Wisconsin deer are in a rut this time of year, really

Fresh fallen autumn leaves, ankle deep, included yellow, gray, red, pale coffee brown, and orange colors. Others were green, and many were crisp and crunchy. This layer provided a pleasant whooshing sound as we trekked through the trails of my childhood friend’s 160 acres in Wisconsin’s wilderness in mid-October.

This wooded wonderland — 2,155 miles from Cambria — seems in such stark contrast to the Central Coast that it could be on another planet.

Roughly sixty percent of the trees on both sides of those enchanting trails were bare. The quaking aspens still sported their bright yellow leaves. For the record, they only “quake” in a breeze. When the wind blows powerfully, they vibrate against the sky in a wild rhythmic dance.

The sturdy community of oak trees kept their leaves pretty well, creating a natural world canvas of deep burgundies, yellow, dark greens and pale orange across the ancient rolling hillsides, carved by glaciers during the last Pleistocene Period (ice age), more than 10,000 years ago.

But the black walnut trees, the elms, white ash and the ubiquitous birch trees, were pretty well devoid of foliage. Tiny red-orange “bittersweet berries” provided some cheerful color, along with vivid red flowers on sumac bushes.

We were startled when a spooked grouse fluttered loudly out of the thicket a few feet from the trail. The temperature was in the low 40s, but the biting north wind made it seem like the mid-20s.

Alpha buck battleground

In this nasty political season we keep hearing that Wisconsin is, along with other regions, a “battleground state.” But the only battles on my friend’s 160 acres are between alpha bucks. I arrived in the middle of a fascinating phenomenon — the annual whitetail rut. Big bucks are vying for breeding rights, and they don’t conceal their passion for carnal endeavors.

Nor do they tolerate a yearling buck attempting to approach an attractive doe that may be entering her estrous phase, during which she is receptive to breeding. The estrous phase lasts up to 72 hours, and the doe can go into estrous as many as seven times.

This is unbridled fertility — nature’s way of ensuring maximum numbers of fawns are born in the spring.

Evidence of the rut was visible every few yards, as leaves were pushed aside and antler scrapes could be seen in the damp dark ground. Sometimes the marks crisscross, as though some critter is about to play a backwoods version of tic-tac-toe.

After making the scrape, the buck urinates on that spot; his scent lets the doe community know he’s in the mood and that they should be ready when he finds them.

Bucks also create “rubs” on small trees with their antlers, near the scrape; rubs leave the buck’s scent (primer pheromones) and declare his presence. The rubs also release hormonal tension in the buck. The more severe the rub, the beefier the buck is likely to be.

A civics lesson from these whitetail deer dynamics is hereby offered: If you grew weary and frustrated with being rubbed the wrong way by the recent toxic political rhetoric, and you believe that presidential politics was in a rut, welcome to the club.

Airport adventures en route home

Going through the security ritual at airports usually causes me stress. And there I was in the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport (MSP), approaching the point where they check your boarding pass and driver’s license.

A woman had a scowl on her face as I approached. “I can’t let you through here today,” she said, in a serious tone.

“Oh? What have I done?” I asked, like a guilty little boy caught with his hand in a jarful of fresh cookies that were earmarked for a nearby homeless shelter.

“It’s that shirt,” she said.

I was wearing Packer gear in Minnesota Viking territory.

Nevertheless, she scribbled something on my boarding pass and handed it back to me. “I hate the Packers,” she said. “But I respect a great quarterback like Aaron Rodgers.”

I started to say something like, “I don’t hate the Vikings,” but thought better of it and loaded my luggage onto that moving track.

Later that Monday, Oct. 24, waiting to leave MSP — for Phoenix, where we were to catch an American Airlines flight to San Luis Obispo — my heart sank when the cranky gate person announced: “American Airlines flight number 2519 to Phoenix has been delayed. It now departs at 7 p.m.”

That hour-and-a-half delay meant my traveling buddy and I would miss the connecting flight to San Luis Obispo. The cranky person said there would be no voucher in Phoenix, no free hotel room to make up for the airline’s schedule change.

On the two-hour-plus flight to Phoenix, we contemplated the depressing prospect of hanging out in the airport all night.

But wait. When we got off the plane in Phoenix and checked the schedule board, we saw the flight to SLO had also been delayed an hour and a half. It was 8:51, and the flight to SLO was due to leave at 9:05. But it was in a distant terminal. We sprinted, sweating, stressed-out, frustrated and fearful.

When we arrived at the gate to SLO, an angel had apparently delivered us. We had our boarding passes. But wait: Another obstacle confronted us.

As soon as the American Airlines computer operator at MSP noted that we wouldn’t make the flight to SLO on Monday, he or she changed our reservations to a 10:00 a.m. flight on Tuesday. So our boarding passes for the 9:05 p.m. Monday flight were worthless pieces of paper.

However, amazingly, incredibly, there happened to be exactly two available seats on the flight home (that is always sold out). And the kind person at the gate said, “Go ahead and board,” notwithstanding that we were basically hitchhikers.

Remember Al Michaels’ roar after the underdog U.S. hockey team defeated the Soviets in the 1980 Winter Games — “Do you believe in miracles?” Yes we do, Al, and our guardian angel just reaffirmed our faith.

This story was originally published November 9, 2016 at 9:42 AM with the headline "Wisconsin deer are in a rut this time of year, really."