My brother gave me this piece of Birch Hill Hunt Club memorabilia. Starts when my father purchased the camp from Martin Newman in 1958, when I was to be 7. You had to get the first buck to get your name on the old corn whiskey jug. My mother is on here only once, as after she shot her first deer, an eight point buck in 1960, she refused to ever hunt again, as it made her sad. I had forgotten about this hierloom from my childhood. No deer again today, but Eric shot a grouse with the bow from his blind, like I did last year. The crossbow with the scope is exceptionally accurate and you can hit a quarter.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. ~Henry David Thoreau, 1854