This Country LifeThis Country Life

Ep. 151: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Deer Camp

Published Oct 6, 2023, 9:00 AM

Deer Camp holds a lot of special memories for many and Brent is no exception. This week he’s talking about the traditions and legacy around his deer camp and how easy it is for you to start your own and do the same. He’s starting off with a story of deer hunting, bologna and underwear. That’s an unusual combination, but we’re sure it’ll all make sense when he explains it. Reasonably sure anyway. It’s Deer Camp time on This Country Life!

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Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Rieves from coon hunting to trot lining and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my stories and the country skills that will help you beat the system. This Country Life is proudly presented as part of Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways have to offer. All right, friends, pull you up a chair or drop that tailgate. I think I got a thing or two. The Teacher Deer Cam Deer season is what the majority of the hunters in America look forward to every year. With over fifteen million license hunters in the US, y'all know over eleven million of them are chasing deer. One of those statistical digits belongs to me, and for the better part of my existence on this in order we call home Dear Camp was what I look forward to most of all. Tradition and legacy are a big part of the outdoor culture, and believed or not, it's never too late to start your own. We're gonna talk about that and a whole lot more on this week's episode of This Country Life. But first I'm gonna tell you a story. My nephew, Matthew was seventeen. That's the same Matthew that I let get lost in the woods on a windy coon hunt a few years before with his little brother Will. If you miss that story, skip back to episode one forty one and hear that tale of miscommunication and buffoonery. But Matthew will be forty five this December. His oldest is in her first year of college. But on this day he was still young, and it was the middle of the morning, way past the golden ire of morning deer hunh And I don't remember if it was hunger or boredom that got me off the stand earlier that day. It was a safe bet that it was one or the other. I love to deer hunt, and by deer hunting, I mean that I like to be where the deer hunting is taking place, not necessarily literally taking part in it. And at that time it was taking place at the b and Our deer camp. More on that place than just a minute. But I remember getting back early and sitting on the front porch of the deer camp in a cool breeze, while everyone else was still scattered to the wind, still sitting on the stands. I was eating a Blogna sandwich that was sporting a mule lip thick piece of bologna and covered with Miss Mickey Bryant's famous pepper rellish. Now, folks, I like stories that are descriptive. I like to read or listen to someone telling me about an experience with the clarity that makes me feel like I am the person experiencing the event, or that I can see it played out in color like a little movie in my head. I had a freshman com professor that told me I was a very descriptive writer. Well that's cool, I guess, But let me tell you, William Shakespeare himself couldn't gather the pros necessary to come close describing how good her homemade pepper relish was. I can taste it right now, and I ain't had a bite of it in many, many moons. But I had my sandwich and some reheated coffee from the stove, and it was enjoying just sitting on the porch waiting for someone to come rolling in with a deer, or at least a deer story. And then all of a sudden, bam, my sandwich date was interrupted by a rifle shot, just a little south of due west. Well, that's Matthew stand. I decided i'd give him a minute or two before I go checked on him, mainly because I wanted to finish that sandwich I was eating before us. I ordered walking from the camp down to the creek bottom where he was hunting, about a quarter of a mile away. That first sandwich was so good, I fixed me another one and I let out across the yard, making my way toward Matthew's stand. It was cool walking in the sunlight with the wind out of the north, but down right chilly once I stepped into the woods, where all the direct sunlight was hidden by some old growth timber. The canopy was so thick that the ground was pretty well absent of brushing briars, and you could see a pretty good ways down through that bottom. I was taking my time and wearing my hunt orange, so when Matthew eventually saw me walking, he wouldn't bust a camp in my direction. I was also gnawing on that sandwich was reckless, abandoned. It had been a long time since we'd all let breakfast, and I knew he'd be hungry too, So the last thing I wanted to do before helping him gut and drag a deer back to camp. Was share my sandwich with him. I know that's terrible, but don't get me wrong. I loved my nephew just like he's my son, and I would have give that rascal both of my kidneys to this very day. But I wouldn't have shared a body of that pepperrellish and mule lip sandwich with Saint Peter if he asked for it. The precious few folks on this planet that have eaten it, they understand. Anyway. I finally swallowed that last body as I came into view of Matthew stand. We call it the Corner Stand, and it sits in a little oak flat that at the time could have doubled for a state park. Now, with the timber having been cut in there, there's more undergrowth than brows, which is better for deer anyway, But it just don't look as pretty, not as it did then. It was a great spot that it still is a natural transition from a big overgrown clearcut that funneled deer along a creek bottoming into that old flatward where that stand was located. I looked at the standards that got closer, and when I was within sixty yards or so, I could see that he wasn't in it. I continued on, and as I rounded a set of holly bushes that was growing on the bank of the creek, I could see matthew sonning there. He just crawled up out of the creek as I rounded the corner, barefooted as a goose, dripping wet from the waist down and grinning with a mouthful of choppers that even that fifth Dentist were approved of. He was looking in the creek and smiling back at me in his underwear. They were the whitey tidy kind, but purple, and I was confused, Boy, what in the world are you doing? It was a rhetorical question. I could plainly see what he was doing. He was standing on the bank of the creek in his drawers. I just didn't know why. Uncle Brient a buck walked up here from down the creek, and I shot him. When I did, he fell in the creek and I couldn't see him after I shot, so I got down. I came over here and I looked in the creek and I still couldn't find him. I had to get in there. We had a check, and sure enough that's where he was. He had pulled him up on a little sandbar, and he was proud, and I was proud. After he got his breeches back on, we pulled him up on the bank and we drug him back to camp. I fixed him with a Blonga sandwich. And that's just how that happened. Our first deer camp structure, if you could call canvas. The structure was an old war surplus army tent that would sleep a dozen folks if you scooted everyone's cots close together. It was miserable hot during the day and cold as a steel wedge at night. The only sustainable feature that carried on day and night was the relaxing smell of moth balls that permeated that thick canvas fabric. That may have deterred malls, but it seemed to have no effect on the miss chewed on it. From year to year. Every year saw new patches and areas that had to be sewn back together from the previous eleven months of storage. We would put it up about a week before the gun season opened in November and take it down a week or so after it went out back then, which is a phrase my eleven year old daughter Bailey, references often that includes anything that happened before cell phones and yogurt breeches. Gun deer season was a week long in Arkansas, with a few additional days scattered here and there around the holidays. But for the serious rifle hunters that were chasing bucks, that first week of gun deer season was what we had waited for. The other fifty one weeks out of the year. We ran deer dogs for several years, beagles mostly, But as the time went on, running dogs became more and more of a burden as previously free Timber Company land that we hunted became lease land. Folks weren't as interested in pushing their deer over on the neighboring lease for someone else to let the air out of. We were paying for the opportunity to shoot the deer on ire lease and I move them somewhere else. Now. I understand why the Timber Company started leasing, but it literally and figuratively changed the landscape of deer hunting in Arkansas from the onset. But that, as I say, is a whole other podcast. Today we're talking about deer camps, specifically the one that I hunted in for many years, the ben Our Deer camp that stood for Bryant and Reeves. The Brian was the family that my brother Tim married into, and when he did, they got me by default. Not sure if I was part of the diary or more of a consolation prize, but regardless, there I was. Now My brothers in laws that I referenced many times on this podcast are all just like my family. His father in law, mister Billy Brian was my turkey hunting mentor his mother in law, Miss Mickey. That was a nickname for her. Her real name was Amelia Ruth and that lady was something special in her own right. In all the years I knew her, I never saw her when she wasn't sporting a smile. Don't even get me started on her cooking. For the love of humanity. She was in the league of her own. Joe, their son was four years older than Tim and he was a big brother to us all. Initially in the camp it was Joe, Tim and a cousin of ours. Then as a kid of eleven, I was allowed in that events that grew to include other family members, our children and now the children of our children. That's heritage, that's tradition. That's how you build a legacy. And it wasn't done with the deer that we killed one week out of the year. I mean, that's South Arkansas. Not a lot of folks longing to hunt that area like they are Southeast Kansas. Not. Then, for sure, it's gotten a lot better because people are educating themselves more on growing there deer to maturity and maximizing the age of deer to growing bigger. But back then, there's bailey slanging again. For ancient times. Back then it was a sin to shoot a dough. Now why you asked, because every old head would stand on a soapbox and tell you that dead mama deer don't have baby buck deer. That's how I think the buck to dough ratio got so out of whack. But that's a whole other podcast. A small buck would get smashed because the prevalent thinking was if I didn't shoot him, the next fellow would. Anyway, that's all changed now and changed for the better. But Brent, stay on track. After a few years of sleeping in a tent and losing the battle against the forces of mice and moth balls, we decided a building was in order, so we procured several bunks of lumber, mostly hardwood slabs, and build a thirty two or sixteen cabin with a hammer, a chainsaw, and a square. The tin roof was scrapped from a chicken house, and after a few weekends and the blistering heat, the be and our deer camp had a deer camp. Our stove was an old barrel cut out with doors and stovepipe attached. It sat in a big sandbox that would catch any fallen embers or coals when the door was opened, and to keep from heating the floor to the point of combustion when the stove was full of wood and the damper opened. I've seen that thing glowing red as we laid in the darkness, Smoke building out of the stack like a steam engine, the temperature fluctuating from the surface of the sun on the side that was facing the stove the absolute zero on the side that wasn't. We turned back and forth all night, trying to find the sweet spot between being scalded and frostbite. The fire pit outside was where we gathered. It's where we told stores and revisited the day's events. There was no electricity. The fire was our TV, a ballgame might be played from a truck radio in the background, and peeling off the porch was acceptable, except for the no peas on where the steps led you in and out of the front door. We had a gas stover that we cooked on in it. It ran off a big bottle that was kept out back. We took turns getting up early to start the coffee and stoke up the fire and the stove, and my work eventually took me away from this place, making it troublesome to continue. But the tradition is kept alive by everyone else, and I miss it dearly. The adults that were only kids when we built that camp now have kids that are older than they were when we started. We built it in nineteen eighty eight, thirty five years ago, and it stands today not unlike it stood then. A rectangle of mismatched furniture out of plumb walls, creaking floor, and the occasional adventurous field mouse that would dare to run the gauntlet after everyone finally quieted down when the lannings were turned off. I miss all of that except the mouse part. I hate them now. Outside of someone killing a big deer Family Night was the highlight of the week. Wives, mothers and friends would cook and bring a big pot luck supper to the camp and it was way more food than we could eat in anyone setting, So the leftovers would stay and we'd work on them the rest of the week. Deer chili, chicken, corn bread, beans, peas cakes, pious cookies, you name it. It was there and it was good, every bit of it. And some of y'all going to hear this, and I think, ma'am, I wish I had that in my life. Well, let me tell you you can. You don't have to from where I'm from to have something like that. It's never too late to start a tradition. Traditions don't have to be old, They just have to have value to the folks that are participating. The value can't come from the success of the endeavor. It can't rest on the shoulders of a successful hunt either. A successful hunt is a fleeting wind that fades away quicker than the deer meat in the freezer. It has to be organic, can come from the people that gather there together for the shared experience. Each person and family represent a crucial part that makes the whole experience, a tangible entity. That's what creates the basis for tradition, and tradition is what builds the legacy. It ain't hard surround yourself with folks you love and enjoy being with and doing something you all love to do, and the next thing you know, you'll look around and there's a whole bunch of little folks that resemble you and the rest of the old g's standing in line to carry the torch. Dear Camp, It's more than just dear a whole lot more. The time to be at the camp is fast approaching. You, folks. Make sure you've got those washed nests taken care of and your stands inspected, and for the love of humanity, wear safety strap. You can't help build the tradition if you ain't there. If you ain't there, there's gonna be some folks missing. I sure appreciate y'all listening. And until next week, this is Brent Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful

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This Country Life

Join host Brent Reaves on MeatEater's newest podcast, This Country Life. Brent's a lifelong outdoors 
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