The idea of 'Deer Camp' is a deep-rooted tradition in many parts of the United States. Every year when the leaves start to turn, generations of men, women, and children gather together in a search for those old senses of community, tradition, kinship, and heritage. Many of these camps provide an escape from modernity and a return to a simpler way of life for hunters around the country. That simplicity creates the opportunity for stories of the past to flow.
These stories connect us to the outdoorsmen that came before, and one day the stories we recall and create will connect our descendants to us. They help to carry on the traditions and culture of the camps that we were raised in. It is not only about the tales and legends passed down, however. It is also those that we create in our own time here on Earth.
Whether you are at the place in life where you tell more stories or create them, the sense of community these moments create cannot be argued. To help ring in the upcoming hunting season, I have gathered together some of the best 'Deer Camp' stories from around LAS so we can share in the adventures together.
Some Buddies and Last Light:
"A few years ago, a couple buddies and I decided to meet at my family hunting camp for a week of hunting in late October. The plan was to meet at camp Friday night after work. One buddy, who had never been to my camp before, was going to make it an hour before dark that night. Over the phone, I explained that he would arrive in just enough time to hunt a stand that I have close to camp.
The rest of the crew would later arrive just after dark to help him with his drag, when he got one. My confidence in the plan got a laugh from my friend, but he was eager to give it a try. I gave him a few simple instructions on location and told him if he could be in that stand a half hour before legal shooting hours were over, he would be in good shape. He called and said that he arrived to camp a few minutes late but was still going to give the stand a try - there were 40 minutes of light left at that point.
At the time of that call, my other buddy and I were about 50 minutes from camp. The area close to camp has spotty cell reception, but I stopped at a high spot a mile from camp before finishing the drive. Wouldn't you know it, I had a message that said deer was right on time and attached was a photo of a blood-covered arrow.
I made it to camp just in time to help with the last 50 yards of the drag. It is hard to describe the excitement and anticipation of heading to deer camp normally, but on that trip we started off well above our usual expectations." - Dan
Steep Hills and Long Drags:
"I don't remember what year it was, but it was right around the time I could start hunting on my own. Our camp is situated in a deep, narrow valley with steep inclines on both sides. This particular morning, my father and I walked up to the peak of the mountain to the North of camp - they were very steep, even if they weren't the tallest around.
Because, as my father put it, "You are younger and need to build character," I was gifted the opportunity to hunt looking into a hollow on the northern side of that mountain, while my father took the side that led down directly to the camp. As luck would have it, a few doe made their way through my hollow in the late morning. The largest of them gave me a good, open shot opportunity and I took it with the old trusty .270 Winchester.
Not wanting me to go a day without that 'character building' my father told me about earlier in the morning, the mountain allowed that doe to fall and roll what seemed to be 400 yards of steep decline in the opposite direction of where I would need to drag her. That made for a sweaty and rather long afternoon.
To top it all off, once I got the doe down nearer to our camp, I slipped and she rolled down the last 30 yards of South-facing slope right into the deep park of the creek that ran between that mountain and our camp. After a not-so-quick dip in the freezing water, I felt I had experienced enough character building for the season, all in those few hours. Thanks, dad." - Jarod
A Rather Large Pancake:
"One of my most cherished memories of deer camp happened when I was quite young. It involves an early morning, my grandfather, my brothers, and a rather large pancake. Waking up long before the light of the sun graced our little camp, my grandfather decided to treat my brothers and myself to some pancakes fresh from the ancient gas stove in the corner of the kitchen.
He grabbed one of the weathered pans that hung above the old wooden table and, after laying down a healthy layer of butter, filled it with a considerable amount of batter. We were all so busy getting our gear ready for the day and chatting about the weather that he briefly forgot about that first pancake on the stove. After a bit of smoke caught his attention, he went back over to the pan, inspected the bottom of the pancake, and mumbled something that I can't remember.
Without skipping a beat, he took the pan out through the front screen door and, as we all watched on from the living room, he overhand flipped that burnt 10" pancake directly into the woods and returned to make more. All subsequent pancakes were, with the proper attention, cooked to perfection. It isn't a very long or hunting-focused story, but it is one I will be telling long after my grandfather is gone." - Tre
Hammocks, a Shotgun, and Two Cats in Love:
"One time on our farm in Venezuela, when I was about 13 or 14 years old, my dad, my cousin, and I went out hunting. After we finished for the day, we decided to camp near a big creek on the farm. We usually didn't bother with tents. We would just hang our hammocks between the trees and sleep out in the open. That evening, we started cooking the rabbits we had hunted that day next to the creek. We figured staying close to the fire and cooking area would make sure no animals came visiting us in the middle of the night.
As night fell, I started drifting off to sleep in my hammock. I was always scared at that age, and in the South American wilderness, there was always something that could potentially kill you. So, I usually slept with an over-and-under shotgun underneath my hammock. All of a sudden, as I was drifting off, I heard a huge splash in the water, right around the area where we had cleaned the rabbits. I stayed quiet for a second. Then, with a slight tone of concern in my voice, I said:
"Dad... you heard that?"
"Yup," he replied. "Stay quiet, because I don't know what it is."
A few seconds later, a loud, terrifying moan echoed through the campground. It was a jaguar.
"Dad... you heard that?"
"Yup."
"Is that a jaguar?"
"Yeah."
"Should we do something?"
"No. Don't worry. Just go to sleep. He's not coming into camp."
At that point, I thought my dad must have been crazy. Go to sleep?! So I reached underneath my hammock, grabbed the over-and-under, and brought it inside the hammock with me. I positioned it between my feet, barrel pointed away from me. I know... smart.
For the next few minutes, we heard the jaguar making those terrifying sounds over and over. Then, all of a sudden, it went completely quiet. Within seconds, another jaguar started making the same sound from the opposite side of the camp. That's when I realized we weren't dealing with one jaguar...There were two. The two jaguars started communicating with each other. They would call back and forth from opposite sides of the campground. It felt like they were doing it for hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. I grabbed the stock of that shotgun so hard I'm pretty sure I could have broken the wood.
Eventually, the night went completely quiet. If you've ever spent a night in or around the Amazon jungle or the savannahs surrounding the jungles of South America, you know how incredibly loud the wilderness can be at night. Sometimes it feels even louder than during the day. But that night, everything was completely silent. I spent the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep, constantly listening for any sound. And, of course, trying not to accidentally blow my own foot off with the shotgun sitting inside my hammock.
The next morning, we walked down to the creek. There, on the muddy shoreline, we found jaguar tracks. According to the people who worked on the farm, it was mating season. Their explanation was that we had been camping right between two jaguars, "Trying to find love." I don't know if I've ever been that scared in my life and, to this day, I still can't believe my dad's solution to having two jaguars communicating around our campsite was, "Don't worry. Just go to sleep."
Decades later, my father would tell me that he just said that to me so I wouldn't freak out, and that he was also awake all night and terrified, just like I was." - Antonio
Arvada, Antelope, and the Unexpected Sailboat:
"Somewhere outside Arvada, WY: Our cabin was very small; it had a double bunkbed on one side and a single bed that took the rest of the floor space that was left. Fortunately, the bathroom and shower worked well, and we could pile our clothes on the single bed, so we made it work. With a small antelope decoy and a big red cow decoy in tow, we headed out to the fields.
Now, there are antelope around every corner of that place, so we could just start from one end and keep attempting stalks until I messed something up. Then, we would try again. The big red cow decoy worked very well – my husband and I could both sneak behind it easily – and got us to within 50 yards more than once. The only issue is that it worked a little too well, and it attracted some REAL big red cows that wanted to be friends. A few times, I got within bow range on a nice antelope only for a socially inept cow to wander in and blow the whole stalk up.
The more we tried and failed, the windier those rolling hills became. Another downside to the big red cow decoy was that it acted essentially as a sail when out in the open, so it almost decided where we walked more than we did. Though the antelope was smaller, we could still walk single-file behind it rather well - not being pulled around the prairie by wind was a huge bonus, too.
The next day, I took out my crossbow as I knew those harsh winds were bound to mess with my lower-poundage shots more than I was comfortable with. Later that morning, while peeking around the antelope decoy, I spotted what I felt was the antelope that I was meant to shoot. It wasn’t huge, but it was perfect in my view. We followed from a distance and found the trail that he and some others were using and chipped away at the yards between us.
Once we saw where the trail was headed, we used the decoy and a hill as cover as we made our way to some old, rusted farm equipment where I would set up for the shot. Little did I know the scope had somehow been knocked off from where it had been sighted in. This meant my first shot didn’t hit the antelope. Thankfully, it was windy enough that it didn’t notice I had shot, either. I didn’t make any mistakes on my second attempt. Then, a few pictures and a bit of gutting later, he was hanging in a cooler back at camp." - Dawne
Generations and Traditions:
"Potter County, PA is where hunting camp is a tradition for my family and friends. It's the one time of year we all are brought together. It's a small group of us. My father, brother-in-law, myself and a few close, longtime friends - I may only get to see some of these guys for a week every year.
There has never been individual success in our camp. We hunt as a team and that's how it has always been - working in groups and hunting certain areas with a purpose. It's always the best when someone does harvest a deer because everyone drops what they are doing to help and congratulate.
Dragging deer, taking photos, or moving vehicles around to pick up guys, it is all a team effort. We love providing for our families and we look forward to continuing the tradition for years to come. My hope is that 40 years down the road my son and nephew are doing the same thing we are now. Teamwork, hard work, and having fun. It's what it's all about. Keep the Tradition Alive." - Matt
Streams and Stinky Old Men:
"Bryon is just about as tough as they come. He’s my dad’s best friend and he’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, despite living four hours away and truly in the middle of nowhere. He’s tall with big feet that resemble those of a Yeti, and I remember marveling as a child at how he seemed to be able to walk barefoot on any outdoor surface with no regard for what was under him. He’s also one of the most skilled hunters I’ve ever met, and that’s saying a lot considering how many deer my dad manages to put in the freezer every year.
When I was 14, I headed out to deer camp on his property in Somerset for a week. It’s a little strange for a teenage girl, but the idea of staying in a “cabin” - one that didn’t include a bathroom - with my dad and a few other stinky old men for five days sounded like a whole lot of fun to me. It was wonderful, even though the snoring was unlike anything I had or would ever experience and the fact that it was freezing.
One evening, after a long, cold day of hunting, it was time to wrap up. Bryon’s land spans hundreds of acres, so some of the guys made plans for where they’d meet after the sun goes down. I was back at camp with my dad attempting to defrost long before then.
On this particular day, my Uncle Coop was set to pick Bryon up in his Explorer at their designated spot. Upon his arrival, Bryon silently opened the back hatch and climbed in. They made the long trip back in the dark, neither of them saying much, and eventually they arrived back at the main house where Bryon stays (a bit too bougie for my taste).
This was a long time ago, and it’s a bit fuzzy, so I can’t say for sure how I found out what happened, but I have a very clear memory of watching Bryon wring out his socks next to a fire in the living room. As it turns out, he had a pretty rough walk to the meeting spot, which included crossing a stream that runs through the woods called the McClintock. I remember braving it with my dad in the dark, handing weapons across it slowly while perched precariously on a slippery rock - really the kind of thing that should be done with a buddy.
Bryon didn’t have a buddy. And on this day, he didn’t have luck on his side, either. He took one wrong step and threw himself backwards into the stream, becoming completely submerged. No one was there, so I can’t say for sure what sort of sounds he made or how long it took him to climb out of the icy waters, but I imagine it was incredibly entertaining to any wildlife that may have been watching.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why he didn’t instruct my Uncle Coop to turn the heat up to full blast in the Explorer. Instead, he chose silence, where some people (me) would have chosen sheer panic. Once the events of the day came to light, a bunch of us joined him at the house to hear all about it.
He was wringing out his clothes as we sat around listening, laughing, and watching his body temperature return to normal. I’ll never forget that feeling, sitting around with all those stinky old men and listening to their deer camp war stories. And I’m so grateful for it." - Jade
The Great Scrambled Egg Cookoff:
"Hunting camp is one of those locations where whatever is going on in the world seems to just go away and all that matters is the time spent there. Whether it is with family members, friends, or a chaotic mix of both, some of the best memories come from there. Most of the time it doesn't even have to happen in the woods.
For instance, how to make eggs. As the youngest adult hunter at the camp that week, and as a "right of passage" at our camp, you were in charge of breakfast in the morning. So I made the only thing I knew how to at 15 years old, scrambled eggs and sausage with grits. Well, some of the older hunters there were watching and as I was mixing the scrambled eggs, one of them asked, "the heck you doing to them eggs?" and then proceeded to instruct me on the right way to do it.
One of the other guys piped up and said, "Naw, that ain't how you do it either. You do it like this," and thus proceeded a scrambled egg cook-off for breakfast that morning to decide who had the best eggs. It was quite a sight to see grown men in a heated debate on how to make something as simple as scrambled eggs." - Sam
Pot Pie Stains on Old Poker Cards:
"The older heads at our hunting camp did an admirable job of not only mentoring us youngins but also of entertaining us. It became a tradition going back basically as far as I can recall to have 'squirrel pot pie' for dinner and play poker the night before opening day of the season.
The squirrel pot pie was always the same: large, flat noodles, a healthy amount of sweet corn from my grandparent's garden, and not a lick of actual squirrel meat (it was always chicken), all cooked up in a big stock pot the way real Pennsylvanians prefer it. That pot was then placed in the middle of the table - butter and a few loaves of bread scattered on the table around it. We would eat it on old paper plates that would barely hold up long enough to finish a serving.
Poker was played using mismatched old decks and some large plastic jars filled to the brim with old pennies, nickels, and dimes. We would play a bunch of standard versions of poker and, as the evening would wear on, some not-so-standard (made up) versions of the game, too. My great uncle Scott would fake losing when he thought it was time for bed, and one of us 'kids' would inevitably win.
Though life got busy as we all grew into adults, and some years those jars would go untouched, they are still situated nicely on the shelf above the coat rack, should any of us or our children wish to pick up that old tradition someday." - Tre
These are all that we have right now, but check back throughout the season as we keep adding more and more!
Now that Deer Camp Season is right around the corner, make sure to check out our 2026 Deer Camp Companion Collection so you don't hit the woods without all your necessary gear.