Dec 23, 2017 5 min read

There was a bite in the morning air, just a hint of things to come. That hint of fall vitalized every member of the small group, and even the dogs showed their anticipation with a yip now and again. There was good reason for the smiles, thermos bottles and excited jabbering. It was the first day of small game season. The day that was beloved by every red-blooded outdoorsperson as he or she waited for that magic moment when the dogs would be freed from the leashes. We would soon be chasing rabbits from berry patches or work the cornfield flushing ringnecks. The hunt would begin with the clicky clack of a pump shotgun being cycled or the thud of a dropped shotgun shell as it was dropped from nervous hands. That was time to hunt.

Back then, the country roads like, Christy Road in North Strabane Township, would be lined with cars parked at the available wide places and this familiar scene would be repeated on most backroads in the area. One didn’t see an entourage of Great Pumpkin-like men dressed in orange clothing dotting the hillsides for back then we hunted in red or, in most cases, brush pants and whatever shirt we could find.

While this small-game hunting dominated the scene there were a handful of men who made their way to the mountains to hunt the ever-present deer. Many of those brave souls stayed at camps in counties like McKean, Potter, Elk or Warren. They could be seen loading the 1950 Chevy or Ford with red and black checkered Woolrich clothes and an array of rifles or shotguns that would be loaded with pumpkin balls. The rifle scene at that time was dominated with lever action 30-30s or the popular 30-40 Krag. The Krag was topped with open sights.

I am sure more than a little beer was consumed at these camps, and I know there were quite a few lies told and more than a few card games enjoyed. To youngsters like George, the camp trips were shrouded in mystery. As those years went slowly by these mountain hunters who owned camps with a variety of names like Little Red Caboose or Big Buck Lodge started to not use them in deer season. What happened here? Persons like myself, Mario, Gib and others, discovered deer in Washington and Greene counties. Writers, like myself, wrote of the larger antlered bucks roaming the hills here at home and by the 1970s those cars along the roads were not from small-game hunters but those who were seeking a trophy buck. Contests like the one at Pankopf Ford were abundant and the deer now ruled the hunting roost.

There is little lost in the transition as hunter numbers hovered just above the one million mark and all was well. No one cared why this happened as long as the hunting licenses available for deer remained high.

I had a strange start in this transition from rabbit to deer hunter. I started hunting deer at home and after a few years my hunting moved to the mountains. This is the reverse of what most people I know who hunt hunt deer have told me. It was then that I really enjoyed the trips to the north country, where there was little posted land and enough room for a large number of hunters. The cabin experience involved more than just the deer hunting but also the lively comradery among the mountain visitors. The beauty of grown men, and a few women, playing cards and the repeating of old deer hunting tales was center stage. In many cabins, the food was atrocious but, hey, it filled the belly of many a hunter. The beans, chili and pepperoni had to be a red alert sign to any deer downwind, but who cared? It was fun.

I am remembering one trip to Grunderville, in Warren County, when we realized we were without a true cook. Finally, Danny said he would cook but the first complainer would be the next cook. True to his word, we woke that morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee as Dan scuttled around that kitchen getting the bacon ready for the skillet. I took one mouthful of coffee, made a face and said, “Wow! That coffee is strong!” Dan swung around and started to appoint me the new cook when I beat him to the punch with, “but I like it that way.” That was camp life and perhaps that is what is missing.

The camp brought hunters together and hunting was less competitive. Today we get up in our own house and venture to the woods. Some of us will drag a true wall hanger from the brier fields and be proud, yet sometimes something is missing. There are a few who still go north for deer season but the numbers have dwindled. We used to have hunters who hunted for a week. These days, most hunters are one-day hunters.

On my wall are the mounts of a few trophy bucks, but the trophies of greatest memory to me were created from the cabin experience. These bucks equal and surpass those bucks, because when I look at them I remember all that fun. We have lost something here.

George Block writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter.