I was down at Deer Camp last weekend. Everything went well. I really have no complaints. The family did not come with me. Angus was competing at his last big bagpipe competition for the season. I could not go, because I had to work on Friday and Monday. It rained– not a lot, but enough to keep me on the front porch being reflective. In earlier years, I might have been out hunting squirrel or deer. I might have been servicing tree stands. I might have been building ground blinds. I might have been doing a whole lot of things. This year? Look, I had pneumonia this year that pretty well blew up my turkey season and had me down for quite a while after that. I stopped running the occasional fever in late July.

I can afford to be a bit lazy. But there is more. I can tell this is not just the shaman on the come-back. Things are changing. I didn’t even leave for camp until Saturday afternoon. Friday night? It’s now an hour longer commute and an hour later getting on the road to camp, and I figured I could do better going to sleep early. Thirty years ago, I was fighting work, family. . . the whole freaking world to get out and hunt. This was the one thing I chose to do just for me, and it was a struggle. Now? Yeah, I’ve probably got yard work back home, but nobody really cares anymore. Job? I have to occupy a desk for 8 hours a day, but after satisfying that, my life is my own. It’s like trying to sing “I Gotta Be Me” in the shower. Nobody’s around to argue the point.

Normally, I would be getting antsy this time of year. I could not wait to get in the woods. I would be spending my lunch hours in the sporting goods store. I would be spending evenings at the reloading bench. I would be . . . . . . at some point, there’s got to be an end to it. Thirty years ago, I allowed myself a $300 budget for deer hunting gear. This year? I bought a fresh change of underwear, a pound of rifle powder, and a new orange hat– oh, and a couple of flashlights for the sons. I thought that was extravagant, considering the prices I paid, but after a while, there’s only so many trunks of clothing you can fill, only so many rounds you can load, and so many hunter orange hats you can buy before you start feeling silly. Somebody offered me a brand new Herters coat and bibs for $40– too small for him. I needed a new orange clown suit, so I snatched it up.

I’m going on my fifth year without bowhunting. 5 years ago August, I pulled my bow back and got a twinge in my right shoulder. I put down the bow. At Thanksgiving, I was still cringing. Two years ago, I got my crossbow exemption signed. I hunted with the crossbow one year, and finally decided I preferred hunting with a rifle in November and just liked being out and about in October.

Over Memorial Day this year, Mooseboy and his girlfriend let me know I am going to be a grandfather. How that is going to change Deer Camp remains to be seen. Moose did the right thing and promptly went out and got a job. He’s already had to miss a lot of hunting and a lot of weekends at the farm, but that’s the way it is. I remember the same thing happening thirty years ago. Angus is starting to have a life of his own, too. So far bagpiping and girls take a distant back seat to deer hunting, but I wonder how long that will continue. KYHillCHick still needs to get down to camp and wiggle her toes in the bluegrass on a regular basis, but now she’s the primary breadwinner in the family and she frequently gets held up from coming down. Her career is starting to take off– been there too.

Then we have the folks. Thirty years ago, they were usually off on a cruise or roadtrip or whatever, and it did not make much difference. Now? I was a couple hours late getting down Saturday. The folks needed a few things done, a few things talked over, and little this and that. Mostly, they just needed a visit. They’ve decided to give up going out to their favorite spot for lunch, and without waiters and waitresses to schmooze with, it’s getting a little lonely around the house.

I was asking about a friend a few years ago when I was in Lennoxburg. His brother told me he’d had the “new-mown-hay.” I asked what that was, and he told me at first they thought it might be “blue-roses,” or maybe a karst-aroma (I guess that’s that new-cave smell) However, they’d finally narrowed it down to “new-mown-hay.” Ten years ago, KYHillChick caught what the locals refer to as the “new-mown-hay.” Her doctor told her ” Look, people used to die from this stuff. If you take it easy for six months, you’ll be fine.” You got to take new-mown-hay seriously.

October 18, will mark the 20th anniversay of one of my better bucks. I’d been a little sick that year– been to the doctor a couple of times. I had a cough that wouldn’t quit, but I was determined to make the Bow Opener in Indiana. I remember staying in that morning, because it was raining. But the weather cleared around noon, and so did my lungs and I decided to go. I had not been in the stand more than 15 minutes before a bruiser walked up the trail and I stuck him with an arrow at 10 yards. A month later I was flat on my back in the hospital, still coughing, and I really didn’t feel myself until mid 1993. So much for trying to push it when you got the new-mown-hay. However, nobody told me I had the new-mown-hay back in April. I pushed it a little too far too fast and I was back in bed coughing up lung cookies over the 4th of July.

Like twenty years ago, I came out of the woods successful on the Opener– this time holding a 24 lb bird, but it was hard to keep from coughing. Nobody told me I had walking pneumonia until August. Duh. I put myself on the shamanic 180-day ultra-slack plan. That means I ain’t gonna do much more than go through the motions until after the Super Bowl. Yes, I’ll be out in my new UV-Radioactive orange clown suit on 12 .November, with my funky new orange clown hat. Yes, I’ll have the Savage 99 out with me, and when The Big One steps out at 0655, I’ll gladly pull the trigger. However, I’m not going to schlep the carcass out of the bottoms all by myself. If T.B.O. decides to wait until its pouring rain or sleeting, you’ll find me holed up at Midway, and I won’t be shy about taking a sleeping bag with me to stay warm. This new-mown-hay thing sucks.

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