Communal camps are so much fun
It’s been years since I have been a member of a hunting club. I just don’t hunt enough anymore (I’m sad to say) to justify the expense, and over the years I have found other things (aka “kids”) that required money.
But when I think of what a hunting camp should be, my mind wanders to my early days of deer hunting when I was a member of Cason Creek Hunting Club in West Feliciana Parish.
I was terrible deer hunter; I couldn’t sit in a stand more than about an hour without 1) falling asleep or 2) getting bored and heading back to the camp. Usually both.
Believe it or not, I didn’t kill many deer there.
But, man, did I have a good time. It was an old-fashioned camp, where members slept in bunk rooms and spent all their time hunting, eating, and generally laughing and giving each other a hard time. There was no running water or plumbing.
It’s where I learned the ins and outs of truly hunting deer (instead of watching food plots). It’s where I saw my first really big buck (and was too stupid to know what I was looking at, since the antlers were obscured). It’s where I learned that you never yell “whoa!” to a man who has had a few adult beverages (seemingly it gets confused with “go!” and bad things ensue).
Of all the clubs I’ve enjoyed, Cason Creek is the one that really stuck in my memory. I still laugh at some of the stories from those days in my mid-20s.
Unfortunately, communal hunting camps are dying out. Today you’re more likely to have your own camp in which you stay when at the lease. At most, members might get together around the fire. But everyone soon retreats to individual lodges.
I haven’t stayed at a truly communal camp in years — until last month, when long-time buddy and Louisiana Sportsman columnist Keith LaCaze twisted my arm to join him on a squirrel hunt at The Bird Camp Hunting Club outside Boyce.
The camp building harkens back to an earlier day. Its front wall is covered with antlers of deer killed on the lease. The interior is simple and utilitarian — I was at home immediately.
And that was before members began rolling in. Every one of them walked up, extended a hand and introduced themselves. By the time Keith and I were readying for our afternoon hunt, there was a teal, chicken and sausage gumbo being stirred, and laughter was rolling through the building.
When we returned, the gumbo was ready and the fraternal spirit was flowing. To be fair, that wasn’t the only spirit flowing — “truth serum” was loosening tongues, so I sat back and enjoyed the stories. I almost felt sorry for poor old Timbo, who was the butt of many of the jokes.
Not that he minded.
It made me long for the days at Cason Creek Hunting Club — and my next visit to The Bird Camp.
