What Happens at Deer Camp
“The best thing about deer camp is you get to start drinking at six in the morning,” Roscoe said smiling that Jello -faced smile of his. He already finished off more than a twelve pack and was rapidly deteriorating into some kind of swamp oracle—eyes poached, the whites bloodshot with road maps of red highways leading to nowhere good.
But it wasn’t just his eyes. No, dear reader, it was the whole sorry spectacle, punctuated by the floral muumuu he was wearing. Yes, you read that correctly. A muumuu. A tropical pattern of hibiscus and palm leaves that made him look like a forgotten relic of a Florida retirement community. Sitting there in the middle of Mark Twain National Forest on that ratty old couch, lost in its matted-up cushions, he bore an unsettling resemblance to his mamma, my Aunt Charlotte, though, to be fair, Aunt Charlotte had never been that drunk. Roscoe leaned forward and poked at his wet boots, which steamed by the campfire like roadkill on fresh asphalt.
Now, I know you’re sitting there, clutching your pearls, blinking at the page in disbelief. How, you ask, did we arrive at this moment? What sequence of poor decisions led to a grown man, drunk and barefoot, wrapped in his mother's house dress, holding court in the middle of Mark Twain National Forest? Well, I assure you, truth is stranger than fiction. Let’s return to the moment, which, I regret, is about to take a sharp turn.
Not far from the campground, a truck growled down the logging road, bounced over ruts, engine snarling like a rabid dog. The driver, an unfortunate soul with no idea what absurdity awaited, looked out the window of his truck and saw Roscoe —a backwoods prophet in a muumuu who had misplaced both his congregation and his dignity. Whatever thoughts had previously occupied the driver’s brain abandoned ship.
His foot slipped off the gas. The truck jerked off the road and in a feat of physics I cannot explain the man rammed his truck into a tree. Roscoe, unfazed, looked at the truck. The driver stared back at him with the dull incomprehension of a man who had just had his entire worldview forcibly rewritten by a single, horrifying image, like Roscoe had just participated in an extraterrestrial baptism.
Roscoe took a sip from his beer, and said, "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer."
And that, dear reader, is where we begin. This was no isolated incident. No moment of foolishness to be laughed at and forgotten. This was merely Act One of a weekend that would unravel with all the grace of a three-legged hound dog on roller skates. So, buckle up, pour yourself a drink—hell, make it a double—and let me tell you exactly how we got here.
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What I hated most about deer season was waking up at the ass-crack of dawn. Didn’t matter how many times I did it, it never got easier. On that November morning, my breath curling into the air in little ghostly huffs, I threw my hunting gear into the back of Roscoe’s van—The Kluke – a lumbering, shit-colored beast that reeked of old beer, motor oil, and gas station cuisine. Before I could climb in, Roscoe stretched his long muscular arms toward me and handed me a beer.
“No thanks,” I said. “Still on my first cup of coffee.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “By the way, it’s official.”
“What?” I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“Imperial is exactly six beers away from your driveway.”
I blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, gesturing with his half-empty can, “I drank six beers between the 7-Eleven in Imperial and your driveway, so that’s how far it is.”
“Most people measure distance in miles, Roscoe.”
“Wait a minute,” I added, zipping up my orange camo jacket. “You drank six beers in a little over seventy miles?”
“Yeah,” he said, “That’s about ten beers per mile… I mean ten miles per beer.”
“Good to know your math skills are still sharp, Roscoe.”
“In a few more hours, I won’t be able to count my balls twice and get the same number.” He let out a whoop, slamming his palm on the wheel.
“Hey, Scoe,” I said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive? Since you are six beers in?”
“I was driving drunk when you were still shitting in diapers, Sprytle” he said.
There it was. That name. Sprytle. Years ago, Roscoe decided I was always underfoot, too fast, too annoying, like that little shit from Speed Racer. Despite being practically grown, seventeen and getting ready to graduate from high school, Roscoe still thought of me as that little bastard from Speed Racer.
“Deer camp’s only two beers away,” Roscoe continued.
“And to think,” I said, “I thought the metric system was complicated.”
The Kluke rumbled down the road, past old, dilapidated farmhouses, the early morning sky stretching wide and empty above us. We were heading for Beaver Slide, a place deep in the National Forest where the trees were thick, the roads were shit, and the deer were plenty. Just after we veered off the state highway, Roscoe said, “Fish me another Falstaff out of the cooler.”
I dug in the ice and pulled out a Budweiser. I didn’t know how it started, but when Roscoe got abuzz going, he called every beer Falstaff. Falstaff was a St. Louis brand, but I hadn’t seen any in years.
Didn’t matter to Roscoe—Budweiser, Busch, Pabst, all of it was Falstaff if he was half-lit.
“When’s Uncle Jake getting here?” I asked.
“No idea,” Roscoe said, flicking his cigarette out the window. “Said he had shit to do. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s even coming.”
I knew what he meant. Little Jake—his son—had been killed in an accident a few months back. It was the kind of thing you didn’t talk about because there weren’t words for it.
“Gram says it ain’t natural,” I said, watching the trees whip past. “Parents are supposed to outlive their kids.”
I thought back to deer camp three years ago. Big Daddy was dying in the hospital. It was the first time he hadn’t been with us and the place felt hollow, like we were just going through the motions. Uncle Jake spent the entire weekend getting wasted, barely even pretending to hunt. I figured this year would be no different. Too much booze, not enough hunt.
The road twisted deeper into the woods. The white oaks and sycamores thickened, whispering their old secrets, and the gravel cracked under the weight of the tires. We were almost at camp. This was a harsh place, unforgiving. But the hunt began and ended in the wild.
We dropped the cooler beside the fire pit when we got there - a ragged circle of old river stones, blackened from years of burnt-out beer cans, half-melted into the dirt like relics from some ancient ritual, the ghost of last season’s mischief still lingered in the air.
“Let’s get firewood,” Roscoe said.
We scattered, cracking twigs under our boots, pulling dead limbs from the underbrush. The kindling caught easy—tiny sticks curling into embers, a thin line of smoke snaking up into the trees. But we needed something bigger.
Roscoe suddenly stopped and yelled, “Come here and look at this.”
I walked down by the pond, about twenty yards through the fire break, to where he was standing. And there, like some abandoned altar to the redneck gods, sat an old recliner and a couch—ratty, brown, mildewed beyond reason, moss creeping up the sides, stuffing torn out like something clawed its way free. Someone dumped them off there.
“Help me carry these back to camp,” Roscoe said, already testing the weight of the couch.
“Why?”
“Because I forgot to bring lawn chairs, and I want to sit my ass down.”
I sighed but grabbed the other end. It smelled like old dogs and rain-swollen wood.
Once we dropped our salvaged furniture beside the fire, we went looking for logs. The rule in the National Forest was simple—only use what’s already on the ground. Roscoe, naturally, had his own interpretation.
“We’ll help some of it fall” Roscoe said, eyeing a dead tree. He planted his feet, put his broad muscular shoulders up against the tree and gave it a mighty shove. The trunk creaked —then collapsed in a thunderous crash, breaking into a dozen jagged pieces. The birds overhead exploded from the canopy in a panic.
I shook my head. “You’re a goddamn conservationist, Roscoe.”
“Just wait till your old man gets here with the chainsaw.” He grinned, “He’ll really start helping things fall down.”
The fire grew fast, snapping and cracking, sparks shooting up like fireflies on speed. Roscoe flopped onto the couch, testing the springs. They groaned beneath his weight, but it held. He dug in the cooler, pulled out a beer, and popped it open.
“Better get you a Falstaff.,” he said, “These beers ain’t gonna throw themselves up.”
I took one, feeling the damp can against my palm, and popped the top. The woods hummed with the sounds of the wind through the trees. The fire spat and crackled, coughing up embers twisting against the bruised sky, the last traces of morning retreated into an afternoon thick with woodsmoke. The air clung to us, settled into our clothes, into the fabric of the busted couch where Roscoe sprawled like some low-rent deer camp prince, one boot hooked over the armrest, rolling a cigarette – and it wasn’t tobacco.
The Bic flared, a quick burst of orange against Roscoe’s grin, and he took a long drag before passing it over. The old radio crackled, cutting in and out, a steel guitar moaning through the static between frequencies. I took a hit, held it deep in my lungs and then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift up to meet the sky.
The silence settled in, broken only by the slow burn of wood collapsing into embers. Then we heard it. A truck. Low and steady, that deep-bellied growl of a V8 winding its way up the road, crunching through the gravel, pushing through the stillness like it belonged there.
"Your dad is here," he said.
“Great,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“He still mad about Operation Scarecrow,” he asked?
“No,” I said, “It’s deeper than that.”
“Gram said he didn’t know how to act like a dad, and I didn’t know how to act like a son.”
“Well, you have been living with Gram since you were born,” he said.
Josh's truck barreled into camp, raising a rooster tail of dust that rolled over us in a slow, dirty wave. The tires crunched to a stop, and for a second, the only sound was the slow tick of the cooling engine. Then the door swung open. Josh stood for a moment, taking it all in—the couch, the chair, the fire—then shook his head, like he'd expected nothing less.
"You two really bringing the goddamn living room to the woods?"
"Yeah, we stylin' and profilin', cuz," Roscoe said, that shit-eating grin splitting his face.
Josh didn't answer; just started unloading. First, the heavy-duty cooler, followed by the canvas tent, the rifle case—handled with a little more care—a couple of gym bags, the chainsaw, a Coleman lantern, a case of beer, and finally, ham sandwiches from the Kmart snack bar.
"You brought that .30-06 with that big-ass scope?" I asked.
Josh glanced up; one eyebrow raised. "What the hell else am I gonna bring?"
Roscoe smirked. "You could shoot the nuts off a squirrel at 200 yards with that thing."
Josh shot him a look. "And yet, somehow, you couldn’t hit a barn from the inside."
I grinned. "That’s funny right there."
"Shut up, Sprytle," Roscoe said.
Josh popped the lid on the cooler, grabbed a beer and cracked it open. He drank deep, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he set his beer down, grabbed the chainsaw, and jerked his head toward me. C'mon. We ain't got enough wood for the night."
This is how it always went. My dad had to move, do something, keep his hands busy. The woods swallowed us whole, the firelight shrinking behind us as we pushed deeper into the trees. The ground was soft underfoot, the smell of damp earth rising with each step. Josh yanked the cord, and the chainsaw roared to life, splitting the silence wide open. The blade bit into a dead oak, sawdust flying, the air turning thick with that sharp, raw smell of fresh-cut wood. When the tree finally gave, it was slow, almost reluctant, cracking like an old man's bones before it tumbled to the ground.
Josh killed the saw and wiped his forehead. "Grab what you can," he said. I hoisted a couple of thick logs, still warm from the sun and hauled them back to camp. Roscoe leaned back on the couch, half-asleep, a joint burning between his fingers. Josh cracked open another beer, settled into the chair, the chainsaw beside him like a trophy, like something conquered.
Josh never could sit still for long. Always had that twitch in him, like a coiled spring waiting to snap. Then, with a grunt, he hauled out the biggest Dutch oven I've ever seen and sat it down by the fire
pit.
I smirked "Chili dogs?"
"It’s Friday night," he said. "Tradition." Then pulled out a slab of ground venison, onions, cans of tomatoes, kidney beans. He had it down to an art—precision, repetition, ritual. Even a spice rack tucked inside a Ziploc like he's running some survivalist Waldorf Astoria. He yanked a folding table from the truck bed, set it up, and started heating the Dutch oven. He sliced onions and peppers like he's gutting a
deer—slow and steady, with no wasted movement. The scent stung my eyes, mingled with the first sizzle of venison hitting hot iron.
"Sprytle!" Josh called, tossing an empty beer can at me. I flinched. Roscoe cackled.
"Goddamn it," I said.
Josh smirked. "Still jumpy as hell. What, you still scared of the hairy biped?"
Roscoe grinned, “Hell yeah, Sprytle. You remember shaking in your boots while Big Daddy spun stories about Bigfoot, the hairy biped? How it waits for dumbass kids who wander too far from camp?"
Been coming out here since I was five. Too young to hold a rifle, too small to be anything but a tagalong, but that never stopped Grandpa and the others from dragging Jake Jr. and me to deer camp and scaring us with Bigfoot stories.
I grinned despite myself. "Yeah. Scared the hell outta me. He swore that thing was out there, watching, waiting. Used to tell me it went after kids who whined about being cold."
Josh grinned. "Didn't he say it comes after boys who don't gut their own kills?"
Roscoe leaned in, eyes glinting. "Or maybe the ones who cried when they shot their first deer?"
They both looked at me, waiting for the old embarrassment to creep in. And yeah, I remembered sitting by the fire, staring into the woods, swearing I saw something moving beyond the firelight. Big Daddy poking the embers, his voice low, serious—the way a man talked when he wanted you to believe. Said the hairy biped was real. Said people had seen it out here. That it smelled like rotten meat, walked like a man but wasn't one. That it waited, just past the trees, watching. Jake Jr. and me, sat there wide-eyed, shaking—not from the cold, but from the stories. The older guys laughing, drinking beer, feeding the legend.
Josh stirred the venison, firelight flickering across his face. "Still out here, Sprytle. I bet he remembers you."
"Maybe he's got a taste for chili dogs now," Roscoe added, grinning through a curl of smoke.
"Y'all are full of shit."
"Could be," Josh said, voice easy, stirring the pot. "But I wouldn't leave camp tonight."
"Yeah, "Roscoe said, You never know who—or what—might be watching."
The wind shifted, rustling through the trees. And just for a second, the old feeling crept in—the same one from when the woods felt too big, too dark, full of things I didn't understand.
Roscoe exhaled. "Bet he still hears them noises at night. Twigs snapping. Wind whispering through the trees."
"I ain't five no more. I';m seventeen."
Josh snorted. "Yeah, yeah, we know. Big bad senior now."
"Almost grown, I’m proud of you, Sprytle," Roscoe echoed, smirking. "Too old to be scared of Bigfoot, right?"
Josh stirred the venison, the smell thick in the air—meat and woodsmoke, beer and damp earth. Roscoe leaned back, rolling another cigarette with slow, deliberate fingers. I shook my head and took another drink, but the woods pressed in, big and dark and whispering. The stories were bullshit. They always were. But stories didn’t have to be true to feel real.
It was damn near dark by the time Uncle Jake rolled into camp. The trailer behind him clattered over the ruts, carrying his old three-wheeler, strapped down with a tangle of bungee cords that looked like a spider’s web spun in a hurry. He killed the engine and climbed out like a man on a mission.
"Help me get this thing down," he said, jerking his head toward the three-wheeler. "I want to go look for signs before it's too damn dark to see."
Roscoe, always eager to be in the thick of things, hurried over. Together, they unbuckled the straps and wrestled the three-wheeler off the trailer. Then Jake kicked it to life with a growl that sent a flock of unseen birds scattering into the treetops.
"Hop on, Scoe," he said, eyes scanning the tree line. Roscoe grinned and swung onto the back, barely settling before Jake gunned it, sending them both bouncing down the old logging road, ruts deep enough to swallow a tire if you weren’t careful.
“The chili will be done by the time you get back,” Josh yelled, watching them go.
"Bet you ten bucks he road hunts all weekend," he said to me, taking a sip of his beer.
"What makes you say that?"
"He brought a damn three-wheeler, didn’t he? He won’t get a hundred feet away from that thing the whole time we’re out here."
"You sound like Big Daddy, always going on about how you ‘can’t road hunt, it ain’t real hunting.’"
Josh snorted. "It ain’t. The deer hear that thing coming from a mile away. They’ll be gone before he even lays eyes on ‘em."
"It’s too hot anyway," I said. "They’ll be laid up deep in the woods till after sundown."
"That’s why we gotta be up before first light," Josh said, stretching out his legs like he was settling in for a long sermon. "Gotta be in the woods at dawn. That’s when they’ll be moving."
I swore under my breath. It was bad enough getting up at the crack of dawn, now I had to be up and out in the woods before dawn. Uncle Jake and Roscoe were still out there, bouncing over roots and ruts, the distant growl of the three-wheeler fading in and out moving through the trees.
Josh had the lanterns lit. The tall white oaks, scarred from nails we’d driven in years ago, held them up like old sentries, their light casting long, flickering shadows against the bark. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sky had taken on that heavy, bruised quality, the kind that let you know the sun was done fighting for the day. November had a way of swallowing daylight whole. I figured it was about five when I heard the low, sputtering whine of a three-wheeler tearing up the old logging road.
Josh was sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of chili, when Roscoe came into view. He was drenched. Not just damp but soaked. Uncle Jake had caught some of it, his jeans dark with water, but Roscoe—Roscoe looked like a drowned rat.
Josh squinted. “What the hell happened to you?”
Roscoe shot a look at Uncle Jake, who was still shaking water off his sleeves. “I crossed a stream,” Jake said, “started climbing the hill, and dumbass here wasn’t leaning far enough forward. Bike flipped. Tossed us both into the creek.”
“Yeah, and I was the one who got soaked,” Roscoe said, peeling off his flannel, “’cause that fucker landed on me.”
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Roscoe said. “Knocked the wind outta me, but mostly just wet.”
Jake popped open a beer and leaned against The Kluke. He was mid-sentence, explaining what little he had gleaned from his reconnaissance mission before their impromptu swim when Roscoe suddenly let out a long, guttural, drawn-out: “Fuuuuuuck.” Everything stopped. Even the fire seemed to flicker in confusion. Jake straightened up. “What’s wrong?”
Roscoe stared at a black trash bag like it had personally offended him. “I went by Mom’s to grab my hunting gear before I picked up Sprytle,” he said, voice tight. “Couldn’t find a gym bag, so I stuffed everything in a trash bag.”
Jake frowned. “Okay…”
“By that time, I’d had about five beers, which was about three too many for Charlotte.” That was what he called his mother when she was in one of her moods. “I was in a hurry to get the hell outta there before she really laid into me, and I grabbed the wrong bag.”
A silence settled over us, thick and waiting. “So…” I said. “What do you have, then?”
Roscoe exhaled through his nose. “Mom’s goddamn laundry.” Josh doubled over laughing, nearly spilling his beer. Jake chuckled into his bottle, shaking his head.
“We can dry your clothes by the fire,” Jake said finally, wiping his mouth. “Lay ’em on the rocks. In the meantime, see if there’s anything in there you can wear.”
Roscoe cursed under his breath, hauling the trash bag into The Kluke. A few seconds later, the sounds of violent rummaging filled the air, punctuated by a couple of goddammits and at least six motherfuckers. Then, out of the darkness, Roscoe emerged, his six-foot frame swallowed up in a faded floral muumuu. The sight of it, the absolute absurdity, hit all of us at once. We stared.
Roscoe, unfazed, adjusted the neck, then let the sleeves flutter in the cool evening air. Then he sighed and said, deadpan as hell: “Somebody bring me a fuckin’ Falstaff.”
William Matthew McCarter is a writer from Southeast Missouri. His work has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Midwestern Gothic, and The Steel Toe Review.