Deer camp diaries: Get your buck before one gets you

Dear Diary:
So, I got my buck.
Well, I’m not sure if it was a buck or a doe. I barely saw it.
I didn’t even need a gun.
I didn’t need to sit in a blind all day.
All I needed was my trusty Ford Focus, a stretch of M-55 and a little bit of dusk.
As you can guess by now, I haven’t yet bagged a deer this season, but one definitely got me. It came out of no where while I was driving to an all-lady deer camp last Sunday, just one of my stops as I traversed the county with nothing but a notebook and a camera in search of deer camp adventures.
Crash! Screech! Thump!
There I was in a ditch.
But I was a writer on a mission, so I pressed on.
Hunting deer is a tradition going back thousands of years in the Manistee area, from the Native Americans to the current camps that abound from the woods south of Wellston up to Copemish; from the big lake east to the hills of Marilla.
It was my aim to visit as many of them as I could to capture the true deer camp experience.
What ensued was a strange week where the personal trials and tribulations of this humble scribe threatened to overwhelm my attempt to cover the subject.
Deer camp is all about the thrill of the hunt, and there are always many obstacles: weather conditions, lack of deer, baiting laws.
My own mission was fraught with as many problems and difficulties.
But the journey itself is always part of the story.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

The quest started on such a happy note.
You see, I have good news, diary. The preface to my strange and bizarre week of deer camps is that I’m recently betrothed.
That’s right, Meredith and I are engaged to be married.
The weekend of Halloween, we went downstate for a party where we announced our pending nuptials to our families. It also gave me a chance to pick up the slug barrel for my shotgun, which my brother, Chris, had at his house. It was an opportunity that was thoroughly bungled.
We’re a family of bird hunters -- mostly grouse and woodcock -- and I’ve never bothered to bring the barrel to Manistee. But if I wanted to slay a deer, I’d need it.
The party was at Meredith’s parents’ house, an hour north of my brother’s in the Detroit area.
“Hey, dirtbag,” I said in the voicemail message I left him on his cell phone. “Grab that slug barrel and bring it up to the party, would ya?”
Maybe I should have been more pleasant in the message and cosmic justice would have been more in my favor. Or, I should have just called his landline.
“You bring that slug barrel?” I asked Chris after he arrived with his family.
“What are you talking about?”
“I left you a message,” I said.
“I haven’t had my phone since Friday,” he said.
There was no time to trek an hour south before heading back up to Manistee, so, instead, there I was, the Friday before the Opener, heading back downstate for the barrel.
I drove eight extra hours to get it.
I didn’t see a deer near the road the entire time.

IN THE HEADLIGHTS

The sad part is that I haven’t needed the barrel yet, mostly because of my car situation.
I’m having a hard time trying to envision myself strapping a buck on my loaner car (a sleek, red Toyota Camry). I don’t know how I’d explain any blood stains to the good people of Enterprise rental car service, or my insurance company. They’ve probably had enough of me already.
I got back into the Manistee area on Saturday, when the fellows at Chisler’s Lodge were having a little soiree to kick off the season and celebrate Ed Knaffle’s 90th birthday. I visited Chisler’s last year for a story, and they were kind enough to invite me out again this year. Since I’d been there before, you’d think I’d have no problem finding it.
No way.
I took a wrong turn in the woods and ended up at the Linkes’ deer camp, which will be featured in Tuesday’s newspaper.
I don’t need to go into any more detail about the rest of Saturday night. A deer camp kick-off party is a time for, ahem, discretion.
Sunday night, I was scheduled to go eat some N.Y. strip steaks with an all-female deer camp headed by father, grandfather and camp cook Gene Smoter.
The history of their deer camp will be featured in Wednesday’s newspaper.
En route to their cabin Sunday night, I was headed east on M-55 just as the sky was blackening. I was barely out of town when a flash of brown filled my high beams. It was running south and I just clipped its rump, but, still, the impact with the deer was tremendous. Its hindquarters bounced off my hood. Shocked, I did what I know you’re not supposed to do. I slammed on the brakes and ended up on the side of the road.
I grabbed the flashlight from my trunk and went into the woods, looking for the deer, but it had disappeared.
It had attacked me like a renegade guerrilla force, coming out of the woods, inflicting quick but lasting damage, and vanishing.
The front end of my Focus was crumpled.
Ruined.
But, alas, still driveable.
I contemplated canceling my dinner with Gene Smoter and his gals, but I didn’t. I soldiered on -- and I’m glad I did. The steak was delicious and their stories were great.
I would visit two more deer camps in my fractured Focus: the Dontz camp and the Berentsen camp.
To learn more about the Dontz camp, check out Friday’s paper. The Berentsen camp will be featured in Saturday’s News Advocate.

POWERLESS

I woke up in the middle of the week with a deer camp hangover and decided something should finally be done with the car. Getting it fixed would turn out to be a quest in itself.
My insurance company offered this improbable solution to my vehicle woes: take it to a collision shop in Ludington and pick up a loaner car in Cadillac.
So, instead of being in the woods, utilizing all the knowledge I’d picked up about deer hunting at the camps I’d been hanging around, I was stuck driving all around the region dealing with the car stuff.
Reviewing the damage with the insurance guy, I noticed a few strands of brown deer hair sticking out of a crack in my headlight.
An insult. A taunt.
But not as disheartening as the next obstacle I encountered.
I woke up the next morning and the power was out at my house. It was one of those dark, gloomy days when the sun didn’t offer any light. After showering and shaving with a flashlight, I called my landlord, who informed me his 79-year-old brother would soon arrive to check out the electricity.
Like many Manistee men (and women) this time of year, the brother was dressed for the hunt when he arrived at my house.
He wore those old school wool pants with the suspenders and a flannel shirt. He told me he hadn’t gotten his buck yet.
I had fiddled with the breaker box in the basement to no avail for a good hour. He came down, flipped a few switches, and within a matter of five minutes had the power back on.
“That went easy,” he said. “We had some good luck. Now, if only I was having better luck with the deer.”
Indeed, I thought.

Roustabout/fly fishing

The box where I keep fly fishing gear is an old suit case I like to call "The Roustabout." Here it is in the trunk of my car after a day of fishing this past summer. Someday, I will make more words about "The Roustabout." But, for now, here is an elusive fragment of it.

Deer camp diaries: Get your camp featured in the newspaper

Deer hunting is a grand part of our state’s outdoor traditions.
No where is this more evident than right here in Manistee County.
The frenzy starts in the weeks leading up to that grand day, Nov. 15.
Pick-up trucks seem to cruise through town with a little more zip. After the opener, blaze orange garments are a common fashion accessory on the streets and at the diners.
“Get yer buck?” becomes the most frequent overheard question.
But, most importantly, mid-November is the time for that annual, singular event on a man’s schedule: deer camp.
The doors and windows of the cabin are thrust open to air the place out. Generators are fired up. Twenty-year-old dirty magazines are pulled off a dusty shelf and spread on old coffee tables. A giant pot of chili is set to simmer on the stove range. Someone gets a blazing fire going. Beers are cracked and alarms are set for 4:30 a.m.
It’s deer camp time.
Now, don’t think I’m dissing you ladies. I’m sure camps all over the state have their female representatives. But, when it comes down to it, from what I know, deer camp’s a dude-heavy affair, what with all the bragging and flatulence.
For years, I’ve felt like I was missing out on this.
I’ve passed up many opportunities to go with the many buddies of mine who do deer hunt, though I’ve heard all of their illustrious deer camp stories.
You see, I didn’t grow up deer hunting. I go after grouse and woodcock, which means that when the firearm season starts, I put up my gun and stay as far away from the woods as I can until the season is over.
To be honest, my knowledge of deer hunting is pretty scant.
But I want you to teach me, Manistee.
I have a proposition for all of you. Let me come to your deer camp. Let’s have a beer and tell me your camp’s background and the stories that go along with it.
Don’t worry: I always follow a strict BYOB policy, so you won’t have to hide your coolers.
Also, don’t be afraid that some of the stories you have might not be suitable for a general audience. While I’ve never done deer camp, I have done similar camps for birds, trout and salmon.
I know when discretion is needed.
Last year, I spent a day at the Chisler’s Lodge deer camp, which has a 70-year history.
Those fellows had some wonderful stories to tell, and I had a great time being a part of their camp, if only for a day.
If you do want to get your deer camp’s story in the paper, all I’m asking in return is that you show a bird hunter the ins and outs of deer hunting.
I’m also aware of the amount of hazing and teasing there will be involved with a 33-year-old man going out on his first deer hunt when many of you have been doing it since you were 12.
I can handle most of this. But, if anyone tells me that the best way to attract the bucks is by running through the woods in my brown pajamas with a pair of fake antlers on my head, I’m not falling for it.
I’m looking to spend time at Manistee County deer camps from Nov. 15 -- 20.
You will then be featured in the series, “Dear Camp Diaries,” which will run soon after that.
If you’re interested, feel free to give me a call at (231) 398-3109 or email me at jcounts@pioneergroup.com.

True confessions of an independent voter

I have fond memories of going to vote with my mom when I was a kid.
I wasn’t a toddler born with an innate political conscience, I just liked the voting contraptions.
The booths, the levers and the sheets seemed like a spaceship.
But it was the secrecy involved that was so thrilling.
“Who’d you vote for?”
It’s one of those questions you don’t dare ask someone, usually along with whether they believe in God or how much money they make.
It comes down to the three things you never talk about at a polite dinner party: sex, religion and politics.
So who did I vote for today?
Not telling.
Voting’s always been a spooky process draped in emotion.
It’s a decision we make that’s a little more poignant than what our brains are usually up to: pondering a Big Mac or Whopper; “The Biggest Loser” or “Jersey Shore.”
For me, it’s even more difficult because I’ve never voted across any party line. Ever since my first election (1996), I’ve went with a mishmash of Republicans and Democrats.
I’m the man in the middle; that elusive voter registered as an Independent.
I want to see economic prosperity and business growth, but don’t think we should sacrifice our humanity for it.
I want to see liberty, civil rights and the pursuit of happiness extended to as many folks possible in our nation, but within logical means.
I want to see government only get involved and use their power to tax when necessary.
When I see at least a glimmer of this in a candidate, I’ll pull their lever, connect their line, punch their chad, or whatever else needs to be done.
I’ve never bothered with the others on the list: Green, Libertarian, U.S. Taxpayers, Natural Law or Pirate Party of the United States, because, honestly, you may as well not vote at all. While third parties sometimes affect the election between the Grand Old White Dudes and the Do-Goody Donkeys, their presence is mostly symbolical.
In my 14 years of independent voting, I’ve found several hints helpful.
Now, the first emotional component of casting a vote is overcoming the dread and apathy.
It’s cliche to say you don’t like either candidate or party.
It’s easier to say, “What’s the point?”
We hear the phrase, “The lesser of two evils.”
The truth is, democracy is a large, messy affair, and elections are the only structured method we have to make sure we’re not going to continue to get royally screwed over and over again.
We may not be able to wine and dine the powers that be; we may not be able to afford setting them up in a Jacuzzi suite with chocolate-covered strawberries and a masseuse; we may not be able to contribute millions, thousands or even nickels to their campaign coffers, but we’ve got a vote.
One measly vote per person, but it’s all we got to sway something as large and unwieldy as government towards our personal, and sometimes highly emotional, wants and beliefs.
After giving myself this kind of pep talk, I’m ready to learn a little bit about the races and elections. During this process, it’s highly advisable to never pay attention to television ads. Both candidates will generally attempt to convince you that their opponent will set fire to your town if elected.
This may have been so in the time of the Visigoths and Huns, but we’ve evolved since then. Just a little, but enough.
Instead, I’ve always relied on newspapers, which cover elections with more expansiveness than television, which is usually quicker and dirtier (and making a fortune off those campaign ads).
Now, with the Internet, you don’t even need to get your information filtered through a newsroom. This is great for you folks who think we in the news-gathering business actually have time to sit around and slant the information we deliver in some sort of biased way.
It also gives the candidates much more “space,” of which the Internet has endless amounts of, to present their views.
I was happy to find a sample ballot for my particular precinct on the Secretary of State’s website. On the page, those candidate’s names who have their own sites are linked to them.
There is enough info on each candidate that you could literally spend hours and hours sifting through it all.
This is the final challenge of the independent voter who wants to take elections on a race by race case.
Time.
I certainly don’t have time to read through the entirety of the material for every candidate running for the Regents of the University of Michigan.
Generally, if I don’t know enough about a race, I’ll skip it. Sorry regents. An uneducated vote isn’t worth casting.
So, once I’ve educated myself fairly well on the candidates, I start weighing my options. I think back to those personal beliefs, and how the issues in the races relate to them.
I do what all voters do. I try to make the best decision in a sloppy, unpredictable system that fundamentally is better than anything else we’ve got.
Then, I drive myself to the polls, usually with a little cheat sheet so I don’t panic and forget what choices I’ve made.
Maybe you’ll see me there today.
I’m the one dressed in my Halloween costume, an astronaut’s spacesuit.
And when I’m casting my votes, I’ll probably still be wishing that pressing the lever will ignite my spaceship and blast me off to another world altogether, one where there aren’t two sides pitted at each other, bent on annihilation.
And I’m just the man in the middle.