Only a deer hunter knows the feeling…
I’ve only shot two deer in my life, both button bucks. One at the age of 17, one at the age of 19. Wounded three (hard to admit, even harder lessons to learn). Seen countless.
Even with a sorry record like that, I have been a deer hunter all of my life. Just as much as the guys who go out and shoot a record buck every year. Just as much as the guys who get enough meat to keep their freezers stocked with venison year-round. Here it sounds like I am trying to justify it to myself, but I am not. Am I envious of them? … absolutely, but I am still a Michigan deer hunter albeit no Ted Nugent. I am lucky to log 10 four hour sits from early antlerless, through January first, through archery, fire arm, and muzzle loader. It doesn’t matter how much or how little you hunt or how many deer you’ve bagged, if you’re a deer hunter you know the feeling, and it all starts somewhere.
I remember my dad leaving every November for that first week of opener. For Deer Camp. Talking to him on the phone periodically and without even saying hello asking with the excitement of a child, “Did you get one?!” … the answer was typically no, but he would report who saw what and who DID actually get one (typically Uncle Kelly or Tom). I got to hear about the snow too, it was always better if there was snow. How could there be snow up there if there was no snow down here?! This is how I grew up. Every November. Knowing my day to join Deer Camp would come soon… not knowing that deer camp was so much more than just a week or two of deer hunting.
I remember the feeling of my first sit. I remember the shack I sat in with my cousin. I can picture perfectly the stump we put apply jelly on for bait. I remember my dad sitting in the tree stand above us with his bow as we tried our best to sit still and be quiet. Being only eight years old, that was a poorly accomplished task. No deer were shot. Memories were made. I was officially a hunter.
I hunted periodically throughout my teen years. Typically, with a bow, mostly on my own. My dad was the kind of guy who just liked to sit in the woods rather than “shoot the deer, gut the deer, drag the deer” … you know, all that hard work that comes along with hunting. Even though I did not have much of a hunting mentor, I still knew I was a hunter, and when I was old enough, I would get to be a part of deer camp.
Now this camp, like countless other deer camps in Michigan started three generations back from me (me being the fourth), when my great grandpa and some friends bought 80 acres of rolling hills and swamp in the deep woods of Montmorency County circa late 1930’s. That’s when the stories started. These are the stories passed down every deer camper knows. Every deer camper has the stories. I never met my great grandpa, but I have heard his stories through memories of surviving deer campers. Stories told after good dinner and a case or ten of Blatz. Stories that can’t be told in any other place, at any other time. And these stories aren’t just stories… Only a deer hunter knows the feeling.
It’s something like nostalgia. Nostalgia that goes back a long long time. It is ancient. It tugs on the heart strings. And for this hunter, the feeling is not fading (it is a feeling that CANT fade), but the times ARE changing.
When I turned 18, I finally got my chance. I was the first member of the fourth generation of deer hunters at this particular deer camp. And if you’re still reading at this point, it is everything you know a deer camp to be. Hunting was just the half of it.
My fellow deer campers, the experienced “great white mighty hunters,” prided themselves on never missing a deer camp. One of my uncles and my grandpa missed a season or two when they were in the service. I think another member might have missed a season for the birth of his daughter. Other than that, these guys were die hards. It ran in their blood as it runs in mine. But times are changing and I am in a different generation than the deer campers of the past.
It is with a heavy heart and the purpose that I write this… the chain has been broken. For three generations, this deer camp has survived with unwavering commitment. November 15th was deer camp. End of story. No excuses. It was a part of life. In the past eleven years, I have made it to about four deer camps. There are three other fourth generation deer campers who attend this particular camp. They too attend sporadically… but like bagging a record buck on a yearly basis or successfully harvesting deer every year to keep your freezer full of meat, none of that matters. The death of a deer camp may mark the end of an era, but I am still a fourth-generation deer hunter and my son will be a fifth-generation deer hunter. Deer camp or no deer camp, only a deer hunter knows the feeling.
This story is dedicated to my late Great Grandpa Carol and Great Uncle Denny (RIP to the best damn cook anyone has ever known). My Grandpa Keesling, Great Uncle Jeff, my dad, Uncle Kelly, Uncle Mark, Uncle Kenny, Tom, and Jack (also a good cook, but defiantly no Denny). Thanks for teaching me what it means to be a deer hunter.
I would like to read some other stories from deer hunting millennials (or from other mighty hunting elders, the ones with the grey hair) about deer camp. Whether you have a similar story where an old deer camp is coming to an end. Or whether you attend a deer camp that is up and going strong with a new generation of deer hunters! I think the die-hard Michigan deer camps of the past are coming to an end with the Millennial generation, but I could well be wrong. I am not saying this is a bad thing, and I am definitely not looking to start a debate about us Millennials (so please keep all anti-Millennial jabs to angry Facebook posts, however good-hearted insults gladly welcomed – in fact one might say I feel entitled to them… HAH!). The times are changing, the times have changed, and I personally am not able to take the time off work like my blue-collar dad, grandpa, and great grandpa were able to. Anyways – happy hunting to everyone. I hope you’re feeling that incredible feeling only know to a Michigander during deer hunting season!
I’ve only shot two deer in my life, both button bucks. One at the age of 17, one at the age of 19. Wounded three (hard to admit, even harder lessons to learn). Seen countless.
Even with a sorry record like that, I have been a deer hunter all of my life. Just as much as the guys who go out and shoot a record buck every year. Just as much as the guys who get enough meat to keep their freezers stocked with venison year-round. Here it sounds like I am trying to justify it to myself, but I am not. Am I envious of them? … absolutely, but I am still a Michigan deer hunter albeit no Ted Nugent. I am lucky to log 10 four hour sits from early antlerless, through January first, through archery, fire arm, and muzzle loader. It doesn’t matter how much or how little you hunt or how many deer you’ve bagged, if you’re a deer hunter you know the feeling, and it all starts somewhere.
I remember my dad leaving every November for that first week of opener. For Deer Camp. Talking to him on the phone periodically and without even saying hello asking with the excitement of a child, “Did you get one?!” … the answer was typically no, but he would report who saw what and who DID actually get one (typically Uncle Kelly or Tom). I got to hear about the snow too, it was always better if there was snow. How could there be snow up there if there was no snow down here?! This is how I grew up. Every November. Knowing my day to join Deer Camp would come soon… not knowing that deer camp was so much more than just a week or two of deer hunting.
I remember the feeling of my first sit. I remember the shack I sat in with my cousin. I can picture perfectly the stump we put apply jelly on for bait. I remember my dad sitting in the tree stand above us with his bow as we tried our best to sit still and be quiet. Being only eight years old, that was a poorly accomplished task. No deer were shot. Memories were made. I was officially a hunter.
I hunted periodically throughout my teen years. Typically, with a bow, mostly on my own. My dad was the kind of guy who just liked to sit in the woods rather than “shoot the deer, gut the deer, drag the deer” … you know, all that hard work that comes along with hunting. Even though I did not have much of a hunting mentor, I still knew I was a hunter, and when I was old enough, I would get to be a part of deer camp.
Now this camp, like countless other deer camps in Michigan started three generations back from me (me being the fourth), when my great grandpa and some friends bought 80 acres of rolling hills and swamp in the deep woods of Montmorency County circa late 1930’s. That’s when the stories started. These are the stories passed down every deer camper knows. Every deer camper has the stories. I never met my great grandpa, but I have heard his stories through memories of surviving deer campers. Stories told after good dinner and a case or ten of Blatz. Stories that can’t be told in any other place, at any other time. And these stories aren’t just stories… Only a deer hunter knows the feeling.
It’s something like nostalgia. Nostalgia that goes back a long long time. It is ancient. It tugs on the heart strings. And for this hunter, the feeling is not fading (it is a feeling that CANT fade), but the times ARE changing.
When I turned 18, I finally got my chance. I was the first member of the fourth generation of deer hunters at this particular deer camp. And if you’re still reading at this point, it is everything you know a deer camp to be. Hunting was just the half of it.
My fellow deer campers, the experienced “great white mighty hunters,” prided themselves on never missing a deer camp. One of my uncles and my grandpa missed a season or two when they were in the service. I think another member might have missed a season for the birth of his daughter. Other than that, these guys were die hards. It ran in their blood as it runs in mine. But times are changing and I am in a different generation than the deer campers of the past.
It is with a heavy heart and the purpose that I write this… the chain has been broken. For three generations, this deer camp has survived with unwavering commitment. November 15th was deer camp. End of story. No excuses. It was a part of life. In the past eleven years, I have made it to about four deer camps. There are three other fourth generation deer campers who attend this particular camp. They too attend sporadically… but like bagging a record buck on a yearly basis or successfully harvesting deer every year to keep your freezer full of meat, none of that matters. The death of a deer camp may mark the end of an era, but I am still a fourth-generation deer hunter and my son will be a fifth-generation deer hunter. Deer camp or no deer camp, only a deer hunter knows the feeling.
This story is dedicated to my late Great Grandpa Carol and Great Uncle Denny (RIP to the best damn cook anyone has ever known). My Grandpa Keesling, Great Uncle Jeff, my dad, Uncle Kelly, Uncle Mark, Uncle Kenny, Tom, and Jack (also a good cook, but defiantly no Denny). Thanks for teaching me what it means to be a deer hunter.
I would like to read some other stories from deer hunting millennials (or from other mighty hunting elders, the ones with the grey hair) about deer camp. Whether you have a similar story where an old deer camp is coming to an end. Or whether you attend a deer camp that is up and going strong with a new generation of deer hunters! I think the die-hard Michigan deer camps of the past are coming to an end with the Millennial generation, but I could well be wrong. I am not saying this is a bad thing, and I am definitely not looking to start a debate about us Millennials (so please keep all anti-Millennial jabs to angry Facebook posts, however good-hearted insults gladly welcomed – in fact one might say I feel entitled to them… HAH!). The times are changing, the times have changed, and I personally am not able to take the time off work like my blue-collar dad, grandpa, and great grandpa were able to. Anyways – happy hunting to everyone. I hope you’re feeling that incredible feeling only know to a Michigander during deer hunting season!