“Wisconsin has a recreational use law,” Patricia said. “Most states do. It protects landowners who let people hunt, fish, hike, or whatever on their land for free. If somebody gets hurt hunting on your property, falls out of a tree stand, say, the law mostly protects you from being sued. It encourages people to open their land.”
“Grandpa always said nobody could ever sue him for letting somebody hunt.”
“Your grandfather was right, because he never charged.” Patricia leaned forward. “But Amy, a lot of that protection can go away if the landowner gets paid. Brad has been collecting four thousand dollars a season to let people hunt your land. If one of those men falls out of one of Brad’s homemade stands and breaks his back, his lawyer is going to argue that this was a paid hunting arrangement on your property. Then you’re the one in the courtroom, not Brad.”
I felt cold all the way through.
“He’s not just taking money for something that isn’t his,” I said slowly. “He’s putting the farm at risk.”
“Call your insurance agent,” Patricia said. “Today.”
I called Lyle Swenson at the Farm Bureau office that afternoon. Lyle had written Grandpa’s farm policy for thirty years. When I told him about the cash lease, there was a long silence on the line.
“Amy, your farm liability policy covers incidental recreational use. Neighbors, family, friends hunting for free. It does not cover commercial hunting leases. If somebody’s paying to hunt that ground, I’d need to know about it and write a separate rider. And I’d want a written lease, proof the lessee has their own insurance, and stand inspections.” He sighed. “Without any of that, if there’s an accident, you could be in a real mess. We’re talking about the farm.”
The farm. Eighty acres worth about $640,000 at the going rate in Dunn County, plus the farmhouse. Everything Grandpa built.
That night I went to the Fleet Farm in Menomonie and bought eighty orange PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO TRESPASSING – NO HUNTING signs, a box of aluminum nails, and a staple gun. I spent two weekends walking every fence line of those eighty acres, posting signs exactly the way Patricia told me: at the corners, along the boundaries, and on both sides of the field gate.
My neighbor, Earl Nygaard, who has farmed the ground to the south for forty years and cash-rents my tillable sixty acres for corn at $185 an acre, saw me posting signs along the line fence and pulled his tractor over.
“Brad’s crew?” he asked.
“Brad’s crew,” I said.
Earl nodded slowly. “I wondered about that last November. Saw his buddies’ trucks parked at your gate every Saturday, and you weren’t with ’em. Didn’t seem right.” He climbed down off the tractor. “Want help with the north line? That fence is a mess along the creek.”
We posted the north line together. Earl didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.
Then I sat down at Grandpa’s kitchen table and wrote one letter. Patricia looked it over before I sent it.
“Mr. Kessler: This letter is formal notice that any permission you may believe you have to enter, use, hunt, or grant hunting rights on my property in Section 14, Town of Elk Mound, Dunn County, Wisconsin, is revoked, effective immediately. This revocation applies to you and to any person to whom you have granted, sold, or represented any right to enter or hunt this property. The property is posted. Any entry without my express written permission will be treated as trespass. — Amy L. Halvorsen, Owner.”
I mailed it from the Elk Mound post office, certified, return receipt requested. It cost $8.85.
Four days later, the green card came back in my mailbox, signed in Brad’s loopy handwriting.
Nobody called me, and nobody argued.
I thought he’d gotten the message. I thought he’d tell his buddies.
I was wrong about the second part.
