| Deer
Camp Delusions |
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Once upon a time, there was a log cabin in the middle of the woods. Behind the cabin sat an outhouse containing a double header, one seat for “Ma” and one seat for “Pa.” Inside the cabin cigarette smoke swirled in the dimly lit room and a wood stove crackled with heat. A group of flannel-clad men sat around a cluttered table playing poker, drinking, and telling tall tales and lowbrow jokes. Welcome to Deer Camp. Or rather, welcome to the Deer Camp I’d envisioned after hearing the tales of my cousins and uncles over the years. A female had never been to deer camp with them, and therefore I wanted to go. It wasn’t so much the deer hunt I wanted to experience, but rather the social aspect. “C’mon, you know I’m just one of the guys anyways,” I pleaded to my cousin while scratching my butt to show I could blend. The crass move worked and I managed an invite. When my cousin’s wife got wind of this, however, she demanded that she be able to go as well. My cousin said no. To evade a future rift I decidedto find another deer camp to infiltrate. This turned out to be easier than I thought. While at the pub one night I heard my friend Bill talking about deer camp and asked if I could go. “Sure,” he said without hesitation. No begging? No pleading? No scratching of the ass? “But,” he said, “you have to be sprayed with deer urine.” Yeah, whatever, ha-ha, very funny. Less than two hours after leaving Ypsi, I drove up the tree-lined drive of deer camp at 11 p.m. on opening day night. Bright lights shone from windows of a house—not a cute little log cabin. No matter, I thought, because in the house was a group of guys playing cards and yukking it up. There was a world of rowdy banter inside. Waiting outside was Bill, and as we approached the house he informed me everyone was in bed. “What?!” I balked. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” “No,” he answered. “You’ll be surprised at how getting up at 5 a.m. and sitting out in the cold all day takes it out of ya.” “But I brought a bottle of Jaeger and a butt-load of Red Bull for you guys,” I protested. “I brought my quarters for poker and my lucky poker hat!” “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that everyone’s exhausted.” Apparently the card games, mischief and guffaws had rolled on all weekend without me, and now it was time to actually hunt. Disappointed but not defeated, I desperately suggest he and I play poker. Verbalizing what I already knew, he said it really wouldn’t be all that much fun. Instead, we did my laundry. Everything I was to wear in the morning needed to be washed in “no scent” to get rid of any unnatural aromas. While we drank a couple beers, Bill schooled me on hunting safety and then suggested I take my shower that night; it was imperative that I shower using no-scent soap, and now would be preferable to 4:30 in the morning. I agreed, and after my shower I asked if I really had to be sprayed with deer urine. With a serious nod he assured me he hadn’t been joking. (And yes, it’s true. You can buy deer urine, for those of you who don’t already know this, at hunting supply stores. The not-so-delicate scent of a doe’s urine attracts bucks.) The moment I’d dreaded since waking had arrived. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d voluntarily be pissed upon, yet here it was. Bill informed me only the hat he loaned me, my boots, and the bottom of my pants needed to be sprayed. He gave me the hat after spraying it and I slid it on my head. This isn’t so bad, I thought. I can’t even smell— “Jeezus H!” I yelled after getting a whiff. “Oh my god!” Bill laughed as he watched me try and outrun the odor. I muttered and cursed as I zig-zagged around, feeling like a lunatic fresh outta the bin. “Why does it reek so bad?” I yelled. “Ours doesn’t smell this bad!” “Because it’s from a doe in heat.” I gag and cough while he sprays my boots and pant bottoms. When we get in his truck, the stench is unbearable. I roll down the window and stick my head outside, wondering how long it would take to get the smell out of my hair if it soaked through the hat. I decide not to let it bother me any longer and wipe the subject from my mind. After a short ride we park the truck and start our trek into the woods. I see a pile of animal poo and side step it. “What’s the point?” I wonder. “I have deer pee on my boots, for god’s sake.” The woods are serene in the morning mist, and I’m thoroughly enjoying being in nature, plodding along behind Bill. “Just like real hiking,” I think. “Only stinkier.” I remind myself I’ve been in third-world outhouses that smelled worse than I do at the moment. I get another whiff of myself and think maybe not. Bill and I reach the blind after a short hike. As we settle in I realize the phrase “I have deer piss on my head” has been playing in a continual loop in my mind. Grasping that this is almost as bad as having the song “Muskrat Love” repeating in your head, I hunker down with steely determination and give all stinky thoughts the boot. “Pee, urine, piss, piddle, wee,” I think, not more than ten seconds later. “I have deer pee on my head.” Like one from the Indian untouchable caste, I surrender to my lot in life with a sigh of defeat. No sooner had I started scribbling in my notepad about deer piss than Bill stops me with a silent gesture; a deer has wandered into his sights. Less than an hour out in the woods, the boy gets his deer and lives happily ever after. And the girl? Although she abandoned her hiking boots at deer camp, she still imagines she’s smelling deer piss many days later. However, she lives happily ever after with the knowledge that there is always next year to catch the cockamamie hijinks of deer camp, and that she will never, ever again wear Eau de Deer Wee. A2P |
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