The Hunting Camp

By Denny L. Vasquez

It was still dark outside when the alarm clock went off inside my head. I seem to have some sort of built in sense when it comes to telling time and usually have no problem in getting up; especially when it comes to participating in one of my favorite activities like fishing, shooting or hunting. When it comes to having to go in to the office or working around the house, well that’s another story.

As I rose from the warmth of my bed, the first thing that I did was add more wood to those glowing orange coals that had made it through the night in the small wood burning stove. The rekindled fire will soon chase away the frost as the heat slowly makes its way around the interior of the small cabin.

Everyone else is still hidden in his or her cozy beds, with only the top of a head or two showing. From many years of association, they knew that I am usually the first one in camp to be up and about in the morning. That is why the chores of rebuilding the warm coals into a fire and then putting the coffee on to perk fall on my shoulders.

And you know something; I really don’t mind these little chores because, to my way of thinking, this is one of the best times of the day. It is still so quite and peaceful outside that you can almost hear your heart beating in your chest as it pumps life into your body. At this time of the day there is nothing stirring around yet which could break the spell. However, all too soon, the sun will brighten the world with the full effect of its brilliant light, and then the animals and my fellow hunters will be up and about.

There will be the sounds of the birds chirping and the squirrels chattering in the trees. There will be the sounds of armadillos rooting in the underbrush and the sounds of the turkeys strutting about. Maybe even the sounds of a chainsaw in the distance as someone cuts that last bit of winter firewood.

In camp, there will be the sounds of sinuses being cleared, gas being passed, wide cavernous yawns, long satisfied sighs as people stretch, coffee cups hitting the table top as they await their owners to come and fill them and the sounds of the cook clattering his pots and pans together in preparing breakfast. Then the spell of tranquillity will be broken. But, thankfully, that time has not come yet! After one last look around the cabin to insure that the fire is going and that the coffee is perking, I grab my frayed hunting jacket, my “old timey” smoke pole and my shooting pouch before setting out for my favorite hunting spot.

The huge, old, overgrown water oak tree, whose roots hang out over the rusty clay bank of San Miguel creek, is my destination. From my perch, within this vantage point, I can see up or down the creek and into the light underbrush for about 100 yards in each direction. Besides this excellent field of view, my nest among the roots of this old monarch of the forest also provides a comfortable place that conceals my movements from the various inhabitants of the forest that I have come here to observe. It also serves as protection from the blustery cold winds while the intertwined limbs overhead provide shelter from all but the very hardest of rains.

As my feet feel their way along the now familiar path in the dark, I let my mind wander back to all of the hunting seasons that have come and gone since I first started hunting this place. According to my calculations it would be going on close to 32 years since my dad had first brought me here as a wide eyed 10 year old. We have hunted other places before then and other places since, but this place was the “Camp”. Over the years, more members of the “family” have come to hunt here with us and the head count is now set at around 20 or so.

I have grown up here as both a hunter and a person. I had learned to watch the animals of the forest and the lessons that they teach us through their actions. To this day it never fails to amaze me how much the animal world reminds me of the people world. There are those that are dominant and those that are submissive. There are those that are resourceful as well as those that are lazy and wait for someone else to do their work for them. There are those that are brave and those that are cowards. There are those that are smart enough to try to reason things out and there are those that are impatient, who just try to bull their way through a problem.

Now after all of these years I am bringing my children here to learn how to hunt and about the ways of not only the woods but the greater out of doors as well. Yesterday I had sat in one of the older box stands with my son James. This stand overlooks the first 40-acre field that had been cleared in this neck of the woods. This year it had been planted in clover and rye grass, two of the favorite fall food sources for the local whitetail population.

We watched as the early morning, gray light slowly lit the field, just before the sun rose above the eastern tree line. First came the pretty songbirds. Then the cottontail bunnies came out into the field to feed. Even a lone raccoon scampered across the field before the hungry bobcat made its entrance. It is amazing how fast a field full of life can suddenly grow quite and still. After a few minutes the still hungry bobcat left the field to search for game elsewhere.

Even before the cottontails had returned to reclaim the field as their own, the first doe and her twin fawns made an apprehensive appearance at the other end of the field. As the twins fed out into the clover and rye grass, mommy stood guard with watchful eyes that didn’t miss much. After a while, when she was satisfied that there wasn’t any danger lurking nearby, even she put her head down to chew the tender young clover and juicy green grass. As we continued to watch, other does and their fawns made their way out into the lush green field. The offering of a fresh garden salad was just too much for them to pass up. In the end there were over thirty deer in the field.

This was the first time that James had seen so many “wild” deer in the same place at one time. I could almost smell the “buck fever” that had taken a hold of him. As I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed just a little, I could feel him relax as he turned to smile at me. He told me later that he didn’t realize that there were that many deer in the woods that surrounded our hunting camp.

Then slowly at first, the does started to turn and look back toward the trail coming out of the woods. Nervously they started to herd their fawns toward another trail off to our right. As the herd continued to drift off in that direction, James turned and mouthed the words, “What is going on? Is something scaring them?” I just shook my head no and pointed toward the trail coming out of the woods.

As we continued to watch we could see a gray shadow moving in the background, underneath the trees that were still in the shadows. Slowly one of the shadows detached itself from the rest and moved slowly forward. Then we could see that it was a deer. But this deer was much larger than the does we had seen earlier. It was an eight-point buck.

Judging by his size and body characteristics, I guessed him to be around 6 or 7 years old. That is old for this neck of the woods. We have been unable to implement a management program because none of our neighbors wanted to participate. Their philosophy was “If it has horns, shoot it!” So I was very surprised to see a buck that had made it this long turn up on our lease.

We watched, as the buck made its way a short distance out into the field. By staying close to the tree line, it made itself more difficult to distinguish from the grays of the wintertime woods and had quick access to its chosen escape route. Both of these were wise moves.

As we continued to watch, the old buck made its way around the outer edge of the field. I decided that though he wasn’t the biggest buck I might see this year, that he was a nice buck and due to his age, he might not survive another winter in these woods.

Slowly, I lifted my custom made .50 caliber Hawken rifle up to the window of the box stand and made sure that the percussion cap was still in place and on tightly. As the buck continued to feast of the field’s offerings, it became apparent to me that he would pass within 50 yards of our hiding spot. All I had to do was let him take his time and for us not to make a noise that would scare him. I motioned for James to be quite and to be still.

When the buck had finally made his way to the portion of the field in front of our stand, I carefully lifted the old Hawken and peered through the buckhorn rear sights as I aligned them with the German silver front blade. This rifle has been on many hunts with me since I had first ordered her over 20 years ago. The quality of a custom rifle, made to fit your particular dimensions, cannot be matched by a mass produced factory version.

Turning broadside to us at last, the buck offered the perfect target. I eased back the hammer on the Hawken and motioned for James to cover his ears. At the boom from the old girl, the smoke of the Pyrodex obscured my view of the buck. But evidently, James could see him clearly, as he yelled, “He’s down, dad, he’s down!” I stood and quickly reloaded with Pyrodex, roundball and home made pillow ticking. But a second shot would not be needed. My first one had taken him in the heart and lungs and since he had not been excited, he did not have the adrenaline rush that often allows them to go so far after being hit.

As James and I carefully approached the old buck, I showed him how to use a stick to poke an animal in the eye to insure that it was dead. Explaining that none of God’s creatures could stand being poked in the eye and that you could tell if they were playing opossum or not that way. It could prevent an injury to the hunter by a “dead” animal.

Then we sat for a while and admired the beauty and grace of one of God’s creations. We talked about why I had decided to shoot the old buck, even though he had a smaller set of horns. We talked about the woods in general and how hard life could be for the inhabitants. It was a time for a father and son to share. Then we began the work of field dressing the buck before starting the long trek back to the camp. With yet another of those special memories associated with the hunting camp.