Perry, Georgia – I’m walking through an exhibit hall at the Georgia National Fairgrounds. This is the second day of the show put on by the Georgia Wildlife Federation, and they call it Buckarama. If you like guns, camo, and jerky, this is the place to be.

And knives. There are approximately a bazillion knives here. Bone handles, antler handles, wood handles, resin handles. It’s hard to look at a good knife and not want to hold it.

I hunted a lot in my younger days. It was easy because I had hundreds of acres out my back door that was “in the family,” and I had roaming rights by birth. I took my first 8-point buck when I was 13. I was hooked.

I have not hunted deer much in the last couple of decades, but I still get the itch when the first leaves begin to fall. So, when Marion asked me, “You wanna go to the Buckarama?” I tossed my hat in, and we went.

The hunt has changed a lot since the 60s and 70s. Use to be that if you had a warm pair of waterproof boots, a canvas pair of pants, a dark jacket of some kind, a few bullets and a trusty rifle, you were ready to hunt. If we did anything fancy, it might be that we scrubbed an apple on the bottom of our boots to help mask our scent.

These days, unless you’ve got $1500 worth of gear, you’re not ready.

First of all, the hunting world is drowning in camo. Every stitch of what a hunter wears into the woods is covered in some kind of camo pattern. The shirt, the pants, the coat, the coveralls, the hat, the gloves, the face netting, the socks. I’m pretty sure I saw camo boxers and belts.

I’m also pretty sure a deer can’t see my underwear.

Dad and I bagged quite a few deer without ever having any camo. Although deer have a wide range of peripheral sight and can detect movement better than you and me, they can’t see clearly past about 20 feet. At 50 yards they couldn’t tell a solid brown pair of hunting pants from the best camo in the world, as long as you don’t move.

“Stand like a tree,” Dad always said. “They’ll smell you before they ever see you.”

Even the guns and the scopes are camo.

Then, the deer stands here are insane. They’re like little hotel rooms. Five-grand for a small one. I’m looking at one that is mounted on a trailer with stabilizer legs. Evidently, you’re supposed to tow this thing out into a field (no way you could ever get it into the woods), park it, turn the hand-crank to raise the stand, crawl up inside where you can make coffee, stay dry, and wait for a buck to come by.

I admit, the plywood and 2×4 stands nailed up in a tree that I used to hunt out of are not comfortable. But this is hunting. After about an hour, your hind cheeks are tingling. Your fingers are numb. You’re praying for the sun to get up and warm your frozen face. The stand cost nothing because it was made from whatever scraps you had laying around the barn.

We walked by one booth that got our attention. Four young bucks pitching a chance to win a Mossberg .30-06 bolt action rifle. And, yep, it was covered in camo.

“Just hold it for a minute,” the young fella says to me. “You won’t want to put it down.”

I’m holding the gun. It feels light. The stock sits well against my shoulder.

“All you have to do,” he says “is buy a piece of merch and that gets you in the drawing for the gun.”

They were fine young men. Boyish looks. Curly locks hanging out from under their hunting caps. Big smiles and easy talkers. Marion stepped right in asking them about what kind of trucks they drove. That started a lot of banter about Chevy versus Ram.

Come to find out they’re from Cairo, Georgia and they know some friends of mine from down that way. They have a YouTube channel called Feathered Tines, which is all about, you guessed it, hunting. We bought a hat and a T-shirt with their logo on it, but they haven’t called me about winning the gun.

When we walked into exhibit hall #2, the sounds of duck calls and deer grunts filled the air. Almost every booth featured an array of small hand-held devices designed to lure in your game of choice. The guy scratching the turkey call made me look twice.

At the far end of the building was a husband and wife promoting their meat smoker. An obvious draw for Marion. They were instant friends, talking the lingo of how smokers work. Smoke-flow over and under the grates. Fire boxes. Counter weighted doors.

“We can custom make anything you want,” they said.

Which is why Marion took one of their cards, because her Bubba Smoker won’t last forever.

While we were standing there, I heard the distinct call of a Barred Owl. I have Barred Owls in the woods around my house. I hear them before dawn and after dusk. Sometimes, I get a glimpse of one as it floats away between the trees and disappears up into the canopy.

Johnny is from over around Talladega, Alabama. He’s hunted and called about every game animal you can imagine.

“Did I just hear a Barred Owl?” I was asking because I wanted him to do it again.

“Sure did,” he said.

He picked up a sleek piece of wood about the size of the end of a small baseball bat. When he put it to his lips, I could hear the owls around my house. I could imagine me having a conversation with them. I could see me using this thing to call to my buddies and the fun I’d have doing it.

So, I paid the man.

Now Johnny made it look easy. I did not take into consideration the fact that he had probably spent twenty or more years of his life perfecting his call.

When we got home, later that evening, darkness was approaching. I took my call out of the sack and went out on the back porch to try my lips out on this thing. In my mind, this little piece of wood would do all the work. All I had to do was provide the air.

I was mistaken.

The first attempt sounded something like a wounded water buffalo, and I’m not even sure what that sounds like. I just know it didn’t sound like an owl. Not even close.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I proceeded to scare off the local community of Barred Owls. If there were any in my woods that night, I’m sure by now that they have moved to Alabama.

Unbeknownst to me, Marion was recording my practice session. When she played it back, it was so awful. We laughed until our stomachs hurt.

I’ll let you know when I get better.