| POSEY HOLLOW
A Place to Hunt—A Time to Heal
By Daniel Boyd
“I’m just afraid you kids don’t love this mountain like we do,” Dougie Fries, 63, says to me, as we sit on the porch on the evening before the first day of buck season. Though I am 50 years old, I am not surprised that Dougie still calls me a kid. I actually like it. All of us sons of the earliest members of the Posey Hollow Gun Club will remain “kids” until all of those members have gone to that happy hunting ground in the sky.
 For as long as I can remember, my dad and his mates have been my respected elders. As life continues to change, I still count on them for guidance. As a group, we share a nearly 50-year history, bound by this special place, where we gather annually to hunt—and to heal.
Today, young men’s passions are divided among dozens of options. But my dad and his friends, who were children of the Depression, had far fewer recreational activities available to them. For them, hunting was doubly important. It was not only recreational, but it also put food on the table.
As these boys became young adults, got married, and began to have children, hunting was not only their passion but an acceptable leisure-time activity in a conservative era. Their wives understood that losing them to the woods was the lesser of many other evils.
As kids, my dad and his pals could practically hunt in their own backyards. A 10-mile walk to shoot a rabbit was nothing to them. Yet, as they got older and time grew tighter due to work and family obligations, time to hunt became even more precious. As land was developed and the men matured to hunting the ultimate game in West Virginia—deer—they had to travel farther to satisfy their passion. They began to dream of having their own place to hunt.
Through a chance encounter in Berkeley Springs in April 1958, a few of my dad’s friends heard of a place that was for sale in Morgan County. Within 24 hours they had scouted the property––88 acres isolated on the western slope of Sleepy Creek Mountain, bordering Sleepy Creek Wildlife Management Area. Original Posey Hollow member Paul Gregory, 75, told me that when they first walked the one mile from the nearest navigable road to the small cabin on the property, they jumped a flock of turkey. This was possibly the rarest of legal game at that time in the Eastern Panhandle. If they hadn’t been hooked at first sight, Paul said, they were hooked then. They contacted their core group of hunting buddies and scrapped together a deposit to hold the property.
 There was only one problem, however: among them, these men barely had two free nickels to rub together. They were blue-collar workers struggling to provide the American dream for their families. Many of them had just bought, or were trying to buy, their first homes.
But somehow, the 15 friends secured a bank loan for $4,500. (In subsequent years, other members, including Dougie Fries, joined the group.) Though the payment was just $10 a month for each cosigner, it was a serious financial burden in those times. Paul took a second job as a janitor to cover his monthly share.
Incorporated as the Posey Hollow Gun Club, the friends had the foresight to borrow $1,000 more than the sale price. Soon they began building onto the one-room cabin, which lacked electricity and indoor plumbing. In fact, there wasn’t even a well on the property. Cobbling together whatever materials they could, they added, within a year, a large bunk room and a kitchen. Soon thereafter they made a dining room. To me, as a small child, the structure seemed to unfold like Disneyland’s castle.
Improvements to the cabin continued throughout the 1960s and ’70s. The novelty of the outhouse had become less novel with every passing winter. Thus, with indoor plumbing came flush toilets. A furnace salvaged from an elementary school took the pressure off the cherished wood-burning stove to provide all of the heat to the expanded habitat. A crude TV antenna, even in the middle of nowhere, allowed us to tune in to two or three regional stations that carried the Thanksgiving week football games of our beloved Washington Redskins and WVU Mountaineers. Posey Hollow became paradise.
 Deer season at the camp is traditionally a men-only activity, but wives and daughters and families can use the cabin at other times of the year. And while the property was purchased mainly as a hunting camp, over the years, it has become much more than just a place to shoot a deer.
Club members have become each other’s extended family; dad’s mates are my uncles and their sons are my cousins. In years past, we boys played sports in heated school rivalries in the three counties of the Eastern Panhandle. But we always rooted for each other. We continue this tradition today with our own children.
Other rituals and traditions emerged in our camp as well. The week was a free zone for drinking, cussing, and ruthless teasing—things that might be considered “bad.” But now that I’m older, I see the good lessons the elders provided us. We boys learned that there is a time and a place for everything. We were taught to respect society’s rules in everyday life. We knew that camp was one time and place where “boys could be boys.” We also got a chance to see our fathers as human beings. They were actually fun and, in many ways, goofier than us!
The late 1960s and early 1970s were a time of extreme conflict between generations. But at deer camp, the costumes we wore to navigate the modern world were put away. More than just fostering a truce between generations, this place was where we were fathered without judgment. No matter how much we may have “screwed up” in our lives during the year, we were okay at deer camp.
 At Posey Hollow, the forest was also our classroom, with nature the text. When we were old enough to carry a gun, we were first taught proper firearm safety. When we had proven to be responsible, we graduated to shooting at makeshift targets. During many hours walking on the mountain, the ways of nature were explained to us. It was not just about killing, our fathers said. To earn that privilege we had to first appreciate the delicate balance between man and nature. We learned the habits of wildlife and were taught the importance of game laws and regulations.
The Sunday night before the start of buck season was, and still is, like Christmas Eve to boy and man alike at Posey Hollow. The anticipation of the hunt, along with the thrill of reuniting, makes for a most joyous occasion. The reunion is celebrated with hugs, life catch-ups, reminiscing, and absolutely the best meals we eat all year. These old men can cook!
Most members try to quell their excitement and get to bed at a reasonable time that first night, in preparation for the pre-dawn hike to their staked stands. But not me. In high school I realized that hunting was just not my cup of tea, so I stopped. I can’t really explain it. It’s just one of those things you know. My hunting is done with a camera, rather than a rifle.
I feared I would lose face among my elders and peers when I finally fessed up, but no one cared in the slightest. As long as I was happy, they were happy. And what makes me happy is eating, drinking, and staying up late with my deer camp family—in general, putting myself back together from the knocks and bangs of life.
 So every year, on the first morning of buck season, I join the others for a very early breakfast, wish them luck, and then go back to bed. Last year, as I was headed back to my bunk, C. B. Sisson, 43, told me to put in a good word to the higher powers for him. It seemed like I had just gone back to sleep when C. B. woke me to tell me he had shot a spike buck.
Soon thereafter, third-generation member Ryan Sullivan, 27, came in with the second buck of the morning, a three-pointer. Within the hour, Dougie’s son-in-law, Terry Barney, 49, hiked back to request help to drag his deer out—the biggest so far with a four-point rack. It was a great start to the season for the Posey Hollow Gun Club, but the “King” had yet to weigh in.
My dad, Ned Boyd, is truly the King of the Mountain. At 76, he has survived so many cataclysmic illnesses I call him Lazarus. He is loved and respected by all at Posey Hollow, not only for his hunting skills but because he has always been a supportive friend to this family. That morning, we just shook our heads as he rounded the corner with his trophy 11-point buck. Long live the King!
Our fathers, who once partied “like it was 1999” at deer camp, now spend more and more time sleeping in their row of tattered La-z-boy chairs. Liquor shots have been replaced by blood pressure pills. Exotic videos (originally 8mm films) have given way to network TV Christmas specials. We, the sons and grandsons, chuckle when they lecture us on our excesses. Has age taken their memories, we wonder?
As this first generation enters its golden years, we lose more of them, and those close to them, each year. Five original members have already left for that eternal, happy hunting ground. One original member, O. W. “Pean” Long, 71, told me that the cabin was a godsend to him in the weeks following his wife, Darlene’s, recent death. Pean’s older brother, Ralph, 77 and also a Posey Hollow member, found every opportunity to take him to the cabin under the auspices of preparing for buck season.
At the end of the week, I am always sad to leave deer camp and return to the unpredictable pressures and challenges of everyday life. Yet, in that short time, I have healed. I’ve gotten enough of a dose of who I really am to last me at least until next year. For sure, I feel better than I did when I arrived.
I think about Dougie Fries’s fear that the next generation will not appreciate this place the way the founders do. And perhaps he is right. We sons may not love this mountain exactly the same way our fathers do, but in our own way, we love it just as much. In a world of uncertainty, I know without a doubt that the Posey Hollow Gun Club will continue. Such goodness must be preserved and passed on. We’ll see to that.
Daniel Boyd is a communications professor at West Virginia State University, an award-winning filmmaker, and a three-time professional wrestling champion.
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Sharing an Ancient Tradition
