Traditions take time to build

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At some point today, many of us will gather up our gear and do exactly what Maine hunters have been doing for years and years: We’ll head into the woods, spend a few hours, and hope for a shot at a Thanksgiving Day buck.

It’s tradition, after all.

For many, hunting traditions are passed along from generation to generation and absorbed and embraced by eager youngsters.

For others – those who may not have grown up hunting – the process is a bit trickier.

For those of us who didn’t begin hunting until later, our traditions are merely the borrowed traditions of veteran hunters who have welcomed a newcomer into an otherwise well-established group.

After three years hunting, I’m not presumptuous enough to claim to have traditions of my own. I haven’t logged enough boot-miles for that, and I realize that things I might tend to think of as “tradition” are merely “habits” at this point.

My “traditions” belong to people like Chris Lander and Arthur Watson.

I simply borrow them.

Chris is “Hunting Buddy.” You’ve read about him in these pages before (though, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure he’ll be happy that I’m tugging off his mask of anonymity this morning).

He doesn’t get the chance to hunt much any more – three young, active children can do that to a guy – but every day we get into the woods together is a day worth remembering.

Chris has shot deer in the past. He and his brothers learned from their dad, Bill, and believe me when I tell you that the Lander boys know their way in the woods.

Unfortunately, Chris and I haven’t been successful hunting together. A year ago, he jumped a deer … and a moose … on opening day.

That, in a nutshell, is the story of our “successes.”

Chris has his own traditions. When he gets the chance, he hunts with his brothers Bill and Tim. And when he hunts with them, thankfully, he shares those family traditions with me and invites me along.

Arthur Watson has his own traditions, too.

To Arthur, November means deer season. It means driving across the road from his Cambridge home, traversing a muddy cornfield, winding his way down a half-mile of dirt road, and coming to a stop at “Camp.”

“Camp,” is actually, formally, traditionally named Camp Swampy.

The walls of Camp Swampy tell its tales nearly as well as Arthur and his brother, Mike do.

More than 40 swatches of flannel adorn one wall. Shoot a deer here and the tail of your flannel shirt will hang here, too.

Look to the right off the front deck and you’ll find the outhouse. It’s called “Thunder Hole.”

Look all around, and you’ll see woods. You can’t see the swamp from here … but it’s there. And so are the deer.

Arthur invited me to Camp Swampy three deer seasons ago … about a week after I bought my first hunting license.

I went … wrote … and promised to return.

Last year I went back and hunted for a day.

And this year, I’ve returned to Camp Swampy three times, taking full advantage of Arthur’s standing invitation (and the low-slung “chicken” seat that he knows I prefer).

Each time I return, I find out more about Camp Swampy, and about Arthur and Mike.

On this day dominated by tradition, and defined by “giving thanks,” it seemed appropriate to tell you about Chris and Arthur.

I’m sure there are plenty of people like them in your own lives.

They’re the people you enjoy spending time with and who always make you feel welcome. They’re the people who help … who make a difference … and who ask for nothing more than your friendship in return.

And they’re the people who share their traditions with you … and make them seem like your own.

Thanks to them. Thanks to all of them.

Wakeup call: As every hunter can tell you, there are times when the thought of rolling out of a warm bed to head into the cold woods isn’t all that enticing.

A reader named Pat Patterson called earlier this week with a story you can consider your own personal “wakeup call.” Feel free to use Patterson’s message as a motivator the next time you consider ignoring your alarm clock remaining snug in your bed.

Here’s part of the message Patterson left on my office voice mail.

“On Saturday morning, I couldn’t drag my son out of bed, so I told him I was going to go out alone,” Patterson said.

“At 7:35 I shot a 15-point buck,” he said.

And as you may have guessed, the effect on his son was quite impressive.

“He had no trouble getting up on Monday morning,” Patterson said with a chuckle.

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