I asked Danny Clemons to write this story. Here is what he wrote:
When I was young, deer season was not just getting up early the first day of the season. We dressed in woolen pants and woolen shirts. We went into the woods in search of the white tail buck. It was not that easy.
A couple of weeks before the season started, we went to camp. We cleaned up, put everything in order. Wood had to be brought in to heat the camp. When all was in order, the men would sit and talk about seasons past. The big bucks they had seen, but never harvested. Deer season was a way of life when I was young. If you got a deer, it put needed meat in the freezer.
Before the season began, all would get together and fire their rifles to be sure they were zeroed in. You wanted to be sure if you got a shot at a buck, you could put it on the ground, fast. If you should take a shot and miss, you might have your shirt tail cut off.
The night before the season starts, those who will stay in camp move in. A good meal is served that night. No telling how many times I have heard about the buck that got away. You would hear, “I have seen that buck three years in a row.” Never figured out how the man knew it was the same buck. Deer hunters and fishermen are about the same. Each time the story gets told, the deer or the fish gets bigger.
Opening day of deer season comes early. Up early for breakfast. Then you make up a lunch if you are going to stay out all day.
People who did not stay overnight would stop by for coffee, or maybe breakfast. Once all was ready, everyone would tell what area they would hunt in. That way you knew where everyone was. Gun safety was first.
I had to travel about halfway from Crow Hill Road to Trebo Road. Great area to hunt. I traveled to a place called Webster’s Rock.
Some history at Webster’s Rock – a group of hunters met at Webster’s Rock to have lunch, and discuss the days hunt. One of the hunters jumped up and said, “Look at that buck!” A very large buck was standing on the wood line watching the men have lunch. Now everyone is trying to get to their rifle. The deer flipped his tail and was gone. Not a shot was fired. It must have been a real big buck, because all the hunters agreed. As always, that buck became larger each time the story was told. That’s deer hunting. [Ron Patch note: I remember my father telling me about the 1940s Trebo buck. He had a rack as big as a rocking chair, but was never brought down.]
The camp I hunted from had some history. The main camp was at one time the scale house, office for Whitcomb’s Sand and Gravel when Whitcomb’s was in Rockingham. My father and some friends cut the building into sections. They moved the building to Crow Hill in Chester.
Moved into the woods, it was rebuilt. Then the old milk house at Don Farrar’s was moved from Crow Hill Farm out to where the camp was. It was moved into place, and a new section was built between the main part of the camp and the old milk house. When done it became a real nice deer camp.
One year, on the first day of the season, my father had hiked over towards Trebo Road. When walking, he could hear noise. He would stop, the noise would stop. He would walk, and the noise would start. He thought someone from camp was playing a joke on him. He saw a stone wall ahead of him, so he ran and jumped over the wall. He stayed down low, and the noise started again. Soon he saw what was making the noise. A real big buck was following his trail. That deer was over 200 pounds.
Now all the men I hunted with are gone. I remember all of them, the stories they told, and the deer they shot.
Now I am the person who tells the stories about all the good men I knew. The deer camp is gone today, but I still have my memories.
This week’s old saying is from my mother, June Emery. “The only thing the horns are good for is stirring the gravy.”