There comes a time for every middle-aged guy when he must decide what kind of guy he is. I’m not talking about basic personality or profession. Those factors were shaped long ago. I’m talking about what specific, idiosyncratic middle-aged guy trait he will adopt.

Will he become a pickleball guy? Bike guy? Kubb guy?

Smoked meat guy? Home-brewed beer guy? Single-malt whiskey guy?

Wood-carving guy? Hyper-organized garage shop guy? Fly-tying guy?

None of these quite work for me. I’m not particularly competitive or athletic. I’m not a foodie, nor am I handy.

I do, however, love history, which opens up another spectrum of middle-aged guyness: World War II guy. Roman Empire guy. Mound guy.

Mound guy? OK, I kind of made that last one up, but it suits me.

What kind of mounds? I’m glad you asked! Like any of the varieties of guys mentioned above, I’m more than happy to talk ad nauseam about my pet topic. The mounds I’m interested in are the human-made kind. The ancient kind. The kind that dot the Wisconsin landscape, even though many of us are only dimly aware of them.

They are typically described as “Indian mounds” or “effigy mounds.” “Indian,” because they were built by Native Americans (not, as early European colonizers suspected, by the Norse or the Phoenicians or people from the Indian subcontinent). “Effigy” because they were frequently made to resemble animals — bears, lizards, panthers, snakes — although they are more commonly linear or just mound-shaped. There are an estimated 4,000 of them in Wisconsin, though the number was originally closer to 20,000.

”

If there’s any universal aspect to middle-aged guyness, it’s a search for connection – a thread to tie us to fellow humans...

As a mound guy, the thread I’m trying to cultivate is one that ties me to the land itself.

tom giffey

A thousand or more years ago, Wisconsin’s original inhabitants banded together to build these mounds in secluded valleys and along majestic ridge tops. Some were for burial, some were for ceremony and ritual. They were sacred spaces in a sacred landscape. For the past few years, I’ve found myself reading books about mounds and visiting them, trying to appreciate and understand these works of art.

I came to this interest by birth and by chance. I grew up in southwestern Wisconsin, where mounds are a relatively common part of the landscape if you know where to look for them. Mounds are an integral part of the driftless landscape that’s closest to my heart. (That’s not to say there aren’t any mounds near the Chippewa Valley: You can find them in Menomonie, Chippewa Falls, Chetek, and Trempealeau, too.)

The “by chance” part of the story is more recent. A couple of summers ago I was looking for a spot to stop to break up a long, solo car ride when I stumbled across a mention of Wisconsin’s most unusual mound of all: Man Mound. I had to check it out.

I found it along a quiet county road near Baraboo. Originally 214 feet long, the massive earthen figure’s knees are slightly bent as if walking and its head is topped by what is probably a horn- or antler-bedecked headdress. Although it rises only a few feet above the surrounding terrain, it’s beautiful and awe-inspiring. Then again, I’m a mound guy.

And, as a mound guy, I was duty bound to bring my family there a few months later to check it out. They were mildly impressed – or at least politely pretended to be.

They were perhaps more impressed last year when, on my birthday, I took a detour and brought them to a place called Frank’s Hill, which overlooks the Wisconsin River in Richland County. There, on a high ridge, are well-preserved mounds believed to represent a coyote, a bison, a bird, a beaver, and a coiled snake. In the sunshine of a Wisconsin August, with the rolling fields and hills a riot of green around us, it’s easy to see why a thousand or more years ago people deemed this land sacred. Many generations later, their descendants still do.

As do I, in my own way. I’m a lifelong Wisconsinite, yet my earliest ancestors arrived here just 175 years ago. I can only begin to fathom the sacredness of this landscape to those whose ancestors came 10,000 or more years ago.

If there’s any universal aspect to middle-aged guyness, it’s a search for connection – a thread to tie us to fellow humans, whether it’s through whacking a pickleball or sharing fly-tying tips. As a mound guy, the thread I’m trying to cultivate is one that ties me to the land itself.