Buck Fever

Where does a person start, thinking back on fifty plus years of hunting, fishing and in general just being in the outdoors? There have been so many things that have happened that have brought me to laughter, taught me lifelong lessons, given me great memories, made me feel just plain good, and some have left me with regret and some have even left me speechless, but that is getting out in the outdoors and I’ve loved it all. It’s life beyond the sidewalks, the pavement and computers when we see, we feel and we hear the outdoors in the raw. It calls every year and I’m glad it does as it helps heal the wounds of our daily lives and brings things back into proper perspective.

I’ll confess I’m one of those guys that enjoys hunting to the point that I do read about every publication out there on the subject. I have found it interesting lately that my interest is more peaked by the experience than by the size of the animal. Hunters talk about the adrenaline rush at trigger time, and fishermen’s eyes glaze over when they discuss what happened on a certain date at a certain time at a certain bend in a certain river, and I’ll agree these are special times. It’s obvious in looking in the eyes of a person telling one of these stories, that it is the experience that has become a part of this person. The thing that impresses me is it’s often not the biggest fish in the world nor is it the Boone and Crockett bull elk that they tell about, but it’s the experience. Something special happened that day that imprinted it into their minds. It became a part of them, their history and it found a place in their memories library and usually for good reason. It’s because of this that I have found camp life to be one of my very special places. Yes I still enjoy to the fullest getting out in the elements and experience all it throws at me, but I know back in camp that evening I’m going to enrich my experience many times over because I’m going to hear of every one else’s experience that night around the camp fire. It’s called enjoyment by multiplication.

Believe me, if a huge mule deer crossed my path I would be most happy to fill my tag, but a tag filled without an experience can leave me kind of unfulfilled. Sometimes it’s not always a good experience that writes it on the mind, but something happens that leaves a lasting memory. Several years ago I was hunting mule deer in Oregon’s Steens Mountains with my brother-in-law Ray, and a few other friends and family. I had a miserable cold coming on but deer hunting is deer hunting, so sick or well, times a wasting. The afternoon before opening morning I threw my pack on my back and headed up the ridge. I made my spike camp on the lee side of the ridge in an effort to break the wind which was howling. By this time I was shivering with fever so I crawled into my sleeping bag even though it was still light. I awoke at 9:00 PM to feel snow hitting my face, so ache as I did, I crawled out of the bag and did my best in creating a shelter with a small tarp I carried with me. Starting a fire back in the rocks helped take a little of the coldness away from the night. Exhausted and shaking, I crawled back in the sack and dropped off to sleep once more. At 11:00 I woke with a start - realizing the wind had moved my fire and I had a real problem! Sick and cold, I somehow found the energy (adrenaline) to stomp the fire into submission. Standing out there in my long handles in a blizzard, shaking with the flu I began to question my sanity and my decision making process. I spent the rest of the night (and it was a long one) waiting for the morning light to come. I’d already decided I was a fool to be where I was as sick as I was, and I would pack up and head down first thing in the morning. The morning did come, and the breakfast bar was consumed, the pack was packed and I was ready to descend. I stepped over the ridge and off to my right I could hear rocks rolling, then I could see antlers coming over the manzeneta brush —- what do I do? Have I got it in me to butcher an animal out much less pack it back to base camp? Sometimes you just do it and answer the questions later. The deer dropped 30 yards from where I had spent the night, yes he was that close. It took the rest of the day to bone him out and pack him and my spike camp back down the mountain. So every time I look at that 27” rack in my “trophy room” a flood of memories flow from my personal library. Even though all the feelings I had that day had not been good, I love the memories.

Oh yes, the reason I mentioned Ray by name earlier was because we had a friendly consideration back in those days. Since the wives were home taking care of kids, the one who shot the smallest buck took the four of us out for a steak dinner. So every time I see that rack I also think of how much I enjoyed that steak dinner. Thanks Ray.

That’s me looking green around the gills and my buck on the far right. Ray stands with his buck on the far left.