Walking out onto a muskeg, or wetland, the first things most people notice are the sensation of sinking and sound of suction. Saturated sphagnum moss, or peat moss, covers the wetland. It’s walkable, but only with knee boots on. Legs sink to calf-level. They’re buoyed by the moss, although water seeps in. But upon arriving at this wetland in Iron County, Aaron Marti first noticed a different sensation. “If you take a deep breath,” he said, “you can get a bit of a whiff of, it’s kind of a sweet,

In this line of work, projects don’t start with a bang. They end with one. With a booming explosion on Tuesday morning, a portion of stream at the headwaters of Big Haymeadow Creek in Langlade County again flowed freely, a beaver dam blasted out of the way. Jeremy Irish, an assistant district supervisor with the USDA’s Wildlife Services program, triggered the blast, undoing some of this year’s construction by beavers in the area. In the process, he cleared another portion of one of northern

A walk to the end of the Ashland Oredock feels like a walk out onto Lake Superior for Ed Monroe. “We’re out amongst the buoys and the shipping lane,” he said. What’s left of the Oredock--a slender tongue of concrete--juts 1,800 feet out from the city of Ashland. Not long ago, the superstructure, a hulking mass of metal, would have risen 80 feet over his head. During the Oredock’s operation, and after it was out of use, kids used to play out here, fishing and even jumping off the top. But even

The water flow on a little creek in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest is modest. In fact, the stream is small enough that it has no name. Officially, it’s Unnamed Tributary to Morgan Creek. But on July 11, 2016, it was just one of the unassuming streams that heavy rainfall turned into rushing rivers in this area of the National Forest. “Roads were gone. Bridges were gone. Culverts were gone,” said Jim Mineau, a hydrologist for the National Forest. This area is near the Ashland-Bayfield

On a sunny day in a shaded forest, Don Waller and Dave Zaber, two environmental professionals, came across an orchid growing on the forest floor. This part of the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest near Eagle River is maturing, with tall trees, a shady canopy, and a cooler temperature. It’s good orchid habitat. But that might change soon, Zaber said. “We’re in a proposed cutting unit of the Fourmile timber sale,” he said. The National Forest has slated this area for selective harvest, part of

On a hot, sunny day last week, Jim Montgomery pulled a 1958 Evinrude Lark outboard motor outside his repair shop for a tune-up. Montgomery pointed to the “fancy chrome on the hood,” a sign that, although the motor is now vintage, it was considered deluxe at the time. Montgomery owns Duke’s Outboard Service just outside Rhinelander. Long ago, he lost count of the number of Evinrude motors he’s fixed. “I have no idea. Just a lot. Thousands,” he said. But that stream of Evinrudes coming into his

Northwoods fishermen and women love when the fish are biting often, offering excitement with every cast. Frequent catches mean the fish population in a lake is doing well. Right? Maybe not. New research shows, in many lakes, the fishing stays good until it abruptly collapses. That research largely belongs to University of Notre Dame PhD candidate Colin Dassow, whose days of research can sometimes feel more like recreation. “I fish for work,” Dassow said. “I do this eight hours a day, sometimes.”

During the first week of June, a boat sprayed chemicals into the waters of Anvil Lake in Vilas County for the first time. It was applying an herbicide called 2,4D, targeting Eurasian watermilfoil, an aquatic invasive species whose presence in the lake has grown and grown. The decision to use chemicals in treating the problem was difficult and often controversial for lake leaders. But it’s a decision more and more lake groups in the Northwoods are forced to consider as invasive species spread. In

Ron L. Zabler admits Oneida County winters have been harsh on his family’s cabin in the woods. Some of the paint may be peeling, but that makes this place no less important to him. “Once I’m up here, I don’t want to go back,” said Zabler, whose permanent home with his wife, Carline, is in southern Wisconsin. A lot of his attitude has to do with his family’s history on this plot of land. “I’ve been here since I was 14. I was here when the original owner was here,” said Zabler, who is in his 70s.

Every summer month for the last 16 years, Dick and Judi Oehler have been coming to this exact spot on the Deerskin River east of Eagle River. Like always, Judi stands on shore, ready with a clipboard, as Dick steps into the stream. Waders cover him to his chest. The river is about 20 feet across here, and the water comes up to his knees. Plunging a yard stick to the sandy bottom, Dick calls out water depths as Judi records them. It’s a scene they’ve repeated again and again on this undeveloped