At deer camp, hunters come and go, and bucks are shot … or get away. Families grow up … grow closer … and, sometimes, move away, one by one, in a bittersweet exodus that makes their eventual periodic return to the woods an affair worth celebrating.

At deer camp, as the light grows dim and another log is tossed in the wood stove … as tales from years past are relived yet again … as those who can’t be present are remembered in glowing terms they wouldn’t recognize, had they been sitting at the table … bragging rights belong to the hunter bold enough to claim them.

Sometimes it’s the biggest deer that gains a hunter those coveted rights. Other times, just the fact that you’ve got your deer … and nobody else does … is enough. All you’ve got to do is grin … open your mouth … and brag a bit.

Just ask Tatum Welch.

Tatum is a high school freshman. She is, you’ll find out, a bit of a trash-talker. And earlier this week, at Whitetail Deer Camp – the family camp outside of Newport shared by her father, Barry Welch, and his cousin, Lewis Elliott – she was the Undisputed Queen of Bragging Rights.

“Did I tell you about the time I saw 14 deer?” she says … again … for the umpteenth time this day, and the thousand-and-umpteenth time since she bagged her buck 10 days earlier.

“There they were,” she says, glancing at family members for a reaction. “Fourteen of them. In one field. Did I tell you about that?”

“Yes, Tatum,” they all say, rolling their eyes and laughing. “You told us.”

The Welches and Elliotts, along with assorted friends and relatives, love to hunt. Step into Whitetail Deer Camp (Just turn left at the fork labeled “Whitetail Lane” and you’ll find it), and it’s obvious.

Deer heads and racks and skulls decorate the walls. So does the head of the Cadillac Moose (so named because Barry considerately, and with warden permission, took the moose off the hands of an elderly couple from Florida when they killed the critter with their Caddy late one night) and a dozen or so tails clipped from deer who’ve fallen victim to the hunting prowess of one or another of them.

And then there are the pink flamingos, “walking” across one massive wooden beam, a constant reminder that not everybody that comes to Whitetail Deer Camp cares to hunt for deer at all.

“We had kind of an anti-hunter [who visited], and we thought [the flamingos] would ward away evil,” Barry Welch says with a chuckle, gesturing at the nonhunter in question, who is sitting in a nearby chair. “But she still comes down.”

Tatum Welch is the center of attention on this day, but whether that’s because of sheer force of personality or a by-product of the continuous ribbing she delivers to the deer-less hunters is debatable.

“I’ve seen this scenario before,” Dave Welch, Tatum’s uncle, says. “The kids shoot a deer and get cocky. Wait until next year.”

Until next year … or at least until someone else ends up with a fresher deer story to tell … Tatum has the floor. Dave Welch says that’s not necessarily the way things are supposed to pan out.

“Whoever shoots the first deer usually … uh … pays for it,” he says, pointing out that with bragging rights come responsibilities: Cooking. Cleaning. Doing whatever the other hunters demand. That’s not happening, and Elliott stands up, walks across the camp, and fetches the handyman’s best friend in a mock attempt to silence Tatum.

“In case she gets out of hand, I’ve got some duct tape here,” Elliott says.

Tatum doesn’t worry. She just grins, leans over her plate, and attacks the apple-pie-and-strawberry-ice-cream combo that sits in front of her.

“Strawberry ice cream doesn’t go with apple pie,” her father warns. “It’s against the rules.”

“I like strawberry,” Tatum says, getting the last word … again.

All kidding aside, Tatum’s hunting success is a source of family pride. Lori Welch, Tatum’s mom, jokes that if her daughter could stay home from school, perhaps she could help change her own luck the next morning.

Lori Welch is another of the family’s accomplished whitetail hunters. Years ago – long before Whitetail Deer Camp was built in 1998 – she approached her husband and told him she had a plan.

“Fifteen years ago I said, ‘Teach me to hunt,'” she says before Barry picks up the tale.

“That first year, she saw 13 deer, fired at seven, and finally shot one,” he says. “I remember, because I gave her all of my best stands.”

Since then, Lori Welch has become quite a hunter: She’s only failed to fill her tag twice – once when she was pregnant with Tatum.

Successful hunting women are prevalent in the family, as daughter Lindsey, a former standout basketball player at Nokomis, has proven herself by bagging moose, deer, and bear in the same season … twice.

This year, Lindsey isn’t here. She’s at the University of Southern Maine, playing hoops. And as the family gathers and shares their stories, her name comes up again and again.

It’s hard on Lindsey to be away, they explain. Left unsaid: It’s hard for the family to miss her so much during the time of year they’ve always shared.

Still, Lindsey will be here at some point. Maybe for a day … perhaps two. No matter what, Lori Welch says, Lindsey knows exactly what’s going on here.

Partly because she’s been through it so many times. And partly because modern technology is pretty cool.

“She calls for the daily deer report every day,” Lori Welch says. “And I text-message her every morning after the hunt to let her know what happened.”

Over the past 10 or 15 years, improvements in computer technology have served to make our lives much simpler (until, of course, the little plastic box that you type your daily e-mails into decides to take a siesta, and you find that rapping the offending machine up-side its head doesn’t have the desired result).

In this line of work, the progress is readily apparent. No more glue pots. No more paste-up. No more typewriters.

And (some journalists will tell you this is the best part): Today’s computers can make you feel 10 feet tall and bullet-proof, and will protect you from your own ignorance. If you spell something wrong … the machine will (theoretically) tell you so.

I’m not one of those (formerly) ink-stained wretches who agrees with the previous statement, however.

Ever since second grade, when Mrs. Pitula told me what a fabulous little speller I was, I’ve tended to think of myself as slightly better-than-adequate when it comes to putting my I’s before my E’s, except after C.

And, I’m happy to report, there are some words we find in the outdoors world that even our new-fangled spell-checking programs choke on.

Chief among those, I find, is togue. (If you could see this computer screen, you’d notice that the word “togue” has an ugly, mean, red line under it. That means I’ve screwed up … or so the computer thinks).

If you’ve spent a few hours trolling low and slow for lake trout, you know that this time, the white box on my desk is wrong. One of these days, I may even write to Microsoft to tell them togue do exist … and if you know how to prepare them, they’re actually pretty tasty.

Another word we Mainers take for granted (and which, apparently, the good folks at Microsoft haven’t yet included in their spell-checker), is fiddlehead.

(See? There’s the ugly red line again).

Fiddleheads, you surely know, are Maine’s favorite fern. Their location is a closely guarded family secret. Either you know where to get ’em … or you beg for them from those who do.

As such, I don’t think I’ll let Microsoft in on this secret any time soon.

Seen and heard: On a bumper sticker in Bangor recently, a message that all of us pickup-driving outdoorsmen can identify with … though we rarely end up sharing the sentiment with others.

“Yes, this is my truck. No, I won’t help you move.”

As one who’s in the process of moving … slowly … surely … and largely solo … I got a chuckle out of it.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.