can’t solve health care and school issues?

We need vision, both from the politicians and the bureaucrats. The hundred people at the inn were hungry for a path to progress. They left the room hungrier than when they came.

It reminds me of a study done in the late 19th century on how to solve the horse manure problem in New York City. Experts studied the problem and came to the conclusion that there were no reasonable solutions other than to reduce the size of the city population.

The Corps of Engineers needs to find a Henry Ford.

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She Shoots Like a Girl

By Bernie Hunhoff

It takes a lot of people to produce and publish South Dakota Magazine, about a dozen to be exact. And we’re proud of every one of them — both for what they do during work hours here at 410 E. Third Street, and also for all they do after hours.

Our staff includes two yoga instructors, a marathon runner, several great chefs, a hockey mom, a Girl Scout leader, etc. They are also dedicated community volunteers, super moms and dads, and all their children are above average. You get the point.

But we have only one deer hunter. That would be Jana Jonas Lane, a mostly-quiet and reserved young lady who runs our circulation department. If you get the magazine by mail (as most of our readers do) then you can thank her, because she manages our 43,000-name mailing list.

Jana and her husband Jim have two young daughters, so you can imagine how busy she is. She occasionally likes to do a little hunting, but Jim teases that she “shoots like a girl.” He hasn’t said that for a week now.

The story goes like this. All the local hunters east of Yankton have been watching and waiting for a big 5-point buck that appeared on game cams in the Jim River valley over the summer. The whitetail was very cagey, and wasn’t often spotted in daylight.

On opening weekend of the East River season, Jana spent a few Saturday hours in the cold and howling wind, wondering why she wasn’t indoors with her two little girls, Rain and Rose. She saw a few does and a big buck with a broken antler, but eventually she went home to warm up.

Sunday dawned with a shining, warm sun. The wind was down and pheasants were cackling. Geese were flying overhead. “It’s amazing what sunshine will do for the soul after a cloudy day,” she said. “I saw a couple of does pass through our CRP and I looked over and saw a really nice buck as he was headed into a tree line.” It was the big Jim River buck!

She says her heart started racing, and she told herself to relax and be ready. Minutes passed but he didn’t reappear. Meanwhile, a second buck walked by. It stopped to watch something. Then a doe appeared and crawled through the fence between a pasture and trees. The second buck chased after her.

Jana heard crashing sounds and saw a blur of motion in the switch grass and big blue stem. Eventually, the big buck appeared. He paused about 150 yards in front of her.

Then a young buck came along. It looked at Jana and slowly walked into the trees. A fourth buck came along, chasing after a doe, and they disappeared into the tree line.

Jana took aim at the 5-pointer, through the scope of her .308 Remington, and fired. Just like a girl. She got the Jim River buck.

She’s not a braggart, but nothing’s stopping the rest of us from telling everyone we can.

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Thanksgiving Day

By Rebecca Johnson

“It will be just like hiking,” my husband said, promising the beauty of nature all around us. My parents live close to Marindahl Lake near Volin and Jeremy thought walking some of its 634 acres of game production area would be a great activity before Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, he also hoped to shoot a deer.

I don’t usually tag along for this type of thing. I have terrible fall allergies so traipsing through autumn fields can be miserable and I’ve often felt conflicted about hunting. Many of my family members hunt and I support their right to do so. But I am a yoga teacher and an important part of yogic philosophy involves practicing ahimsa. It’s a Sanskrit word meaning nonviolence and loving kindness to all living things. I am fairly certain that hunting — or even meat eating — and ahimsa don’t mix well.

That being said, I’m not a vegetarian. I tried it for a few years in college, much to the dismay and confusion of my family. Grandma was certain vegetarians ate chicken. And when Grandpa grilled steaks he intentionally dripped blood onto my black bean burger. I don’t know if their cajoling changed me back, or if I just missed eating meat. But now I try my best to eat humanely raised animals like grass fed beef or cage-free chicken. I like to think that pheasants or deer procured from the natural fields and brush of South Dakota at least have a pretty good life before they meet their demise. With this rationale in mind, I agreed to bundle up and tag along.

The walk started easily enough. We stomped through tall grass as I whispered commentary about the scenery. Jeremy has often talked fondly about the idea of hosting a husband and wife hunting show. I used this opportunity to practice possible banter as we climbed up and down hills. I got a little quieter when we approached a large patch of sumac and brush. It took some concentration to squeeze through without getting poked in the eyes or slapped in the face with branches — and I didn’t even complain. But I did imagine accepting”Wife of the Year” award while I belly crawled under a large span of evergreen trees.

There were no deer in sight on that crisp morning and no fires were shot. Jeremy was a touch disappointed as we hiked back to the truck but I was relieved. I don’t think we could have maneuvered one out of the bracken if we wanted to and it would have made us late for Thanksgiving dinner.

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You Have To Earn Your Pumpkin Pie Around Here

By Lee Schoenbeck

Now the perfectly good warmth of a Thanksgiving morn in front of a roaring fire with Snoopy and Bullwinkle and the rest of the Macy’s Parade ensemble is no more for many in our community, due to the Hiedeman family. As first impressions go, Steve and Patty seem like a normal couple, blessed with four beautiful and accomplished daughters, but there’s something a little unusual about the Hiedeman household. A few years ago they decided that the excesses of Thanksgiving dinner should be preceded by a family run — taking in the late November beauty that a northeastern South Dakota community has to offer. Over time, the little family run grew to an annual community event — the Hiedeman Turkey Day 5k. Until last year, the event was staged from the family garage in Northeast Watertown, plus a porta potty in the driveway. The awards ceremony took place in the two-stall garage, with the premium spots located near the space heaters. Awards are — of course — pumpkin pies. The good news — everybody that is there at the end gets hot apple cider and a piece of pumpkin pie.

But, this is no ordinary little run. In 2008 over 190 runners participated. Runners are encouraged to share their bounty, by bringing food stuffs for a local church food bank.

The field includes several NCAA Division I distance runners. The Heidemans’ daughter Caitlin married former SDSU standout quarterback, Ryan Berry, and Caitlin made her mark on the college running scene. Besides Caitlin’s friends and teammates, NDSU cross country coach Ryun Godfrey is a Watertown native, who apparently brings his team from Fargo to Watertown for the Heideman run, with the additional lure of a turkey feed at the home of Watertown running coach and father, Vic Godfrey.

In addition to the D-I caliber athletes, there are also the Very-Not-D-Anything “athletes” that heavily populate the 5k run and 2 mile walk — as well as the many family and friends there to cheer on the field. A buddy of mine dutifully trains for this event each year, always wondering if the first aid crew will be good enough to assure him survival to at least one last turkey dinner. It is ominous that the course routes the wheezing, frost-bitten participants through the local cemetery — seriously. To date, the Hiedemans’ web site reports no fatalities, and precious few egos injured in this festive community event.

Last year the infectious nature of the whole affair was tested by forecasts of deep sub-zero wind chills. Due to the growth of the event, prior to the forecast it had been relocated to the local Cornerstone Methodist Church Hall. As the weatherman predicted, the wind chill for the 2010 event was 28 degrees below zero, which made moving the start closer to the local cemetery seem even more fortuitous.

At this point, in more temperate climates, the Macy’s parade would have won out and the sane crowd would stay home. But up here on the Coteau, the rules are different. In true homesteader bloodline fashion, 107 South Dakotans (there were also a few North Dakota athletes looking for free turkey at the Godfrey house, and a guy and two gals from St. Joe, Missouri!) still competed. The crowd included housewives, children, whole families — and of course some not-exactly-D-Anything Athletes. You couldn’t help but wonder if the local mental health counseling program wasn’t a little under-promoted as these hardy souls raced in slightly clad running gear, at temperatures that cause perfectly good engines to seize up. But, the event was a frozen and smashing success.

A few years ago I started participating in this foolishness, and last year one of my college age children joined me in the race. Having cleared a half century and possessing two bad hips, I don’t train for these things. At my age, nothing good happens to your body from all that extra running, so. I focus on power-walking for the cardio endurance, and Aleve for the hips. Plus, because there is a farmer in my age group with nothing better to do all year than run down his township road like a bounding deer — I can’t win anyway.

But in the deep freeze of 2010 two special things happened. First, I beat my daughter to the finish line. Ok, I’m a realist. These are pyrrhic victories — eventually math and the calendar will change the placing in those finishes, so I take my victories while I can. But even more importantly, we’d left before the awards ceremony. Later that day a victor’s pumpkin pie was delivered to our home. Immediately realizing that the speeding farmer was surely the rightful owner of the over-50 pie, I did what any AARP-eligible athlete does when faced with the prospect of having to return a mistaken trophy — I took a bite out of it. There’s no chance they’d make me give back a pie that was missing a piece. Besides, all those calories wouldn’t affect my form, but surely would throw his lean frame off.

So now we approach 2011. The weather is forecast to be in the 40s, the kind of temps that even the folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line would run in. Having already won a pie, there’s little left to prove, almost. BOTH of my college age kids have now been training for this race. Dad’s time on top of the family running victor’s stand is probably numbered. Sure, I’ve already started my regiment of Aleve, and paced myself with a 5k warm up run last May (the hospital’s Heart Attack Hill Run is a story for another day). But the real power of writing is being able to pick when an epic ends.

Thursday is Thanksgiving. While I can’t predict the finish for tomorrow’s race (I’m just hoping they don’t have reason to leave me out in that cemetery) Today, I still feel good enough to share the Thanksgiving prayer from 1:Thessalonians:”In all things give thanks…”

Lee Schoenbeck grew up in Webster, practices law in Watertown, and is a freelance writer for the South Dakota Magazine website.

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Peanut “Farming”

By Rebecca Johnson

South Dakota weather is so unpredictable. We’ve had an unseasonably warm fall in Yankton and it made me wish I had kept my garden going longer. A surprise hail storm this summer took out a lot of our plants, but do you know what survived? The peanuts!

I didn’t even know you could grow peanuts in South Dakota until a few months ago. My husband and I spotted starter Spanish peanut plants at a local greenhouse and decided to try it. They already had lush oval leaves when we transplanted the plants to our garden in May, but you may be able to start your own plant indoors with a raw peanut.

You need loose or sandy soil for the peanuts to grow, so we planted them in small mounds like you might a potato plant. Initially I thought the peanuts grow from the roots – well, actually I thought they grew on trees – but the peanuts form from small yellow flowers that bloom near the bottom of the plant. When the flowers lose their petals, a stem that looks a little like a skinny peanut forms and gets pulled into the dirt by gravity. This is where the peanut comes from.

It takes most of the summer or longer for the peanuts to mature. They are ready to harvest when the leaves turn yellow and you can expect 30-60 peanuts per plant. When ready, carefully pull up the entire plant, shake off the dirt, and hang it in a warm, dry place to dry for one to two weeks.

Roasting in the shell is fairly easy:

1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

2. Spread the peanuts in a single layer in a shallow pan.

3. Bake for about 20-25 minutes, stirring frequently.

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Stories of Stones

By Ken Blanchard

There is a good reason why the Lord decided to change Simon’s name to Peter. Petra in New Testament Greek means rock and that, Jesus told the newly christened Petros, is exactly what you are.”Upon this rock I will build my church.” The language is accessible and evocative. Everyone understands that a rock is something unyielding. There is wisdom in that.

Stones are not mute. Like everything in nature, they tell stories and teach lessons. I have been an avid camper and backpacker since my teens. Almost every year I return to hike the Ozark canyons of my native Arkansas and sleep with the sound of Sylamore Creek in my ears. The caves and sink holes are battle scars from a war between water and limestone. There has been no peace for millions of years. A pine tree, twenty feet tall but clutching with roots not much bigger than my hand to a ledge I would not care to try to stand on, will remind me how precarious is my own purchase on life.

I have made several trips to Lost Twin Lakes, in the Wyoming Big Horn Mountains. At ten thousand feet above sea level, the lakes still entertain ice in July. Standing on the shore of the upper lake, you are facing a half circle of cliffs that rises more than two thousand feet above you. I know that some still think the world to be six thousand years old. This alpine cirque will have none of that. It says, with bold authority, that all of man’s history and reach is like the life of an insect skirting the surface of a puddle.

None of those places has taught me more than Teddy Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota, where I recently spent two chilly nights backpacking with my son. Much as I love South Dakota, our northern neighbor has the better Bad Lands. Rich in color and texture, the Little Missouri canyon tells a truth that older and bolder mountains will not readily confess. Nothing in this world is enduring.

The river is coffee-brown with silt. Rain turns walls of gritty earth into elegant curtains. Frequently you will observe a cap rock formation. This is a tower of soil formed as the rain slowly erodes the soil on all sides of a rock. Sometimes you can find a row of them, a sandcastle engineered by gravity out of wind, water, and stone.

What is concealed by the ancient Rockies is flamboyantly on display at Teddy Roosevelt. Everything in this world is here because something else fell apart. Everything here is always turning into something else. This bit of wisdom has been mined by the Buddhists more than anyone else.

If it sounds sad, stick with it for a while. Without the constant process of formation and erosion, our life would not be possible. Because nothing in this world is enduring, everything and everyone in it is precious. That, at any rate, is what I have learned.

Dr. Ken Blanchard is a professor of Political Science at Northern State University and writes for the Aberdeen American News and the blog South Dakota Politics.

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The Perfect Babysitter

By Lee Schoenbeck

Photo courtesy of Webster Reporter and Farmer.

Our parents never hired a babysitter — never. But Mom would regularly announce that the $25 she spent each year for the family season pass at Webster’s public pool was the best money she ever spent on a babysitter. No wonder.

Like all the other neighborhood kids in Webster, we lived at the pool from Memorial Day until Labor Day. Depending on ages and the class, mornings were for swimming lessons, and then home for lunch. The pool opened at 1 p.m. and it was good etiquette to be in line at least 15 minutes early. Not sure what happened to those who couldn’t get there until after 1 p.m., but nobody in the neighborhood wanted to take the chance and find out.

The pool closed at 5 p.m., but that’s when then first round of swim team practices started, and they took you right to the evening general swim at 7 p.m. Sometimes after the pool closed at 9 p.m. we could still swim laps or have swim team practice.

Life for a city kid in Webster meant days at the pool. It also meant love.

For twenty years the first crush every pool-going boy in Webster had was on one of the many Baukol girls. They greeted us in the morning teaching our lessons, coached us on swim team, and beautifully occupied the lifeguard chairs at all hours of general swim in between. Romance didn’t get much better than that if you were between the ages of 8 and 14. After about 20 years Harmon Baukol quit providing daughters to the pool staff, and I left for college. I’m not sure how the young pre-teens in Webster survived, or who filled in for all those Baukol girls.

Whole summers of trouble and excitement were designed at the pool. Poor Mr. Meyer owned the apple trees closest to the pool, which made it the first and most obvious target for mandatory raids that took place almost nightly after practice. Sometimes we’d even get as far as Grandma Hoven or Grandma Johnson’s, but the absence of yard lights and the presence of way too many gardening devices brought a certain risk with running through those dark enclaves.

You also didn’t need much cash to hang out at the pool. With a quarter you could get all the Hot Tamales and other snacks you needed. Fashion hadn’t really hit the neighborhood, so cutoffs worked just fine for looking good at general swim. As for female fashion, there were really only three choices — Anthony’s, Nerger’s or The Elevator Store. The chances that they would have neighbors in the same summer fashion wear was pretty much a lock.

While we swim team folks thought life in the pool was built for speed, there was another way to prove prowess — the diving pool. Flips off the high board that didn’t finish in the form of a belly flop were to be admired and worshipped. For those lacking the death-defying urge, there was another option — the cannonball. Danny Giese perfected the 4:45 p.m., high board, soak-the-lifeguard cannonball. The one that got you kicked out for the afternoon (which was why it was best to wait for about 4:45).

Last week I drove by the pool, and saw that my old babysitter isn’t what she used to be. It was kind of sad to see such a big part of neighborhood life reduced to a hole in the ground. To this day, the old swim team crowd is still my close friends. Next year the young people in the community get to start building memories with a new pool. I’m sure all of us from the neighborhood wish for them the many great memories that the city parents built for us over fifty years ago.

Lee Schoenbeck grew up in Webster, practices law in Watertown, and is a freelance writer for the South Dakota Magazine website.

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Sacred Bear Butte

By Rebecca Johnson

I’m always on the lookout for new hiking trails in South Dakota, but there are a few that keep me coming back. One such trail would be Summit Trail at Bear Butte. I got hooked after first visiting with my parents when I was a teenager. The scenery and view were amazing, but I was fascinated by the butte’s spiritual significance. We saw many colorful prayer flags tied to tree branches. There were pouches and cans of tobacco that I assumed were left for offerings. As the strong winds blew through the trees and tangled my hair, I knew there was something going on here that was much bigger than me.

Bear Butte, located just outside Sturgis, was designated as a National Historic Landmark in 1981. The area is sacred to many Native American tribes. According to Cheyenne custom, this is where holy man Sweet Medicine met the Creator and the Four Sacred Persons who guard the Universe. It is still the site for many traditional religious ceremonies and visitors are asked to be respectful. I recall seeing a sign asking us not to photograph religious artifacts or anyone in prayer.

Summit Trail is 1.85 miles long and winds to Bear Butte’s highest point, 4,426 feet above sea level. It takes about 2-3 hours, depending on how often you stop to contemplate the meaning of life. It’s windy at the top, so bring a jacket, and there’s an amazing view of the Black Hills, Sturgis and the surrounding states.

Plans to drill oil near Bear Butte sparked controversy earlier this year when SD Department of Environment and Natural Resources’ Board of Minerals authorized Nakota Energy, LLP to construct up to 24 oil wells one and one-half miles west of Bear Butte. And about 360 acres of the oil field were within the Bear Butte National Historic Landmark boundary. The South Dakota Historic Preservation Office and many American Indian groups quickly objected because laws protecting cultural, archaeological and historic sites were not obeyed.

This spring the board did revoke the original permit and granted a new one with stricter guidelines. Now only five wells can be drilled and they must not be within view from Highway 79. I assume you will still be able to see them from the summit of the butte. Personally I would prefer the landscape not be marred. I’d rather not have to see any oil wells at all near one of my favorite hiking spots in South Dakota.

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Hunting’s Odd Couple

By Lee Schoenbeck

“Welcome Hunters, and Your Owners Too” the local vet’s marquee announced. If you are a hunter with hunting dogs, then you appreciate the reality that you feed them for ten months so you can play with them for two. But if you have ever been along on a pheasant hunt, you know that it’s the dog that makes the deal. No matter the claims made to fame, it’s not the warrior, it’s not his weapon, it’s his hunting dog that makes a good South Dakota pheasant hunt happen.

The requirements placed on a hunting dog, to be successful, is more than a little unusual. To fully appreciate it, get down on all fours. Not on your living room carpet, but in the nearest corn stubble field or slough. Now put your nose on the ground and run hard for ten yards, or until your nose falls off, whichever occurs first. Yet a good hunting dog will do that drill all day long, no matter what the weather. While you have your face down in that field, notice all the smells. A good hunting dog ignores the rabbits, the deer and whatever the cattle left, to focus on the apparently unique subtle scent of the wily ringneck. This hunting dog gig is no small feat.

At the other end of the equation, ask the hunter about his hunting dog and you will be surprised to learn how many South Dakota hunting dogs purport to speak the Queen’s English. The later in the evening you ask, at one of the local watering holes in Oacoma or Gregory or Gettysburg, the likelihood the hunter’s dog will be reported as capable of performing higher math increases exponentially.

Seriously, here are a few pointers if you are inclined to join the ranks of hunters with hunting dogs.

Don’t buy your dog on a whim at a DU banquet after too much refreshment. Owning and training a dog is no prefab program — it takes commitment.

Don’t overfeed your dog. The two cups a day of quality food is really all your dog needs, and your dog will hunt better and live healthier if you stick to recommended rations — even as small as they seem compared to the size of your dog.

Feed your dog a good brand of food. There is a direct relationship between the amount of cleaning you will do in the kennel, and the quality the food your dog consumes. It doesn’t need to be a designer brand, but a good one. I’m not sure if Bernie allows for commercial product placement plugs here — but if diamonds were good enough for your wife, then Diamond may be a good choice for your dog.

Control and training is everything in the hunter / dog relationship. If you have a hunter acquaintance that you never want to see again, take an untrained dog and a really loud whistle along on your next hunt with him. On the other hand, if you want to see your Facebook friend requests quadruple — train your dog. A good rule of thumb is ten minutes a day, twice a day, every day. For a half century the best books on dog training, they could be called Dog Training for Dummies, are those written by Richard Wolters in the 1960s — try Game Dog for starters.

Nothing wrong with a spare. My hunting buddy of many years lost his dog the week before”the opener” and moped through the fall dogless — half a hunting team — a shadow of his former self. The next year, I bought and trained a second dog. Who wants to be that poor dogless hunter schmuck? A few years later we relocated, and a new hunting buddy had three dogs. If two’s good, who am I to argue with three? Life doesn’t get much better than working birds over three dogs in heavy cover, and they never make you be a blocker (the guys that people are shooting towards).

Pick a breed that fits your hunting environment. If you pick up a Pheasants Forever magazine, you will see many articles promoting the attributes of dogs that have no apparent ability to survive hunting in sub-zero weather or snow over two feet deep. These are pretty dogs; they just aren’t South Dakota hunting dogs. The most versatile and practical hunting dog to own in the pheasant capitol of the world is a Labrador retriever. They can hunt in wind chills of 50 below (maybe more, but that’s the limit this hunter has tested), live in outdoor kennels year round, and love you like the woman of your dreams (that would be you, honey, if you happen to be reading this).

The relationship between a hunter and his dog is a special one. Taking a break on a sunny afternoon hunt, lying on a South Dakota hillside, with your best dog’s head resting on your lap, is about as peaceful as it gets. Dogs have a funny way about them. If you’re their hunter, they love you. They own you, they make you feed them and walk them twice a day, but for that you get unconditional love. The part about making you look good in the field is just an incidental benefit that man’s best friend provides for the hunter he owns.

Lee Schoenbeck resides near Watertown with his wife Donna, two of their four children and four dogs. He is certified as a Civil Trial Specialist by the National Board of Trial Advocacy. His website is www.schoenbecklaw.com.