Sometime in the wee small hours of the Monday after Thanksgiving, I lay in my sleeping bag staring at the dark ceiling above me. Every few minutes I checked my watch. It was still the middle of the night. I assumed others in camp, all long-experienced deer camp members, were sleeping soundly. But as I lay, I heard bed springs creaking as people tossed and turned. Occasionally a light flickered as someone checked the time. Apparently I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed with excitement who couldn’t sleep.
The year was 1994. The place was an old deer shack in Utahville, Pennsylvania known as Camp Nothin’ Easy. After spending my formative hunting years in New Jersey and moving to Pennsylvania, I was very fortunate to be invited by my best friend to join Camp Nothin’ Easy for buck season. Back then it was buck season and buck season only. There were plenty of bucks in Pennsylvania too. With a population guessed at around 2.1 million deer, the Keystone State woods were chock-full of venison on the hoof. This bounty brought hunters from all over the country to participate in the almost-guaranteed abundance.
The nearest town to camp was Coalport. Coalport is a tiny mining and timbering town with a year round population of about 420 people. Back then, in deer season the population burgeoned to several thousand. This served as quite a boon to local businesses who didn’t miss out. The bars, taverns, and restaurants were jumping all weekend leading up to the Monday opener. The only grocery store in town had lines of orange clad hunters stocking up on provisions for camp. The Moose Lodge, the VFW, and other social organizations rolled out the red carpet with live music and food to add to the party atmosphere. Anticipation was palpable.
Typically we would begin to arrive in camp Saturday afternoon. Occasionally we got the bright idea to arrive earlier and take advantage of the still-open grouse season on Saturday. Back then, birds were plentiful and it was a great opportunity to get out in the woods and scout. Some years it rained on Saturday. The only thing that got killed those years was a couple cases of beer and nearly half the camp. We were under foot and threatened with bodily injury by the camp host who was trying to work in the kitchen.
Saturday night was always a night on the town. Every where you went there were people excited about the coming rifle season. We saw (caused?) our share of bar fights but mostly we talked to other excited hunters from all walks of life. It was always fun people watching and story telling. Way too many of our hunting camp stories still begin with “One time at Bar 53 . . . “.
Predictably, Sunday got off to a slow start. Once we were awake and downed some coffee, we would bust out the hunting rifles and have a final equipment check in the back yard. We could only shoot about 40 yards or so but it was good enough to verify zero. Once everyone had a chance to check their guns, we headed off to the woods for last minute scouting, stand setup, and otherwise preparing for opening morning.
These days, to be successful requires a lot more pre-season work. We no longer have 2.1 million deer in the state. I’d guess the number is well below a million at this point. (2.1 million was way too many deer.) But back then, a huge amount of scouting wasn’t really needed. If you found good cover you found good deer sign. You could count on a huge influx of impatient people moving deer around throughout the day. The goal for Sunday was to find a good spot to ambush deer that cold hunters moved when they were trying to warm up.
Speaking of cold, that might be the biggest difference between then and now. People can deny climate change all they want or argue about the cause but you have to have lived with your head in the sand for the last 40 years to not realize the climate has warmed dramatically. In recent years, we seldom have extended cold temperatures in deer season. Once in a while you have a few cold days where temps get extreme, but generally temperatures climb well into the 40s and 50s if not warmer. When I started hunting at Camp Nothin’ Easy, we put extra food on the back porch and would hang deer for the entire week we were there. They mostly remained frozen the entire time. In today’s world, you’d better get some ice or get to the butcher PDQ.
Camp Nothin’ Easy was heated by an old Warm Morning coal stove that was meant to heat an army barracks. When properly stoked, camp turned into a sauna. This was especially the case upstairs where the rising heat required one to sleep as lightly clothed as possible on top of the sleeping bag. Ideally, with occasional basting. In addition to the coal stove, there was also a smaller pot bellied stove the could be fired up when needed. On quite a few occasions we had both going. I can’t even imagine how hot it would be in today’s normal temperatures with the coal stove burning at a minimal level.
Granted we didn’t have access to the advanced materials modern hunting clothes are made of nor could we afford anything fancy, but we still packed on heavy layers to ward off the cold and were seldom successful. The deer woods was generally pretty frigid in December.
Upon reassembly Sunday evening, football on TV and dinner were in order. Occasionally the camp rookie (me) would be sent to retrieve buckets of coal from the coal bin to feed the stove. While carrying coal buckets, one had to be careful not to knock one’s noggin on the downspout that overhung the front porch. Other times, the Steelers game would get fuzzy and I’d be sent to turn the antenna which lived on a pole next to the cabin. Eventually someone would yell “That’s good!” and I could escape the cold wind and get back inside. Other rookie duties included fetching refreshments, cleaning dirty dishes, and any other camp work that needed doing. In fairness, despite the rookie rules, everyone always chipped in around camp.
During the Steelers game and dinner prep there was always much hustle and bustle as packs were prepared for the morning. Extra gloves, toilet paper, and other essentials were packed along with plenty of ammo. Being young and foolish we probably carried several pounds of ammo we didn’t need. (I can’t recall ever firing more than a couple shots while hunting.) Occasionally after dinner there might be a friendly poker game before bed, but poker became verboten after “the incident”. Typically though, bed time came early even though not a lot of sleep happened.
I will be forever grateful I had the opportunity to be part of a classic Pennsylvania deer camp. When I think of deer camp, I still think of the smell of burning coal, the sound of fresh coffee percolating in a stove top percolator, and bacon frying in a cast iron pan on an ancient kitchen range. Our camp gobbled down breakfast and set off in waves. Some of us would head for “The Big Mountain” which required an earlier departure and a long walk in. The goal was to get to our spots well ahead of the massive army that followed in hopes that they would push deer to us at first light.
The second group hunted the nearby “Little Mountain” which, to this day, contained some of the best wildlife habitat I’ve ever seen. Interestingly, it was all reclaimed strip mine. I remember hearing about the evils of strip mining when I was a kid and how it left the land raped and barren. Properly recovered, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The stripping on little mountain was a vibrant, and diverse habitat as I’ve ever seen. Conveniently, it was easily accessible from camp and those hunting there didn’t need as early a start.
1994 was my first official buck season trip to camp but it was not my first foray on “Big Mountain”. My buddy Joe and I hunted doe season a couple years based out of another friend’s cabin closer to home. At the time, doe season occurred the week after the two week buck season ended. It was later in the year, and usually a bitter cold season, but it had its own appeal and featured a smaller but no less exciting assault on the PA deer woods. I look back reverently on those bleak, wintry days of doe season.
As a matter of fact, I killed my first Pennsylvania deer on one of those hunts. It was probably one of the coldest days I’ve ever spent in the woods. Temps were in the teens and a fierce west wind gusted into the 40s and 50s. The cabin we stayed at was in Lewistown, PA which left us a fair morning drive to get to Big Mountain. I remember riding on route 322 along the Juniata river. The wind was blowing so hard the road iced over from spray being blown off the river. The ride reminded me of some of the harrowing tales of pre-hunt travel documented by Gordon MacQuarrie in his “Tales of the Old Duck Hunters”.
When Joe and I were walking into the game lands that morning in the dark I remember feeling very unprepared. Despite having been a hunter for some 16 years at that point, all my experience was in a very familiar South Jersey marshland and woodlot or local farm country. Never had I ventured out with a rifle into big woods. Being used to hunting with a shotgun or bow, I did like the idea of being able to really reach out with the borrowed .30-06 I was using.
After a good 45 minute hike, Joe dropped me by a tree and told me to “stay here” and he would be just down over the hill. My only thought was “Where am I going to go?” I had no idea about this place and it was pitch black walking in. All I saw was a bleak, dark, frozen wilderness. I decided if Joe came back to find me in the spring my skeletal remains would still be by this big tree.
Daylight came and all I saw was cold wind and the occasional orange clad hunter. Looking around, I saw a land that was very different from the whitetail habitat I grew up in. I couldn’t believe there would actually be deer here.
The amount of shooting said otherwise. As daylight grew shots rang out around the mountain including just over the hill where Joe’s light disappeared. A short time later, Joe dragged his antler less prize over the hill, told me to go down where he was and that he’d be back later.
Following directions I went over the edge and planted myself on a deadfall. The hill is a steep one dropping down to a creek bottom. Being a flatlander I couldn’t imagine deer navigating the hillside but the heavy trails around me said otherwise. At least being over the hill I had a bit more protection from the fierce wind. Time went by and I still hadn’t seen a deer. I was beginning to think Joe’s had been an anomaly. Suddenly, a shot rang out to my south. It wasn’t far away and as I wondered if that might push something my way, I saw the telltale ears of a big doe as she came around the hill. Then I heard noise behind me and turned to see several more deer coming over the hill from the top. I focused on the doe in front of me. She closed the distance to an archery-friendly 20 yards and I put the sights of the Mauser rifle behind her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. I had expected her to go down with the shot and was mildly surprised when she ran. Did I miss? She stopped about 50 yards away and stared back at me. Again, I put the sight behind her shoulder and fired.
Did I mention the hill? It went all the way down to the creek bottom. All the way down. As did the big doe. She expired at the very bottom near the creek. I was elated! My first Pennsylvania deer and my first deer with a rifle. I grabbed my pack, went down and proceeded to field dress and tag the big doe. Then I tried to drag her back up the hill. After several attempts with little to no progress I decided the best course of action was to wait for Joe.
With the adrenaline of killing a deer, and the work of getting it dressed out and attempting to drag it up the hill, I discovered I was hungry and thirsty. I pulled my water canteen to find a frozen block. I tried my sandwich. It was an Italian sub and it was frozen solid. My last resort was the bottle of Pepsi. This was back in the days of glass bottles and I was delighted to see it wasn’t frozen. Until I cracked the seal and it immediately froze into a Pepsi-cicle. That’s about when the snow started. It snowed so hard and so violently I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. “This is it. This is where I’m going to die from exposure. Joe forgot about me, packed his deer and went home.” Even were I willing to abandon the deer and try to walk out, aside from “up the hill” I had no idea how to get back to the parking lot. About the time I was considering leaving a note for the finder of my rifle, Joe arrived.
“What took you so long?”
“I was thawing out my sandwich in the truck.”
Between the two of us we hauled the big doe up the mountain and the drag out wasn’t bad with the covering of snow.
For my first buck season, I would have gladly taken those tundra-like conditions. Instead we had had freezing rain over night, and continued rain, sleet, and wind. Precipitation at the higher altitude also meant fog. More than half the time it was impossible to see more than a few yards. By mid morning, we’d had enough. Joe and Dave (the camp owner’s son) retrieved me and the plan was to head back to camp, dry out and hunt “Little Mountain” in the afternoon.
We began the hike out heading across the top of the huge mountain laurel patch that was the hallmark of “Big Mountain”. As we walked the sun began to peek out and the rain stopped. Dave and Joe were in front of me. The next thing I knew, they were raising their rifles and whispering about “Is that a buck or a doe?” or some such conversation. Excited, I looked past them and saw . . . mountain laurel. Dave moved a little to his right, looked, and snapped his rifle to his shoulder following something. I peered closely and saw . . . mountain laurel. Next Joe raised his rifle and said “That one is a doe.” I looked again and saw . . . mountain laurel. This flatland, swamp hunting Jersey redneck wasn’t used to spotting deer more than about 50 yards away. This mountain hunting would take some getting used to.
With the improved weather and deer movement we cancelled plans to return to camp and wound up with Joe and Dave both bagging bucks before the end of the day. Go figure that the guys that could actually see the deer killed. Happily, I got a chance a couple days later and took my first Pennsylvania buck while perched in a small hemlock at Little Mountain. That is a story in and of itself for another time as this post has gotten quite long enough.
The physical location of deer camp has changed quite a bit since 1994. Camp Nothin’ Easy still stands, but has been abandoned for quite some time by all but the mice. For several years, we stayed nearby when Joe bought a mobile home style place at a resort. With changing game management practices by the state and poor forestry management by the Game Commission, the deer population on Big Mountain became non-existent. Sadly, Little Mountain was sold to private landowners and closed to all hunting. Our current deer camp is now half way across the state in the Poconos. Happily, we still have a core of people who were at Camp Nothin’ Easy and who are my best friends. Despite differences in location, differences in weather, and differences in deer populations and season, deer camp lives on. It is time with friends, and time in the woods. It is the week I look forward to out of the year more than any other.
Bring it On 