AZBuckSnort
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Our deer hunting party had consisted of my Dad & two of his co-workers and myself. We hunted together as a group starting around 1982, mostly in the California High Sierra Mountains, southern Utah, and in Arizona's Kaibab when we could draw permits.
I was in my early 20's and the rest of the group were in the 40's when we started hunting together. My Dad is now 68 and I'm knocking on the door to age 50. The other two have passed on, too early, both of sudden cardiac arrest. We miss and commemorate them each year in our deer camp; Ronnie & Dexter, R.I.P.
These fellows were quite fond of Crown Royal and Jack Daniels whiskey. They surely went through at least one bottle of the purple velvet bagged sauce and or the Tennessee brew during a week-long muley hunt. They often squabbled over which one was taking extra liberties as to longer pulls on the whiskey, violating their strict code to share...equally.
Their good-natured, yet intense, striving over their campfire-side nightcaps led to Dexter resorting to hiding the bottle of Jack from Ronnie the first day of our 1986 deer camp in a drainage near Convict Lake. Dexter was certain his hiding place was secure and that Ronnie would have to beg in order to partake in their sipping ritual that year. None of us knew the hiding spot and Ron's efforts to find the bottle while Dexter was out glassing for bucks were unsuccessful.
Ronnie was our camp fire-pit guru and took his task seriously. Since my Dad & Dexter had arrived at camp ahead of Ron & me, Dex had selected the location of the fire ring and where they would set up the camp tents. Ronnie disapproved of the camp layout and began bitching about it. On day two of the hunt Ronnie stated it was time to move the fire-pit during our mid-day return to camp.
With Dexter still out tromping the steep shale sides of the canyon, Ron directed me in the prep of our new campfire. As I was tossing rocks aside behind our cook table, I heard a "clink" sound and took a look behind the table and discovered the Jack Daniels bottle hidden beneath a lush bed of long grass. I called Ronnie over and he began to chuckle a deep knowing laugh. "I know just what to do," he said with an ornery cackle.
He poured the whiskey into a leather bota bag and returned the empty bottle to it's grassy hiding place. He proceeded to smash the bottle with a rock and then had me continue to toss rocks and sticks behind the table to clear our new campfire location.
When Dexter & my Dad returned to camp in the evening, a glorious fire was roaring in our new and improved campfire ring. Dexter was impressed and admitted it was a better location and fire ring than the one he had hastily build previously. As we settled in around the fire to eat dinner and discuss the day's deer hunt activity, Ronnie said it sure would be nice to take a nip of the bottle of Jack Daniels that had been denied him the previous evening.
Dexter agreed and said he believed his friend had "learned a lesson" and went to fetch the bottle. He retreated around the cook table and saw the pile of rocks and started to cry out,"No! No! No!" as he dug through the rocks and found the broken glass of the Tennessee whiskey crushed in the grass. He came back around the table holding a broken glass shard of the long neck of the bottle with the cap still tightly sealed, a forlorn look hung across his face.
He slumped on a camp stool and hung his head, disgusted over the loss of the whiskey. Ronnie let him wallow in self-pity for a bit and listened to Dexter preach about how it was Ron's fault because he'd over-indulged and it was his responsibility to school Ronnie and bring him back around to the right concept of sharing...equally.Ronnie explained to Dexter that he had learned his lesson and had prepared a campfire speech during the day to share his remorse with his friend and, hopefully, earn a chance for redemption and a welcome return to their sipping ritual.
This made Dexter feel even worse as he ended the evening shuffling off to his tent, still holding the remains of the Jack Daniels bottle. Ron fetched the bota bag from the tree limb it hung in and proceeded to settle in near the fire and take a long swig of the firey liquid. He nursed it a bit, not over-indulging, just enough to "feel mellow" as he described it to me. All the while, my Dad was clueless to what was going on.
Ron allowed Dexter to regret his whiskey hiding place all through the next day and into the evening. I had bagged a dark-horned two-point mule deer buck that day and we celebrated around a too-tall fire, flames licking high into the dark night. Dexter said." It sure would've been nice if we'd had the ol' Jack to salute the fine young buck that fell to Jim's .270 today." Ron agreed, smacking his lips and sighing after taking a swig from his bota bag slung across his shoulder.
Dexter asked Ronnie to fetch up a can of Bud from the cooler to toast the deer kill. Ronnie replied he thought a pull of cool, clear mountain spring water, taken from the very stream the young buck had quenched his thirst from in life, would be a more fitting salute to my success and passed me the bota. I took a very small sip and passed it on to Dexter. He opened his mouth, leaned back, and squeezed an arching stream down his throat. His eyes sprang wide open and a wild look contorted his face as he came up sputtering and stammering!
Ronnie started slapping his knee and laughing like to bust a rib. I joined in and my Dad stared at us wondering what the heck was going on. Dexter stretched his arm out and dropped the bota bag in my Dad's lap. He snatched it up and took a drink. A knowing look danced in his eyes as he tossed his head back and laughed out loud as the familiar taste of the whiskey warmed his mouth. We all had a hearty laugh, Dexter included, as he said," You guys found my hiding place!"
We all laughed and poked fun at each other as we sat there under the stars in the High Sierras, enjoying the moment as only those who have experienced the fun and comraderie of a deer camp can share.
I was in my early 20's and the rest of the group were in the 40's when we started hunting together. My Dad is now 68 and I'm knocking on the door to age 50. The other two have passed on, too early, both of sudden cardiac arrest. We miss and commemorate them each year in our deer camp; Ronnie & Dexter, R.I.P.
These fellows were quite fond of Crown Royal and Jack Daniels whiskey. They surely went through at least one bottle of the purple velvet bagged sauce and or the Tennessee brew during a week-long muley hunt. They often squabbled over which one was taking extra liberties as to longer pulls on the whiskey, violating their strict code to share...equally.
Their good-natured, yet intense, striving over their campfire-side nightcaps led to Dexter resorting to hiding the bottle of Jack from Ronnie the first day of our 1986 deer camp in a drainage near Convict Lake. Dexter was certain his hiding place was secure and that Ronnie would have to beg in order to partake in their sipping ritual that year. None of us knew the hiding spot and Ron's efforts to find the bottle while Dexter was out glassing for bucks were unsuccessful.
Ronnie was our camp fire-pit guru and took his task seriously. Since my Dad & Dexter had arrived at camp ahead of Ron & me, Dex had selected the location of the fire ring and where they would set up the camp tents. Ronnie disapproved of the camp layout and began bitching about it. On day two of the hunt Ronnie stated it was time to move the fire-pit during our mid-day return to camp.
With Dexter still out tromping the steep shale sides of the canyon, Ron directed me in the prep of our new campfire. As I was tossing rocks aside behind our cook table, I heard a "clink" sound and took a look behind the table and discovered the Jack Daniels bottle hidden beneath a lush bed of long grass. I called Ronnie over and he began to chuckle a deep knowing laugh. "I know just what to do," he said with an ornery cackle.
He poured the whiskey into a leather bota bag and returned the empty bottle to it's grassy hiding place. He proceeded to smash the bottle with a rock and then had me continue to toss rocks and sticks behind the table to clear our new campfire location.
When Dexter & my Dad returned to camp in the evening, a glorious fire was roaring in our new and improved campfire ring. Dexter was impressed and admitted it was a better location and fire ring than the one he had hastily build previously. As we settled in around the fire to eat dinner and discuss the day's deer hunt activity, Ronnie said it sure would be nice to take a nip of the bottle of Jack Daniels that had been denied him the previous evening.
Dexter agreed and said he believed his friend had "learned a lesson" and went to fetch the bottle. He retreated around the cook table and saw the pile of rocks and started to cry out,"No! No! No!" as he dug through the rocks and found the broken glass of the Tennessee whiskey crushed in the grass. He came back around the table holding a broken glass shard of the long neck of the bottle with the cap still tightly sealed, a forlorn look hung across his face.
He slumped on a camp stool and hung his head, disgusted over the loss of the whiskey. Ronnie let him wallow in self-pity for a bit and listened to Dexter preach about how it was Ron's fault because he'd over-indulged and it was his responsibility to school Ronnie and bring him back around to the right concept of sharing...equally.Ronnie explained to Dexter that he had learned his lesson and had prepared a campfire speech during the day to share his remorse with his friend and, hopefully, earn a chance for redemption and a welcome return to their sipping ritual.
This made Dexter feel even worse as he ended the evening shuffling off to his tent, still holding the remains of the Jack Daniels bottle. Ron fetched the bota bag from the tree limb it hung in and proceeded to settle in near the fire and take a long swig of the firey liquid. He nursed it a bit, not over-indulging, just enough to "feel mellow" as he described it to me. All the while, my Dad was clueless to what was going on.
Ron allowed Dexter to regret his whiskey hiding place all through the next day and into the evening. I had bagged a dark-horned two-point mule deer buck that day and we celebrated around a too-tall fire, flames licking high into the dark night. Dexter said." It sure would've been nice if we'd had the ol' Jack to salute the fine young buck that fell to Jim's .270 today." Ron agreed, smacking his lips and sighing after taking a swig from his bota bag slung across his shoulder.
Dexter asked Ronnie to fetch up a can of Bud from the cooler to toast the deer kill. Ronnie replied he thought a pull of cool, clear mountain spring water, taken from the very stream the young buck had quenched his thirst from in life, would be a more fitting salute to my success and passed me the bota. I took a very small sip and passed it on to Dexter. He opened his mouth, leaned back, and squeezed an arching stream down his throat. His eyes sprang wide open and a wild look contorted his face as he came up sputtering and stammering!
Ronnie started slapping his knee and laughing like to bust a rib. I joined in and my Dad stared at us wondering what the heck was going on. Dexter stretched his arm out and dropped the bota bag in my Dad's lap. He snatched it up and took a drink. A knowing look danced in his eyes as he tossed his head back and laughed out loud as the familiar taste of the whiskey warmed his mouth. We all had a hearty laugh, Dexter included, as he said," You guys found my hiding place!"
We all laughed and poked fun at each other as we sat there under the stars in the High Sierras, enjoying the moment as only those who have experienced the fun and comraderie of a deer camp can share.
