“Here, Goofus. Hey, Goofus, come on. Let’s go, Goofus.”
The man doing the calling was Jack Carlson. After meeting Jack at his cabin in the Sand Country of central Wisconsin—not far, as the crow flies, from a certain spring pond where I’ve done some business with brookies over the years—I climbed on the back of Jack’s ATV. We skirted a marshy pond, then rumbled part way up a slope stippled with pines and oaks. There, Jack cut the engine.