IN CAMP Edd Tury

IN CAMP

Edd Tury

Charles M. Rollen finished raking the tent floor and reached next to his sleeping bag, fumbling for what was left of the scotch. It was 10 o’clock in the morning. The sun shone through the spruce tops, barely illuminating the inside of the dirty canvas tent. CM got his glass and went out for some icicles. He snapped several off the tent fly and broke them into his glass. He poured two fingers of the whiskey over the ice, took a long sip and looked back into the open tent flap. The tent always looked better after the floor was raked.

CM sipped more scotch and studied the bottle. It wouldn’t last the day. A trip to town was in order; he hoped his brother Ned would be up for it after his day in the woods. The lack of camp whiskey was usually good motivation. He drained his glass and sloshed the remaining ice at the firepit. Chickadees flew into the small spruce tops, peeping their displeasure at being chased from the tent floor detritus CM had raked to the pit.

CM walked over to where his buck hung from the buck pole. For the hundredth time that week he pounded its frozen chest and admired the great antlers. It was a big deer; the largest buck any of them had killed. He shot it three mornings ago on the river ridge east of camp. He was lucky. There were few deer in these woods and the good bucks almost never make the mistake this one had made: It walked past CM in good shooting light. The camp celebration lasted long into the night. Most of the camp whiskey was gone that evening. Lucky his brother didn’t like scotch all that well. One bottle survived intact.

He admired the camp. It was an old-fashioned, rough tent camp. He liked that. He liked being part of an old time deer camp. He, his dad, and his brother were quite comfortable. Not like the first couple of years when they didn’t know what they were doing. They were warm at night, ate well, and hunted hard all day in the big woods. They saw few other hunters and liked it that way.

CM went into the tent. The trash box was full again. He inspected the trash carefully before he dumped it into the woodstove and cracked the front air hole. He took his time. Yesterday, after he emptied the trash into the stove, he was outside the tent straightening up the campsite when he heard a loud bang from inside the tent. Startled, CM turned to see a large puff of smoke and ash burp out of the stovepipe. Three more explosions in quick succession, silence, then one more. He went back into the tent knowing that all five of his brother’s lost cartridges had exploded in the stove. Ned had looked for his leather cartridge holder that morning. It was the type worn on a belt and it must have slipped off Ned’s belt into the trash box when Ned took off his woolen hunting pants the night before.

CM checked the stove for holes, but there were none. When the fire died down he scraped the ashes out the front cleanout into the camp shovel. He carried the shovel of ash into the good light and sifted through it finding the exploded cartridges. Instead of propelling the unconfined bullet the burning gunpowder blew the bullet casings open at their necks, releasing the energy quite harmlessly. CM thought back

to all the old cowboy movies and TV shows he saw as a kid where the hero threw pistol ammo into a campfire or fireplace. The exploding movie ammo usually sent a bullet through the bad guy’s heart. What a bunch of crap, CM realized. At least it was some excitement the previous day.

CM turned on the portable radio and tuned it to the local station, a 5000 watter out of Iron River. The surrounding ridges made for poor reception. CM caught snatches of the broadcast as he bumped around the camp. If the weather was right he could pick up the Thanksgiving football game. He didn’t care about the football game but the radio was some company. But he soon tired of the noise and shut it off. He poured more scotch. It was noon. The sun was just high enough to clear the treetops on the ridge overlooking the tent. The day was mild – mid thirties – and CM was comfortable walking around camp in just his woolen shirt. He scratched his two week old beard and ran his fingers through his matted hair. If they went to town he planned on buying a shower at the Iron River Hotel.

In the swamp below the tent, snow was melting in the sunny patches. Warming air crept up the slope from the forest floor carrying odors as complex as the texture of the swamp. Decomposition, hard water, moss and lichen combined with the smell of the muddy red earth. Trees, in every state of being, formed most of the confusion that was the river bottom. Home to a myriad of organisms, it all seemed quite benign today. But it was a different place when shadows lengthened and cooling air eased back to the low ground. In the evening deer would get up and begin their search for food. Coyotes, owls, and a few wolves would do the same. Poachers came out at night, too. Headlights and spotlights freezing the deer for an easy kill. Illegal, because it was so effective.

The big tent was pitched in the middle of an old logging road. It was 15 feet wide and covered the road from drainage ditch to drainage ditch. Forty yards behind the tent the road disappeared into the vast Paint River swamp. County maps still showed this road hitting the river and crossing at a bridge. If that was the case, it must have been fifty years ago. There were no traces of the road going all the way to the river; no signs of a bridge survived.

CM walked up to the buck pole again, a beer in one hand, the scotch in the other. He wished he had another deer tag. He could still be hunting. He wondered if he could resist shooting a buck if it showed up near the campsite. His dad would tag it. He kept his rifle loaded, leaning on the woodpile under the tent fly. The down side of scoring early was not being able to hunt any more. While he considered his response to the unlikely occurrence of a buck walking into camp he heard the low rumble of a truck, a sound quite distinct from the forest noise. He looked up the two-track to where it disappeared around the first bend into the pines. The black pick-up truck popped out like a ground spider from its funnel and rolled to a stop twenty yards from the tent. For a moment CM thought there was no one in it. The sun glare and dark side windows blocked any view into the cab. The rattle and clap of the idling diesel reinforced the feeling of being visited by an unmanned machine.4

He hesitated, then approached the truck. A slight feeling of unease slowed his steps. Country music and cigarette smoke poured from the cab as the tinted glass window slid into the door.

“What the hell you doing camped in the middle of the road?” the driver asked. He wasn’t smiling as he stuck his head out of the window to survey the camp. “We’re trying to get across the river.”

“Well, this is as far as you can get, with or without our tent here. The road ends right behind it.” CM said. He watched the second man try to read a map. “You guys want a beer?”

“No thanks. Just opened one.” The driver opened his door and got out. An empty Old Style rolled out onto the ground. “That your buck?” the driver asked, walking over to where the buck was hanging.

“Yes sir. Got it three days ago.” CM followed the driver to the buck pole. The second man joined them. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, which he only removed when he took a drink of his beer.

“It’s a good one,” the driver said. “We used to get bucks like this up in Baraga. You should haul him into town. The paper’s having a contest. You might win something.”

CM didn’t answer; the thought of these guys being interested in a local buck contest struck him as funny. He looked back to where the truck sat idling. The driver’s door was open. A rifle leaned against the front bench seat. Loaded no doubt. Just some road hunters.

“Probably stop in town on the way out of camp,” CM said finally. “My dad and brother won’t mind.”

The driver hit his partner on the shoulder and pointed down the road behind the tent. He could see the swamp from where they were standing. “Looks like he’s right. Can’t go no further from the looks of it.” His partner grunted and took a long pull from his beer can, still staring at the buck.

The driver walked to the front of the tent and stuck his head through the tent flap. “You guys camp around here last year?”

“First time on this spot. We were on the Forest Service road last year.” CM got two beers and offered them to the driver. “Have one on me.”

“Thanks.” The driver took them one at a time and put them in his side pockets. His other hand held a beer and cigarette. He moved toward the truck and his silent partner pulled himself away from the buck pole and joined him. They climbed into the pick-up and proceeded to crab it back and forth on the narrow road until it pointed back up the way it came.

“Nice buck. Thanks for the beers.” The driver finally smiled and then they were

gone. Diesel exhaust hung in the air. CM was relieved they were gone. He finished his beer in several large gulps and the scotch with one more.

Last year someone entered their tent when they were in the woods. The intruder took their meat and whiskey, ignoring an expensive rifle and other gear. CM and his partners felt violated. A code was broken. Whoever was responsible just wanted them to know they were not welcome in the area. Nothing else happened, but they moved the camp deeper into the woods this year. CM was glad he was in camp to greet the road hunters.

CM hadn’t heard a rifleshot all day. There were never many during the second week of the season. Yesterday he heard his brother’s rifle at dark. He hoped for a buck, but his brother had shot the head off a partridge while walking in on the eastwest road. It went for stew.

All that was left to do was get dinner started and drive the truck to the pickup point at dark. There he would wait for his brother and his dad to haul in out of the woods. The truck saved them a mile of walking. It meant a lot at the end of the day.

CM wished he were in the woods. He had filled his tag early. And with the buck of a lifetime. He didn’t mind taking care of camp and his hunting partners. He was happy in camp. But still he wished he were hunting. He would hunt again next season. CM pulled a chair out of the tent and made another drink with extra icicles and all the rest of the scotch. He sat in front of the tent facing the buck-pole. He sipped the scotch and waited for the evening.