Camping & Deer Hunting: “Where Did Dad Go?” (3rd of 8 installments on close calls)

Hunt English Crest

Deer hunting was a tradition in my dad’s family. With a surname like Hunt, it’s a no brainer. Go back far enough, and I’m sure we would find that our Hunt ancestors in England were hunters or had something to do with hunting.

Of course, camping goes with hunting. I have fond memories of the times spent camping as a child with my family as far back as I can remember, including Fathers & Sons overnighters up Big Cottonwood Canyon below Silver Lake. The stake would provide a great dinner, usually sloppy joes and homemade “Mormon beer”—dry ice, root beer extract and a 10-pound bag of sugar. Loved that root beer. Have you ever had home-made root beer made with dry ice?

Clifford, Warren, Doris, Lee (on edge) and Grandpa Butt
playing cards at our favorite primitive campsite up canyon.

Our family had a favorite camping site up above Silver Lake in a spot that eventually was ruined by the expansion of the Brighton Ski Resort, which built a ski lift support pillar right in the middle of what was our campsite! But before that happened, we had many summers there away from the simmering heat in the valley. Dad would pack the car and, as the last item, toss his and mom’s mattress on the roof of the car and tie it down. They both needed the mattress because of their backs. I’m sure we were a crazy sight with that old Buick traveling through the valley and up the canyon all loaded down with us kids, camping gear, clothes, food and a mattress on top.

Generic photo of porcupine from
Catnapin's Mammal Gallery.

Our campsite had a perfect spot for a tent, snugly surrounded by several large pine trees. We had shade inside the tent for virtually the whole day. I still can recall the smell of that heavy canvas tent. Taking an afternoon nap was Mom’s favorite part of camping up there. 

One outing, I remember Merrill and I found a small cave – more like two granite rocks tilted toward each other forming a V-shape. One time, we found a porcupine hiding inside. Merrill took a branch and kept poking at it. The end of the stick ended up with quills all over it. I don’t know how we escaped getting hit with some quills. We finally got bored and left it alone.

Generic photo of Cottonwood Canyons summer glaciers.

Several times during our campouts, Merrill and I – along with cousins and friends – hiked way above camp until we came to a couple of glacier fields below the mountain summit. Most of the others had a blast climbing to nearly the top of the fields and sliding all the way down. I enjoyed watching them, but I didn’t venture more than a few feet up the snow. My slide was more like 10 feet because I couldn’t imagine losing control while sliding down that huge patch of ice.

The air near the glacier was much cooler – and refreshing. I remember watching the water drip off the edge of the glacier, which by that time of the summer was more directly exposed to the sun.

The glaciers probably were the ones feeding the small stream that was just 20 yards away from our camp.

Doris and Vivian Butt, not long after their marriage, with Lee
Troyleen and Merrill at our Big Cottonwood Canyon camp.

One of the first things Dad would ask us to do after arriving at camp was to place the watermelon and cantaloupes (Mom and I preferred cantaloupes to watermelon) in the cool stream. I remember the stream was downhill, maybe at a 20- to 25- degree slope down from camp. Mom often yelled at us to stop running down the trail to the creek. This one time, I was already near the bottom of the trail when Merrill came flying down. He must have stumbled over a root or rock, because he went soaring head first, landing on or near some rocks at the bottom of the trail near the stream. I remember Merrill or me shouting “Superman” as he flew past me. Maybe “Superman” was just what I was thinking, because he made the exact pose – so spread-out and horizontal in his unauthorized mountain flight. Pretty impressive until he sat up and I saw all the blood gushing out of a cut on his forehead. I must have screamed or yelled, because he reached up, felt the blood, looked at it and then started wailing and running back to camp. Dad had to take him down into the valley and get stitches in his forehead.

Warren & Cal Hunt, with Merrill & Lee behind them, after a
good day of fishing at lake in Spokane, Washington.

Another time, Mom had to take Dad down the canyon after Dad had a different type of accident. As any good camper knows, gasoline is a great way to get a fire going, right!? NOT!

Well, I don’t remember exactly how it all happened, but basically Dad was pouring gas on a camp fire when flames flared and caught his sleeve on fire. I don’t remember how he got the flames out, but he returned from the hospital down in the valley with his arm all wrapped in gauze.

Some of my less-traumatic camping memories come from the times when Grandma, Grandpa and several of mom’s brothers and their families joined us at “our” campsite. I remember several family members playing softball out in the field opposite of our primitive campground (There was no paved road, trails or campsites, no running water, no installed grills or firepits – and no toilet facilities, not even a smelly outhouse! Yes, we had to go down into the thicket a ways from camp where Dad had dug a latrine – a hole in the ground for our deposits. The flies swarmed mercilessly as we did our thing!)

Grandma and Grandpa Butt were real troopers to come up and join the fun. I think their thing was enjoying the cool outdoors with all the family. They basically just hung out, visited and sometimes played cards.

Merrill, left; Wayne Hunt, next to Merrill; Ray Hunt, second
from right, at Lloyd's home in Sevier. Lee was left behind. 

Camping as part of deer hunting came into my life when I was probably 10 or 11 years old. Every year from then on, we would head to the hills in October to join the army of men and boys attired in their red hats and vests. I was always a hunter in training – until clear after my mission.

Shauna, Lloyd, Golda, Wayne, Ray and Robert Hunt at
Aunt Myrl's home after Ray Lavender's funeral in 1964. 

One year, Dad, Merrill and I went down to Lloyd’s home in Sevier for the deer hunt. I was excited for the chance to go out with so many of my cousins on the Hunt side of the family. But, guess what, they decided I was too young, too small, too fragile to go on the hunt with them. Besides, they expected a snowstorm and freezing weather. Still, I was devastated – left home with the women and my younger cousin Robert. He was a good kid – but two years younger than me. So, in comparison, I was sure I was going to die of boredom.

But, guess what!? Aunt Golda or Shauna or Robert found me a BB rifle, which I decided would be my hunting tool that Saturday of the opening hunt. Back behind the house beyond the patch of grass was Golda's small orchard. I positioned myself on the grass next to a log or something and stalked the fearsome critters – which were pretty much a bunch of sparrows and a robin! Wow, a robin! I might be able to hit that one with a good rifle – if it shoots straight.

Generic photo of a robin.

Well, I got down in the proper position and took aim and, bang, the bird bit the dust. I cheered at my prowess as I examined my kill, then I ran into the house and was excited to tell Aunt Golda about my great hunting.

“You shot a robin!? Aunt Golda yelled. Up until this point in life I had never heard Aunt Golda raise her voice, but now she was yelling at me and really upset. “How could I kill such an innocent creature as a robin or any bird?” I think that’s what she said – or something like that.

Her words stung me to the core. I was disgusted with myself – I had purposely killed a poor little robin that sings beautiful melodies for us all. Aunt Golda told me I was grounded or something similar. I don’t remember the punishment because I was punishing myself already. I do recall that she made me go out and bury the poor innocent thing.

I don’t think I ever got over that. My relationship with Aunt Golda was strained from that point on. I couldn’t seem to talk to her without remembering that tragic episode. How could I have ever thought killing a robin would be a good hunting trophy?!  

Hunting has always been part of our culture – but I’m not exactly a master of the trade.

Merrill, Troyleen and Lee at Tooele camp.

One year when Merrill was probably 16 and able to hunt, Dad took the whole family up past Tooele to a place he had heard about that was supposed to be a great deer location. We found a nice camping spot and had a good time, though I don’t remember whether we were successful in the hunt itself. I believe if I recall correctly that both Dad and Merrill took shots at some deer, but they were realistically too far away to hit them. I was 14 and still a tagalong hunter in training.

It was on this trip that I had a moment of devilish fright. After hunting in the morning, Merrill and I went hiking not far from camp. We found a steep mountain side that was covered with a huge rock slide. We started climbing up – from one boulder to another – higher and higher. The climb was invigorating. But about two-thirds of the way up, I started getting panicky as I looked behind me. How was I going to get back down? Climbing up wasn’t near as hard as the prospect of inching my way down that steep boulder-strewn hillside. Merrill quickly left me in the dust as he climbed out of sight. I tried to gingerly make my way down over the boulders, but I became very awkward in my attempt. I was afraid I was going to slip and fall headfirst.

Generic photo of rocky hillside.

Finally, I stopped and started to consider my predicament as I stared down at the precipice below me – which I could imagine was a giant monster with jagged teeth just waiting for me to fall into its mouth. I actually don’t like heights – so this was a scary situation. Thoughts of doom swirled in my head – even that Bible story about the Devil tempting Jesus to throw himself down off the mountain.

Climbing higher wasn’t an option, and descending wasn’t going to work either. As I looked for some way out of this mess, I realized that the hillside far to my right was not so scary looking, just a normal hillside without all those rocks.

There’s hope at last!

I slowly moved parallel across the boulders and finally reached the edge of the rockslide. Soon I found a deer trail, which led me away from that jagged-toothed monster. Finally, I found my way back to camp and all was well.

I love the outdoors, but I’m not too keen on all the “dangerous” climbing.

I think I skipped the deer hunt in my senior year of high school because I was so busy in madrigals and choir – plus I had other interests at the time -- a girlfriend. Then during my first year at college, I was a football manager under Coach Hudspeth and Edwards, which meant we were busy with football during October.

Generic photo of Winchester 30-30. Where has it gone?

After my mission, deer hunting became a lot more challenging -- I was now on a leg prosthetic. What a pain in the butt, literally! Several times I tagged along with Merrill on some deer hunts. I even bought myself a Winchester 30-30, which I actually could tote and fire without too much pain. Dad had given Merrill his old WWII rifle – a 30-40 Craig without scope, but the few times I fired it in target practice, the recoil really got to me – felt like my shoulder was going to come apart!

I never had much luck hunting. I saw does now and then, but we weren’t allowed to shoot them – only bucks.

Merrill and Lee playing cards on hunt after Lee was married. 

Later, when my son Jason was old enough, he went hunting with me a couple of times. I remember one time when Merrill, his boys, me and Jason went hunting up on the back slope of the mountain range above Ogden. I had a small haul trailer at the time, which we dragged behind Merrill's truck up the rugged mountain dirt trail – the trailer bouncing madly behind us. We ended up high on the mountain. Early the next morning, Jason and I headed to a spot a couple hundred yards south of camp. I picked a spot on the higher edge of a gulley, hoping some buck would be flushed down to us by all the hunters up above. Well, all we accomplished was almost freezing to death. We just sat there for several hours because it was such a joke trying to get around on my prosthetic on the mountain trails. I think Jason had to have been bored out of his mind – but we were together. I’m pretty sure we had some good treats to eat while the sun slowly rose behind us but eventually started shining directly into our eyes. No deer – no hunters --- no critters. Just loads of quiet solitude.

I’m pretty sure that it was the next year when I was victorious in my quest to bring home some venison for my wife and children.

Nancy's photo of mule deer above Bear Lake, Utah, in 2006.

After several years of failed hunts, I had given up hope of even seeing a buck, let alone getting a shot at one, so I applied in 1989 and received a lottery license to hunt a western mule doe. Utah Wildlife was trying to manage the herds and realized the does were doing a lot of damage to farm crops in certain parts of the state. I remember heading out with Jason, Merrill, Rendall and several others down to an area in central Utah where my license was valid. We hunted together most of the day. I even rode with Rendall on the back of his mountain bike. They had to tie my prosthetic to the bike to keep it from falling off – or torn off. Actually, that little trick was pretty dangerous and scary, but I did survive.

When it was nearly time to head home and I still hadn’t seen a deer that I could shoot, Merrill suggested we go hunt down in the valley near some grain fields were the doe are likely to show up before dusk. We found a good spot, so it seemed, and Jason and I headed down the edge of a harvested grain field about 150 yards away from where Merrill was waiting in his pickup truck. I’m pretty sure that I had left my left leg back in the truck and headed out on my crutches, with Jason carrying my 30-30 Winchester over his back and lugging a lawn chair for me to sit in. Jason sat on
the ground next to me in my lawn chair for what seemed like a long

time – but it actually was probably less than an hour because when we arrived we knew it wouldn’t be long before it would be too dark to see or shoot.

Just when Merrill was getting antsy about leaving, he saw through his rifle’s scope a deer in a small opening across the field from where Jason and I were sitting. He was having a hard time not shooting the doe for me, waiting for me to take my shot. Then BAM, a rifle shot rings out and the doe collapses. But Merrill didn’t fire his rifle – I did! From somewhere around 250 yards, I hit that deer right in the neck and it bled out on the spot. Fortunately, Merrill did all the hard work after that, gutting the deer and hauling it back to his trick. Then when we arrived back at his house, he did all the butchering.

There's nothing like a good fresh
piece of cooked deer venison.

Nancy and the kids were at Merrill’s home when we arrived. I had returned victorious – the great white hunter. Having felled the beast with a single shot from an amazing distance. I was putting venison on the table for my growing family! But wait – not is all well here! When Nancy and the girls saw the doe dragged out of the truck and hoisted up with a rope from a joist in Merrill’s garage, there was pain in their eyes. I had actually shot Bambi’s mother. The proof was right there in front of them. I was now a dishonored warrior, banished to my own thoughts of glory and honor.  My one moment of deer hunting glory was ruined because I shot Bambi’s mother!

That was the last time I went hunting – too much trouble, too much money and not enough satisfaction.

I know, I know! You’re wondering about my near-death experience while hunting! Maybe you thought I had an accident with my rifle. Nope! But my grandfather Levi Alderman Hunt was killed as he crossed a fence and

Campfire photo taken by Nancy Hunt.

his rifle, which he had leaned on the fence post, tipped over and discharged.

My life-threatening ordeal happened way early in my deer-hunting days.

I was eleven years old – just months away from graduating from Primary. Dad, Merrill and I were up in one of the Cottonwood canyons at a campfire site on opening day of deer hunt – just the three of us. We must have been out hunting earlier and had returned to camp. Merrill and I were restless, so Dad told us to go over that hill crest just south of the camp and then go over east a couple hundred yards and then come back up over the hill toward camp. Maybe we could flush out some deer toward Dad who would be waiting in the shade down in camp. Merrill and I headed over the hill and went down a ways before going east the required 200 yards or so. Then Merrill started up and told me to go over another little ways and head back up over. Of course, we need to be very very quiet, because we were hunting a very smart critter (ala Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny).

When I came up over the crest of the hill and look down where the campfire and Dad were supposed to be, neither was there. Where did Dad go? I’m wondering if I went too far and ended up in the wrong place – or maybe I didn’t go far enough. So I started to backtrack down the hill and then went further east and – got really lost. I wandered for a couple of minutes, trying to get my bearings or find someone – anyone! Finally, I realized I was hopelessly lost – and in danger. I was totally aware of the tales of kids wandering off from their families and dying in the mountains. I started yelling for Dad and Merrill, hoping they would hear me. At that point I wasn’t worried about spooking those critters!! There were no yells back from Dad or Merrill, and I didn’t have anything on me to get their attention – no whistle, no gun to fire to alert them to the lost runt!  

Then I remembered what we had recently been studying in Primary about prayer and faith – if we truly have faith and pray, our Father in Heaven will help us.  

I knew I really needed his help, and the time to pray was right then and not later. So I got down on my knees up against the side of the deer trail and prayed to my Father in Heaven. I prayed that I could find Dad and Merrill or that I could just find someone – anyone.

When I stood back up and started down the deer trail, I again started yelling for help. Suddenly in the distance, I could hear (that’s when I had good hearing!) someone yelling back at me. I followed the trail, which was headed toward the person who was hollering back at me. I soon came upon a group of hunters sitting around a fire.

I was finally safe!

One of the men fired his rifle several times in quick succession – which was a signal to other hunters that someone was in distress or danger. A few minutes later, Dad and Merrill showed up! The little runt was safe.

As we headed back to camp, Dad explained that after Merrill and I had originally left camp, he had put out the campfire and headed over to meet up with us. So, in fact, I did come up over the hill correctly, but the site looked different because Dad had left – and the fire was out.

Was it coincidence that I came upon those other hunters? Was it just luck that I didn’t panic more than I did and wander way out of the way? Was it just a coincidence that I prayed and almost immediately found help?

What would you do?

I’ve always attributed my rescue to providence – my Father in Heaven answering a young boy’s prayer. 

Rendall, Merrill, Heather, Jason, Lee, Kenneth in front of
Lee's station wagon and camp trailer.

Nancy and Lee with family outside camper trailer and car.

Epilogue on camping: After Nancy and I were fledgling parents, we were always taking the kids camping. Our favorite camping times were while we owned a 16-foot camping trailer, which we pulled with our red station wagon. I remember numerous trips up Little Cottonwood Canyon to Tanner Flats – our favorite nearby spot. We also camped many times in Provo Canyon. More than once we traveled to Flaming Gorge, pulling our trailer up the steep roads to the giant reservoir in the tops of the Uinta Mountains.

Nancy caught some trout on camping
trip in High Uintas in 2008.

Evie Wentz with Grandpa Hunt on
camping trip in High Uintas in 2008.

Eric Westwood coming out of our
tent trailer on Bear Lake trip in 2005.

One time we had sort of a family gathering with Bruce, Chris and their family, one of Chris’ brother’s family and Phil Scarbrough’s family down in a campground just outside Zions National Park. Most were in tents, but we were in our 16-foot trailer; and Phil and his family, including their two boys Jason and Jared, were in a 30-foot-plus motorhome. Pretty fancy.

Later, we sold our trailer and bought Joann and Dave’s tent trailer.

We only had it for about four years. After that, we bought a two-room large tent, which we used at Red Fish Lake in Idaho and another time when we camped in a Cottonwood Canyon with Brian, Jody Smith and their kids.

OK, kids! Now ask your parents about their memories of camping when they were kids!