Post by tuketu on Feb 14, 2022 18:46:08 GMT -4
Was on one of my Facebook Hunting pages and one of the contributors was talking about the history of his camp . It inspired me to write "Forgotten"
Forgotten
It was on a quad run with friends that we came across an old dilapidated camp. It sat on a wooded knoll at the edge of a hardwood swale. In the near distance I could hear the sound of running water, it babbling peaked my curiosity. Hidden behind a thicket of stunted spruce flowed a beautiful woodland stream. The water cascaded over a run of randomly scattered granite stones into a deep eddied stillwater, swirling foam obscuring an old windfall that had long been at rest. How many trout dinners had been pulled from the little Shangri-La I wondered? I stood there a moment and let it sink in. What a hidden gem this was, I had to see more.
On the other side of the camp, a quick walk, through the high grass of the swale, confirmed any suspicions I had of any evidence of deer sign.. A path had been beaten down into the mud from years of use and a string of alders and birch had been rubbed raw confirming the direction of travel. "My God" , I thought it just doesn't get any better than this. I continued my quest and was not surprised to see two rotting rough cut boards dangling desperately 15ft up in a hemlock . There was no question as to their purpose. To any hunter this was Paradise! On my walk back to the camp the crunch of beech nuts and acorns under foot only further stirred my blood .
Slab wood served as siding to give the camp a rustic, log cabin look. An old piece of maple adorned the door as a handle, and in classic style, half a deer rack hung over the door, with the green molded remains of the other half laying rodent ridden next to the step. Not to be outdone the rusted remnants of hinges had been replaced by a once worn pair of old black rubber boots. The roof was thickly insulated in moss with daylight peeking thru its holes. The inside was reminiscent of the early days. There were no amenities here, no power or plumbing, and at least a 20 yard sprint to a one - holer ! On a rickety old table sat what resembled the vestiges of well aged scribbler with signatures of long forgotten visitors, many of whom were unknown to its owners. The mice were well read and had relished this ill-gotten bedding. A half burnt candle topped an empty old bottle of Black Diamond rhum. I could only imagine how much spillage had tainted the now decomposing wooden floor over the years. The rope woven bunks cluttered with old straw mattresses on the back wall required nothing less than an alcohol inducted coma for a nights rest. Little of which was actually realized during hunting or fishing season. On the wall hung an ole Girly Calendar dated 1967. November was a good year given the photo presented and a big black line with "Rut" printed in the middle of week number two highlighted the month. On the sill of an old single paned piece of glass that served as a window stood a battered and tattered can of Stag tobacco that had yet to be emptied. I closed my eyes in search of the past. To imagine the laughter at the tales told and the lies embellished. The heavy blue smoke of pipe and the sweating heat from the tiny pot bellied stove tucked in the corner.
There was a time when this was a rite of passage for young men. It was a day that was anticipated by young boys, their indoctrination into manhood. Time spent with uncles and cousins, a lifetime of memories. I sadly pondered the present state of the camp and asked myself … "Why did it all have to end ?" Was there no one left to carry the torch or to carry on that grand tradition?
As I hopped on the quad to leave I couldn't help but to ruminate … If I only had known, maybe I could have saved her. My only consolation was, that even though I had personally never enjoyed her existence, I will not forget her or what she precariously stands for.
Forgotten
It was on a quad run with friends that we came across an old dilapidated camp. It sat on a wooded knoll at the edge of a hardwood swale. In the near distance I could hear the sound of running water, it babbling peaked my curiosity. Hidden behind a thicket of stunted spruce flowed a beautiful woodland stream. The water cascaded over a run of randomly scattered granite stones into a deep eddied stillwater, swirling foam obscuring an old windfall that had long been at rest. How many trout dinners had been pulled from the little Shangri-La I wondered? I stood there a moment and let it sink in. What a hidden gem this was, I had to see more.
On the other side of the camp, a quick walk, through the high grass of the swale, confirmed any suspicions I had of any evidence of deer sign.. A path had been beaten down into the mud from years of use and a string of alders and birch had been rubbed raw confirming the direction of travel. "My God" , I thought it just doesn't get any better than this. I continued my quest and was not surprised to see two rotting rough cut boards dangling desperately 15ft up in a hemlock . There was no question as to their purpose. To any hunter this was Paradise! On my walk back to the camp the crunch of beech nuts and acorns under foot only further stirred my blood .
Slab wood served as siding to give the camp a rustic, log cabin look. An old piece of maple adorned the door as a handle, and in classic style, half a deer rack hung over the door, with the green molded remains of the other half laying rodent ridden next to the step. Not to be outdone the rusted remnants of hinges had been replaced by a once worn pair of old black rubber boots. The roof was thickly insulated in moss with daylight peeking thru its holes. The inside was reminiscent of the early days. There were no amenities here, no power or plumbing, and at least a 20 yard sprint to a one - holer ! On a rickety old table sat what resembled the vestiges of well aged scribbler with signatures of long forgotten visitors, many of whom were unknown to its owners. The mice were well read and had relished this ill-gotten bedding. A half burnt candle topped an empty old bottle of Black Diamond rhum. I could only imagine how much spillage had tainted the now decomposing wooden floor over the years. The rope woven bunks cluttered with old straw mattresses on the back wall required nothing less than an alcohol inducted coma for a nights rest. Little of which was actually realized during hunting or fishing season. On the wall hung an ole Girly Calendar dated 1967. November was a good year given the photo presented and a big black line with "Rut" printed in the middle of week number two highlighted the month. On the sill of an old single paned piece of glass that served as a window stood a battered and tattered can of Stag tobacco that had yet to be emptied. I closed my eyes in search of the past. To imagine the laughter at the tales told and the lies embellished. The heavy blue smoke of pipe and the sweating heat from the tiny pot bellied stove tucked in the corner.
There was a time when this was a rite of passage for young men. It was a day that was anticipated by young boys, their indoctrination into manhood. Time spent with uncles and cousins, a lifetime of memories. I sadly pondered the present state of the camp and asked myself … "Why did it all have to end ?" Was there no one left to carry the torch or to carry on that grand tradition?
As I hopped on the quad to leave I couldn't help but to ruminate … If I only had known, maybe I could have saved her. My only consolation was, that even though I had personally never enjoyed her existence, I will not forget her or what she precariously stands for.