By 
November’s Editors Letter
As soon as there is a discernible chill in the morning air that announces that fall is promised, I start thinking about unpacking my favorite boots and sweaters. My husband, on the other hand, starts thinking about hunting. I know that the week around Thanksgiving is off limits because he will be heading to the lease he and his buddies have to set up a deer camp. He will start pulling out all the bins of stuff that he’ll need: the sleeping bags, the cot, the camo pants and jacket, the pots and pans, the endless gadgetry. It’s an annual rite of passage. We can not eat Thanksgiving dinner unless it has been preceded by several days of hunting, and it is a much more enjoyable holiday if a buck has been bagged.
I always think it is a little humorous that he will send me pictures of the deer he sees in the woods, while I send him pictures that I take of the deer in our front lawn—it has become an annual competition.
Although I’ve never gone to deer camp, I have hunted with Michael. I have my own bin—albeit much smaller—of hunting paraphernalia with my own camo pants and jacket with matching gloves and the appropriate amount of blaze orange. Although I probably don’t need any camouflage. It seems to me some of our deer population has decided to opt for the convenience of downtown or suburban living. It never ceases to amaze me that we have tribes of deer who have taken up residence in downtown Morgantown. I’ve threatened many times to learn to shoot a bow so that I can participate in the Urban Deer Archery Hunts. It not only helps reduce the deer population—and save all of my plants—but it also can help feed the hungry when hunters donate deer to local kitchens and shelters. But I digress.
When Michael talks about going to deer camp as a child with his grandfather, he wistfully slips into nostalgia, like gently turning the protected pages of your favorite childhood book. He learned from other men—how to cook on an open fire, how to read the wind, and how to track an animal by identifying their patterns of movement. But it was the stories told at the end of the day over a game of cards or around a campfire that made deer camp so memorable. He laughs when recalling the tales. It was a magical time of complete connectedness—connection to men who helped mold him, connection to the cycle of life, connection to nature, and connection with himself.
So, each year when deer season swings back around, I’m not resentful of his countdown to deer camp. I think it is a wonderful tradition to carry on and pass to future generations. I always look forward to his recitation of the stories told and adventures experienced. If I’m envious of anything, it is his ability to sit in the woods in the cold for hours on end in complete solitude. That takes a patience and fortitude that I admittedly do not have.
On page 26, we discuss the tradition of deer hunting and the stag-gering stories that come with this annual descent into nature. I bet you have a few un-buck-lievable ones, too!
Stay wild and wonderful (and warm),
Nikki
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