The camp that I never hunted
By Dave Bates
For the Observer-Reporter
Let me be frank from the get go. I am not a sportsman deprived in any way. I didn’t have to walk uphill, both ways, to school in the freezing cold. My truck is in good shape and nearly new. I’m almost retired. I enjoy multiple hobbies and interests, have plenty of time to hunt and I own a couple of good rifles. I have even had a couple of passable bird dogs over the years. So if I sound a bit ungrateful, please forgive me. That was not my intent.
I have always been a “hunt around the house” kind of guy. Dad didn’t do much hunting after World War II. I believe he experienced enough “hunting” in the skies over the South Pacific from 1942-45. Thus we never went to camp. Many of my childhood friends departed Greene County for the opening day of deer season. Their memories of Potter County, playing hookie with their dads for a few days, doing man stuff, were always a source of fascination for me. Admittedly, I was a bit jealous. I realize now that deer hunting in the tri-county area of Southwestern Pennsylvania was probably coming into its own in the 1970s and 1980s and deer hunting was likely better here than in the mountains. It was no matter for me. I didn’t even kill my first deer until I was 19 years old. I guess you could say I was a bit of a slow study.
Nonetheless, the romance of “going to camp” eluded me then and I am still drawn to little hunting camps like a moth to a flame. Many a time I have found myself pulled off along the side of the road staring at some little shack, wishing I knew more about it and its people and their good times together. I wonder who their Funcle (fun uncle?) was. Who was their Drunkle (figure it out?) Who was the guy in camp who always got his deer, knew the best stands, etc.? I awake from my trance and pull away, hopefully before I am spotted, lusting over their little piece of heaven. As I drive off, I feel a little melancholy but can’t really say why.
Over the years, I’ve spent some time at my friend John “Pap” Meyers’ cabin, Camp Carmichaels, near Sinnemahoning. Late in summer, we would plan a weekend outside of hunting season to “go to camp.” It was anything but a hunting trip; mostly a collection of mismatched friends who had only in common our enjoyment of one another’s company. I always looked most forward to that weekend. We hiked a bit, Pap would take us to some neat place we had never been on a sightseeing tour and we’d usually end up at the elk viewing station at Benezette. A big dinner was sure to follow. We also usually ended up at some watering hole, pretending we were teenagers again and proving otherwise.
But just as much as the “fun,” I enjoyed the camp work. Hooking up the pump, splitting wood, playing camp chef, even cleanup was fun. Sometimes there was a special project that required the entire gang assembled. But it was the campfires we enjoyed most. Sitting around the fire ring, catching up after months or sometimes years apart, telling stories, celebrating whatever it was we could think of to celebrate. And always making plans for “next time.”
I was fortunate to be invited to my friend Ken Alt’s cabin in Port Allegany, to bear hunt for several years. The cabin was originally built as a camp by Tom Harmon. He and Ken were the captains of our bear driving party. Tom would fly in from Alaska each fall to bear hunt. The cabin slept 16 people or so and was a thing of beauty. In fact, it was so nice that Ken bought it and made it his home when the bear hunting ended.
Some of my fondest hunting memories were made in and around that cabin. We drove bears with parties of 18-25 men and killed more bears, consistently, than one might believe. At last check, the number recorded in the camp records was more than 36, dating back to the 1990s. Some of my fondest hunting memories were spent around the giant table, eating meals together. Relative strangers from four corners of the country who got to be friends over the years, one casserole at a time, one choked thicket at a time, one celebratory bear drag at a time.
But like so many “next times,” sometimes, the next time never comes.
So, if you’ve got a cabin that you’re especially proud of, (or at least not completely ashamed of) send me a photo. I’d love to see your camp. I’d like to hear about your friends and family and good times. I’d even like to hear some of your lies about the big one that got away.
As you’re reading this, deer season weekend is already upon us. I won’t be away at camp. I’ll be out back, hoping to take a nice one, close to home. Maybe next year, when I retire, I’ll begin my search for a camp like yours. I hope you have a good trip to camp and I wish you much success.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com