November 20, 2002

Deer camp: Red shed, blaze orange and whitetails

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor

      After a mere 58 hours in the wild, I'm back in captivity; showered, shaved and not wearing a stitch of blaze orange.
      The annual sojourn into the woods to practice poor hygiene, poker faces and tell tale tales about whitetails- otherwise known as deer camp - is over. While firearm deer season doesn't end until November 30, the real reason for the season, the red shed, is locked up until next year.
      Built during the Lyndon Baines Johnson administration, the red shed has become synonymous with deer camp for the Scofield clan. Constructed of plywood painted the hue of Elmer Fudd's hunting hat, the tar paper abode screams rustic charm. That same verbal reaction can also be heard coming from the accompanying outhouse on 15 degree mornings.
      Over the last decade, I've driven countless miles to make my way to the red shed nestled amongst family acreage near the Huron National Forest. Despite tie rod bending two-tracks, deer camp at the red shed is always worth the trip.
      For some the words "deer camp" conjure up images of scraggly bearded men sitting around in union suits, cracking open cans of Schlitz while belching the words to "Da Turdy Point Buck" by Bananas at Large. This stereotypical thinking is an utter fallacy; after all they stopped making Schlitz years ago. Our camp is a bit more refined - we actually eat with utensils and end sentences without bodily function punctuation marks.
      Packing for deer camp, unlike other trips, is hardly an exercise in futility. No garment bags, no suitcases with wheels, no more than two pairs of underwear - no problem. Instead, the backpack is stuffed with wool socks, T-shirts deemed unfit for public display and blue jeans black with stains. The trunk is also loaded with the obligatory blaze orange hunting paraphernalia and a gun unfired since 1999.
      However, you can't leave behind the real essentials: crude food.
      Deer camp is chance to eat pickled this and fried that. You won't ruffle any feathers eating ostrich jerky while dining at the red shed. Nor will summer sausage and Dolly Madison donuts turn up noses at the breakfast table. After a few days at deer camp, even Dr. Adkins might prescribe a hamburger bun; hold the patty.
      Opening day has also provided amble food for thought.
      Most boyhood memories involve sitting in the deer blind with dad, teeth chattering, waiting for sunrise or sunset. It was amazing that my father, a native New Yorker, could actually sit still for more than an hour. Of course, the AM radio tuned to the Detroit Lion's game kept us safe from any wayward deer.
      That was until the "buck actually stopped here" year. It was opening day 1985 at 11:15 a.m. I remember because of the ringing 30.06 retort in my ears - a sound I had never heard before. The deer, a stocky eight point, was found between pine trees. It was the first and last deer my father ever shot.
      As I grew older, I graduated to my own deer blind (a converted ice fishing shanty) plopped atop a ridge called the Hog's Back. Dad and I would communicate with walkie-talkies, usually about lunch or going home. Occasionally a deer would cross our paths and we would exchange the following stage whisper report:
      - Dad: "There are two deer heading your way"
      - Me: "What?"
      - Dad: There are two deer heading your way!"
      - Me: "What about deer?!"
      - Dad: "DEER ... HEADED... YOUR ... WAY!"
      - (deer exit stage left) Me: "Oh"
      By the time I entered college, dad stopped going out on opening day. However, the hulk of his last hunting blind - a pickup camper - remains rusting in the weeds. I almost opened the camper door last year, but I was afraid a rabid raccoon would leap out from the rotting shag carpet. I think dad is happier yelling at the Detroit Lions from his LazyBoy than in the middle of 40 acres.
      Myself, there is something about the sound of near silence in the woods.
      Sitting close to perfectly still, over two days I saw 48 deer from my blind. I even passed on a three-point buck so enamored with a doe I swear his tongue was sticking out. Typical guy, oblivious to the impending danger around him while pursuing a parlous quarry he is no match for.
      Returning from where the wild things roam, I've completely brushed the ostrich jerky from my teeth. I'm back among flushing toilets and captive civilization - until the red shed opens once again.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com