In this first installment of her two-part story, TRCP’s energy policy advisor McKay Fleck writes how the equipment a family shares in the woods, and the public land that makes it all possible, binds them and adds to the long tradition of hunting camp
In 2018, I earned my hunting guide’s license. I’d be guiding for a fledgling company that a friend established, and my dad and brother decided to drive out from Oregon to be my first clients. I hadn’t been able to hunt with them since 2008, so this 10-year reunion was bound to be special.
I’d been living in Wyoming for several years at this point and had reasonable success hunting on public land in my new home, so I felt confident in my ability to find them some deer. My dad had raised my older brother and me in hunting camps on Forest Service land since we were six-years-old, and one of my earliest memories is being absolutely furious that my brother was old enough to go hunting with my dad before me. But I suppose there’s no easy way to explain linear time to a toddler.
Growing up, our hunting camps were filled with relatives, stories, and tents used long before I was born. Generations had passed down guns, gear, and hard lessons year after year until the sedimentary layers of stories had solidified into traditions that stood the test of time. We carved our tactics out of these stories, learning from the mistakes made by young hunters chasing mature deer and elk since time immemorial. Now, it was my turn to run the camp.

We planned the trip four months in advance. My dad and brother Adam had to figure out what they could fit in their truck and what gear I already had here in Wyoming. My dad planned to bring an old wall tent for us to sleep in, and I would have to figure out where to put it on the mountain.
When I say “old wall tent” I mean it. It was made for service in World War I. After the Great War, it was used as a cook tent for cattle camps on their ranch in California, before trucks could make it up into the Siskiyou Mountains. The ranch sold while my dad was in college, but the old tent was still employed. My family continued to use it as a cook tent for hunting camps when they moved north into Oregon. My dad would set up a cot in the corner and be the first one up, heating the tent while coffee boiled on a rusty propane heater. The roof is perforated with starlight, a Milky Way of holes from a century of hot ash, mold, and moths. The ceiling lets in just enough light for sleepy kids to find new constellations in the ancient canvas. Despite the romantic image on clear nights, we had to put a tarp over the holey canvas to keep out the Oregon weather.
So when I saw that my friends were selling their 10x12ft wall tent with an awning and wood stove for $300 on Facebook Marketplace, I jumped at the chance. I called my brother immediately and asked if he wanted to split the price with me, and he agreed.
“Hey Dad, McKay’s friends are selling this really nice wall tent. Would you want to buy it?” he asked, showing our dad the advertisement.
“Absolutely! That’s a good-looking tent for a good price,” he replied, enthusiastically.
“Oh, too bad…it looks like it already sold. Oh well, maybe we’ll keep an eye out for one next year,” my brother lied. It was a spur of the moment decision. The tent would be a surprise early birthday gift for our dad. We had to conspire quickly. How would he be able to keep Dad from bringing the old wall tent without telling him about the new one?
Despite our dad’s protestations, we packed him up and hauled him up the mountain amid his cries of “this doesn’t need to be an exercise in survival!”
The friends we bought the new tent from helped me set up the camp before my family arrived. We cut lodge pole pines in the spring and stripped them of their bark, rotating the poles weekly as they dried. These friends were rendezvous reenactors; they spent decades going to traditional rendezvous wearing old fashioned handmade clothing, shooting flintlock rifles and traditional long bows. This wall tent had raised both of their kids, rode on the back of a pack string, and kept them warm through their own hunting camps. Buying this tent from them and learning how to set it up was like becoming a part of their family.
It was sunny and warm when my dad and brother arrived at my house in Wyoming. We had the evening to catch up and organize our gear before heading up the mountain the next day. We convinced our dad that I “borrowed” a tent and that it was already set up. The next day we would drive to the camp and get settled before the opening day of hunting season.
That’s when the storm hit. Wyoming weather at its finest dropped about 18 inches of snow overnight. Sixty mile per hour winds, sub-zero temperatures, and drifted snow weren’t going to prevent my brother and me from delivering the best birthday surprise ever! Despite our dad’s protestations, we packed him up and hauled him up the mountain amid his cries of “this doesn’t need to be an exercise in survival!”
When we reached the BLM road that turned to the camp, we were completely snow blind. I got out of the truck and led the way on foot, bouncing back and forth between the ditches so that my brother could keep his truck on the road. Our dad was still cussing at us, trying to convince us to turn around. Tears froze on my face as I searched for the white canvas tent in the snowstorm. Finally, we arrived. Dad was still skeptical until we untied the door of the tent, and he saw the sign: “Happy Birthday Dad!!!!” He laughed as we explained how we conspired about the tent and how hard it was to keep the secret. The surprise was a success, though he insisted that the frigid winds were making his eyes and nose water.

I stayed awake all night feeding the wood stove and listening to the dulcet tones of twin chainsaws snoring on the cots next to me. When it was finally time to get up and hunt, the wind had not subsided. We hiked up the draw close to camp as the sun rose, post-holing through snow drifts and looking for any deer who didn’t have enough sense to escape the mountain before the storm. By lunch time, my dad was certain that we were trying to kill him, so we made the tough decision to abandon the camp and hunt from town.
Desperate for a backup plan, I called my friend and outfitter, Cindy. She had permission to cross private land to access a state section and graciously offered to take us out there for a mule deer.

The next afternoon, we met Cindy at the edge of the property. My dad could watch from the truck as Cindy, my brother and I scoured the state land for my brother’s fist deer. It wasn’t long before we spotted a group of mule deer about 200 yards away, and a forked-horn buck among them. We crawled to the crest of the hill on our bellies, and I sat back while Cindy coached my brother. She was so patient, reassuring him that if he didn’t feel comfortable with the shot, we could find a different animal. He had our great-uncle’s Remington 721, the only gun he had to hunt with, which was sighted to 100 yards. My brother turned and looked back at me.
“Where should I shoot him?” he asked.
I reached up and poked him in the ribs behind his arm. He nodded, settled back into the prone position, and fired. He made an excellent shot, the buck dropped, and our dad watched the whole thing from the truck.

The next day, we went back out to the same spot with the intention of dad experiencing a similar hunt. It was an easy pack out and we knew there were more deer in the area. However, when we arrived at the state land, two cow elk were nestled in a snowbank about 400 yards away. Cindy asked me if I had a cow tag, which I did. My dad laughed and handed over the same Remington that my brother had used the day before. And just like the day before, my dad watched one of his kids harvest an animal on public lands with his uncle’s rifle. We dragged the elk back to the truck and went home to celebrate.

The next day, the weather had shifted back from winter wonderland to sunny and warm. We decided to go take down the wall tent that we had left on the mountain. We were disappointed that we didn’t spend another night in the tent, but my dad and brother were leaving on Saturday, and they wanted to be organized for the long drive. Most of the snow had already melted, and the road to the camp was a muddy mess. We packed everything up and surfed our way down the mountain on a tidal wave of bentonite clay.
As we drove back, I asked my brother to stop the truck on the rim of a draw not far from the road on BLM land. “Dad and I both still have deer tags to fill, so let’s take a minute to glass.”
After a few minutes, I saw a buck bedded down at the bottom of the draw a half mile away. I asked my dad if he wanted to try for it, and we decided to put on a stalk.
My brother stayed with the truck as Dad and I walked to the edge of the draw. It was a steep scree slope dotted with the occasional mahogany shrub. A lone juniper offered us shelter as we surveyed our route to the buck.
“Could you make a shot from here?” I asked my dad.
“Nope, just a little too far for my comfort.”
We inched our way closer. I moved down the slope, careful not to loosen any rocks or stab myself on a mahogany sticker.
“How about now?”
“I can’t even see him from this spot!”
I was beginning to see why he hadn’t harvested a deer in so long. I picked my way to a new spot, about 80 yards from the buck and my dad eased his way over to me.
“How about now?” I asked, as he looked through the scope of the Remington 721.
“This ought to do. Just let me take my glasses off real quick.” He lowered the gun to remove his glasses. I continued to watch the buck through my binoculars. The deer was bedded down at the edge of the mahogany and hadn’t moved since we began our decent. The wind was in our favor as I waited for the report of the rifle.
“Dad, hurry up.” I was not as patient as Cindy.
“Hang on, I’m just making sure,” he said as he brought the rifle up again. I waited.
“DAD.”
“I want to take my hat off first.” He fumbled with his wool cap, and I began to wonder if the buck could see the sun shining off his bald head. I watched through my binoculars as the shot rang out and the buck disappeared from my vision.
I jumped up and ran to rock outcropping and saw the buck, still laying in his bed. My dad had made an excellent shot, and the buck never woke up from his nap.

Packing this deer out was more difficult than the last one, as we had to go straight up the slope. I ran back to the truck to retrieve my brother and we carried the deer out of the draw for our dad. We loaded our harvest on top of the wall tent in the back of the truck and headed back to town to celebrate once again. Three days, three tags filled on public land, and one rifle.
The next time my brother and dad would see that tent would be 2024.
Read Part II of this story HERE.
Photo credits: McKay Fleck
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