My Children's Redwoods

My dad grew up on a farm in Shawnee Mission, Kansas during the depression. To put food on the table they hunted rabbit, quail, and pheasant. In the winter they butchered their own pigs and ran them up in a windmill till they froze. Then he and my grandfather would put them into wooden barrels in layers of lard.

My dad never taught me anything about hunting, or fishing, or slaughtering a pig. I don't have that connection with the land.

Spread out for miles across Lake Winnebago and elsewhere are the ice shanties where fishermen crouch in complete darkness with their spears. They've cut a hole up to 48 square feet through 3 feet of ice waiting for a prehistoric shadow to pass below.

The Wisconsin Dept of Natural Resources reports that 5,863 people applied for sturgeon licenses. Dotted around the lakes and rivers are government stations where fish are checked in and recorded. Spectators gather to see the catch.

An intimidating figure wearing a black ski hat and black wrap-around sunglasses gestures with a knife as the children draw near. Behind him is a specimen frozen, caked with snow, blood, and ice. He slices open her belly and searches for roe. He explains to the innocent faces and their parents that the black flecks are eggs that were not laid, that they were absorbed into her system.

The record for sturgeon in Wisconsin was 87.5 inches long and weighed 240 pounds. They believe that the fish was over 125 years old.