The Young Buck: experiencing deer camp with the older generation
I’m always the youngest one at camp. In fact, I’ve never hunted with anyone less than 30 years older than me. Our usual crew consists of my dad, “Uncle” Rich (owner and builder of the cabin), and others. Our backgrounds range from librarian to English professor to city official to writer.
Generally, we arrive when work or school sets us free on the Friday before opening day. The low winter sun gives us enough light to break the chilled quiet by chopping firewood for the stove and sighting in our rifles. As night falls and red wine or brandy is poured, conversation drifts to the latest books we’ve read or whatever NPR news crackles through the clock radio. I feel older under the open rafters, turkey feathers, and antlers of Rich’s shack. Life simplifies.
“Thankfully, numbers don’t matter much at Rich’s camp. The weekend in the woods, meat for the freezer, and the time shared with friends always adds up to more than any rack score.”
As is true in any Wisconsin deer camp, being the young buck comes with its share of customs. The most stringent requirement at ours is the sleeping arrangement. The top bunk is reserved for the youngest hunter. In the top bunk, one quickly learns that two types of air rise. One is produced by calico beans and other fibrous dishes, while the other is heat from the wood stove.
I learned at a very young age that older men (including myself someday, I’m sure), prefer a warmer climate to sleep in. When the ground floor of the cabin is their perfect temperature, the top bunk becomes indistinguishable from the camp’s sauna. And just when I start to drift into a sweaty slumber, nature calls one of the more seasoned bladders in the room. The wooden door squeaks open, another log is added to the fire, and I wake up again.
The older souls in the room rise for good well before the predetermined alarm. There is a touch of Christmas morning in the air as I linger in my bunk. My dad usually beckons me down to the chilled floorboards with sizzling bacon or eggs. We eat, pack our bags, and make our way into the pre-dawn stillness for the morning ascent.
The ridge is steep, but we climb together. On top, we peel off at our respective stands with a whispered good luck. Soon enough, I am alone with only the gray glimmer of dawn and a few leaves shifting on bare branches.
During my first year alone in a stand, I could only make it a few hours. Cookies and hot cocoa can only hold off the cold boredom for so long. Now older, I relish in the contemplative time in the woods. Sometimes that peace is snapped by the sound of a twig. I realize it’s a deer, and adrenaline takes over.
Due to my young restlessness, I didn’t shoot my first deer until I was 18, a pitiful age for any true-blooded Wisconsin boy. Since then, I’ve taken two more deer, bringing my grand total to a paltry three. Thankfully, numbers don’t matter much at Rich’s camp. The weekend in the woods, meat for the freezer, and the time shared with friends always adds up to more than any rack score.
No matter the success of the day’s hunt, Saturday night always provides a hearty meal and visitors from down the road. As venison sizzles and wild rice casserole steams from the oven, headlight beams pierce the darkness and approach the cabin.
The regular neighbors fill the room to seating capacity of eight, maybe 10. One by one everyone tells the tale of their day. Beer and wine embellish each story until the food is piping hot. As we dive into heaping paper plates, someone always proclaims, “No politics at the deer camp this year!” Dinner always ends in politics. We round out the night with the usual sauna and hot brandy cider. Opening weekend has once again satisfied.
This season will by my first away from Rich’s camp since I was 12. By default, my dad will be the young buck this year at the tender age of 54. Doesn’t seem quite right. But I’ll be back next year to share in the food, the camaraderie, and if nothing else, to save my father from the top bunk.
