September is upon us and there has been a chilled snap in the air. The covers have been pulled up around my neck a few nights. All of this brings hunting camp to my mind.

During my life, I have had the pleasure of sharing camp with all sorts of characters of all ages.

A lasting memory for me was my first experience at camp when I was a young boy. In some ways, I am able to recall certain parts of that experience better and more clearly today than when I was much younger.

Not that my memory has gotten better. It just seems that some of the moments that took place during that time have taken on a much richer meaning and I see them differently, more clearly, now that I have gotten wiser and older.

One such memory of that first camp experience has to do with Pops. 

Pops is the only name that I ever knew for the father of three brothers who were contemporaries of my father.

My father was not much of an outdoorsman. I can only remember him hunting three or four times in my lifetime. He was a friend of these three brothers, who had 400 acres of leased land down in Sullivan County.

This particular year, when I was about 10, the three brothers invited my father to join them for a long weekend hunt at their camp and suggested that he bring me as a companion to one of their kids of the same age.

On the given day, we packed up our gear, including my father’s old 32-40 Savage lever action rifle, and off we went, half of the group in my father’s 1953 two-tone Hudson Hornet.

Talk about a car, this thing gave no quarter to today’s Hummer 3 except for a few pounds of ugly. Included in the car with me was Pops.

The trip from Marlboro to the camp in Sullivan County was an all-day affair. Remember, this was before the New York State Thruway was built and long before Route 17 across the southern tier was even considered to be widened into four lanes. It was a back road to nowhere.

Shortly before we arrived at camp, Pops began to frantically pat every pocket of his jacket searching for something.

In my mind’s eye, I remember the jacket looked like an old Army field jacket with pockets everywhere.  Pops became more and more excited, and more and more irritated, and being asked “What’s the matter, Pops?” by everyone else in the car except me, didn’t help his frame of mind.

Finally, he revealed the problem. “I forgot my teeth!” he shouted out.  Seems he had left his false teeth back home somewhere. It didn’t matter exactly “where” at home they might be, the point was that they weren’t in his pocket or in his mouth.

So, here we are, hours away from home and Pop is without his teeth.  Needless to say, the roar of laughter in the car was one of those moments that I remember well. To say the least, Pops was more than slightly upset.

Once we arrived at camp, things settled down and Pops assumed his position as camp cook since he was too old and not in physical condition to pound the woods.

He resigned himself to the fact that he would have to survive the trip on soup and scrambled eggs.

Next morning, bright and early, we are up and out into the cold darkness. As the hours slowly drifted by, my father and I heard three shots being fired off in the distance, all three coming from the same general direction, close to camp.

Later that morning, as we returned to camp for lunch, we saw the three brothers gathered around a very large old maple tree laughing and slapping Pops on the back.

As we got closer, we could see the reason for the little family reunion.  Hanging from the tree where three deer - a six and two four-pointers.

Seems that once Pops had cleaned up the breakfast dishes, he took his usual seat on the front porch to light up his pipe and have a good ‘ole morning smoke.

Lo and behold, along comes buck No. 1. Pops reaches for his trusty rifle and proceeds to dispatch the buck.

He then somehow, hangs the deer in the maple tree and as he is field dressing it, along comes buck No. 2. Bang!! Pops is again successful and there are now two bucks hanging in the tree.

He then returns to the front porch to light up and what do you know, along comes buck No. 3. Bang again and down it goes.

None of the three deer ran more than 25 to 30 yards from the point where Pops shot them and he somehow managed to hoist their hind ends up just enough to dress them out.

Needless to say, he was the hero of the day, of the entire hunt for that matter.

So, who was smarter, those of us who braved the cold or ole’ Pops who sat back on the front porch, kicked his feet up, lit his pipe and bagged three deer without walking more than 20 yards all day?

It didn’t take me long to figure out where the wisdom was in that camp! It was hanging in that big, old maple tree. It goes to show you younger guys, you don’t need teeth to be a good shot! See you outdoors!