Captain John Peterson

Madison can be unfriendly cold in winter. Captain John Peterson got an arctic blast hello when he arrived on campus, maybe 15 years ago. He came in from San Diego. A typical spring day, the temp was in the thaw range when John arrived and well below zero when he woke the next day.

Finishing a Naval career, John chose Madison, WI for his final two years as the commander of the Navy Rotc. I didn't understand why--didn't even know we had a Naval command. We have no water big enough to float a ship. What water we have was frozen 12 feet thick on that day. John walked to my Jeep wearing penny loafers and a spring coat. He was a man of optimism back then. I expected John's look at Madison would last part of day with the rest spent waiting for the next jet west. Can't hardly blame a guy who spent his adult life at sea thinking the weather everywhere was mild to balmy.

John returned with his wife Kristen a few months later. He must have told her nothing about the spring. It was on his second visit when John asked me about the "Ruffed Grouse Society" sticker on my rear window. John explained his interest in Wisconsin. Hunting was his passion. Ducks were all he talked about. English was his best companion. I never heard a man talk so fondly of a dog. I learned none of his two legged companion's names. But I knew English intimately and English was long gone dead. John could tell a hunting story and from then on we were hunting buddies.

The end of our hunting days together arrived when John discovered Wisconsin Whitetail hunting. Now, I don't shoot deer, so I don't know if white tail is two words or one...looks like it should be two.

Before climbing tree stands, John taught me everything he knew about the pursuit of ducks. I will never forget his explanation of waiting until the perfect opportunity to "take ducks". With a flock of mallards working our decoys John was carfully explaining how to tell when it is the exact moment to rise and shoot. "OK, see how they are cupping their wings? Their feet are down. And 'take em'." John stood up and immediately saw his exact timing was exactly too soon. "Shi_. Too soon." As John crouched down, the mallards back peddled and gained altitude, rising to live another day. "I got it John. When the look like they are just right, wait a little longer."

Having mastered the pursuit of ducks, John elevated his game to stalking deer. Climbing trees in pitch black night was surely a safer adventure for our ageing friend. I would miss my pal in the boat, but instead of losing a buddy I gained gear. John gave me everything he owned for hunting ducks. From decoys to a jon boat, trailer, and motor, John's gear became mine. Just last year I returned the motor and boat. The trailer I kept, the boat was better suited to be a fish crib, and the motor I didn't want to risk breaking.

I call John every fall and leave him a message or chat and relay the duck hunt updates. "We'll have to get out again" John would always say in his deep voice. I knew the day would be when I would have to wheel him out because as long as he could walk, John would spend every opportunity in a tree stand. He was that hooked. Well, I thank John every fall for passing on his passion for ducks to me. I love the adventure and the excitement as well as the mud.

John and I had one fall ritual for the first few years. When his daughter Meredith and my son Aaron were young we went pheasant hunting on a private farm on the second day of the season.We always came home with wild roosters. In John and Kristen's living room are dozens of photos from their life and travels. I was at the house today. A photo of Meredith and Aaron dressed in blaze orange vests, hats, and roosters is still there as is the picture I took of John, Meredith, and SAM. I cried when I saw the pictures.

Two days ago it occured to me that I needed to call John. Somewhere between the occurance and action I put off making the call. Yesterday I drove into Antigo and remembered John. It was on his first visit to my home town that John pointed out to me that Antigo was a gigantic bowl--a "prehistoric lake", John described Antigo. A career naval pilot, John had a facination with topography and he immediatly saw what I had never noticed, the obvious rim of the lake which held the fertile Antigo Silt Loam, the State soil. Driving in to the Antigo I could see the giant rim and thought of my friend John, and our trip up to hunt those ruffed grouse he was curious about.

My phone rang this morning. I miss my friend John. Mission accomplished Captain.