Our deer camp is something akin to a miracle. I’m not sure how else you could explain a few dozen hunters showing up for a weekend in the woods with almost no chance of encountering a big buck, much less shooting one. It’s almost like telling a batter that he’s going to strike out before he ever walks up to the plate. Motivational? I think not.
But, despite our near-guaranteed lack of “success,” the aptly named Camp “Cantkilladeer” celebrated a monumental milestone this year: 30 years of glorious failure.
Of course, I’m using the terms “success” and “failure” very loosely in this case. In all actuality, we’ve been batting 1.000 ever since my dad and his friends started loading up their trucks and heading out to East Texas. That’s probably because it’s not really a hunting camp. The private hunt club is a world-class hunting destination (it's got the trophies to prove it) but we’re using it as a world-class gathering place. A hub. A rallying point. In other words, we don’t need much to make a successful trip, something we’ve proven year-in and year-out.
If you're not bringing the dominoes to deer camp, you're not doin' it right.
It wasn’t just 30 years of the past in front of me. I was looking at the next 30 years, with even more on the horizon I hope.
If you're not bringing the dominoes to deer camp, you're not doin' it right.
This year will always stick out to me because of the moments it offered. On more than one occasion, I had the chance to sit down and survey all of the relationships and generational legacies that were represented by 30 years of deer camp. Sitting under the canopy of live oaks draped with Spanish moss, I could see some of my closest friends shooting the shit around a campfire (where else are you going to shoot the shit?) while their sons played dominos or wandered around the lodge. It wasn’t just 30 years of the past in front of me. I was looking at the next 30 years, with even more on the horizon I hope.
I used to be one of those kids. Now, my friends and I are the old guard of the deer camp. We may have a few more aches and pains in the morning, but we’re still hanging in there, and can still go toe-to-toe with the college kids. We might even manage to take some of their hard-earned cash over a late-night game of poker. Regardless, it’s impossible not to look at how things have changed. My dad is gone, and has been since 2016. The same is true for many of our fathers and grandfathers, and we’ve stepped in to fill the role of (slightly) more responsible figures wandering through the woods of East Texas.
Fires have been attracting guitars and fire-obsessed teenagers for millennia—this spot is no different.
Until whitetails decide to pack their bags and head to Oklahoma, there’ll always be this dusty old hunting lodge adorned with antlers staring down upon us inept hunters from their lofty perch.
It's probably no surprise that our camp is not responsible for most of these deer's demise.
Ultimately Camp “Cantkilladeer” is a success because of our failures, not in spite of them. If we were there to shoot a deer, then the group probably would’ve fizzled out years ago as hunters moved on to bigger and better bucks. But we’re here for each other—always will be—and the camp is proof of that. It’s our foundation, one that never shifts regardless of who’s passed out on its floor. When that squeaky door swings open, I’ll be there with my dad every single time because it squeaked the same way when we were here together. My son was here with me this year, which means we’ll always be together at deer camp.
Ultimately Camp “Cantkilladeer” is a success because of our failures, not in spite of them.
On the first night of deer camp, sitting around the poker table, one of the newer additions to the group asked what time we’d get up to start the hunt. “How does 5:30 a.m. sound,” he asked. I looked up from my hand of cards and intercepted a glance from my hunting buddies of 30 years, and we all broke into a smile. There’s no way in hell we’re getting up at 5:30 a.m. for some deer. We’re not mad at ‘em. If anything, that tends to be the time when things start to wind down.
I’m not blaming him. He’s new to camp. Give him another 20 or 30 years and he’ll understand that this camp always lives up to its name, which is just fine by me. We’re here for each other, not the deer, and that’s just one more thing about this camp that’ll never change.
Photography by Steve Schwartz
