Bird Camp 2011
by Lee Wilbur
The 37th year. Twenty-one pill-taking, arthritis-handicapped, overweight, underweight, stiff, squinting, and slower bird hunters made their appearance this year. Before we were a day in, one of the best hunters, and good friend, had suffered a mini-stroke, and another had broken eyeglasses, a chip from which had landed in his eye. Not to say all were in bad shape, however, because one had hiked over 600 miles on the Appalachian trail this past summer and another some two weeks, and another was in superb condition from clearing land, but we were definitely a slower group.
Only one poker game past 11 o’clock. Every one else was snoring. Bar activity showed a precipitous drop in activity by the number of half-empty bottles returned to duffel bags at week’s end. Exception being two intrepid warriors who had aspirations of doing a breakthrough study on the evaporation of alcohol at various altitudes and attitudes while taking into account sunny days versus those with high precipitation such as rain. Unfortunately, we had only one day of sun and that was cold, so that study will of necessity be continued next year. In evidence this year was a rather delightful trend. Due to a slower pace with the cook’s frying pan and a decided drop in hunting blood-lust, the joke repeaters had much the more time to relate their latest masterpieces and one-liners.
“My wife always laughs when we make love no matter what she’s reading”
The tucker box was, as always, terrific. Our chief cook, owner of the camp and steward of the tried-and-true menu, always feeds us more than well. And to show him the complete respect he so deserves, we try to devour the one-and-a-half-inch ribeye steaks, have a huge hamburger and two hot dogs with fried onions for the daily gatherup for “lunch,” tackle stacks of french toast, bacon, homefries and bacon condimented with butter, syrup, and salt washed down with copious coffee, all laced with frivolous comments concerning our latest cholesterol tests. The traditional ham was placed in the oven as we were opening camp and by 4:30 that afternoon we’d begun to slice away. By Sunday morning there’d be just a few bones remaining. Absolutely far and away voted the best, we look forward to that first hack with hunting knife.
“Most effective form of birth control: Age 50 and nude.”
Bird camp discussions and stories these days are a great way to pick up tips for living, seeing as how pretty much all in attendance have lived over half of our given lives. “A tablespoon of unsulphured molasses each day is a sure cure for hemorrhoids.” I neglected to ask for how long. “Spitting beer on the hot rocks in a sauna infuses the sauna with the delightful aroma of fresh bread.”
“They were too drunk to drive so they flew the float plane over to deer camp.”
After a 3-year absence from bird camp, I was surprised to learn the barrel on my 20 gauge semi-automatic shotgun had gotten longer. First noticed it when I tried to hurriedly exit the back seat when called upon to do battle with a roadside partridge, which I really couldn’t see due to the rain streaming down my window, which just today had decided not to roll down. Of course, the stiffness associated with my legs when asked to respond played not a minor role in the ensuing sideshow as the bird, laughing, managed to exit center stage. I’m thinking seriously of designing a “senior hunter” vehicle with sliding doors, double legroom, and magnifying windows for next year as well as the purchase of a lightweight .410 gauge “Contender” pistol on which I can then blame the plethora of “Near Misses”.
“Next time I get married I’m going to find the ugliest woman possible and just give her thehouse”
There were even a few old stories amongst the often re-tolds this year that I hadn’t heard before. One about a 9-lived group member to whom everything happens (and often). He’d once tried to pass a mustang on his motorcycle, on the right, going at an exceptionally high rate of speed. The telephone pole which he also tried to pass on the right for some strange reason was guyed off by 7/8” galvanized cable which went out of its way to give the Mustang a winning edge. And another of a practical joke when two pranksters had mixed deer droppings in with chocolate coated raisins and convinced one of the others to sample some not once, but twice, some 20 years apart. And the condom bombing runs from a floatplane onto the assembled group when, on the last run, the plane’s float sheared a pine branch. And why, in the early younger days of partying at Dean’s Bar and Restaurant in Portage, they’d been asked to leave and not return when certain colored after-dinner drinks were poured in the glass lobster tank.
“A Bull Moose in fall is like a guy on Broadway during Ladies Night.”
It was encouraging to find birds in the woods again, and to enjoy the excitement of spotting a bird as ever. We worked one woods road several times, nabbing two who sat too long and spooking nine (probably the same birds) for a total of three in two days. Bird population is in no danger of being decimated. And to think I practiced at the skeet range in Florida last winter. It’s worth every minute. I can see the foliage, be with good friends, and enjoy this great State of Maine before “Roxanne Dearest” finishes buying the rest of the “North Maine Woods” and shuts it off to all outdoor sports.
R E C I P E
Great recipes are often the simplest and this is no exception. First, buy premium ham. The glaze that’s used is simply a can of Ginger Ale. Pour it over the ham before placing the ham in the oven set at approx. 300 degrees. Baste once or twice.
Fair Winds and Good Roads