Train Fever Gets In Your Blood

Across the Fence #562

My earliest recollection of trains is the train that ran on the tracks that went along the southern edge of the farm where I was born and lived until I was nine years old. The trains ran between Viroqua and Westby, and then from Westby one route traveled down to Coon Valley and Chaseburg, the other headed for Sparta. Those early trains were powered by steam locomotives that belched black smoke from their smokestacks. When we were out in the fields we would wave to the engineer as the train went by and he would blow the whistle. That was exciting for us. People could ride the train from Viroqua to Westby and beyond. 

I never did have a ride on the train. Meanwhile, Linda got to ride on the Zephyr passenger train that went between Dubuque and La Crosse, where she had relatives that they visited. She was in grade school at the time and rode with her grandfather and her oldest brother, Larry. It would've been quite an adventure to ride a passenger train along the Mississippi River. They got to climb up the stairs into the dome car and sit there during the trip. What a view that must have been.

Even though I never got to ride on a train when I was young, perhaps that early exposure to trains instilled the love of trains. Also our neighbor friends, Trygve and Joel Thompson had a Lionel train. If there was a commandment “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s train,” I’d have to plead guilty! Two cars in particular fascinated me. One was a cattle car where the doors opened and little, black cattle would move through a stockyard and enter the car. It was like magic! They also had a refrigerated milk car. When the train stopped next to a platform, the door opened and a little man would swing out and set milk cans on the platform. You loaded the silver cans through a door in the roof of the car. It was also magic! We’d lie on the floor at their house and play with the train and I was mesmerized. 

I desperately wanted a Lionel train. For several years it was at the top of my Christmas list for Santa, but come Christmas morning, no Lionel train was to be found. Dad would say that Santa thought I was too young for an electric train. One year we got a little wind-up train that went around in a circle. It wasn’t a Lionel train, but at least it was a train.  

After the magic of Santa was gone, I still wanted a Lionel train, but it never materialized. Finally, one year Dad said I was too old for a train. I had gone from being too young to being too old. Such is life.

I also learned a valuable life lesson. You can’t always get everything you want, when you want it.

Many years later, when I was twenty-eight years old, Santa (actually my brother David), gave me a Lionel train for Christmas. He found it at a second-hand store. Even though I was a “big kid,” I was as excited as a little one! Good things come to those who wait. Over the years I added cars and accessories to my Lionel layout. I would buy old, used equipment from a second hand store in Madison. For five dollars I could get a box full of cars, track, switches, and equipment. I still have all those old cars that I picked up years ago. 

Now our grandson, Sean, loves trains. There’s a cartoon on TV called “Chuggington,” that he loves to watch. Chuggington cars, wooden track, and equipment are available to purchase in stores. Sean has a lot of those little cars and will play for hours with them. 

Last year, Tim, Sean, and I went to the big train show in Milwaukee. Sean was in seventh heaven. I guess you could say all three of us enjoyed the show, especially the Lionel displays. Sean would get his face right down by the tracks and watch the trains come around the layout and head straight for him. 

On Sean’s second birthday, we all went to the Railroad Museum at North Freedom. The highlight of the visit was riding on an old passenger train. When we came to the end of the line, the engineer invited Sean to come up in the locomotive with him. That was pretty intimidating for a two-year-old. He probably thought the train would take off and leave the rest of us behind. I think his father, Tim, was more disappointed that they didn't get to ride in the engine on the return trip. Sean loves riding on the train whenever we go to the Milwaukee County Zoo. He also loves riding the train at Peck’s Farm Market near Spring Green.

North Freedom Train Museum

I now have a 4 foot by 8 foot Lionel layout in our basement. Sean loves it. When they come to visit he heads for the basement door and wants to go downstairs. Once he even got down on the floor and was trying to look under the door, hoping to get a glimpse of the train. When train fever gets in your blood it’s hard to get rid of it.

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Stay Out of the Oat Bin

Across the Fence #561

A ride through Amish Country and seeing fields filled with shocks of oats or an old abandoned threshing machine, rekindles memories of days long ago. What was once a common sight on most farms is now the exception, unless you take a drive through Amish Country.

I still remember the threshing machine powered by a steam engine at our farm when I was very young. Neighbors would go from farm to farm with their teams of horses, and later with tractors, to help each other harvest the oats. It was a great time and very exciting to us young kids.

Don't know who the men on the threshing machine are.

My cousin, Sandy, who was three years older than me, lived with us. We were more like brother and sister than cousins. 

Sandy and Howard. Notice she has hold of my hand. Probably tying to keep me out of the oat bin... or dragging me to it. :-)

We were too young to help, but it was exciting to watch all the action. We’d sit for hours at a safe distance and watch the threshing crew as they drove their wagons alongside the big, rumbling threshing machine and unload the shocks of oats. They’d pitch the shocks onto a conveyor belt and they would disappear into the big, gray machine. The straw and chaff would blow out the end of a long pipe and into a pile of straw that grew larger as the day went on. The separated oats would come out another opening where a man holding a gunnysack would catch them. When a sack was full, it was set aside and another was used. Eventually, the full sacks were loaded on another wagon and hauled to the granary where they were dumped into the oat bins.

I remember the whole process as being hot and dusty, with the air filled with the blowing chaff from the dry straw. It would stick to the sweaty arms and faces of the men and was not a good place to be if you suffered from hay fever! 

Sometimes, Sandy and I would get to ride with Dad to the field on the empty wagon. Then he’d hoist each of us onto the backs of the large work horses and we’d ride on the horses while he picked up the shocks and loaded them on the wagon. We hung on for dear life to the silver balls on the horse collar as the horses slowly walked along pulling the wagon. We thought we were king and queen of the world perched high up on those huge horses. When the wagon was full, he lifted us off the horses and set us on top of the load of oats for the ride back to the threshing machine. Then we’d get to drink cold water out of the same Mason jar as the “real” workers. That water was often stained with tobacco juice!

While we were having fun “helping” thresh, my mother and grandmother were busy in the kitchen preparing huge meals for all the hungry threshing crew. When I was older I heard neighbors tell how they loved to help at our place because of the great meals they received!     

When the threshing was done, the oat bins were filled to the top. Dad repeatedly cautioned us not to go in the oat bins. He said the oats were like quicksand. We could drown if we crawled in the bin and tried to walk on the oats. 

Well, that’s all we had to hear, “Don’t do something,” and we knew we needed to try it!  One day Sandy and I headed for the granary. We made sure no one was watching before we opened the door and went inside. We closed the door behind us so no one would see that we’d ventured in where we’d been told not to go. Sandy climbed up the side of the bin, went over the top, and stepped into the oats. I followed. My brother, David, was too young at the time to climb up the bin. 

We ventured out on the oats, which we quickly found were very slippery. Just as Dad had warned us, it was like quicksand. We started sinking and began to panic. We suddenly found ourselves up to our waists. The harder we struggled, the more it sucked us in! We couldn’t get out and were really scared. I think people could literally “drown” in an oats bin. 

Sandy being older and taller, with longer arms, was finally able to reach the edge and grabbed hold of a board. She managed to pull herself out of the oats. Once she was in a position where she could hold onto the side of the bin, she reached out and grabbed my arm. After much struggling, she finally pulled me to safety also. 

I don’t remember this part, but Sandy said later, we clung to the side of the oat bin, our little hearts beating a mile a minute, with tears running down our cheeks. It had really put a scare into both of us.

Needless to say, we didn’t try that again. We also didn’t tell anyone what we had done out of fear of being punished, especially not the folks. Not until many years later did we admit to our oat bin adventure!

Sandy and I must have been quite a handful for my folks when we were young! In later years, I told Sandy, it must have been her that always got us into trouble. It certainly couldn’t have been me!

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Eating Out

Across theFence #560

Does anyone eat at home these days? My mother and grandmothers were constantly cooking and baking from morning until night. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with coffee time sandwiched in between breakfast and lunch, and between lunch and dinner. By the way, did you call it dinner or supper? We called it supper. 

Almost all meals were eaten at home. Going out to eat was for special occasions and was usually a trip to the root beer stand for a hot dog. Once in a while when Dad was in town to pick up or deliver something, he stopped at the local, hometown cafe where all the boys gathered to drink coffee while exchanging gossip. Drinking coffee was accompanied by the shaking of dice to see who would have to buy the coffee. There was much bravado and conversation as each person vigorously shook the dice container and then slammed it down on the table. I think each table and booth was equipped with dice. I don't see or hear dice being played for coffee any more. I wonder if this is something of the past also. 

In most local restaurants, one thing that hasn't changed is a place where people gather each day to drink coffee and discuss the local news and problems of the world. Everything is debated and solved during these morning and afternoon get-togethers. Every small town needs a local cafe where people can gather in a special area and talk and argue. 

Aside from an occasional trip to the root beer stand and local cafe, a big outing for us was going to a supper club for a special occasion. Remember those fancy dining places called supper clubs. There are still a few of them around. The only time you went to a supper club was for supper or dinner, whichever you called it. That trip to the supper club usually included a cocktail before the meal. This was the one time when you got to order a real steak. It was real beef, not just a tough, old Jersey cow that we had butchered. Those old cows included a lot of chewing to eat it. 

Before the main course was brought out at the supper club, the waitress brought a relish tray that was on a “Lazy Susan.” Remember those relish trays that had a limited variety of vegetables; usually celery, carrots, radishes, breadsticks, and assorted crackers. Things have come a long way since those simple relish trays. Now we have extensive salad bars that can be a meal in itself. People rate supper clubs, not just by the entrées, but also by how extensive their salad bar is. I’ve been known to order just the salad bar and I’ve never gone away hungry.

At some point Friday night became fish night in Wisconsin. I don't recall going out for fish when I was young. If we did go out on Friday night it was just to the root beer stand again. Sometimes we got to share an order of French fries. That was a real treat. If we had fish on Friday, it was fish we had caught in the Mississippi River and Ma had cooked up. It was usually loaded with bones and was tricky to eat. It was certainly not like the boneless fish we eat at restaurants on Friday nights now.   

Nowadays fast food has taken over a big portion of our eating. When I was young the root beer stand would have been our fast food place. I still remember going to my first McDonald's in La Crosse. We walked up to the window and ordered. There was no indoor seating. 

Now there are all kinds of fast food places and restaurants that specialize in certain types of foods. There’s Mexican, Chinese, French, Italian, vegetarian, pancakes, Sushi, tacos, chicken, and the list goes on and on.

Sushi isn’t on my list of restaurants I’d go out of my way to visit, but each person has their favorites. I know a lot of people who enjoy raw fish, including our kids. The closest thing to raw fish for me is lutefisk. I think I’ll stick with that.

I realize I haven’t mentioned pizza. There are lots of pizza palaces too. We love pizza, and it seems like every pizza has a different flavor. We didn’t have any pizza restaurants when I was young. The only place I remember getting a pizza was at South Lanes Bowling Alley in La Crosse.

Times have certainly changed since the days when almost every meal was eaten at home. Now I wonder what percentage of our meals are eaten out at some sort of eating establishment? Every day of the week offers us a different menu. We have fast food establishments, local cafes, specialty restaurants, pizza restaurants, and supper clubs. What would our parents think of all this eating out? It certainly would have made Ma’s life a lot easier if she could have been fed by others at restaurants, instead of constantly cooking and feeding her family and others. I wonder what changes in eating habits we’ll see in the next 50 years? 

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Milkweed and Monarchs

Across the Fence #559


It’s time to give the Monarch butterfly a little time in the sun. Some say monarch butterflies are the most beautiful butterflies and are considered the ”king” of the butterflies, hence the name “monarch.”

My small patch of milkweed near the house is growing, and the caterpillars have been busy eating on them. This is the start of what I hope will be an expanding crop of milkweed. Last spring while walking down by the pond, I came across some milkweed plants where the pods were still intact. I removed the pods and took them home; where I opened them and let the seeds fall on the ground in a corner where our four-season room is located. I had forgotten about doing that until I noticed a bunch of milkweed plants one day. I’ll use those plants this fall when they ripen and spread them over a larger area, including the area where our septic is located. That works two ways: camouflaging the septic area and providing a food source for the caterpillars of the monarch butterflies. The important thing is they will be far enough away from the fields, where cutting and herbicides would kill them. They are also away from the road ditches where crews are constantly destroying all the wildflowers and habitat for wildlife, bees, and butterflies.

We’ve always had a lot of monarchs around our place. Milkweed plants used to be plentiful along the fence line behind our house. I try to protect them but they keep disappearing. Mowing and herbicides wipe out most of them. I’d hate to see the day when that fence line and all the natural habitat that grows alongside the fence, is destroyed. Milkweed plants are essential for the life cycle of the monarch butterfly. I think that’s why we still see a lot of them when many people say they’ve only seen one or two all year. At least we still have a small crop of milkweed.

When the caterpillar feeds on the milkweed plant it ingests cardiac glycoside. This substance gives the monarch a foul taste and they are poisonous to birds and other predators. When birds see those bright yellow and orange colored butterflies, they know they need to avoid them.

Most people don’t give much thought to the extraordinary life cycle of the monarch. Ever since I first learned that those little fellas fly up to three thousand miles south to spend the winter in central Mexico, I knew there was something special about them. At the Mexico wintering sites, the butterflies roost in the Oyamel trees, a species of evergreen. They form large communities numbering in the millions of individuals. Illegal logging of those trees in Mexico is destroying much of their habitat and in 2012-13 a survey showed a 92% decrease in the monarch population when compared with the 1996-97 count. That’s alarming.

I realize not everyone gets excited about a little butterfly. They are certainly not on the agenda of the endless parade of presidential hopefuls. In reality, it would probably be the death knell of their campaign if they came out in favor of saving a lowly butterfly. Such actions would undoubtedly cut into the profits of the large donors who fill the campaign pockets of the candidates. They will dictate their wishes to the candidates who will then swing in whatever direction the large corporate donors want them to swing. Pesticides and herbicides create large profits. Natural habitat will have to be sacrificed to make way for larger fields to accommodate larger machinery. Loss of habitat and butterflies are just a couple small pieces of the universe that are disposable and not essential to most people. 

I think the loss of the monarch butterfly would create a huge hole in the fabric of the universe that would be hard to replace.

In my opinion, I think the world would be a better place if we had more monarch butterflies and less power-hungry egos wanting to be president. Unfortunately, the number of presidential candidates keeps increasing while the number of monarchs is decreasing. 

Man has become the biggest enemy to the monarch and their source of food. The yearly decrease in their population has been linked to the decrease of the milkweed plant that provides their primary food source. 

Hopefully, I can keep adding to their food source, one milkweed plant at a time. If enough of us provided a small patch of milkweed, it would start to add up. I’d rather have a back yard full of milkweed plants, wild flowers, and monarch butterflies, than a bunch of grass that needed to be mowed down each week. 

We can still save the monarch butterfly by not destroying its entire habitat and food source. My hope is that enough people are willing to do that?

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The First Peoples

Across the Fence #558


Recently I watched a PBS program called “First Peoples,” a documentary series, that covers the evolution of man in light of recent discoveries, such as the ability to sequence gnomes and ancient DNA studies. 200,000 years ago we took our first steps on the African savanna. Today there are 7 billion of us living on every corner of planet earth. How did our ancestors beat the odds, spread from continent to continent and survive? 

Researchers now think that early man evolved simultaneously in a number of places across Africa instead of just eastern Africa. The series includes clips with biologists and other researchers who explain their work and the new discoveries that are directly related to their work.

Scientists are beginning to realize that ours is not a pedigree species, but a patchwork quilt. We are all hybrids. I found this out when I took a DNA test and found out I carry 2.6% Neanderthal DNA. It shows that in prehistoric times, about 50,000 to 60,000 years ago, our ancestors met and mated with Neanderthals. As someone who has had a great interest in the technology and findings of Anthropology and Archeology, I find it interesting that for years we thought Neanderthals were wiped out by modern humans, because Neanderthals weren’t as intelligent as we were. Now we know that instead of fighting and killing each other when they met, as we tend to do today, they decided they would try to intermingle and get along together, instead of fight. Isn’t that a novel idea? They decided to make love not war, and that’s why I have 2.6% DNA from those ancient ancestors who were a lot smarter than researchers thought they were. 

In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, during the scene in the churchyard, Hamlet holds a skull and says, “That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once.”

Many times I’ve held a piece of history in my hands and wished it could speak also.

The PBS show got me thinking about objects that often show up in plowed fields. I think I should have gone into the field of archeology or history instead of art. I’ve always had a fascination for old things and their history.   

When I find an arrowhead I wonder about the person who created it. Someone had to sit down and chip the stone into that pointed shape. Next, they fastened it to a wooden shaft they also made. Then feathering was added at the other end to stabilize the arrow’s flight. That took a lot of time and craftsmanship.

Then I wonder how the arrowhead came to rest where it was unearthed hundreds or even thousands of years later. Was it fired at a source of food for the family?  Did it hit the target or miss and end up lost in the brush? There it lay for years, the wood shaft and feathers long ago having returned to the earth. All that survived was the stone arrowhead.

Another possibility is that it was fired at an enemy. Did it hit or miss? Did a battle between opposing tribes take place where the arrowhead was found? Or was it fired at a white man encroaching on the Native’s land?

So many questions, so few answers. As author Ben Logan once told me, “It’s the writer in us that wants to know the rest of the story.”

If only the skull that Hamlet held could talk. If only the arrowhead I hold could tell me the rest of the story.

Artifacts, including tools, artwork, and jewelry have been found. It’s believed that Neanderthals may have created the first jewelry. Necklaces made of bones and animal teeth were strung together and appear to have been bound with leather bands. Carved figures also have been discovered. Bones with holes punched in them were used as musical instruments. Those Neanderthals were not as dumb as people thought. These discoveries show that they were able to think and use their reasoning in ways to create usable items. One of those artifacts found among Neanderthal sites is a hide scraper that looks very much like one I have that was used by the Lakota on the Great Plains of North America 1,000 years ago. The one made by the Neanderthals was used 50,000 years ago. It’s interesting that an item created so long ago can still be used for the same purpose today. 

How many things that we create today will still have a use 50,000 years from now? I don't think very many of them will. That's another thing that I find fascinating about archaeology as they find more and more evidence of what our ancestors were able to do. These same weapons and items can still be used today. They’re still functional. My laptop is over eight years old and is considered a double antique. It certainly won't be working in 100 years, not even 10 years.

Another thing I think about; many of the artifacts that are found in archeological digs have to do with the arts, music, sculptures, and cave art. I find it disheartening that the arts, that were so important to our early ancestors, are being relegated to the non-essential subjects in schools today, as budgets are cut by our politicians. There’s always money for new sport stadiums, but not for the arts. 

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Haying Stories Keep stacking up.

Across the Fence #557


This is haying season and my stories about haying, haymows, and stacking bales, brought some great memories from “Across the Fence “ readers that I thought you would enjoy hearing about. 

Lets start with the empty haymow before the new hay crop was harvested. My friend, David Giffey wrote, “We built a new barn in the early 1950s, long before we had indoor plumbing in the house. Barns were always considered more important on small family farms because barns were our source of income.

When the new barn was built, my older brothers put up a basketball backboard at one end. I enjoyed playing basketball, and I assumed the barn was built for basketball. Yes, we'd fill the hayloft every summer with baled hay. But we'd start to feed the hay in the fall from the end underneath the basketball hoop. Some of your readers might recall that there were serious basketball games - even leagues - played in haylofts around Central and Northern Wisconsin in the early and mid 19th Century. 

In our barn, we played basketball wearing mittens and ear flaps because it was cold up there. Sometimes the leather ball was frozen, so dribbling was a challenge. But we played nonetheless.

I'm always happy when I see kids playing basketball on playgrounds in cities or villages. And I hope some of them still get to work on their moves in the hayloft of old barns.”

My brothers, David and Arden remember that they played basketball in the haymow of Danny and Ila Olson’s barn. I don’t remember playing there. I think I had left the farm and headed for school in Madison by the time they and Rod Olson were playing basketball in the haymow. We had a basketball hoop on the side of the old log house, but it was always a challenge dribbling on the uneven lawn with a ball that was usually under-inflated. I guess we should have put the hoop in the haymow.

Rainy days were special in an empty haymow, when you couldn’t work outside. I remember taking a paperback book up in the haymow on a rainy day, laying back in a soft pile of sweet-smelling alfalfa and clover, and listening to the rain beating on the roof and tin cupola while I got lost in the adventures of a good book. There was something special about reading in the solitude of the haymow on a rainy day. I hope other kids had that experience too. Those are some wonderful memories. 

My friend, author Jerry Apps, has some great rainy day haymow stories too. Check out this blog story: http://jerryapps.blogspot.com/2015/06/rainy-day-in-june.html

I also heard from people who remembered stacking hay.  My cousin Eric Olson, remembers when he was 15 they baled for 16 hours straight– a 1000 bales.  His Dad had Uncle Maynard build heavy-duty wagons that could hold 150 bales. “I lifted every bale 3 to 4 times, loading and unloading, so at 40 to 50 pounds each, that was at least 60 tons. No wonder 47 years later, I have back problems.”

My friend, John Cotter wrote, “One of the things I remember about baling hay is the way the wagon would move back and forth as each bale was made. A ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk sound was made by the baler. As the pistons moved back to pack the hay, the wagon would stop a little and then go forward. You were swaying on the wagon all the way down the field. You had to time your steps to walk the bale back to where the stack was so you wouldn’t slip or drop the bale. I also remember as the wagon filled, it got more difficult to stack the last row. You had to reach down standing on wobbly bales and lift the bale to put it in place. We made sure the load was full before the next wagon was attached.

Erik and Amy in the haymow by the elevator.

Another memory I have is after the load was put in the mow, the fastest way to get down to the outside and some relief from the heat of the haymow, was to slide down the elevator. You had to make sure to keep your butt up so you wouldn’t catch it on the elevator cleats. At least that is what we called them, but that is what held the bales in place as they went up to the mow.”

I remember exiting the haymow by sliding down the elevator just like John did. Then we made a direct line to the windmill and a cold drink of water.

John also had memories about how we never thought about germs. “There was a metal cup on the pump that hung outside all the time. Never washed, that I remember. We would start the pump and each take a turn getting a drink. Sure couldn’t do that today. We also would take water to the field in a glass gallon jug that was wrapped in burlap to keep it cooler. Not cold, just cooler.”

John said, “Your stories really invoke some good memories, even if they were hard work. It never killed us, which is another story. 

How do little boys become big boys? Sounds like that’s a story for another day too.

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Searching for Coulees and the Northwoods

Across the Fence #556

We take many things for granted and never give them a second thought… that is, until someone asks us a question.

I have a friend, Elmer Wischmeier, from Sedalia, Missouri, who visited us several summers ago  in Madison before we moved back to Westby. Elmer and I now go back 50 years together, but I hadn’t seen him since we left Vietnam in July, 1967.

 Going adore in Vietnam: Harlan with glasses on left, Elmer in center. I took photo.

 Still alive after spending the night on an ambush patrol! Harlan, seated, Elmer, reclining. I took photo.

During his visit, we drove to Westby one day to visit Harlan Springborn and Larry Skolos. The four of us had been in the army together. We were in the same basic training company, went ashore in Vietnam on the same landing craft, and were in the same unit while in Vietnam and spent nights together on ambush patrols in the middle of enemy territory. The four of us have a lot of history together!

L-R: Larry Skolos, Howard Sherpe, Harlan Springborn, and Elmer Wischmeier.

Before we met Harlan and Larry for lunch, I took Elmer for a ride around the Westby and Vernon County countryside to show him how beautiful Wisconsin is. We drove down Timber Coulee and I pointed out other coulees as we drove along. Then we went back up the tree-lined road through Spring Coulee with huge hills all around us. I mentioned that we would swing up on Spring Coulee Ridge Road, so he could get a different view of the coulees.  

That’s when Elmer said he had a couple of questions for me. “Doc, What’s a coulee and is this the Northwoods?” I think all the rugged, forested country we were driving through, and my pointing out every coulee we passed, raised his curiosity! 

This brings me back to my original statement that we take things for granted and never give them a second thought. I grew up around coulees and never thought to question what they were. They were just coulees. There was Timber Coulee, Spring Coulee, Mormon Coulee, and Rulland Coulee, to name a few. They were just names of places. No one had ever asked me what a coulee was before. Maybe they didn’t have coulees in Missouri, or they referred to them as “Hollers.” 

I wasn’t sure what to tell Elmer. I said it probably meant a valley. All the coulees I knew had high bluffs on both sides. “Maybe that kept it cooler in the valleys,” I said. “So they called them ‘coolies,’ meaning it was cooler there. Maybe someone who wasn’t an A student in spelling, wrote it down as coulee!” It sounded like a good, logical, Norwegian explanation to me. Never let it be said that I can’t come up with an answer to every question, even if it seems to be a lot of hot air… or cool air in this case!

I found out later, from Elnor and Marjorie Haugen in Coon Valley, that coulee is a French word. The coulees must have been named by early French fur traders. When all else fails, read the directions, or in this case the definition of coulee. I found the word “coulee” comes from the French Canadian “coulée,” from the French word “couler,” meaning “to flow.” 

In Wisconsin it refers to a gully or ravine; a narrow and steep gorge formed by thousands of years of erosion, found especially in the Driftless Area of Southwestern Wisconsin. Coulees also provide shelter from the wind, and a concentrated water supply to plants that would otherwise have a hard time surviving in areas more exposed to the sun and heat. So, at least I was right about the valley part, and according to that, it is cooler in the coulees!! 

In Vernon and Crawford Counties the coulees are certainly not little gully washers or ravines, like the definition mentions. They are “real” valleys with big hills and steep bluffs. Not only that, but they generally have a stream running through them, or as the French would say, “flowing” through them. Some people might say it’s a “creek” or a “crick,” not a stream, but that’s a whole other story! 

Now for the second part of his question, “Is this the Northwoods?” 

Well, that depends on your perspective. If you live in Missouri, like Elmer, the coulees and hills of Vernon and Crawford County, Wisconsin must seem like the Northwoods. If you live in Vernon County, Black River Falls might be considered the Northwoods. At least it was back in the days when my grandfather and many young Norwegian immigrants became lumberjacks in the winter months and cut timber in the “Northwoods” to make a living. 

If you live in Black River Falls, you might travel to Woodville to be in the Northwoods. As I said, it all depends on your perspective and where you’re at when asked the question!

The Northwoods… it may not be a specific place at all, but more a state of mind. I like to think it is, and we can go there any time we want. At least that was my explanation to Elmer.

I’d never given much thought to coulees or the Northwoods before he asked me about them. I’m glad he did. Too often we don’t appreciate or notice the uniqueness of our own surroundings until someone points them out, or asks us a question about them.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna’ head out in search of a coulee with a nice trout stream running through it.

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