Pop Hayes and I sat quietly in camp after a big breakfast of bacon, eggs and home fries, just the two of us. That’s a breakfast I loved then and still do, a breakfast that stirs countless memories, countless beginnings.

Pop had just tossed two big chunks of cherry into the wood stove. There’s something satisfying about wood heat, so deeply penetrating, warming you through and through like no other. Outside it was 5 degrees with the icy wind gusting just enough to pick up little clouds of snow and playfully swirl them across the yard. A glance through the old, wood-framed, single-paned windows made you very glad to be inside this beautifully paneled, knotty pine room, sitting comfortably in an overstuffed chair with your feet up, a full belly and hot drink in your hand.

New Year’s was weeks behind us, deer season over, the hunters long gone. Winter’s patient waiting had begun, spring seemingly years away.

Pa took his time loading his pipe. Union Workmen was his favorite tobacco and its fragrance always hung about his person, as much a part of him as his clothes or glasses. After lighting it with his battered Zippo, he leaned back in his chair and looked at me with a clinical expression. Though still young I knew something philosophical was forthcoming. Since we were alone Pop felt, perhaps, just maybe, this grandson of his was mature enough to soak in a bit of wisdom. Pop, though a gregarious person and respected at work and in the community, seldom spoke of his deeper insights. Not all appreciate the subtleties of life.

I settled back in my chair, looked interested and remained silent. Pop couldn’t abide people who talked just to hear themselves. Silence has a purpose, he always maintained. Silence to make a point, allow some serious thinking or just to enjoy the moment itself was necessary.

“People more and more just run through life,” he said. “Look at us now; we are sitting in a place we love. We’re not talking much, just letting this past year settle in our souls. We shot ourselves some nice bucks and missed others.

“Some said clever things and others stupid, pulled some silly stunts as well. I want you to think about that for a while and give me a synopsis, which boy is a summing up. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Immediately, the year’s first day of buck season popped into my mind. Walking in that morning the frigid air was cutting sharp. Stopping, I drew a deep, clean breath and exhaled, the cloud of vapor freezing instantly, briefly visible against the black sky and sparkling stars before vanishing into the darkness. I’d placed my new stand near numerous scrapes and rubs and was impatient to reach it, but hurrying would only overheat me and make it difficult to remain long in the stand in this bitter weather.

After 5 minutes I began walking again, the squeaky crunch of freeze-dried snow and leaves under my boots sounding unnaturally loud in the absolute silence of the windless dawn. Soon, the familiar edge of the swamp appeared and after locating my stand, climbed quickly into it. Hauling my rifle up and chambering a round, the hunt began.

In less than 30 minutes the crunching of leaves and thud of hooves drew rapidly nearer. Turning, I saw motion through the trees; five deer, and the flash of antlers on the last.

Trembling with excitement, blocking everything from my mind but the crosshairs, a solid hold and a quick, steady trigger squeeze, the rifle’s blast shattered the icy silence, the recoil smacking my shoulder, but I hardly heard or felt either. Climbing down I knelt by the 9-point, my hands shaking, heart pounding, marveling it all happened so quickly.

Then, I thought of camp life itself, the deer drives and positioning the watchers, rising at 5 a.m. in the cold and dark. Pop’s delicious camp cooking; careless Uncle Phil getting stuck in a deep, muddy ditch as dark fell; how I, the youngest, always carried in the firewood.

My two uncles and I dragging that 8-point up the terrible, almost vertical side hill, slipping, sliding, straining, gasping, grasping at trees, yelling at each other and cursing the heavy deer.

The feel of a soft bed after a long, hard, cold day.

But despite the chills, aches, sweat, inconvenience, work and strain of many incidents, the overriding remaining impression was of the “fun” of it all. No matter how terrible the experience seemed at the time, no matter how upset you were with a person whose lack of simple common sense or carelessness was causing you all the misery of the moment, any hard feelings or even anger always vanished when the work was done, the job accomplished.

“It was all fun!” I answered. “Even the hard stuff, what you hated at the moment, always ended up being fun when it was over.”

Pop gave me a thoughtful stare, then a twinkle appeared in his eye.

“You always want to remember that,” he said softly. “When you do things for the ‘right’ reasons, the bad melts away and only the fun, friendship and trust in one another remains. There’s a lesson there, boy; remember it.”

I always have.