“A hunting camp is one of the few places left to us where we can dream of a near-perfect tomorrow.” –Gene Hill

Steaks and home fries were the menu items at camp that evening. Honestly, I would have been perfectly happy with souse, sardines and saltines, however, I had no plans to turn down the culinary upgrade.

It was my first night to be “in camp” for the season and as I sat enjoying the company of my family and a fine bourbon in front of the fireplace, my thoughts drifted back in time to the hunting camps of my past.

The first memory was of the old homestead turned camp house that sat in the middle of the Red Hills Hunting Club. It was more like a shelter on the Appalachian Trail than what one would picture as a camp house today. As I recall, the roof and walls were solid, however, most of the windows were either gone or covered with Visqueen to keep the wind at bay and the doors were only doors in the sense that some wood still hung from the hinges.

I never actually spent a night in that camp house, most likely because my dad didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on the floor amidst the snoring throngs. We would often pass it during our hunting adventures and I always wondered what stories it held.

In my mind’s eye a vivid picture resurfaced of my Uncle Carey standing beside a tractor with several deer draped over the hood. The house, with several other club members standing around, sat in the background. If those walls could have talked!

My first taste of an overnight adventure at the hunting camp came at the Nettleton Hunting Club near Amory. I remember so many details from that weekend coon hunting trip, ranging from finding my first pine knot fire starter to the sounds of redbone hounds baying in a river bottom. Most of all, I remember the feel of being “in camp.” It was heavenly to a young boy. It was perfect.

At that age, the “near perfect tomorrows” that Hill alluded to were abundant: spring mornings watching a cork bob up and down on the water, summer nights checking trotlines for catfish, crisp fall evenings waiting for deer to walk within bow range, and winter nights following hounds in the hardwoods.

Back in camp, our fire had begun to wane. Kneeling at the hearth I placed a couple of logs on the fire and as I stood, staring into the flames, I was taken back in my memories to another camp and to a different stage in life.

Cook’s Bend, my father-in-law’s fishing and hunting camp on the Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway, was my first adult hunting camp experience. As a child, hunting camp was an adventure. As an adult, it transitioned into a getaway. Life was changing fast. I had been married a few years and was now facing parenthood. I was scared to death.

What kind of father would I be? I was still trying to figure out the give and take of marriage, the pressures of being a homeowner and car owner, and, soon enough, child “owner.” I worked through a lot of those questions at that camp. Having a father-in-law who was more like a father there with me helped. He had “been there and done that” so solid advice was readily available.

With the flames dancing in the fire once again, I drifted away to “The Little House” in Louisville. The small house was our original “camp” at the family farm and, more importantly, it was the house my father-in-law grew up in. Having spent a great portion of his childhood there, he always had stories to share as we gathered for a meal or sat around the fire.

It was here that my children first experienced the magic of being at the hunting camp. I was able to transition from student to teacher as I was now charged with instructing Tate and Dan in the outdoors. The camp had become for them what it had once been for me. My outdoor life had come full circle.

The one thing that all these camps shared was the “dream of a near-perfect tomorrow” that Gene Hill described. The focus of that dream changes as we age, however, the camp stays constant. While life will never be perfect this side of heaven, life at the hunting camp comes close.

Enjoy your time “in camp” and make a few memories of your own this year. I look forward to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.

Email Outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.