En route to the Burnett County Dairy Cooperative to peruse their selection of fine cheeses, I felt an overwhelming curiosity to explore more of Siren, having passed through it's modest downtown area lined with Hamm's signs while driving to Minneapolis a few weeks prior. I decided to stop at the Pheasant Inn for lunch, where I was immediately welcomed by a very, very, very, very intoxicated Native American woman whose name I shall refrain from mentioning. She offered to buy me a beer and was excited to chat, showing off photos of her pink and camouflage colored fishing spear, which measured eight feet in length, as she enlightened me about the spear fishing boat she owned at the nearby reservation populated by the St. Croix tribe, of which she was a member.

Exactly one Schmidt later, I made the quick jaunt over to the aforementioned dairy cooperative, which brandished the largest, and most thorough collection of cheese products I had ever seen, in addition to their exceedingly popular selection of ice cream and other assorted dairy-based goods. After consuming an obligatory order of fried cheese curds while reflecting on how easy it is to get fat up north, I headed back to the Pheasant Inn to drop off two scoops of Superman ice cream to the cute girl dressed in flannel, having mentioned during our earlier conversation that it was her favorite.

Shortly thereafter, I traveled along highway 70 towards Hayward, a small town to the east of Spooner, where I was told tales of a bar that housed a surreal collection of stuffed and mounted animal dioramas. Before arriving at this most majestic of watering holes, I found it impossible to resist stopping first at the Lumberjack Bowl, an open air arena which hosts the annual World Lumberjack Championships every July. Closed during the off-season, I hopped over the gate to wander around the stadium, consisting of a pair of wooden grandstands bisected by a river (for log rolling), which was lined with a handful of log chopping stations and flaked by several ninety foot wooden poles for climbing.

After exploring the deserted arena, I ventured down the street to the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame and Museum, which boasts a four and a half story tall sculpture of a leaping Muskie. Fuckin' a. Though the museum was closed until May, I luckily arrived to find a small section of the electric fence parted while a pair of men re-shingled the roof, affording me the opportunity to sneak in and explore the courtyard laced with enormous sculptures of various fish, alongside the legendary two hundred foot long Muskie.

Just two blocks away from the Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame lies the Moccasin Bar and Wildlife Museum. I mean, just wow. I decided to chat up some of the regulars inside to avoid being perceived as another asshole tourist toting around a large camera to capture photos of their bizarre yet beloved hangout. The bartender, Jo, who moonlighted as a graphic designer, was eager to show me the infamous Trivial Pursuit card, it's text worn away from years of continued showmanship, which featured a question regarding one of the animal dioramas on display at the Moccasin. She happily recounted the history of the bar as the oldest structure in Hayward, being sure to point out that while they no longer serve it, the bar had been previously owned by Hamm's beer. Thank you Based God. I talked to Jo and Brian, an avid fisherman who encouraged me to experiment with his dry-rub only jerky recipe, as we watched Wisconsin defeat Kentucky in the Final Four, advancing to the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship game.

In addition to the three world record holding muskies mounted on the wall, each weighing in at over sixty-five pounds, the inside of the Moccasin was lined with illuminated glass cases containing scenes of stuffed and posed albino deer, foxes, fish, badgers, pheasants, owls, and of course, a giant walrus penis. On top of that, the bar was also home to several meticulously crafted and intricately absurd dioramas of various taxidermied animals in strange situations. There was a scene of two raccoons boxing one another inside of a miniature ring, and another of a bear cub drinking, smoking, and swindling an opposing bear cub in a game of cards all while an otter, enjoying the mythological Hamm's Preferred Stock, looks on with a holstered gun. The centerpiece, as made famous by Trivial Pursuit, was a display of chipmunks fishing, singing, drinking whiskey and rolling dice, entitled "In The Good Old Summertime", should you ever find yourself in the position to procure that final pie slice on the path to board game victory.

As I departed the Moccasin, headed back to the cabin for the night, I questioned the possibility of any place being more awesome than Wisconsin.

Earlier in the week I have phoned Jed, Executive Director of the Wisconsin Canoe Heritage Museum, inquiring if I might be able to pay them a visit despite the museum not opening to the public until the end of May. He welcomed me by, informing me that while the museum was typically in disarray during the off-season, I might catch some of the members in the adjoining shop fabricating canoes by hand. Splash.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by Terry, Jamie and Mike, three Spooner residents who spend a great deal of their free time building and restoring antique wooden canoes in the museum's workshop. Terry graciously offered to give me a guided tour of the adjacent museum, explaining the advances in canoe technology over the past two centuries before finally showing off the beautiful boat that the three of them had constructed for the museum's annual raffle. We talked for quite awhile about the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, a chain of remote lakes on the border of Minnesota and Canada known for it's isolated beauty and prohibition of motorized water vehicles, where he often takes trips during the treacherous winter, pulling a toboggan full of camping gear across the frozen lakes on foot. I was fascinated by the thought of a winter expedition up there as my previous experience backpacking and portaging canoes in the summer months was grueling enough, especially given that there were no comfortable places to sit™.

Jamie offered me a beer alongside a tour of the shop, educating me on the canoe building process while proudly exhibiting some works on progress, including the frame of an ultra lightweight canoe they were experimenting with for an upcoming class. Afterwards, Terry and Jamie invited me to join them for a couple of beers at the recently opened bar across the street from Big Dick's Buckhorn Inn in downtown Spooner, where they encouraged me to visit again so they could mentor me on building my own canoe.

After we parted ways, I embarked on an excursion through Danbury, Dairyland and Webb Lake in search of a Friday night fish fry, stopping along the way at any establishments displaying a Schmidt sign or mounted black bear in the window, excited to return to the museum next week and view the progress on their boats.

Yesterday's precipitation caused the sheet of ice resting atop the lake to divide itself into separate masses, the breeze driving them apart from one another like continents, exposing channels of open water which had been sheltered from the air for the past several months. I intended to portage the canoe out of storage today and traverse the newly opened passages, however the violet winds, gusting at up to fifty miles an hour, prevented me from doing so.

Blowing in from the northwest, these fierce winds slowly pushed the masses of ice towards the nearby shoreline, causing them to crack and heave against the pressure of the sand wall, which splintered and stacked the ice on top of itself before grinding it down to a fine texture, piles of which accumulated around the coast like drifts of snow.

Intermittent thunderstorms kept me confined to the cabin today, the clouds occasionally discharging their electricity by releasing a sudden crack of light that would tear across the sky, reverberating through the foundation of the cabin and causing the bottles of whiskey on the counter to dance incongruously amongst themselves, creating a cacophonous symphony which could only sustain itself for a few seconds before petering out.

As the storm broke on the opposing side of the lake, I ventured outside to capture a photo of the setting sun, but was halted immediately by several streaks of lightning that erratically splintered through the air before making contact with objects on the nearby shoreline. Instead, I retreated back inside the cabin where I opened the windows to enjoy the captivating concerto of raindrops pitter-pattering on the recently softened ground.

The perpetual transformation of the lake on a daily basis as a result of the continually evolving weather patterns continues to fascinate me, much like Nick D, who requests an ice report daily via text message. My recent journeys through the country backroads, which revealed that not a single lake in the area harbored any remaining ice, validated Mel's hypothesis that North Sand Lake would indeed be the final body of water in the region to thaw.

Correspondingly, the exposed ring of water bordering the lake, which measured approximately forty feet from the shore yesterday, expanded another thirty feet today as the sheet of ice continued it's retreat towards the center. The lake rested unusually still tonight, calls of birds perched in nearby trees audibly illuminated in the absence of wind, while the water acted as a natural mirror, perfectly reflecting the magnificent spectrum and cloud patterns of the evening sky.

While enjoying Sunday morning breakfast at The Shop, a nearby bar and grill owned by the parents of the woman who had recently referred to me as a "Lumbersexual", I peered out the window to discover that the morning drizzle had suddenly transitioned into a violent snow storm, enormous flakes of snow measuring two inches in diameter descending from the sky at an astounding rate. I raced back to the cabin, grabbing my camera to capture the bizarre phenomenon, which only lasted for about thirty minutes. The lake, almost entirely washed out in white, was barely visible as the gusting winds blew enormous flakes of snow in every direction, altogether obfuscating the familiar view of the pine trees lining the opposing waterfront.

In interest of watching the sunset, I later ventured down to the beach, unable to stand on the lake for the past several days following the recession of the ice from the shore, which exposed a forty foot wide ring of frigid water between itself and the sand. I sat there alone as the heavy winds forced delicately dispersed clouds to march across the phosphorescent sky, the ripples in the icy water dancing towards the shore as I wished for someone else to share the experience with.

As I turned off County Road B onto an unpaved dirt road with placards warning visitors of a highly concentrated population of honey bees, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when arriving at White Wolf Distillery/Clover Meadow Winery. Entering the modest building, it's side draped in plastic sheeting, I passed through a charming event space littered with tables and a small stage, on the way towards a tiny tasting room in the back.

I settled up to the single seat bar, the tables in the room being occupied by two separate groups of women, as James, The Sommelier, offered me samples of their various moonshines, brandys, balsamic vinegars and flavored olive oils. Being the only dudes in a room full of women, James and I got to talking for quite awhile, mostly about jerky, after I discovered that he had worked for Jack Link's for several years. Jarbys. After indulging in a second round of moonshine tasting follwed by James' experiment in scent-pairing, wherein I was handed a fragrant vile to smell immediately before and after tasting a wine, I inquired about seeing the still. James pointed me towards the owner, Pat, who sat just a few feet away, quitely strumming House of the Rising Sun on his guitar, certainly the best song from The Animals.

Pat, who was born and raised in Chicago and holds five undergraduate degrees and two masters degrees in mathematics, physics, biochemistry and so forth, was quick to inform me that their business and property was entirely self-sustaining "in the event the world goes to shit." He walked me outside to a shed which housed the still, handmade by himself, and of very unassuming size, especially having visited the Bourbon Trail. After explaining that some of the products from the still could be used to power his self-modified equipment, he offered to show me his battery room, a small ten foot by ten foot structure next to the still shed that contained forty eight car batteries which stored the energy produced by the three wind turbines and solar panels mounted atop the roof. I thanked James, Pat and his wife for everything before I departed, rhubarb moonshine in tow, watching the sun set over the rolling hills of northern Wisconsin as I headed back down that dirt road towards the cabin.

Finding myself out of Schmidt, I decided to make the expedition towards Webster to replenish my supply, stopping along the way at Crow Bar for the friday evening meat raffle, proceeds of which benefit the Spooner High School Ice Fishing Team. Having just won a free can of Schmidt playing my first game of Shake A Day, a dice game popular in northern Wisconsin and Minnesota bars which rewards winners with free beer, I was feeling lucky. I purchased some raffle tickets and watched as the crowd of families and elderly folks from the area packed into the bar, anxiously waiting to discover the contents of the immense cooler next to the stage.

The raffle commenced with a free round featuring non-meat based prizes, winners of which were determined by drawing from a deck of playing cards. "Nine of diamonds", spouted a voice over the microphone, the eyes of the crowd scanning the bar with precision in attempt to spot the winner...which happened to be me. "Do you hunt turkeys?", asked the announcer as I approached, his finger pointed at an archery target, emblazoned with a large cougar illustration, which was resting on the table. "No, but that looks awesome" I said, proudly claiming my prize and returning to my seat after kindly thanking the gal from Minnesota that drew the winning card, whom I had been chatting to earlier.

Finally, the main event. After watching several winners parade victoriously back to their seat displaying their newly acquired gigantic pack of meat in the air, I felt a bit of anxiety mixed with sadness as the final number of the third round was announced, signaling the end of the raffle. BAMMMMMM! It was my number. Eagerly approaching the cooler next to the stage, I reached to the bottom with both hands, claiming the final portion of animal flesh for the night, a ten pound ham. Like others who came before me, I triumphantly raised the monstrous slab of meat in the air on the way back to my seat, receiving a high-five from the gentleman sitting next to me, who had won a colossal slab of ribs in the previous round. The sweet, delicious taste of pork-based victory.

In the wake of my success at the meat raffle, I felt obligated to stop and prospect some curious looking bars which had caught my attention on the way to Minneapolis the previous weekend. Tavern on Main, which sported a large Schmidt Beer sign in front, was decidedly the first stop, followed by The Yellow River Saloon & Eatery, where I participated in their "all-you-can-eat walleye Friday" while enjoying an extremely rare bottle of Schmidt. I ended the night back at Crow Bar where I was cheerfully welcomed back by the owners after "loosing my meat raffle virginity" earlier, as they liked to say to this city guy.

"We sure did a lot of work on that Paddy's last night" said Mel, as I entered his cabin that morning to retrieve the laundry that he graciously invited me to wash, completely forgetting to take it the previous night after consuming one or two grips worth of whiskey. Thanking him again for the dinner and hospitality, I trampled back home through the light dusting of snow we had received overnight, clutching my camo duffle bag full of fresh clothes and desperately in need of some chips.

Following an unexpected call from one of my Texas-based cousins, the self proclaimed "biggest fan of my journal", who wanted to inquire as to whether or not I was here "stashing bodies somewhere in the woods", I settled back into some music. After a six month musical hiatus, my energy focused instead on starting and running my own business as an Art Director & Designer, I've noticed a dramatic improvement in my recent songwriting abilities, specifically the mixing and engineering process, which had previously stunted my productivity due to frustration fueled by inexperience. With the new found ability to hear and shape sounds differently, I decided to dust off the cobwebs by slicing up some psychedelic funk from pre-war Iran.

A few minutes after I had returned from a morning run, Mel dropped by the cabin to inform me that his sleep apnea test the previous night had went well and asked if I would like to join him that evening to watch some "puck" and feast on some elk meatloaf. This guy really knows how to press all of my buttons.

Upon my arrival at his cabin later that day, I offered him a Grain Belt from the case that I had brought along. He let out a loud groan immediately following his first sip, exclaiming "That's just fucking delicious". Indeed. After enjoying the exquisite elk meatloaf, shot by one of his son-in-laws, Mel asked me about the best whiskey I've ever had. "Are we talking bourbon, scotch whiskey, or what?", I responded. Before I even had the chance to finish describing the small batch of whiskey from the highlands of Germany that once graced my lips, he had already opened a new bottle of Paddy's, pouring it into a pair of low ball glasses until they were about three-quarters full. "Irish Whiskey", he said as we toasted to our new friendship. Enjoying that first sip, I watched as Mel immediately took the entire glass to the face, an act which I decided I should also perform at that juncture so as to be polite. We sat around the kitchen table for the rest of the night, consuming nearly all of the Paddy's, talking about life and how Mel wishes for his remains to be either dehydrated or freeze dried when he passes, not finding the need to ever turn on the television.

Desperately in need of beer and groceries, I made the arduous journey to Spooner today, stopping on the way to deposit a load of garbage before arriving at my destination, Schmitz's Economart. During the drive, I realized that I shockingly hadn't listened to much rap music recently, my Wisconsin musical diet instead consisting mostly of new age records, Neil Young and a very healthy amount of metal/hardcore.

Upon my return home, I decided to put together garbage raps, a short mix of rap songs that you love to hate and hate to love. Plus, that A$AP Twelvy beat is just hot as shit. The tracklist is below, and you can of course download a zip file with the individual tracks or listen to the single mp3 here.

1. Puff Daddy ft. Meek Mill & French Montana - We Dem Boyz (Remix)
2. Migos - Hannah Montana
3. Juicy J - Geeked Up Off Them Bars
4. A$AP Twelvy ft. A$AP Nast - Our World
5. Lor Scoota - Birdflu
6. Wiz Khalifa - Guilty Conscience (Taylor Allderdice)
7. Waka Flocka Flame ft. Young Thug & Judo - Ain't No Problems
8. Gucci Mane & Chief Keef - Semi On Em (Big Gucci Sosa)
9. Migos ft. Riff Raff & Trinidad James - Jumpin' Out The Gym

Upon my visit to the lake this morning to conduct the day's research, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the hypothesis provided by Mel, former head of the North Sand Lake Ice Reconnoitering Association, was indeed correct. Strong winds did in fact blow in from the northwest overnight, forcing the water, and sheet of ice resting above it, towards our part of the shoreline. The tectonic plates of the ice were shifting, pressing against each other violently, creating natural, angular ruptures in its structure.

The most fascinating part, aside from watching in real time as the tension between plates forced pieces of ice to crack off, falling down into the frigid water below, was the decibel level at which this natural phenomenon was occuring. I could literally hear the pressure of the ice cracking and snapping from the deck of the cabin, so I plugged in an extension cord and hauled my recording gear onto the ice to capture what I heard, incoporating the sounds into some of the new music I have been writing.

Having never visited the city described by two former copywriting partners as, "A magical land where the Grain Belt flows like water", I decided today to embark on the two hour journey from Webster, Wisconsin to Minneapolis, Minnesota. My intentions of the visit were clear, as one could argue that my absolute favorite past time is wandering around a previously unexplored city, digging through the record stores for dusty gems.

After a brief tour of downtown followed by a stop at Mayslack's for a roast beef and some Grain Belt Nordeast on tap, I made my way to Electric Fetus, often heralded as the best record store in Minneapolis. Departing their store with a stack of wax in tow, I cruised down to Cheapo Records, a near warehouse sized facility with an unbelievable cache of vinyl, cassettes, CDs and DVDs. In retrospect, I should have brought a sleeping bag as I spent over three hours in their capacious store perusing their detailed collection of new age records, 45s, and miscellaneous weird shit.

Later that night, after departing Minneapolis en route towards my temporary home in Wisconsin, I decided to stop at Crow Bar, a small bar tucked away on the backroads just west of the cabin. While enjoying an exquisitely cold can of Schmidt, the girl sitting next to me dropped her purse on the ground, which I politely retrieved and handed back to her. "Have you ever heard the term 'Lumbersexual'?" she asked, having chatted for a while at this point. I laughed loudly. "You kinda got that whole thing going on with all of the camo and your huge beard". "Thanks?" I replied, my response quickly met with a jab back about how out-of-character my "Rap Fan" hat was in that environment. "I just really love rap music", I responded while her friends commented on the thickness of my Chicago accent.

As closing time approached and I watched a woman fall asleep sitting up at the bar while the juke box oddly alternated between country and rap (what ever happened to Terror Squad?), I decided to adjourn back to the cabin, having successfully met half of Webster that night, or so it felt.

While stretching and listening to death metal in preparation for my morning run, there was a surprise knock on the cabin door. Good 'ol Mel. He had returned from Minnesota and wanted to invite me over that afternoon to watch the Minnesota Gophers play Ohio State in the NCAA Frozen Four. Several hours later, having arrived at his cabin carrying a ceremonial bottle of vodka as a gift and a case of Grain Belt for myself, we watched college hockey as he recounted some new tall tales of his life growing up in Minnesota, every now and then casually remarking about one of the old Gophers players featured on television that he had played with during his youth.

Later, in interest of experiencing downtown Spooner on a Friday night, I headed to Big Dick's Buckhorn Inn, a bar that I hadn't been to in nearly 8 years since falling asleep on the sidewalk in front of it after being forced to leave the bar across the street, which had a sweet ass metal band playing at the time. Big Dick's, formerly known as "The Buckhorn Inn", was one of the oldest bars in Spooner, housing historical artifacts from the town in addition to their enormous collection of spittoons, fish, deer, wild boar, buffalo, ram and elk trophies. Cool.

Aside from the bartender Zach, whose jaw was wired shut, I met a handful of friendly locals there including James, who was drinking "Lucy", a boot-sized glass of beer that was molded in the shape of a woman's torso, for which he paid only four dollars. He was excited when I asked if I could take a photo of him and Lucy, but demanded that we also take one together that would end up on Facebook. I also met two sisters; Rose who sported a camo jacket and worked at the dollar store, and Melissa who provided in-home care to the elderly and disabled in town. In addition to the time we spent together scoffing at the fancy city folk who had strolled in attempting to order bourgeious cocktails, the two of them occupied nearly an hour of my time trying to convince me to peruse a nearby cabin for sale, which sits on four acres of land, so that I could move to Spooner. "I do love Wisconsin", I replied.

Winter Into Spring, an incredible album of piano solos performed by George Winston which was released on Windham Hill Records, has been on heavy rotation given the recent seasonal shift that mirrors it's title. With the temperature nearing fifty degrees, I decided to venture out to the nearby Sacred Grove, a non-denominational "spiritual ground" on a plot of land previously owned by Bobcat Dan himself. I had garnered from talking to Mel that Sacred Grove and the land it resides on, now owned by a nearby family, had caused a recent controversy with the local Christian contingency for offering loincloth only burials on their premesis.

As I hiked through the trail into the woods towards the Meditation Garden, which contained a few stone benches alongside a statue of Buddah, I passed some antique Wisconsin farming artifacts before reeaching the Labrynth, a sixty by sixty foot slightly raised platform of earth within a clearing of trees, on top of which sits a symmetrical maze pattern of rocks. Nearby, I discovered a guest book, in which I penned my impression of the tranquility there, only after reading a handful of entries from prior guests, some having visited just a few days ago.

With no one else in sight, I naturally wandered around until I encountered a small cabin with an accompanying outhouse in the deepest part of the trail. It was about ten by ten feet and contained two single bunk beds, a heater, a small countertop with an electric griddle and water container fixed above the sink area as the cabin was without running water. I was able to open the door which accessed the screened in porch where I sat down for a bit, enjoying the beautiful silence and placidity of the northwoods.

Although still grumbling about not having the opportunity to play hockey on North Sand Lake due to the unanticipated early transition to spring, the first winter thaw that I'm re-experiencing after inhabiting southern California for the past five years feels incredible. The lack of needing to apply several layers of camo gear, snow pants and waterproof boots to combat the intense snowfall and frigid temperatures of northern Wisconsin lends itself surprisingly well to enjoying unexpected time outside of the cabin exploring the surrounding area, watching the blue jays feed, and procrastinating on/avoiding activities that involve a computer.

Beginning each morning with a trip down to the lake to complete some Icememolgy related research and to enjoy a delicious Hamm's Special Light, I've been occupying my evenings, often into the early hours of the morning, alone in the cabin with music. I regularly find myself in some type of drugged-out like state in the dark, eyes fixated on the clock on the wall signaling three in the morning, exhausted but completely unable to turn away from whatever audio exploration I'm working on. I arise the following morning, much later than my alarm wants and feeling as if I hadn't slept, immediately scrambling back to the computer to hear the results of last night's session, much like an addict returning to the corner after a sleepless night.

It's been rather quiet around the cabin these past few days in the absence of Nick, Ross, Kurt and the sound of Charlie's paws tap dancing on the wood floor during the middle of the night on his path towards his water bowl. I've occupied my time exploring the many boxes of records that I transported those four hundred and some odd miles from Chicago, watching several films starring the late Charles Bronson's moustache, and semi-begrudgingly attending to client work (reference Al Shearer's character, "I Need Money", from the film How High).

This evening, amongst the stillness of the trees and quietude, disturbed occasionally by the faint call of a nearby bird, the cloud ridden sunset paved way for a hella metal looking transition to the night, the sky seeming to echo the solemn atmosphere of the previous few days.

After a few breakfast beers accompanied by a plate of the finest Wisconsin cheese, crackers and summer sausage that money can buy, it was time for Nick, Ross, Kurt and Charlie to begin their journey back to civilization. I was incredibly excited to live alone in the cabin, however, watching them pull out of the driveway filled me with the same melancholy and "Wisco withdrawl" typically felt when actually leaving the cabin. It was the same feeling that I remember having for the first time as a child when my cousins from Texas, whom I only have the chance to see every few years, left Chicago to return home. I suppose its the feeling you experience when someone that you love departs, especially after one of them unexpectedly asks you to stand up in their wedding this fall.

I immediately cleaned up the tornado that ripped through the cabin over the weekend and openened all of the windows to alleviate the dude stink. Afterwards, I finished putting together soulstice, a soul and funk mix that I recorded a few days ago. Anticipating a cold journey up north with bountiful pond hockey access, I've instead found it fascinating to watch the seasons shift from winter to spring, the lake thawing daily right before my eyes. Mirroring the natural sequence I'm experiencing, I put together a mix of rare soul and funk that starts off heavy, but leaves you ready for the thaw of the frigid midwest winter signaled by the first day of spring. The tracklisting is below and of course you can download the tracked out zip file here or listen to the mp3 here.

1. Johnson, Hawkins, Tatum & Durr - You Can't Blame Me
2. Della Humphrey - Don't Make the Good Girls Go Bad
3. Bobby & James Purify - I'm Your Puppet
4. Z.Z. Hill - It's a Hang Up Baby
5. Tony Borders - Lonely Weekend
6. All The People - Cramp Your Style
7. Z.Z. Hill - I Think I'd Do It
8. The Great Deltas - Tra La La
9. Dennis Coffey - Whole Lotta Love
10. Milk - The Basic
11. George McCrea - I Get Lifted
12. The Meters - Funky Miracle
13. Funky Four Plus One - That's The Joint
14. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five - Freedom
15. Akrika Bambaataa & The Soulsonic Force - Looking for the Perfect Beat

It seemed fitting, given the lack of any snow/weather barrier in Spring Wisco, that we make the journey to Jo Momma's for breakfast, the closest restaurant to the cabin, and also conveniently located at the crossroads of County Road A and County Road H. After consuming some country skillets, pancakes and of course biscuits and gravy, we headed back to the cabin where we retired outside to the picnic table to bask in the sun and drink beer, a seemingly unfamiliar activity having not been to the cabin outside of December for years.

Following the ceremonial watching of Jackie Treehorn Presents: Logjammin', while consuming caucasians, we decided that boccé ball should be today's sport in the absence of being able to skate on the lake due to weather conditions. Several hours and many Hamm's Premium Lights later, after Ross and I had won the match, we had worked up quite the appetite. Venturing back to the cabin, we prepared some delicious venison steaks that the neighbor Mel had given me a few days prior, being sure to inform me that the deer were well fed and shot on his own property.

We returned to the ice for the next few hours to continue cancelling beers and playing frisbee while watching the beautiful Wisconsin sunset. At one point, Ross retrieved an ice chipper from the garage and we measured the ice depth at 2.5 feet where we were standing. A fantastic end to the last night of the inaugural Spring Wisco.

I tried to keep my excitement to a minimum today as I anxiously awaited the arrival of Nick and Charlie, but it was hard to contain. Nick pulled the ultimate surprise by bringing Ross and Kurt along with him, completely unbeknownst to me. This was better than any surprise party one could ever imagine. All of a sudden, welcome to the first Spring Wisco. New and unchartered territory, especially given the recent dramatic weather pattern shift preventing us from playing pond hockey.

I had learned from talking to the bartender than an all female metal band was going to be playing that night at The Local, the closest bar to the cabin, located at the crossroads of County Road A and County Road H, as part of the big St. Patrick's Day celebration. We had planned to grace The Local with our presence, but after a trip down to the lake to enjoy ice beers, followed by a Stammtisch (defined in Fritz Lang's "M" as the German word for a gathering of men smoking, drinking and talking politics) in the sitting room and a Ross mandated game of Vampiro, the potential of operating a motor vehicle at that juncture seemed ill-advised. We instead decided that it was in our best interest to stay at the cabin cancelling Rhinelander "Shorties" and consuming bratwursts.