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Trying
to envision an Alaskan hunting camp is an exercise in
futility. Stereotypical wilderness experiences usually
have one imagining a warm campfire, a group of men huddled
around its' radiating warmth, guns propped, a faithful
dog lying at their feet and tall tales. That is the
dream of many but the realities of camp life sometimes
take a different path. For months I had been listening
to legends and narratives from my companion about all
the goings-on in a hunting camp. Wildly exuberant disclosures
of near-miss shots with his .454 pistol, recounts of
the distinctive camaraderie that ties camp mates together
and his gleaming excitement were all part of the enticing
tales he would recite to me upon his return from the
hunt. This year as he prepared himself for a new season
of adventure, a desire to participate in this annual
"boys" event was ignited. I wanted to head for the remote
and densely wooded hills, I wanted to share in some
of the action, I wanted to see what this was all about!
What is the allure that makes a man want to spend days
or weeks in a territory where the lavatory facilities
consist of whichever tree or bush is the closest target?
Or where a human could very possibly wind up being a
link in the pyramidal food chain?
After
arriving at moose camp I spied the incorporation of
a lean-to, fire pit and cabin, or my Hunter's Hilton.
I was sure that my accommodations would have been the
equivalent of an old, leaky and mildewed tent the size
of which would barely fit two people and their sleeping
bags. The surprise was a real 'lodge' that existed of
an 8x10 cabin retrofitted with aluminum siding to help
prevent the local brown bear citizenry from burglarizing
the"palace". The look-alike shipping container cabin
was connected to another ramshackle shed via covered
breezeway. Two sets of bunkbeds fit in one corner and
a tiny woodstove squatted in the other. Across from
the woodstove was a shelf that supported a two-burner
gas stove with the complement of a coffeepot. Cozy and
warm, it was just perfect for female habitation. The"restroom"
of course, was outside-around-the-corner-and-first-spruce-to-the-left.
Soot-covered
frying pans, old-fashioned cowboy coffee pots, blackened
sauce pans and a variety of cooking utensils hung suspended
from support beams around the outdoor cooking arena.
The best seat in the house turned out to be an old green
vinyl bus bench. Burn holes from campfire sparks outnumbered
the grease spots it wore and a Mexican horse blanket
added a bit of decorated padding. This was where I would
spend part of my time while the other half would be
spent traversing heavily trafficked, mud-sloppy trails.
Participating in the outdoor cooking experience was
enjoyable since it was so contrary to the indoor regimen
at home. Washing hands consisted of one good swipe on
the ONLY pair of jeans I had brought along, then slopping
a little bit of this or adding a little bit of that
to the meal was the coup de gras of gourmet camp food.
Washing dishes meant tossing the paper plates into the
fire and boiling water in the pans to loosen the leftovers.
Dirt
just didn't seem as 'dirty' out there.
A
purist would have you believe that such human amenities
as soap, shampoo, clean clothes, noise and cooking odors
keep the wildlife on a huge margin of detour trails.
The hunters I visited with washed little, made plenty
of racket, bathed in bug dope and ended up dropping
their targets while turning the spuds in their cast
iron frying pan during a meal prep. As a complement
to the ambiance of the hunter's décor, one dead and
gutted moose lay a hundred yards upwind from the 'elegant'
breakfast of scalloped potatoes and ham steak. As it
turned out, the hunter happened to look down the trail
as the animal was coming toward him, yanked the trigger
only to hear the deafening roar of a click, a misfire!
A rerack of the bolt action and a lucky aim brought
the unfortunate creature to its end. One first-time
hunter showed up decked out in brand new duds, fresh
from Cabela's catalog, still smelling like the plastic
bags he had removed them from. He hadn't broken them
in by wearing them until they could stand up on their
own, he hadn't touched them with a scent elimination
system nor had he sprayed them with an artificial attractant.
And he didn't bag a moose after a week of trailing but
he sure looked good!
Like
a revolving door, four-wheelers, custom-designed mud
vehicles and road trucks drop off one human after another
in the heart of moose country. "Choir practice", better
known as the bull session, would begin after the evening
meal settled in the stomach and the spirits began to
pour. Included in one of these sessions was the tale
of one particular hunter who shot his pistol in rapid-fire
succession from a tree stand ten feet up, so excited
that he barely missed his own head in the process! Afterward,
he kept repeating, "Huh?"and something about ringing
in his ears.
Nearly
everyone used a two-way radio to keep abreast of animal
movement and each was identified by a unique name tag.
One of the rituals of hunting camp was the dispersing
of call names or "handles" for use on these squawk-boxes.
Monikers are earned due to an event or an instance that
happened while hunting or ones' career and are as diverse as the people who inherited them. The stories behind
them often make up a portion of the"campfire choir practice,"
time and time again. The aforementioned pistol hunter
goes by the name of "Shutterbug," due to his lifestyle
as a freelance photographer. This gentleman, my companion,
incurred a tremendous amount of ribbing during his stay
at camp due to being the sole hunter using a five-shot
pistol.
The
first day in camp I was informed that everyone has a
call-name and sooner or later mine would be nailed onto
me. Some of the names bandied about on the two-way receivers
were Bearbait, Half-rack, Fester, Jester and Outfitter.
Heaven only knows how those names were earned. My position
in camp was more servile and observatory, staying out
of the way of hunters yet making myself useful. One
of my blunders was the attempt to "wash" pots and pans
simply by pouring stored rain water from three barrels
strategically located under the down spouts of roof
corners. The fire would spit and hiss as the boiling
water jumped out of the cookware, nearly killing the
entire heat source. Flames leapt up through the bars
on the grill while moose steaks sizzled in the cast-iron
frypan. Campfire "flak," little bits and pieces of burnt
paper wafting through the air, permeated the entire
seating area encircling the blaze. By the second evening
I was confident of my capabilities as a fire tender
and keeper, using a diesel oil and gas compound for
ignition. As the cold and hungry hunters trickled in
and began their supper preparations, I moved my skillets
to make room on the grate. When there were several vessels
of varying sizes grouped on the grill and a number of
chefs vying for flipping room, I picked up a few scraps
of camp trash and plastic forks and tossed them into
the fire. "Oh no, you DON'T do that!" wailed one disturbed
mortal, "That makes them taste awful!" In self-defense,
I claimed ignorance due to the fact that I was brand
new at this outdoor event, I was "a camp virgin"...
My
famed pistol shooter did not score on moose meat but
through the kindness and generosity of "Logger, the
latte server/hunter," the freezer now holds several
steaks, roasts and jerky-makings of Alaskan moose camp
meat. Four days of dogging and tracking moose expended
numerous calories, freshened the mind and spirit and
made that hot shower at home anticipated as much as
the wilderness did upon arrival. Even if one does not
have a hunting license, I recommend going along on a
hunt, whether it be moose, elk, deer or bear solely
for the opportunity to get away from the confines of
civilization and enjoy nature to the fullest. Although
I arrived in that remote and feral community as a newbie,
in one of my last vestiges of virginity to the ways
of camp life, I returned to the suburbs as an experienced
and "real" Alaskan woman.
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