The Haliburton whitetail tradition

In every good hunt camp there’s a mood, a blend of confidence, excitement, and expectation. It’s born of dusty antlers hanging on the wall and it reflects off dog-eared photos showing meat poles heavy with venison. It radiates from well-worn rifles in the rack and echoes proud voices that repeat tales of hunts gone by. The best camps collect this aura until it becomes a palpable part of the building. The Cooper Hunt Camp has this in spades. Inside Haliburton’s Oldest Hunt Camp Nestled snugly in the vast expanses of the Haliburton Wildlife Forest Reserve near West Guilford, this camp, the oldest of 22 within the reserve, celebrated its 114th anniversary last deer season. With such a venerable history, it’s no wonder traditions are rife here. The 3,000-acre lease is, for the most part, covered in hardwood ridges, cedar swamps, and Canadian Shield lakes. It’s classic big-woods hunting terrain, where the rifle is king and good hounds are cherished. I arrived the night before the hunt, just before dinner. In the gloaming, the sallow light from propane lan­terns bled through the bunkhouse windows and cast a glow on the snow outside. From a distance, the whole scene took on the appearance of an old sporting-magazine cover. It was timeless and rugged, absolutely at home in its surroundings. As I stepped through the door, Earl Cooper — at 72, the eldest member of the camp — introduced me to his crew of nine hunters. They came from all walks of life, banker to mechanic, truck driver to com­puter technician, from all over the province and beyond. Music, stories, and camaraderie At 5 p.m. sharp the music started. Earl took up the fiddle and nephew Donald began plucking at the mandolin. The boys suddenly lost all pretext of gruffness and sat back and smiled. Requests were honoured and then the music gave way to the typical hunt camp dis­cussions that filled every corner. Here, it was about peep sights, scopes, and favoured cali­bres. There, tales of old bucks and does. All of it was mingled with speculation as to where the deer would be. Old friends caught up. Old jokes were retold. Stories were embellished. Simply put, it was the sound of camaraderie. The rustic cabin was abuzz with the renewal of friendships. You could hear it in the sharing of coffee, the pouring of Scotch, the bold-faced lies, the laughter, and