Sept. 3rd, 2026
Day 1.
Everybody claims a seat at the table the first night. Nobody claims boss man’s spot. That one just stays empty until he sits down, like the chair itself knows better.
There’s a particular kind of quiet the first evening — half nerves, half exhaustion from getting everything hauled in and set up. Nobody says much. Everybody’s thinking about morning, and morning, as always, comes faster than anyone’s ready for.
Day 2.
I love the gentle nicker that greats you as we water and saddle horses in the dark. There’s a rhythm to it by now — Pull them from the highline, water, brush, check the pad, cinch, next. A good pad does more work than people give it credit for; keeps a horse from soring up on long days and with inexperienced riders.
Breakfast is on the table by 4. Still dark enough to hear the coyotes finishing up their shift before the owls take over. There’s something about cooking in that hour — A simple lantern aiding me in the quiet peace, camp still mostly asleep — that never gets old, even on the mornings it feels like it should.
Day 3.
Stories are already circulating by the middle of the week — every camp builds its own by day three, whether anybody means to or not. Somebody’s horse spooked at a stump that looked like something it wasn’t. Somebody swears they saw the biggest bull of their life and nobody else saw a thing. By Friday it’ll be exaggerated past recognition, and everybody will agree to let it stay that way.
The cook tent‘s where all of it gets told twice — once when it happens, and again over dinner, bigger the second time. Every camp leaves with its own inside jokes. Nobody explains them to anybody who wasn’t there. That’s sort of the point.
Day 4.
Somebody asked today how we all sleep so well out here. I didn’t tell them the whole truth. A good bedroll is the best-kept secret in camp — nobody brags about it, but everybody who has one sleeps through the wind, and everybody who doesn’t spends the night finding that out the hard way.
Right before sunrise is always the coldest. Some mornings I crawl back in and steal some more Zzz’s. Other mornings I pull a hoodie on over everything else and climb up to my favorite spot instead, to watch God’s creation wake up. Cold hands, better view. Worth it every time.
Day 5.
Hunters’ packs are lighter than they were on day one. Everybody’s figured out what they actually need versus what they packed out of nerves. Layers have gotten smart, too — a good wool cap does more for a long day than a heavy coat you’re going to end up carrying by 10 a.m. anyway.
Day 6.
Last night in camp. Quieter than the first — not from nerves this time, just tired in the good way. Whatever anybody finds or doesn’t find out there, they come back to camp eating like it’s the only meal they’ve ever cared about.
Which brings me to the only rule I’ve ever needed as camp cook: Always be nice to the camp cook. I control the coffee. I control the cobbler. Act accordingly.