November 12, 2003
Deer camp: Bad food, good memories
By
Herald Editor
While no longer a young buck, I am gamely going into the wild this weekend. A little bit slower, older and wiser to wearing several layers of thermal blaze orange.
The annual sojourn into the woods to practice poor hygiene, poker faces and tell tall tales about whitetails - otherwise known as deer camp - starts in two days. For generations of Scofields, the opening day of firearm deer season has become synonymous with the red shed.
Built during the Lyndon Baines Johnson administration, the red shed is nestled among family acreage near the Huron National Forest. The plywood and tar paper abode screams rustic charm. Unfortunately, the cedar sided outhouse draws the same reaction - especially on zero degree mornings.
Several years ago, my ambitious cousins constructed a bunkhouse and kitchen area in the red shed. The haphazard wood stove heat, however, left the guy in the top bunk fried and the bacon undercooked. In a show of true deer camp compromise, we switched to gas heat and cold cereal.
After all, eating Frosted Flakes with a rusty Swiss Army knife is the epitome of roughing it at deer camp. Although nothing is quite as harsh as 200 grit one-ply toilet paper.
Packing for deer camp, unlike other trips, is hardly a painful process. I dare say it is downright enjoyable - no garment bag, no suitcase on wheels, no obligatory Sunday brunch tie. Just a backpack stuffed with wool socks, unholy holey T-shirts and blue jeans black with 10W-30 stains.
Naturally, the hunting jacket and 30.06 are loaded in the truck to keep up the yearly appearances and pretenses.
Although some hunters may pack Special Forces inspired thermal underwear, I stick to the real bare essentials - vile vittles.
Deer camp is all about putting the first three letters in gastronomy. We stick to a steady diet of the four basic food groups: pickled, fried, smoked and jerked. Dining at the red shed means summer sausage and Dolly Madison donuts for breakfast. Anything remotely resembling a vegetable is thrown on the bait pile.
Yesterday, I ate an entire pot roast just to get my gi tract toughened up for deer camp cuisine.
While my stomach is in shape, back spasms might be in the forefront this weekend. Since 1990, I've dealt with a back that on occasion gives me the slip disc or vexing vertebrae. My pain can often be pinpointed to something strenuous like lifting a 328 pound snowmobile or tying my shoes. I think this time it was the double square knot.
This could be the first year I can only hike in a six-pack of Pabst instead of a case.
While deer camp is run under the guise of getting back to nature, it is really an elaborate excuse not to shave. Facial hair is a sensitive subject around our house this time of year. The follicular flap is caused by my ritual winter growth goatee which irritates my wife's skin, and gets under it a bit. However, fall facial hair never rubs the wrong way at deer camp.
While I might accidentally remember to pack a rifle, I never fail to forget my razor and Barbasol.
Even though my mind and eyesight lack focus these days, I still enjoy the sound of near silence as morning breaks in the woods. Hopefully the snort of some young buck won't disturb my thermal blaze orange slumber.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com