Deer Camp!

 The cabin on the river -- one room, four bunks, kerosene heater, covered front porch, no electricity, no running water: the perfect deer camp.

Mike, Ronnie, and Scott enjoying Ronnie's deer chili.  The food at deer camp is unbelievable.

The company is even better -- this is the real reason you go -- not really to deer hunt!  Scott, Ronnie, Mike and Kevin enjoying a story about a season in the past.

Ronnie and Jim with a good seasons catch so far: possums, raccoon's, grey fox, red fox and coyote. 

I remember this year well.  It was just me and Ronnie that year, and my first year home after a five-year Navy enlistment.  I thought I could navigate in the dark and fell down a fifteen-foot embankment into the river; a limb lodged between Ronnie's legs as we hiked our way down one of the camps rolling hills -- he couldn't quite break free and tackled me like an NFL linebacker coming down the hill.  I drilled a bunch of holes in a Folgers Coffee can, placed an apple scented candle under it and a glass jar of Tink's 69 on top.  The nine-pointer came to it like he was pulled on a string and I had to shoot him before he stepped on top of me. 

This year the weather was not only perfect for hunting, but perfect for catching smallmouth bass out of the river, too, and Ronnie was happy to do both.

Mike is one of those rare hunters -- he hasn't gave in to the trophy chase.  A six-point buck is just as good as a twelve, and a doe is just as good as either.  This hoss' field dressed at two-hundred and twelve pounds.  I don't even know if Mike took the time to count the points, he just cut em' off at the bases and gave them to his son.