Holding it Together
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“Don’t load ‘til you get in the stand. Unload when you get out of the stand, and don’t fuck with the come-along!”
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That was my Uncle setting out the rules for the deer camp. We always went to his property for a hunt. Deep in the Mississippi woods was an old pole barn, no more than cedar posts wrapped in tin sheeting built sometime in the 1930’s. Across the width on the inside of the barn was a thick rusty chain, covered with spider webs rigged to a ratcheting wench I always referred to as a come-along. It was pretty heavy duty and was attached to the side beams on either side of the rotting barn roof. When we first started going to camp, we all kind of wondered why it was there. Once we started clearing out the barn and further inspected it, we realized the roof was pulling away from one side of the wall. The come-along was keeping the whole barn from collapsing in on itself. And this is where we slept.
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It was a good sized barn though about 50 feet long and 40 feet wide. There were no actual doors, the ones that were there were long rotted away. The opposite ends of the barn were open half way and we had to put a tarp up if we wanted any shield from the wind.
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The barn belonged to my uncle’s father in-law, until he passed away, leaving my uncle with about 100 acres of virgin pine forest. And so, every year around Thanksgiving, we went on our annual hunt. No electricity and no running water for 5 days and 4 nights. Everything ran on batteries or gas, and all our water was poured from the numerous coolers or jugs we hauled with us. The nearest town was at least 30 minutes away and at least once during the trip we had to go on an ice and beer run.
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In the barn sat a 40 year old hand-made racing boat used to tear-ass down the Mississippi river. There was also a ‘72 Chevy Nova covered in a thick layer of dust sitting on long deflated tires. The boat and car took up half the barn. Another quarter was filled with rotten termite eaten wood planks where families of snakes and rats lived. The rest of the barn we used as a camp kitchen and had a wood burning stove to keep us warm when it was raining and we couldn’t make a camp fire. Sometimes we could hear the come-along creaking, or maybe it was the roof. Either way, the come-along was a rusty ominous reminder of how old the barn was.
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My dad brought the wood-burning stove from Texas. We found some old stove pipe and rigged it so the stove was in the barn but the pipe snaked outside at 90 degree angles attached to the barn by rusty nails and bailing wire. We nicknamed it the Jed Clampett stove. It worked pretty well but we had to tack sheets of tin to the aged wood so it wouldn’t catch fire. Around this stove we cleared out the dirt floor and added some tables and most of our supplies.
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My Uncle eventually took the Nova out and hauled it back to Arkansas where he lived. Turns out it was green. He didn’t know that until he drove it through a rain storm and most of the dust was washed off. That cleared out another quarter of the barn. After digging out the rotten wheels of the trailer that the homemade boat sat on, we were able to move it so we had one half of the barn to set up beds or store more supplies. The rats living in the boat weren’t happy. They scurried out frantically and disappeared under the pile of rotting wood.
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Cots were set up where the boat used to be and we hung tarps all around them creating a sort of room. We laid some scraps of carpet on the dirt to keep the dust down and this is where my brother and I slept. It wasn’t a bad set up but we needed a heater of some kind because the Jed Clampett stove was too far away to do any good.
At night we could hear the rats scratching around, running across the rafters and rebuilding a nest in the boat. Sometimes they ran across the dust covered chain holding the roof together. My brother kept a .22 next to his cot with the hopes of seeing one. I just hoped he didn’t shoot at the come-along.
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My Uncle and dad slept in a box trailer my uncle hauled down from Arkansas. He had a set of bunk beds he set up in it and a propane heater when it got too cold. The first year I went I brought a pop up tent and realized that was a mistake. It got down to 15 degrees that night and I burrowed deep into my sleeping bag on the hard ground and shivered until it got light.
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The next few years my dad brought a cabin tent. The only problem was it was at least 25 years old. The poles were a pain in the ass to set up and when it rained the fabric was so old and stretched out it didn’t repel water like it used to. The good thing was we could set up cots and a propane heater so at least we could keep the chill off when it did dip below freezing. The tent only lasted a few more years before we set up tarped walls in the pole barn after moving the boat out of the way. The tarps and the rusty tin walls weren’t much better, but at least the roof didn’t leak.
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One of the first years when we were still in the decaying cabin tent, I had been fighting a cold the week leading up to the hunt. It wasn’t until we got to the camp I realized I’d lost the fight. The weather was cold and drizzling and the 10 hour drive from Texas didn’t sit well with my stomach. Within the first few hours outside of the truck, I realized I had the watery shits. My uncle brought a camping toilet which looked like a walker with a toilet seat and a bucket in the middle. They would line the bucket with a plastic shopping bag and throw it away when finished. I was young enough to dig a hole with a weathered shovel and lean against a tree, and with my sickness, I would have used all the bags if I didn’t.
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We set up the old cabin tent in the rain and the ground inside was muddy and slick. You still had to wear your boots before you got in a cot, even then sandy tan colored mud seemed to find its way on every fabric. We weren’t able to build a fire the first night at camp because it was raining and everything was wet. So we huddled inside the pole barn around the Jed Clampett stove trying to stay warm. The stove radiated some heat and every once in a while I thought I heard the come-along squeak. Even if I were in a hotel room I would’ve been miserable. I probably had a fever and a numb sickness penetrating down to my bones. My stomach grumbled, my nose ran freely and my head swam as I paid no attention to the conversation going on around me until someone suggested bed. I didn’t even drink a beer.
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I was thankful to climb in my mud streaked sleeping bag even if it was on a hard cot in a leaky tent. There was a propane heater in the middle of the tent and it was warm enough to be almost comforting. I wasn’t even looking forward to hunting and started regretting my decision to come. There was a constant rain that night, with drops just large enough you could hear them hit the roof in a steady pattern. Despite the cold and the damp and the sickness, the sound was comforting and I was able to fall asleep.
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Halfway through the night I woke up to water dripping on my face. The rain had stopped but the temperature had dropped. The propane heater had run out, or was turned off, and the air in the tent was warm and full of moisture, so water droplets formed on the ceiling. Eventually they beaded off and fell right were my cot was sitting.
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With a sickly groan and a weak cuss, I sat up out of my warm sleeping bag and found my damp shoes. I tried to move the cot enough so the water wasn’t dripping on my head. Shivering, I climbed back in my bag and tried to go back to sleep.
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My Uncle woke us up the next morning and had already started coffee. I didn’t even want to hunt. I had barely slept from shivering so much and my nose was raw from the snot that continually flowed. I reluctantly sat up and when I touched the outside of my bag it felt like a big cold puddle had formed right where my crotch was. My first thought was “Did I piss myself?” I put my hands inside the bag and felt around but my body was dry. That’s when I noticed a large droplet of water fall from the ceiling and land directly where my crotch was. Luckily the bag was absorbent and there was a nylon blanket in the bag with me. Unfortunately my bag was still wet and who knew how long it would take to dry out.
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The rain had stopped, but it was still cold. Not freezing, but it was close. I put on every piece of clothing I could handle and went outside to huddle around the Jed Clampett stove with some warm coffee. Everyone else was in good spirits, talking about how many deer they wanted to kill and deciding how to fit them all in the coolers. I just wanted to get the morning over with so I could come back and maybe go back to sleep. I wasn’t even that hungry. I didn’t want to dampen everyone’s spirits by saying I was sick. I had also spent over $100 for the out-of-state license and didn’t want that to go to waste.
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Minutes later I was climbing into my stand and loading my rifle. I leaned it on the wall and hugged myself trying to stay warm. I didn’t even care if a deer showed up. I was sitting there thankful at least it was dry in the stand, but as soon as I thought that, water dripped on my head. As I looked up, I saw rotting wood above my head. Mold had spread like some science experiment and drops of water clung to the ceiling. There was no place to move were the water wouldn’t fall and it wasn’t like there was a lot of space to move around in anyway.
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Then my stomach started to grumble and I knew within a few minutes I would need to find some toilet paper. I unloaded the rifle, abandoned the stand, and headed back to camp squeezing my cheeks as I went. I cased the rifle and grabbed toilet paper and a shovel. It began to drizzle and the ground was still slick from the rain the day before so I almost slipped on my shivering ass a few times. I walked off into the woods careful to watch my step and struggled with my many layers of clothes before I found a nice tree to lean on.
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When I finished, I was shivering so bad it was hard to get dressed again and when I got back to camp it was hard to get the propane stove lit because I couldn’t hold the lighter still. I had never made coffee in a percolator pot before and it was some time before I realized its simplicity. At one point it boiled over sending sizzling flames up the side of the pot. Eventually I got it perking and thought I had made coffee. It was pretty weak. I didn’t know how much coffee to put in or how long to let it perk, but it was hot and brown and that’s all I really wanted.
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Eventually everyone came back. No one saw anything move. No deer, no squirrels, not even any birds. We spent the rest of the day hanging out in the pole barn talking because the drizzle didn’t stop. I hugged a coffee cup and tried to ignore my fever. Several times during the day I had to grab the shovel and go for a walk again. Eventually I didn’t bother digging a hole anymore, I just covered up wherever came out. It was never much anyway, and I spent more time wiping then I did going, which made me develop a rash on top of everything else.
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When it was time for the evening hunt I wasn’t feeling any better. I barely ate all day, my ass itched, and I could only breathe from my mouth because my raw nose was stopped up. On the way to the stand I had to turn back around and use the shovel again. I shivered as I climbed into the stand, loaded the rifle and leaned it against the wall. I hugged myself and put my head into my chest. The rain had stopped a few hours before but the roof of the stand still had large droplets of water that fell on my hat every once in a while. I didn’t know what I was doing there. I went out of habit I suppose, but any sane person would’ve climbed into a sleeping bag and slept it off. Even if it meant sleeping for the rest of the camp.
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As I sat there, contemplating my misery, three deer walked out into the clearing with less sound than the water dropping on my head. I just happened to look up as all three bent down and lapped up the corn we put out earlier in the day.
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With a reluctant sigh, I silently picked up the rifle and clicked the safety off. The largest one was standing broad side and I put the cross hairs right behind her shoulder. With a gentle squeeze, the rifle went off and the concussion rattled my weakened head and punched my stiff shoulder. I saw her hesitate, lift her front legs in the air as if taking a deep breath and then take off into the woods.
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She was the first one that had run off. All the deer I shot fell not too far from where I shot them so I thought I had missed. I unloaded and climbed out of the stand, my ears ringing from the rifle. I looked around on the ground for blood. Shimmering on the ground where I shot her was a bright smear of it and a clear trail like someone had flicked maroon paint leading off into the woods.
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Daylight was fading and it would get dark sooner since there were still clouds in the sky. I followed the blood into the woods not really paying attention to where I was going but just stayed focused on the blood. Finally I saw her. She was laying on her side with blood all over her mouth not moving. I knelt by her and inspected the wound. It was right behind the shoulder just where I was aiming but maybe a little too far back. Usually when I hit them I got a bit of the shoulder or heart and that’s why they never ran far. I guess I was a little off with this one.
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I patted my side in search for my knife and that’s when I realized, in my sickness, I forgot it back at camp. I stood up and look around only to realize I was lost. In every direction was thick wood. The clearing I’d come from was not visible in the thicket and, since it was cloudy, there was no way of seeing if the sun was shining down brighter in one spot or another. If I went in search of the camp or the clearing, I might lose the deer. Not to mention it would be dark soon and even if someone came looking for me how would they know where to start?
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Then an idea came to me before I panicked. I took off my bright orange vest and wrapped it high around a near tree. I slung the rifle on my shoulder and started to follow the blood trail back the way I’d come. This time I would pay attention and hope she ran in one direction into the woods.
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It was probably a good 100 yards before I came out of the thicket. Turning around I could just make out the orange vest reflecting back deep in the woods. I picked up a stick and pushed it into the ground so I knew where to start once I got my knife. The camp was empty but I knew where my knife was. I cased my gun and after the brief hike I made it back to my kill. The ground wasn’t flat and there were leaves and branches everywhere which made it difficult to gut her coupled with the fact I was sick.
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I struggled to move her, to cut her, to scoop all the innards out. I took my jacket off before I started and when I finished I realized it was the first time since we got to camp I was warm. I left my jacket under the orange vest still wrapped around the tree and with her hollow body lying in wait I sheathed my knife and grabbed her legs. She was heavier than I expected and the fact that the ground was uneven and cluttered made it all the harder to drag her out of the woods. With little day light left, I managed to pull her from the brush and lay her on the edge of the clearing.
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I went back into the woods to retrieve the jacket and vest and left her on the ground before heading back to camp. When I got there still no one had returned. I opened the cooler and grabbed a beer with my bloody hands. I practically chugged it and took advantage of not feeling cold anymore by opening another one and drinking that down too.
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As the last glow of light faded from the clouds the rest of the group appeared from the woods, their orange vests were the first things I saw. I was sitting on a folding chair sleeves still rolled up, blood half way up my arms and I was shaking. I didn’t know if I was cold or if I was still coming down from the adrenaline rush. The two beers had gone straight to my head too, and I felt tipsy either from the beers or the fever or a combination.
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“Did you get one?” my dad asked.
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“Yep.”
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“Where is it?”
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“I left it in the clearing. I had to drag her out of the woods a ways. I thought I’d wait for the rest of you to help me bring her back to camp.”
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My Uncle started up his 4-wheeler and with the dirty headlights we rolled through the woods to the clearing. We lifted her onto the back hauled her to camp before hanging her by a gambrel in a tree. Minute by minute I could feel the cold creeping back into my bones. The fever was settling in again and in my delirium I saw spots in the corners of my eyes and the dim light feathering on the dead deer reminded me of a nightmare I could not fully remember.
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That night we drank in celebration but my shivering had returned. We were able to light a fire despite the damp wood but the temperature in the air was falling fast and the small fire did nothing to warm me up. At least it wasn’t raining.I climbed into my sleeping bag and curled up in a ball at the bottom of it. I might have slept but I did not dream and all I knew was I shivered through the night.
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In the morning everyone started to get up for the morning hunt. I could see ice had formed on the ceiling of the tent but at least water wasn’t dripping on my crotch. My dad thought it’d be nice to turn the heater on because for some reason someone had turned it off in the night again. When he did, the ice on the ceiling started to melt and soon it was as if it were raining on the inside of the tent. Reluctantly I got up. Sitting next to the Jed Clampett stove with some coffee sounded better than getting rained on, even if the sleeping bag was warm.
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Everyone went off to hunt but I stayed behind. I had killed a deer that now hung stiff in a near-by tree glistening with morning moisture and her fur still bearing the drag marks from me pulling her from the woods. As everyone left I tried to gather some wood and get a fire going in the stove but not before another trip into the woods with the shovel. I also tried again at making coffee but again somehow made it too weak. The come-along creaked as the air temperature warmed inside the barn, but it still held fast keeping everything from falling apart.
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Eventually everyone came back without a shot being fired. Breakfast was being made which consisted of bacon and eggs, but my uncle put on a pot of yellow corn grits he poured out of a bag with a generic label on it. I think everyone had caught on that I wasn’t feeling well and no one asked me to help with breakfast. I stayed by the stove, adding wood every once in a while and cupped my weak but warm coffee.
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My Uncle handed me a steaming bowl of grits. I looked down at them blankly as the steam wafted up into my face. I took the plastic spoon and slowly scooped a heap from the bowl. They were hot but as soon as I was able to take my first swallow a warmth radiated out of my stomach and flooded the rest of my body. I ate the grits as fast as I could without burning my mouth. My appetite returned in an instant and two bowls later I was also eating toast and bacon.
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The shivers stopped, my stomach calmed, and I felt warm and full. The deer hung stiff in a near-by tree and I felt I had the energy to skin her and cut her up so she’d fit in the cooler. I don’t know what it was about those grits, but they drove off my sickness and helped me return to the world so I could enjoy the rest of our hunting trip and even help out.
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I thanked my uncle and told him he should bring grits every year from now on. That night we lit a fire and although no one shot anything the rest of the trip, we drank as if each of us were taking home a deer.
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