Editor's Note: I wrote this article for Dakota Country magazine focusing on two gentlemen whose company I truly enjoy, Dr. Bob Nelson of Sioux Falls, and Bruce "Wickerbill" Crist of Pierre.
Wickerbill and the Clovis Man Tony Dean
Bob Nelson and "Wickerbill" are throwbacks.
"I'm a Clovis man," says Bob, "a prehistoric hunter. I know there's some Clovis man in my genes."
And if you spend any time with Wickerbill, you know he came from another time.
Now in his late 70s, Bob Nelson lives for bird dogs and prairies; stylish Brittanies and big tracts of grass with a view unmarred by telephone poles or fences. He loves the birds that frequent these places, placing no less importance on the meadowlark than he does the prairie chicken. The retired Sioux Falls surgeon will walk lesser men into the ground in quest of grouse on a September day. I know, for next to him, I discover that I am a lesser man.
"I love the way Brittanies run," he says, admiring "Spud," a youngster who Dr. Bob plans to send to Wickerbill for further schooling during the coming year. "Wickerbill" is Bruce Crist, born a hillbilly in southern Missouri. He's lived much of his life on the South Dakota prairies, and though he hasn't forgotten how to charm a gobbler in timber, he does so with calls that emanate from his throat; unaided by factory-made diaphragm types we mere mortals use. Moreover, he can mouth call nearly every bird found in America including all ducks and geese. Like Dr. Bob, Wicker is also part Clovis man.
There are few bars in central South Dakota that, at one time or another didn't sound like a flock of gobblers or a gaggle of geese as Wicker entertained his clients at the end of a day in the field. Some say he mouth-called best when he lubricated his throat with more than a few cocktails. He's never held a real job, at least the kind most think of when they think of work, but he's attained success. He's considered by most that have spent a day with him in a picked cornfield surrounded by decoys, as one of the savviest waterfowlers to ever set a spread. And he drinks a lot less these days.
Yet, the drinks and cigarettes have taken a toll and even Wicker doubts he'll ever grow as old as Dr. Bob. Probably couldn't even if he'd led an alcohol and tobacco-free life. See, Wicker's a lot like his dogs, a collection of pointers, setters and an ever present Chesapeake. Maybe that's why he's so good at training them.
"I'm a puppy myself," he chuckles. "Always will be a pup."
In "Modern Pheasant Hunting," my friend, Steve Grooms, penned one of the great leads in outdoor writing history when he wrote of his desire to be, for just one day, a springer spaniel in a cattail marsh. Writing of the intoxicating aromas the dog must surely experience in such a setting, Grooms asked, "And would I hunt close, obedient and under control? Hell no!"
When I related that lead to Wicker, he responded, "Yeah, that's me."
Wicker’s education did not run past high school but he's a pretty good self-teacher. Few know more about the ancient sport of falconing than he does and you should not be surprised that his regular traveling companions include a pair of raptors, a gyrfalcon and a peregrine that sit perched between the seats in his dusty old Suburban. Aldo Leopold once described hunting with a falcon as the highest form of the sport.
Wicker will amaze you at the things he's read and while I've hunted with many over the past five decades, I cannot think of any whose outdoor ethics rank higher than his.
Dr. Bob grew up in Pierre, SD, went to college, then on to medical school, finally becoming a successful surgeon in South Dakota's largest city. Along the way, he developed a love for birds, dogs, prairies, trout and fly-fishing and it's hard to determine which means the most. What’s unique about Dr. Bob is that as most men who reach his age slow down, he hunts harder…and longer…than ever. Like George Foreman, Dr. Bob has improved with age.
That belies the statistics that show that even life-long anglers and hunters often lose interest in the sports after age 55. Some for health reasons, others because they've lost a fishing or hunting partner. Dr. Bob's gone through both. A duck-hunting partner died when their vehicle left an icy highway and rolled while they were enroute to a marsh. That was tough for the good Doctor. So was the bout with hepatitis that nearly claimed his life.
"I needed something to keep me going," he explained. "So I spent far more than I could afford on a quality, handmade side by side 28 gauge. I reasoned that if I could make it back to good health, I'd be able to hunt with a gun that I normally would never buy.”
The incentive worked. He not only survived hepatitis; he seems stronger than ever.
Wickerbill is a superb taxidermist. His mounted fish and birds have a "live" look.
Dr. Bob is good with his hands too and excels at building ornate shell and jewelry boxes from walnut. I have one of the former and it is among my proudest possessions. To give you an idea of how beautiful that box is, consider that my wife thought it foolish to carry shotgun shells in it. I won the argument only because I explained that Dr. Bob would come and take it back if I used it for anything but its intended purpose.
Different backgrounds, ages, education levels, even skills; yet in the end, Dr. Bob and Wickerbill find themselves on the same playing field in September, walking the magnificent mixed grass prairies on the Fort Pierre National Grasslands where they share a love for things wild and free...and for the land.
Both would have fit in well with another guy I was privileged to know; the late Roy Houck. He ranched along the Missouri River in central South Dakota, served in the legislature and ultimately became Lt. Governor during Joe Foss's term as Governor. Houck and Foss weren't friends. In fact, they disliked each other. That's another story, of course but I bring Roy into this one because, like Wicker and Dr. Bob, he loved the land.
Though nearly all of us in the Dakotas have some tie to it, the mere fact that more land is owned by fewer people these days, makes it hard to not envy those fortunate enough to own more than an acre or two. You see, they have the ability to manage for healthy land that nearly always produces more of everything including wildlife. If, like the vast majority of us who do not own enough land to make a difference, all you can do is watch or hope, in some way, to affect the process. And, if you do not own land, it hurts even more to see some that do, squander its resources.
I remember countless pasture pickup trips with Roy. We'd park atop a bluff overlooking a gully that no longer carried silt to the Missouri River. Instead, hand-planted willows held the soil in place. On the Houck ranch, once a badly used piece of real estate he came to own after losing his original ranch to the rising waters of Lake Oahe, Roy took charge and managed it to heal it. To hike across the prairies on the Triple U Ranch where the grass was always taller, was to realize that the grass is the glue that holds our fragile prairie together. It is rare you see the same quality on public lands, though the Fort Pierre National Grasslands are a notable exception. The results of superb management are as evident today as they were two decades ago when I made those enjoyable and frequent trips with Roy. He used to deliver a couple of lines the way you'd expect some biblical character to do.
"Take care of the land and it will take care of you."
"I'm only the temporary caretaker and I want to leave it better than I found it."
Yeah, Roy was sort of a Clovis man too.
I see the same love of land everytime I leave I-94 at the Medina exit and head north of town toward Ray Heupel's place. He has restored more wetlands than anyone I know has and when you mention it, it's hard for him to hide the pride he feels. He loves trees too and there's no healthier or larger shelterbelt, I believe, anywhere in the Dakotas than the one on the north side of his immaculate farm.
And pheasants.
I think that on the Heupel farm, there's a tree for every ringneck.
I see it too on Dennis Fagerlund's ranch in the coteau hills not far from Fort Sisseton in northeastern South Dakota. There's been so much runoff in his area during the 1990s that his farmstead is nearly surrounded by water.
"Yeah, the birds do keep us awake sometimes but I love it," he says.
Dennis has also restored many wetlands and frankly admits he hopes the high water sticks around for a while. A few years back, he won a major conservation award for his land and water restoration efforts.
"I sometimes have to remind my son, Seth, of how lucky he is," Dennis said. "He'll always have a place to hunt as long as we own this land and hopefully, he'll get as much satisfaction as I have in leaving it better than I found it."
You begin to understand why Dennis does what he does when you spend an afternoon at the edge of one of his potholes waiting for ducks. Or sharing a fishing boat with him at a nearby lake. Or ice fishing on one of the "new" lakes the high runoff has created.
To Dennis, the ability to take good natural resources and make them even better is of the highest calling. And in fact, it's that same passion that is shared by Dennis and Ray and was most certainly a part of the late Roy Houck. One of the big advantages of growing up on a farm or ranch is that knowing the origin of your food is not a mystery.
The fact there were once 70,000 plus farms and ranches in either of the Dakotas while today the numbers have slipped to slightly more than 20,000, provides us ample reasons so many feel so much farther from the land. Fewer people own more acres.
Which brings us back to the Clovis man; Dr. Bob, and Wickerbill.
Hunting...and fishing...are a couple of the few things in our society that enable us to experience that connection that was once such a big part of most of us. Dr. Bob and Wickerbill understand the connection. That's why, for men like them, and presumably many of us, time is measured not so much by the calendar is it is from the end of one season to the start of the next.
If you page back to the Letters column in this edition of Dakota Country, you'll find my response to a letter from Kenneth Brenden, as well as Ken's letter. And if you go back to the article I wrote in last month's Dakota Country, to which Mr. Brenden objected, you might ask yourself exactly where it is that we disagreed? I know that's how I felt after doing that. So, before I wrote my response, I phoned Ken at his farm home. His mailing address is Souris, ND, but actually, he lives close to Landa, a very small community in Bottineau County. Since I hunted snow geese a goodly portion of the last 30 autumns in Bottineau County, there aren't many gravel backroads there I haven't traveled. When we talked, Ken suspected that I'd hunted on his land. I hadn't, though I'd recognize it. In fact, when he described where he lived, I had no trouble picturing the farm. That’s how many times I’ve been in that area over the last three decades. Though we had some minor disagreements, I still believe we agree on more than that on which we disagree. In fact, it was a pleasant conversation. We're not far apart in age, though he is a bit older. I'd have been starting the first grade when he entered Jr. High, close enough to the point we both remembered when Dakota kids thought nothing of taking their 22 rifles or shotguns to school so they could hunt on the way home.
It's obvious times have changed and events that have occurred have played major roles in changing those times. Neither of us grew up in a communications age when disagreements on giant and oval screens often erupted in gunfire from Ouzis or AK47s. The Gene Autrey's and Roy Rogers of our boyhood’s always shot straight and did good deeds. Some of the movies that play today, ("Scarface" comes to mind) offer little distinction between good and evil. It's all evil. And, it seems every school shooting triggers another.
Those of us who have grown up in rural areas understand both where our food comes from and the fact that guns, by themselves, aren't instruments of the Devil. Yet, if you look at America's population, it's apparent that very few have grown up on a farm or ranch or even in a small town in farm or ranch country. Is it any wonder that we deal with people who think the answer to gun violence lies in banning them?
But, there’s an even bigger problem facing us if we wish to keep our guns. Fewer people are hunting each year. Some of it is due to age and health. And kids aren't going into blood sports the way they did when I was a boy. Yet, for many of us who no longer own a piece of land in good hunting country, the connection to it is more important than ever because if we lose that tie, the Dakota landscape will never remain the same. People who lose that connection do not fear wetland drainage, habitat degradation or polluted water. In fact, I wonder how many Americans, since the beginning of the age of bottled water, believe their drinking water comes from the grocery store?
No friends, to understand where we’re headed, it is important we understand history, that we know where we’ve been. After all, without that knowledge, we can’t plan an intelligent roadmap into the future.
That’s why it’s important there always will be a Dr. Bob and a Wickerbill, those Clovis men who, in their own ways, help tie each of us to our past.
