HeyJaredJohn Wetrosky
- Indexed articles, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 26, 2026
- Outlet visibility, for Pine & Lakes Echo Journal
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- Jul 11, 2026
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The Last Windrow: The sounds of fall spark vivid memories (opens the original)
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I was awoken at dawn a week ago by a barrage of shotgun blasts. No, I was not awakened in any large metropolitan center. I was awoken in my house in the middle of the woods in northern Minnesota. It took me a few seconds to realize that we were not being invaded, but that this was the opening morning of the Minnesota goose season and there were hunters nearby. Evidently some goose's fate was cooked. The sounds of those shotguns brought back memories of the days when I considered myself a waterfo
The Last Windrow: Fall is on our doorstep; let's enjoy it (opens the original)
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The charcoal bag on our back deck is down to about one-fourth of the full bag. That tells me something is coming. Most of us who abide by normal daylight hours know that daylight is getting more scarce these days. We also notice the quietness of the woods that surround our homes. Lots of songbirds have departed for other climes that are warmer. The oak trees are shedding acorns, but the crop is much lighter than last year, probably due to the natural cycle and the fact that this country has expe
The Last Windrow: We went bullhead fishing on Labor Day (opens the original)
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The farm families that I grew up around didn't usually take a vacation day. What amounted to a vacation day was visiting a close relative's farm for a noon picnic with everyone returning back to their farms to "do chores," which usually began around 4 p.m. But on one particular Labor Day Monday, my family and my cousin's family traveled all the way north to Lake Benton, Minnesota, to fish for Iowa's state fish, the yellow-bellied, whiskered bullhead. Walleyes were not even a remote thought. That
The Last Windrow: Indeed, I did learn to like the sound of bluegrass (opens the original)
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"You'll learn to like it!" My uncle spoke to me from the front seat while piloting his car down the rutted road. I was squeezed in the back seat between Satch and Stub in his 1952 Dodge sedan as it chugged along a lonely backcountry Iowa road around midnight. Satch reached over and gave me a tongue lap across my one cheek and Stub did the same on the other. They were two big coonhounds owned by my Uncle Jim. He and my Uncle Frank had invited me along on my first coonhunting foray and, even thoug
The Last Windrow: Dreaming of those perfect homemade dill pickles (opens the original)
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Is there any better treat than a home-canned, salt-and-dill infested, crispy, cold dill pickle? I think not in this life. My community, Pine River, just completed its annual Picklefest event. This relatively new festival took root when a group of pickle-minded citizens came up with the idea of honoring a long-ago pickle plant in town. The owner's name was Fred Wefelmeyer, and he had a large pickling plant that sat beside the railroad tracks in town. Historic photos show a dull-colored plant that
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