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The Reasons We Hunt? Camaraderie of Camp May Trump Them All

November 26, 2008 - Why do we hunt?

It's a question often asked by those who don't, but sometimes difficult to answer by those who do. The simple answer is that it's in our DNA. But as sapient beings, we're always looking for more complex answers. A study by Yale University lists five principal reasons, including camaraderie. At first glance, it may not seem all that important, but for many, it's the primary if not only reason they head to camp each fall.

This weekend will see another influx of non-resident hunters and another wave of resident hunters all heading north to deer camp. For many, it's as much a family reunion as it is about the hunting, as this may be the one and only time each year they get to visit with certain friends and relatives. A week at camp is a special occasion.

Depending on how long a trip it is, there may be several stops. No hunting trip to Maine would be complete without stopping at Kittery Trading Post, Cabela's or L.L. Bean for necessities and impulse purchases. It may be a box of shells, a bottle of Tink's No. 69 doe-in-heat scent or the latest deer call. Then there's the obligatory stop for, ahem, "groceries." Traditionally, this was the guys' chance to stock up on junk food, but with more and more women joining our ranks, the hunter's diet is becoming more healthy.

Along the way, a transition takes place. Individuals become more relaxed, shedding the roles they play in the real world to become one thing: hunters. By journey's end, doctors and lawyers, butchers and bakers, soldiers and sailors will all sport the standard uniform of red plaid flannel shirts and green wool Johnson pants.

Camp itself is a magical place. The inside is filled with the aroma of wood smoke, bacon and gun oil, smells no conscientious sportsmen would allow on their hunting clothes back home. But these are the smells of the north woods, and somehow the deer seem to forgive them.

Mornings are a busy time. There always seems to be an aged veteran who rises before all others, stokes the wood stove and starts the coffee: three palmfuls of grounds thrown into a baked enamel pot and set atop the wood stove. The first breakfast of the week is a big one, replete with bacon, eggs – cooked not to order but the way the cook likes 'em – sausage, toast, biscuits and gravy and in the more traditional camps, beans. (By week's end, breakfast will be Pop Tarts and cold cereal.)

The day's plans are laid out. "I'll start on the beech ridge," says one hunter. "I'm going to the cedar bog," says another. The veterans, who are the captains, hand out assignments to the less experienced in camp. "Follow that old twitch road past the lake 'til it dead ends. Then walk up on that ridge, find an open spot and sit. I'll be still-hunting through the swamp, and should be to you around 10."

The more dedicated hunters will stay out all day. Others will return for lunch, then hit the woods again later. All will hurry back to camp after sunset, not wanting to miss one of the most anxiously awaited times of the day: story hour. Singly, in pairs or in groups, the hunters filter back in to camp. Their pulses quicken before rounding the last corner. "Will there be something on the game pole?"

Whether there is or not, every hunter will have a tale to tell of the day's adventures. Some will talk of deer sightings, of close encounters and missed opportunities. Some will reveal the whereabouts of fresh signs and where they'll be the next day.

Many of the tales feature woodland creatures other than deer. "I heard the footsteps getting closer and closer. I saw a glint of antler through the brush. Then, suddenly, out stepped the biggest spike bull moose I've ever seen." Other stories may involve bears, fisher or even lynx. As the tale is told, the others in camp wait respectfully for the teller to finish, anxiously awaiting the next opening to tell their own story.

Later, as the dinner dishes are washed and put away, the stories of past hunts are told again, a tradition as old as language itself. Veterans can almost recite them word for word. There's the time one guy fell asleep under a beech tree and was awoken by the sound of a deer snorting right behind him. Or of the cagey old mossy-horned buck that lives in the bog. Each year, that deer and his legend grows bigger. Meanwhile, the youngsters and newcomers simply stare wide-eyed, taking it all in.

There are other reasons to hunt, but as long as there's the camaraderie of deer camp, who needs 'em?

BOB HUMPHREY, Portland Press Herald, November 20, 2008


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