Of Trails, Trailers, and Traditions

My Mom and Dad just got back. My husband went a few weeks ago. My son can’t wait to go. I, on the other hand, am not so anxious. I am talking about that almost holy and oh so glorious place, the deer woods.

The "deer woods" is a different location for different folks. For my husband, it is several locations. One main place and a few backup places. But for my parents, it has been one spot for more than three decades.

When we were growing up, my parents were adamant about two things. We never missed church, and we never missed school. The exception was one time a year, when we went to the deer woods.

They would get all of our assignments from school, and we would take a whole week off. We had to do our school work, but we got to do it in the woods. We still went to church on the Wednesday night we were away, but we went to the small church in the nearest town.

That one week is etched into my and my sister’s memory. Any other vacation we took through the year was from Sunday night after church to Wednesday morning or Wednesday night after church to Saturday morning. Missing church was never an option, never even considered. The pastor doesn’t skip a Sunday, or even a Wednesday.

We grew up with three day vacations, and even then they were never guaranteed. If someone was sick or in trouble, the vacation got cancelled or cut short.

The week of deer camp was set in stone, though. The only exception was the death of a church member. Teresa and I knew that if we could get away before someone called, we could stay away. In an age before cell phones, deer camp was too far for someone to be able to find us.

The four of us were squeezed into a twelve foot camper that only had electricity when a generator was running. It started at 4 a.m. when the men in the camp got up. As the smallest, I slept on the world’s tiniest bunk above my parents. Before technology proved deer have super power like abilities to smell, every morning Dad got up and brewed coffee and cooked bacon or sausage for breakfast.

In that little camper, on that little bunk, the fumes just about choked me every single day. There was no way for him to be quiet, or to keep the lights off so the three girls in the camper could get their sleep. He probably wouldn’t have even if he could have.

We had an outhouse that the whole camp shared. I won’t go into details, but I can tell you that my sister and I also share memories, and not good ones, of that experience. Nothing wakes you up faster than a walk through the woods at 4 a.m. in 20 degree weather.

The men would go off to hunt and gather, or sleep and shiver in their stands, and the women and kids would work, visit, and play around the camp fire. We explored in the area immediately around the camp, although we didn’t go too far for obvious reasons. Our parents didn’t want us to be mistaken for deer and get shot.

We ran and rode our bikes in the fields, and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows stuck on cane poles we had stripped of their leaves at night. Most of the people in our camp were other ministers, family, or church members, so the fellowship was always good, clean fun appropriate for all ages.

The ladies cooked for their families, but almost always cooked extra to bring to the fire. We sampled all kinds of food, and ate until we were stuffed.

Things are different now. That 12 foot Scotty camper has been replaced by a much bigger, much nicer trailer. It doesn’t make sense to me. When there were four of us, they had 12 feet. Now that there are two of them, they have 35 feet, with hardwood floors, a microwave, television, stereo, and a Jacuzzi tub. And indoor...facilities. No more 4 a.m. walks through the woods. Doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

We, on the other hand, still very much rough it in a camper only fit for the deer woods. I’m not sure it is even fit for that. Gary stays in it, and so does Logan. However, the dog refuses to, and so do I.

Whenever we are at deer camp, the doggie and I sleep with mom and dad, even though Gary and Logan sleep in our camper. You could accuse me of being a bad mom by letting my child stay in our camper, except for some bizarre reason he enjoys it. He thinks it adds to the experience.

He probably would have liked walking to the outhouse, too.