Dave Cieslewicz
Photos of Dave's box blind with new stairs and shelf.
Deer hunting is mostly about anticipation and memory.
Hunters dream about and plan for their hunt for months in advance. Then they spend much of their deer camp evenings telling stories of what happened or what might have happened during their day alone in the woods. When those stories are exhausted they move on to old favorites from years past.
I like to tell a story about one late Sunday evening about 20 years ago when my friend Brad shot a big doe on the wrong side of the steepest ridge on Jordy’s farm. We found ourselves as the only two guys left in camp and so we had to drag the doe down the ridge (it was too heavy for just the two of us to get it up the slope) and through the neighbor’s fields.
That might have been fine, except the neighbor was an eccentric recluse, named Bob, with mean dogs (we didn’t know their names) and —we guessed with strong evidence — a working shotgun. What he didn’t have was a working phone, so we couldn’t call him in advance to let him know what we were doing.
As we dragged the doe down the slope and onto the neighbor’s field it began to sleet as the light began to fade. We dragged her right past Bob’s house. We discussed knocking on his door to let him know we were there, but concluded that it was as likely that we’d get shot in the chest doing that as we’d get shot in the back doing this.
We trudged on and when we finally reached the road, I commented that we were lucky not to have been confronted by Bob’s dogs. “What?” said Brad. “You didn’t see them circling us the whole time?”
Now, it’s possible that every year I tell this story the hour becomes later, the ridge gets steeper, the doe grows heavier, the sleet comes down harder, Bob gets closer to picking up his shotgun and the dogs are nipping ever more closely at our heels.
It’s possible. But I doubt it. I maintain that I tell this story with fastidious accuracy year after year, if anything downplaying the Valley of Death through which we came that stormy evening. I also maintain that Brad never tires of hearing how he nearly got me killed for the sake of what was, admittedly, a pretty nice doe. I’m sure I’m right in this assumption.
So, there’s a little taste of the memories that get shared. Now for the anticipation.
The box blind I hunt from needed new stairs. The blind is one of the oldest ones on the farm, having been constructed by Jordy and his father, Bud, maybe, I don’t know, 25 years ago. As Bud grew older, Jordy built stairs — an amenity not provided for other blinds on the farm — to make it easier for Bud to get in and out.
The blind was set on another ridge (not the one on which I was nearly killed while helping my friend Brad drag his deer out so many years ago) with a lovely, some might say breathtaking, south-facing view of the rolling valleys of the Driftless. From that high ground you can see the sun come up over your left shoulder and watch all day as it arcs across the sky and sets right in front of you and just a little to your right.
Incidentally, it was also a great place to see deer. After several years up there in the most remote place on his property, Bud started to stay closer to the farmhouse and, somehow, I inherited that stand. I shot a big buck in 2002 and won my first mayoral election four months later. I shot a second nice buck in 2006 and won reelection four months later. I had a clean shot at the biggest buck of all from that stand in 2010, but I missed…and I lost reelection to a third term four months later. I am not a superstitious person. I am just reporting the facts here.
Anyway, about a decade ago, higher deer camp authorities decided that a new blind would be constructed, looming over my spot, towering at over 12 feet, three times higher than mine. The old blind was given its eviction papers, but I was allowed to have some input into the new site selection. I chose a site below the ridge but in a spot with a similar beautiful view down the same valley.
The stairs accompanied the stand on its move. But they were already weather- beaten by that point and the move did them no favors. They had to be sawed off and then repositioned. Every time I got into or out of that stand, while it brought fond memories of Bud, it also brought to mind the prospect of crashing through one of the steps, breaking an ankle and putting me in no position to help Brad should he, yet again, unwisely shoot a monster doe on a the wrong side of a cliff late on a Sunday evening in a driving blizzard.
Matters were made worse this summer when a big maple tree came down in a windstorm, crashing right onto the stand, busting the roof off and embedding itself in one of the walls.
Jordy and I considered the options, from complete stand removal to leaving the tree where it was to provide clever, yet natural, camouflage, with deer being led to believe that no hunter could have survived that disaster. Surprise.
In the end we chose to remove the tree, replace the roof and mend the wall. And while we were at it, I decided to build new stairs. This is harder than you might think. It’s 45 inches from the ground to the floor of the blind and so I figured I’d build stairs that were 45 inches tall.
But wait. The stairs are at an angle. So, we have to consult our old friend Pythagoras. Of course, we all remember from our sophomore year of high school that: “The hypotenuse is opposite the right angle and can be solved by using the Pythagorean theorem. In a right triangle with cathetus a and b and with hypotenuse c, Pythagoras' theorem states that: a² + b² = c². To solve for c, take the square root of both sides to get c = √(b²+a²). We can consider this extension of the Pythagorean theorem as a ‘hypotenuse formula.’”
We could do that. Or we could just cut to the chase and plug 45 inches into the good old Pythagorean theorem calculator. Turns out my steps needed to be 63 inches long.
But, even with that, you’d be surprised how many detailed questions come up when all a guy’s trying to do is build a simple set of stairs. How many stairs should there be? How tall do you want each step to be (the riser) and how deep do you want the stair landing area (the treads)? Those answers then lead to other decisions about cutting the stairs out of your lumber. Always conscious of costs, I wanted to build the stairs out of no more than two pieces of 8-foot by 1-foot lumber. That consideration dictated only three stairs, which meant risers that were taller than code in Richland County. Do not report this to county authorities, please, though it’s possible that in a place as sane as Richland County there is no oppressive government regulation of deer stand stairs.
I built the stairs in my shop and then installed them on the stand a couple weeks later. I was a little unsure about whether Pythagoras would still hold up after 2,600 years. But, much to my relief, the laws of the universe and sophomore geometry class hold even after what happened on Nov. 5. Sixty-three inches remains the right answer just as it would have 26 centuries ago and as, I trust, it will for future deer hunters 26 centuries from now.
But I didn’t stop there. I also installed a handy little shelf. For 33 years of deer hunting I have always had to juggle my Thermos and coffee cup and my “fun size” leftover Halloween candy bars in my lap. Now I have a shelf. It took me only a little better than three decades to come upon this solution. Some might argue that this has more to do with explaining my loss in my last election than missing that buck. Let’s not dwell on this point.
So, now I’m all dialed in and I’ll be ready to go at 6:37 on Saturday morning, the first moment of the first day of the 2024 gun deer season in Wisconsin. My stand has safe stairs and comforts and amenities undreamed of in previous years. The days of anticipation are nearing their end.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll even shoot a deer this year, as I haven’t since 2018. But that would be almost beside the point. When this season ends for me on Monday, I’ll start thinking about next year. A foot rest might be nice.
Dave Cieslewicz is a Madison- and Upper Peninsula-based writer who served as mayor of Madison from 2003 to 2011. You can read more of his work at Yellow Stripes & Dead Armadillos.
