It was more than a few years ago when my friend Jim and I drew on the deer hunt we had been waiting for. I think all hunters, and people that love all things wild have a special place in the mountains that few know about.
Ours is on the side of a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley high over the tiny town of Leadore. I first found this perfect spot in the fall of 1980 while deer hunting with my family. I first told Jim about it a few years later. We have now camped there and shared lies and campfires together for more than 30 years.
Over the years, we got tired of the wind blowing down the old tent, so we moved camp into the trees not far from the “lookout,” as we now call it. We have met up there on deer hunts, fishing trips, to hear the elk bugle at night, to toast friends and family that have passed away, and more as we looked out over miles of beautiful country. It’s there on the mountain that we cried over the loss of Jim’s mother and laughed when I threw my wedding ring off the side of the mountain after my wife found someone she thought was a better man.
It’s been a tradition at our deer camp that the first hunter to get a deer cooks the liver and onions at dinner. Some years that dinner is better than others. As luck would have it, a few days into last year’s hunt I took a nice buck. We celebrated long after dark, and I believe it was Jim who knocked over the old dutch oven, though years later he swore it was me. The next morning, we put the oven in the back of my truck so that it would stay dry under the camper shell and then we made plans on how we would hunt together that day.
I like the way Jim hunts—slow and quiet. We got on some tracks for a mile or so until the deer went down into the thick stuff. We would stop once in a while if the snow started up again and get a small fire going under the hundred year old pine. By noon we were wet and cold with a long walk back. Still, I wanted Jim to get a deer. Jim doesn’t just want the horns on his walls, he makes use of all of the meat—liver, heart and other organs most people don’t take off the mountains.
It was late afternoon by the time we got back to camp and the rain was turning to snow again. I let the tailgate down and we sat under the camper shell door with rain running down our necks. We sat in the quiet for a long time looking at our sad camp. The tent had about an inch of water in it. We had run out of ice long ago and everything was wet, including our firewood and sleeping bags.
I reached over and pulled the oven between us. After some time I took off the lid and we started picking apart the cold liver that didn’t have dirt, sticks or cow pie on it. The sun was starting to set and we could see for miles down the valley. We both laughed and at the same time said, “We should be hunting over there!”
After a while Jim started laughing. Once he caught his breath, he said, “Do you know what day it is? It’s Thanksgiving!”
We sat in silence looking down the mountains and into the dark valley. I could see the faint glow of a ranch house of two and could picture the family inside. All would be at the table now. There would be laughter and crisp, moist turkey with grandma’s special stuffing. They would have cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes, and a basket of warm rolls to soak up the thick gravy sitting at the center of the table. The young ones at the table would be spilling milk and keeping an eye on the cake and pies in the corner while the old family dog sits patiently under the table waiting for a handout. If it was not for the smell of liver and onions on my hands, I could smell turkey clear up the mountain.
Years later, Jim and I sat around yet another campfire, this one in Jim’s backyard. We talked of past hunts and laughed about our excursions. We recounted a Thanksgiving dinner of warm beer and cold liver and onions while sitting on a snow covered tailgate with water dripping down our necks.
About the Author: Charlie Ostler is from Idaho Falls where at 68 he is still waiting for opening day of deer season with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning.
Note: Sadly after sharing campfires for more than 40 years, Charlie’s good friend Jim Jackson passed away last April. He will be missed.
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