Last week’s mention of the deer camp at Mass City has opened the flood gates of deer camp stories. Most of them are like fish stories; hard to believe the details but the story itself seems plausible. I won’t bore you with all of them. It’s like many other stories, you just had to be there to see the humor. But I will pass on one story and it wasn’t the proudest moment of my life.

Many people hear the term “deer camp” and it conjures up thoughts of a bunch of guys going up north saying they’re going hunting, when all they do is go to the bars, drink too much, and chase women. Not so with our group. Not that we didn’t have a drink or two, but never during the day before going hunting and rarely more than we should at night. Of all the years we went, I don’t remember going to any of the bars at night. As for chasing women, one of the guys brought his wife, who was an avid hunter, so that never happened either.

We hunted hard each day and at night would talk about what we saw and would tell stories. Some of the stories were new things that had just happened and some were from other years, and they were often repeated year after year. But that was the way deer camp should be, it was  a great group of people, and it created a lot of good memories.

The first year that I went it was just the guys and I was the newbie. The newbie had two jobs. One was to bring magazines that would provide new, more risqué centerfolds for the walls. The second was to knock the tops off the piles of turds in the outdoor john and sprinkle what was in there with lime. They called it “stirring the shitter”.

I don’t really have a sensitive stomach as a rule, but after a couple of beers (honestly, no more than that), some tortilla chips dipped in a mixture of Velveeta cheese and Hormel chili heated on the woodburning stove, and a big bowl of white chili (very hot and spicy) that one of the guy’s girlfriend, now wife, made and my stomach was, at best, unsettled. I went to bed knowing that I could have problems in the night so I had a flashlight at hand.

Around two in the morning I awoke with a rumbling in my guts and the instant knowledge that if I didn’t hurry to the outdoor john, I would have a terrible accident. I made it and was relieved, pun intended. Just when I thought I was finished and started out the john door, I realized there was more on the way and it too was in a hurry. After the third time, I knew that I was in for a spell, so I waited the process out.

The next morning, C.R. said he had heard some noise outside and saw me going into the john. He fell back asleep, awoke 10  minutes later and still saw my light in the john. He fell back asleep, awoke 10 minutes later and, again, saw my light in the john. He laid there awake until I came in the door about 10 minutes after that. He was poking a little fun and asked “What the hell did you do; fall asleep in there”? Without batting an eye I said “No, I was taking a powerdump”. He laughed so hard I thought he would fall out of his chair. From then on, he nicknamed me powerdump. I had always wanted a nickname like Butch, or Sonny, or some other cool, mysterious name. Powerdump wasn’t what I had in mind.

It was a great week for training. The long run yesterday was the first loop of the marathon relay. I didn’t have a team, but paid for Jean, Becky and I anyway (Jean and Becky were in Lake Placid) and ran for 100 minutes, then quit. It was a perfect day for running. Diane’s team won the prize for the most unique baton. I didn’t know what it was but the girls all seemed to know and get a big kick out of it. They said it was a speculum decorated with a feather to look like a duck. The duck’s mouth would open and close and it looked to me like there was a smile on his face.

I decided to go out on a recovery bike ride after the run. I fell at the corner of Heath Road and M-37. Don’t ask!! It was a momentary “rectal cranial insertion” and I didn’t get hurt. Three miles down the road I had a flat. When I put the spare tube in, the rectal cranial insertion reared it’s ugly head again and I pinched a hole in that tube. I put in my last spare tube and decided to call it quits for the day.

Today I did a four and a half hour HR 1-2 ride. I went out Chief Noonday (M-179) to A-42 through Hopkins and all the way to where M-40 turns right to Hamilton. I sat there for a couple of minutes until the gnats drove me crazy then came back. I was ready to do the 30 minute T-run after the ride when the former owners of the “cottage” said they were out and I could come right down, so I did.

If you pay attention, you can learn something new every day. If not new, at least you can be reminded of what it’s like growing up with brothers and sisters. If you didn’t delete last week’s e-mail from sheer boredom, you probably saw pictures of “sweets” that Jean puts around the house to tempt me.

The day that Jean left for her Lake Placid triathlon camp, I found what’s in the attached picture sitting on the counter exactly as you see it. I’m sure it’s a way of marking territory, much like male dogs peeing on every mailbox during Becky’s Sunday morning run. Sibling rules are, in order to keep others out, take one bite out of each end and leave it out uncovered to either dry out and be petrified, or get mushy, stale and moldy if it’s humid.

So here’s the problem. You all know I have some slight memory problems from what I say is the bike wreck but probably is from advancing age. Before I complain about “advancing age”, I remember I almost didn’t advance in age last September 7th, so I mostly stop whining. I don’t remember taking a bite out of that roll, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t. I’ve always had trouble keeping my weight from going literally “off the scale”, but I’ve tried to eat sensibly. Maybe I am eating in my sleep, packing in the calories, then not remembering. Interesting!

Time to go to the lake,

Just (Happy New Cottage Owner) Jack