What a heartwarming recap of Camp Chickenbuck and what it means to each of us who've been touched by your stories here. We are very lucky to have this thread as a sounding board, and a place to call home. I used to always wear my dad's old red and black plaid Woolrich shirt during deer season to honor him, and keep his memory alive. Now, I have this butt ugly orange t-shirt with a picture of a chickenbuck on it that covers my fat hide on opening day. I wear it with pride and am proud to be an honorary Chickenbucker. I know it's been a tough year on you. Dusty must have been really special. I'm certain he was one I would have liked to share a campfire and a cup of coffee with. I was 21 when my dad died, and the first year of deer season without him at camp was excruciating. My brother and I were the only ones in camp, and we were literally just going through the motions. My solemn vow was to make Dad proud of my efforts that year. The Red Gods cut us a break. My brother and I both tagged out the first morning on clean one shot kills on spike bucks. I'm sure Dad smiled about that.
You have a very good thing going here Dave, and we truly appreciate being a part of it here on the bandwidth of the Campfire.
