Deer Camp Reflections
Cabins in West Virginia can be pretty rustic.
Driving from deer camp is always relaxing. Winding my way back through the mountains of West Virginia and western Maryland, along the same trails Meshach Browning did over a hundred years ago, gives me the perfect time to reflect on past and present hunts.
I recently spent a few days with my cousins, their sons-in-law, and even a grandchild. Seven men ranging in age from 66 to 17 crammed in a small two-bedroom, one-bath cabin was a great way of getting closer in more ways than one.
Here’s a buck caught on a trial camera
a few years ago in West Virginia.
New Traditions
The West Virginia hunt started back in the late 70s. My cousin Barrel’s dad, my uncle, was killed in a farming accident during a blizzard. My uncle Jerry took Barrel to West Virginia that year to do something different while spending time together. Over the years, more people started going, including myself. As people got older and stopped going, there was always someone younger to step in. It’s the revered cycle of life.
After almost 20 years, the unexpected happened. Uncle Jerry died on the very mountain we hunt. He was only 50. Barrel, Brent and I were there. The saying misery loves company was never more apparent. The experience drew us closer together, and the WVA hunt became almost sacred.
A few years later, our Uncle Gary, Brent’s dad, started coming to WVA. Being older, he didn’t venture far from the road but loved hunting and being outdoors. When walking out of the woods, I’d sometimes smell cigar smoke. I’d follow the aroma and see Gary sitting on a log, enjoying the last light of day, a big grin on his face.
He truly loved the outdoors. During Pennsylvania’s deer season, he’d sit all day, dark to dark, in his tree stand every day of the season. Farmer tough, rain, sleet, snow, cold or wind didn’t deter him. And he made the ride to his stand on his ATV. He did this up until last year when he died at age 80 after having dinner with my cousins.
My cousin Barrel with last year’s buck using his dad’s Savage 99.
Current Day
Now, Barrel and I are the “camp elders.” How’d that ever happen? Looking in the mirror, the answer is obvious. Barrel’s taken over Uncle Gary’s log, shooting a buck last year using his dad’s old Savage 99. Talk about a little family magic happening on that hunt! I used to hunt Uncle Jerry’s hollow for years, but now I hunt from a closer spot.
A young Tank and Barrel are now the camp elders.” Fluorescent orange hunting coats were the thing back then.
During this year’s hunt, Tank is evaluating
a gun for a future article
New Research
To hell with this thing called climate change! Scientists need to research mountain inclination, combined with oxygen dissipation, as the hills and hollows are surely steeper, and the air noticeably thinner from years ago. I know it’s true! It’s even affecting the deer! Somehow, they’re heavier while looking the same size.
A nice WVA buck taken a few years ago.
Cock-a-doodle-doo Do!
Sleep is fitful the first night in camp. Anticipation, as well as our own rendition of the Walton’s saying goodnight to each other is more akin to the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles and the large bean pot. Between laughs, giggles, and a last (hopefully) expenditure of methane gas, a few winks are caught … maybe …
Opening day has us up at 3:45 to start the bathroom rotation. The rule of the cabin is first come, first served. I start the coffee and get the pork loin, sauerkraut and taters ready for the crockpot supper. Nothing’s better than having the aroma of a hot meal welcome you when opening the cabin door after hunting all day. It’s the perfect cure for being cold, tired and hungry.
Lunches are packed, and it’s out the door a little before 5:00. Most are in the stand well before first light. I was especially excited as I was toting a new lightweight rifle in a new caliber to write about down the road. Opening day was beautiful, but our gang only got one deer. Jeremy was the lucky hunter. Our usual spots were taken over by 5 or 6 other hunters, so adjustments were made. Ah, the perils of hunting the National Forest.
Heads on the porch after a successful hunt.
Supper
When everyone’s back, we eat together. The bantering picks back up, followed by laughs, insults, jokes and old stories. We tell and retell stories of our uncles, Paps, and other family and friends no longer with us. There’s no place like deer camp. After supper, it isn’t long before people start heading for bed. Since most didn’t sleep much the previous night, it comes much easier after the day’s hunt.
The year after our Uncle Jerry died. We still felt his
presence on the hunt. Barrel, Tank, and Brent.
Bill Bane
Telling these stories reminds me of stories a buddy told me when he was young. He was bunked up with a friend of his dad’s, an older fellow named Bill Bane. Sleeping in the top bunk the night before opening day, he’s awakened by hot water dripping on his forehead. Looking over his bunk, he sees Bill Bane boiling something in a large pot.
“What’s ya cooking, Bill?” he asked. “Turnips! Want some?” came the reply. “Bill, it’s 2:30. Get some sleep,” he told him. “Sleep? I been busting deer all night long in my sleep!”
My best buck from West Virginia and the same trip
I found out Camille was pregnant with Samantha.
The Bane Load
Bill was a character. He had an innovative, unusual way of loading his .30-06. In his high-pitched voice, he explained it to my buddy. “My first load is a 180-grain soft-point roundnose, to buck brush. Next comes a 165-grain spitzer to reach out a little bit in case I miss with the roundnose. Lastly, is a Remington 150-grain bronze point in case he makes it a long way. I figure I got my bases covered when loaded like this.”
Bill wore a heavy florescent orange coveralls over his regular hunting clothes. Next came a thick leather belt with about 60 cartridge loops, and he had them all filled with the above bullets he mentioned. Next came a hatchet, hunting knife and bone saw. He may have even had a cast iron skillet because my buddy said something sure clanged when he walked.
His last piece of specialized equipment was a pair of linemen spikes, the kind linemen wear while climbing telephone poles. Sure enough, Bill climbed the straightest tree he could find to hunt from high above perch. Funny thing was, he always complained about getting hot, overheated and tired when getting to his tree.
The man who started the West Virgina tradition, our Uncle Jerry.
Immortal Tales
Hunting stories are as natural and traditional since the beginning of man. Most cave drawings depict hunting tales from the beginning of time. These tales bring joy and are even comforting as we hear about long-lost loved ones’ exploits or mishaps, which make us laugh. One thing is certain: hunting camp and hunting stories have a way of warming the soul and binding kindred spirits like no other.
