Friday 11/13/2009 Camp

I was talking to a friend today and he seemed distracted. He appeared to want to pay attention to what I was saying but didn’t really seem to be connecting everything. I of course assumed it was just because I tend to ramble on but no it was much more than that. He finally disclosed that he was getting ready, ready for camp. Now some of you are thinking that you know what I mean, but do you? I’m talking about HUNTING CAMP. The Grand Poo-bah of all male bonding experiences. A huge right of passage in life for many fathers and sons. Now please, I’m a woman of the current decade and I do know women hunt and go to camp but my experiences are that they do not go through the rituals or to the extreme that guys I’ve known and loved have and do, year after year. There is the prepping and packing and the preparing and purchasing and pilgrimage... up north. Given where I live, up north could be 10 mile up the road. For many it is a long overly anticipated drive to a remote location most times with limited bathroom facilities. Then there is the unpacking and the unloading and the re-purchasing of things forgotten. If you have planned it all with great strategy and finesse, you’ve saved vacation days, timed the drive properly, you settle in to camp the night before the most magical day of the year for a hunter…opening day. And then, just as the hunter’s father and grandfather and great grandfather and so on for the generations before has done... it’s the pre-dawn race to the blind. Know that special attention has been paid to wear the best in camo... first time hunters in my family are spotted by the overindulgence in orange clothing. The new hunter wearing the most orange is likely to win the yearly pumpkin award. Trust me when I say this is not an honor bestowed out of admiration. So the hunter settles in the blind, gun at the ready and eagerly awaits the deer. And waits, and waits and waits…

My late husband took me to camp a few times. I loved him but camp, not so much. He had no issues with my choice to stay with relatives in a well heated, water running, electricity working, actual walls and a roof, home rather than camp. Back then the family camp was actually an old chicken coop. Now mind you a new chicken coop smells like chicken... droppings. I still reel at the thought of that place… but the hunters loved it. Many years later camp was moved in to a house of a deceased relative. Every few years my husband would trek up to camp, off season and do work around the old house. Oh he moaned and groaned about this or that breaking but I knew he loved being there, tinkering on the water heater or whatever needed the most urgent repair. I remember my first visit to camp. I really did try to be a trooper and get into the camp spirit. My camp experience was… interesting. I shot a gun for the first time in my life. I loved the care and tenderness that he used in showing me his gun, explaining what was what and trying to teach me the ways of the hunter. I know he knew as well as I did that there was absolutely no way in this lifetime that I would ever be hanging out in the next blind during that or any other hunting season. But, that was fine. I believe one of our strengths as a couple was the appreciation for hobbies or activities we enjoyed, separately. So there I was a 19 year old newlywed holding a gun that seemed so long, so heavy. I tried to remember everything he said, watch the scope, hold the gun lovingly not rigidly, don’t lock my knee, and aim for the target... breath. I pulled the trigger… I’m not sure which one of us started laughing first, I think it was me. I was text book… pulled the trigger and landed flat on my butt. I’d never seen reaction time as quick as I did when he lunged forward as I felt myself going down. Oh it wasn’t me he was reaching out to catch… it was the gun. The only saving grace was that we were alone at camp and no one else saw my gun slinging debut. Almost every year as he prepared for camp… we would re-visit that day and laugh all over again. The next trip to camp for me was when I was 6 or 7 months pregnant with our daughter. We had decided that it would be best if I went up north and stayed with his wonderful aunt rather than be alone for the week. That week has gone down in family history as the week I learned to make Potato Sausage… I understand this was an event… get the young “city girl” to manage the business end of the grinder. If you have never has this experience, the end of the grinder is where the casing is attached. Whatever is becoming sausage shoots out of a tube into the casing and is at intervals tied off… frankly it’s disgusting. But yet again, I was a trooper. I took my place at the casing end and began my task. It never occurred to me to say no or ask for assistance. To this day I am always cautious about sausage. Later that night, I took a big pan of sausage out to camp. He was so proud of me. I have no idea if it was any good but he would have eaten it if the casing had been filled with mud. I miss seeing his face and the look that passed between us whenever one did something solely to please the other.
For years the main objective of camp was to bring home a deer. I learned early in my life with him how to cook venison and cook it well. Many years we didn’t purchase beef during the winter, we used the fruits of the hunt. Most years the meat came to my house already processed, by the hunters themselves. I loved that everyone seemed to remember how each family liked their meat packed. Great care was taken to have the right amount of steaks, chops or ground packed and marked, ready for the freezer. I proudly say that there were a few years he didn’t get his deer early enough to process at camp and I help process at home. My first reaction was... gross! But as I was taught the art of hand butchering, I found it fascinating.
In the past few years, camp became something more. It wasn’t about the kill or the meat. It was about the time, the land, the fresh air and the peace. Last season, we had taught my husband how to text. It was at the time my favorite hunting season ever and it will remain one of my favorite memories of him. He sent texts all day from his blind. Mini love letters, photos and random thoughts poured into my cell phone. I loved the relaxed, renewed and well rested husband that returned each year after…camp. To see his beautiful, tanned, well rested, relaxed and newly bearded face come through the door after the annual 10 day pilgrimage to camp, is both a loving lasting memory and something that brings tears to my eyes.
I’ve heard from some family members who have expressed concerns about camp this year. Some feel camp will not be the same without him. For many it will be a very difficult season. He was the Pied Piper at camp and in life. He rallied the troops, planned the party and took care of everyone. I’m not sure who is either willing or able to fill those shoes at camp. I know there will be angst about his ashes as well. His wish was to be cremated with his ashes spread out at camp. When he died I told every one of my plans to come to camp in the summer and... leave him there. There was much anticipation by many of the hunters to join me in this task. But I didn’t go to camp this summer. I can’t. I’m sorry that I put a time frame on this. I am not yet ready to make that final step. If I let the hunters down I am sorry. I hope you understand and I pray that my actions or lack of do not put further pain in your hearts.
At some point, I will take him to camp. He will be where he felt renewed. I will be happy to leave him there when the time is right. I trust that my heart and head will tell me when I’m ready…

I hope so…