Welcome to deer camp.

It's that time again, time to gather, time to sharpen the senses, time to honor the whitetail deer.

What had been a level and quiet patch of popple has become, by Friday afternoon, a busy construction site.

First the tent, followed by the fire pit, kitchen table and, lastly, a hole in the leafy ground, which will serve as the camp biffy.

The camp bonding process takes over and soon the popple patch has all the comforts of home.  Well, almost all.  5:00 p.m. Friday

This season's camp attendees have finally arrived.  They are John Larson and son Scott of Burnsville; a brother, Rick Schara of Maplewood; a nephew, Steve Schara of Plymouth; and Jim Braaten of
Nerstrand, who is acting camp manager, chief chef and deer hunting consultant.

Braaten has the last title because he is the reigning deer expert, having shot one a season ago.

The deer expert job is up for grabs again.  And all of the applicants come to deer camp in the usual way, carrying arm loads of sleeping bags, deer rifles, Sorel boots plus backpacks full of pre-hunt optimism.

5:15 p.m.

Chef Braaten announces the dinner menu, which includes peanut snacks, followed an all-you-can-eat batch of delicious pasta, sauce and small billiard balls that taste something like meat.

The evening meal steams into the woodsy air.  The air is cold, danged  cold. Maybe 10 above. Maybe.

The usual fireside chit-chat is moved into the big-top tent, where the pre-hunt braggadocio starts to warm things up.

Last year, the hunt was merely minutes old when Chef Braatenmanaged to shoot the first and only buck in camp by hunting a stone's throw away from the tent flap door.  He attributed his success to more skill than luck, of course.

"I am taking big-buck bets," he announced on the eve of this deer opener. "I am willing to bet that none of you get a buck," he snickered.  Nobody called.

8 p.m.

The first to hit the sleeping bag is Bro' Rick, but he gets no sleep until the other tent cots are slowly occupied.

9:15 p.m.

Lanterns out, snoring begins.

5 a.m. Saturday

Opening day, finally, and what a cold, dark dawn it is.  Even the campfire pit looks frozen.

On this opening day, leaving the sleeping bag is one of the toughest tests of being a Minnesota deer hunter.  You also question your sanity.  But the lapse is momentary. A cup of hot coffee eventually eases the agony of jumping into cold, blaze orange hunting togs.

5:15 a.m.

The orange army departs.  One by one, the two-legged orangemen peel off onto trails leading to their chosen hunting spots.

6:30 a.m.

Dawn seems to come quickly in the woods, aided by a thin skiff of snow that brightens the forest floor.  Gunfire is already echoing in the distance.  Somebody's deer season is probably over already. The hike to my deer stand is farther than I remember, and I'm late getting there.

The woods is eerily quiet and frosty.  Not a chickadee chirps; the squirrels must be sleeping in.

The wind wafts softly as if unsure of which way to blow.

7 a.m.

There's no guessing that deer season is open.  Gunfire rumbles steadily in the crisp air.  During a 10-minute period, I count 41 reports.  One shot is usually a dead deer, I figure.  Two shots, maybe.  Three shots from the same rifle, probably misses.

7:30 a.m.

Judging by the gunfire, everybody is seeing deer but me.

7:45 a.m.

Suddenly, footsteps.  Crunching in the brittle leaves.  There it is, a gray ghost slipping through the brush.  Even in the shadows, the glint of antlers is obvious.  A small six-pointer.  His head is down.  He sniffs and walks, first one way and then another. The brush is thick.  Better to wait for a clear shot.  The buck is now a mere 50 yards away.  He raises his nose.  It means trouble.  Softly, the buck wheels and walks away from the scent he did not like.  It was mine.

8:30 a.m

A doe and her fawn meander by.  I put down the rifle and pick up the camera.  Click.  Gotcha.

9:45 a.m

My God - my fingers are numb and my toes are the same.  The rest of me wants to shiver, except for my nose.  It is running hard.

9:46 a.m

Out of nowhere, a large doe appears. She has been running long; her mouth is agape for air.  Must be a buck chasing her, I figure.

The doe disappears.

Minutes later, sure enough, here comes the buck on the doe's trail.  But it is a small, spike buck.

10 a.m.

Wait.  Another movement. To my left. Another deer.  A nice buck, an eight-pointer.  Swiftly, he turns to disappear.  One shot from my .270 Winchester echoes through the woods.

And you remember what one shot means.