50% of those with a license only hang around deer camp and cook, drink and play cards.
And that’s deer camp!
No it isn't. Not the Deer Camps I've been a part of.
Same here. Sure, a little tomfoolery those couple of days before the Monday opener, but after that no way. In fact in the camp I was a member of for many years we had a rule of no drinking from Sunday night on and nobody bitched about it, not even the carousers. (Besides, once the season started we were always too tired at the end of the day to even crawl into our bunks let alone lift a pound of beer! Those rugged mountains force you to make your own luck- no walking to a tree house where you sit on your butt all day!
)
As the old timers get to being old timers, they tend to spend more time at camp. We take our hunting plenty serious. We're in the mountains on private land, surrounded by vast private lands. Neighbors make it a point to get along and reciprocate. Our camp tradition is thriving. It's a fun place to be. We don't have any rules per se and that's sort of the point. People do what they want, and are generally respectful of each other. Our only system of check and balances involves a tradition of pretty serious ribbing and an informal annual award. It's called the JOY award and is an acronym for [bleep] Of the Year. It's a contest that's been largely dominated by the same couple guys for decades.
The camp I hunted out of starting when I was twelve was an old old camp, half of it had dirt floors. It had a sink with a hand pump and an outhouse. It was at the foot of a huge Game Lands on a little stream side lot. The small parcel was secured with a 99 year lease by a vibrant group of friends after the first Great War. There were only two guys left. Two old timers that had fought in WWII and Korea. The one actually had another camp up the road. I was told it was the only camp around that had an inside toilet. It was explained that McMurty had his guts shot out in the war, so he got to have a toilet.
Those day's I was the only one that hunted. They'd drop me off at the Game Lands parking lot on top of the mountain an hour before first light with a thermos of coco and some some bologna sandwiches. I'd hunt all day and eventually find my way back to camp. The two old timers drank, played cards, shot the [bleep] and held court for a constant stream of visitors. That first year I shot a little buck way back in the bottom of a bowl. I didn't know what I was doing and didn't do a real good job of field dressing him. There was plenty of snow for the drag. A few hours into my wander out of the woods I ran into another hunter who was surprised to see a kid dragging a half gutted deer out in the middle of nowhere. He helped me finish dressing the deer and confirmed what my compass had been telling me. I got back to camp well after dark and arrived a celebrated hero by two boisterous old mad men. I hunted small game and deer with those two through my teens. It was a hoot.
