Close Nighttime Encounters Can Quickly Turn Smelly, Painful

   Like most hunters, I’ve walked countless miles in darkness before dawn and after dusk.

   As those walks eased with headlamps, GPS units, smartphones, the onX Hunt app, reflective trail tacks, and my own familiarity with hunting sites, I've often taken my surroundings for granted as I trudge along. That means I sometimes stumble across animals – wild and domestic – that could ruin my day. That includes rattlesnakes in Colorado and Montana, cow moose with calves in Idaho and Colorado, and farmers with ornery bulls in Wisconsin.

   Domestic cows can’t be trusted either, whether they produce milk or beef. In fact, the great humorist Patrick F. McManus split farmers’ cows into two categories: “MFCs,” short for “mean, fast cows”; and “SMCs,” short for “slow, mean cows.” It’s wise to detour around both.

   Bears, wolves and coyotes aren’t on my close-nighttime-encounters list. They must hear my bumbling approach as I snap sticks, roll my ankles on stones, and trip or fall after snagging roots. Still, I’ve heard wolves and coyotes howling and belly-aching nearby. I assume they’re unsure of my identity but want me to know they’re close.

   That leaves two critters that worry me most at close quarters in the dark: skunks and porcupines. Though neither would try killing or dismembering me, they can make life miserable quickly and easily even though I mean them no harm.

   Typically, I’ll hear rustling in tall grass or thick brush. I’ll pause and listen, trying to learn what wild animal would let me get so close. The answer? One I can’t trust.

Wisconsin hunters are more likely to stumble into painful encounters with skunks or porcupines than bigger, potentially more dangerous animals like bears or wolves. — Photo courtesy of Snapshot Wisconsin

   When I turned to face whatever lurks, the rustling usually increases in earnest. Years ago, I recall pointing my flashlight toward sounds in the dark. A white-hot fear jolted me. Right there – and I mean right there – (insert pointy-finger emoji) a skunk was stamping its front feet in warning. Its tail was upright, canted slightly to make way for a fiery spray from its anal glands.

   I whirled and fled 25 yards. When I stopped to shine my two-AA flashlight toward the skunk, I saw tall grass moving and parting as ol’ Rose ambled off in victory, without firing a shot.

   My dog wasn’t so lucky during an October 1981 duck hunt in Waushara County’s Poygan Marsh. Our first Labrador, Silas, ignored a skunk’s similar warning and paid for it. As he broke out of a weed patch 10 yards away, I saw Silas barreling toward a skunk's erect black and white tail and dancing feet.

   “Heel!” I yelled.

   Ol’ Silas ignored me. As he pounced, mouth open and teeth bared, the skunk fired. Silas yelped, somersaulted and ran toward me for help. He didn’t go far. Searing pain suddenly flashed through his nose, eyes and mouth.

— Patrick Durkin photo

   Thick yellow mucus gushed from his mouth and nose, covering his head and neck. He futilely dragged and rubbed his head along the ground, trying to rid himself of the liquid fire. Judging  by his cries, contortions, and a seemingly endless geyser of yellow foam fouling his head and neck, I thought Silas was a goner.

   Second later, a strange sensation consumed me. My lungs compressed in what seemed suddenly leaden air. At such close range, the skunk's liquid spray seemed so dense it had little smell. Instead, it seemed to displace all oxygen. Realizing that can’t be good, I fled about 50 yards. When I paused, I clearly smelled the skunk's distinctive odor for the first time.

   Eventually, Silas regained his faculties and trotted toward me, looking as guilty and humiliated as O.J. Simpson when he was first arrested and handcuffed for murdering his wife.

   As Silas and I slinked toward the truck. I refused to let him get within 10 yards. Once reaching the truck, I banished him to the box and he forlornly jumped in for the ride home.

   I spent the afternoon behind a garden hose, washing him with everything from vinegar to tomato juice to scented shampoos. Though he carried the skunk's scent for months, especially when wet, we eventually let him back indoors.

   I haven’t had many close calls with porcupines, but one nearly turned bad in fall 1987. Silas and I were hunting grouse and scouting for deer in Langlade County. I hurried his way when he stopped to probe the hollowed-out roots of a big poplar, and wouldn’t respond when I yelled. As I yanked him backward from the opening, not knowing what so intrigued him, I saw a porcupine’s tail and broad rearend blocking the opening. I can still see those hostile quills inches from Silas’ snout.

  Whenever I share such stories, some folks ask if I shot the skunk or porky with my shotgun. Honestly, the thought never occurred to me, probably because I was too busy with my dog.

  Besides, porkies pretty much sit there passively, inviting the ignorant to do something they’ll regret. Likewise, even though skunks are smelly, notorious for carrying rabies, infamous for eating birds' eggs, and guilty of trashing my dog, I can’t help but respect their grace in giving fair warning.

   That reminds me of my friend Tom Indrebo in Buffalo County. When we walked into his home one night years ago after a bowhunt, we noticed a skunk's erect tail on his porch, mere feet from the kitchen door.

   Indrebo didn’t look surprised. He slowly opened the door and we stepped inside. As he closed the door behind him, he said that bold skunk often visited the porch after dark to raid their cat’s food bowl. Minutes later, another hunter opened the door, glanced over his shoulder at the nearby “strange-looking cat,” and walked in.

   Indrebo asked if he had seen “Skunk” (clever name, right?). Only then did the guy realize he had skirted past a skunk, not a cat.

   Indrebo said he often considered shooting ol’ Skunk, but never did. That didn’t surprise me. In previous visits over the years, I heard him refer to skunks as “wood lilies.”

   Pests or not, once you name critters after a flower, there’s simply no shooting them.