Dennis Anderson: Camp Ripley packs 'em in tight and sends 'em home happy

CAMP RIPLEY — Hunting here really is a believe-it-or-not story.

Two times a year, both in October, more than 2,000 archers are allowed into this 53,000-acre compound to hunt for deer.

Other, special deer hunts are also held in autumn, one for youth archers and others for veterans or active-duty military. A spring turkey hunt or two is also offered, again usually for those who are in the military, or have been.

But the big archery hunts are doled out by lottery, and no military experience is required. Some archers apply every year, and most are happy if they're picked every other autumn, or two out of three.

This year, during the second two-day hunt, my two sons and I won permits as a group -- meaning we applied together knowing we would either each be given a permit, or none would. What follows is an annotated diary of that hunt.

Friday, Oct. 26

Ripley is a camping experience as well as a bow-hunting one, so my pickup camper needed to be loaded. Clothes. Boots. Food. Water. Bows, arrows, broadheads, a portable practice target, mechanical releases, portable stands, climbing sticks, safety harnesses. The list seemed endless.

Also I was having trouble with my bow. The screws holding my quiver onto the bow needed tightening, and my sight had worked itself loose. I put a wrench to work before throwing about 30 arrows at a target. Then I called it good.

We would be pulling an old trailer of mine to carry gear and (possibly) deer carcasses. Painted camouflage and only theoretically enclosed, the rig appears a wreck. "That thing gives us a real red-neck look," said Cole, my 12-year-old.

We departed, finally, about 6 p.m., or about six hours after many of the 2,000 or so hunters began lining up at Ripley's gate.

For many veterans of this hunt, arriving early is part of the Ripley "experience." It's also good strategy, because those who arrive first are placed at the head of a long double line that, beginning at 6 a.m. the morning of the hunt, begins snaking its way northward, into the portion of the camp open to archers.

The Ripley hunt has been held many years, organized by the Department of Natural Resources in conjunction with the Minnesota Department of Military Affairs.

At one time it was a 30-day event, with hunters, essentially, being allowed to come and go as they please. Even civilians could access the base back then, some of the prostitute variety.

That's far from the case today. Guards are posted at all entrances, and hunters wishing access must show a special DNR permit as well as identification.

When we arrived, about 10 p.m., we were greeted by a tired man in a pickup, blue light flashing.

"You going to park that thing in line?" he asked. I said we were, and he directed us into the woods, along a dusty road.

When I finally shut off the truck's engine I had a motorhome in front of me, a couple of tent campers scattered in a field to my left, and the Mississippi River to my right.

Outside, the night was chilly and windy. Inside, I turned on the heater, organized clothing and gear for the morning and got the boys tucked in.

It was midnight when I set the alarm for 4:45 a.m.

Saturday, Oct. 27

I had planned to make French toast, but in the interest of expedience the boys and I settled for eggs, sausage, orange juice and toast. Pickup campers aren't big, and the usual scramble to get ready ensued, everyone elbowing everyone.

By 6 a.m., when the line was scheduled to begin moving, we were in the truck, heater cranked up. But we were so far back in line, we didn't turn a wheel until 6:45. And it was more than an hour later, at 8 a.m., that we finally parked at our hunting spot.

This is the believe-it-or-not part of the hunt. Unlike in any other archery hunt -- or any proper hunt, really -- participants here expect to run into other hunters, in some cases lots of them. The hope is they don't reach your chosen spot before you do, and if they do, that you can find an alternative location easily, without wasting too much time.

The good news: No one was where we wanted to be, and soon we were in the woods.

Trevor can set up his own stand, and he did. Not far away, I climbed into a tree to hang a stand for Cole. And not far from it, I hung one for myself.

The attraction of Ripley is not so much that archers will bag a deer -- only about one in 10 does that. But that they might bag a deer of a lifetime, something like the 255-pounder (field-dressed) that would be killed on the hunt's first day (though not by us).

Trevor could have killed a doe or two that morning, but he was hunting bucks, as was Cole, who saw only one deer from his stand, the same number I saw. The afternoon unfolded similarly, with Trevor seeing deer near him, including a fork buck, and Cole and I encountering a few does, but nothing worthy of an arrow.

A rule of the Ripley hunt is that all archers have to return to the entry checkpoint each evening by 7:30 p.m. If you've shot a deer, DNR technicians will register it and might weigh it and age it. Otherwise, you're free to line up again for the next morning's hunt, or to return to your tent, camper trailer or other RV to cook dinner. And sleep.

We got in line, and on a small grill placed on the dusty camp road, I cooked dinner. This was just about the time our heater stopped working and our camper lights dimmed. It would be a cold night.

Sunday, Oct. 28

Parked much closer to the head of the line this time, we started moving about 6:15 a.m. Setting up stands in the same spot, approximately, we again saw does, some within range, but no bucks.

Sitting in my tree, I thought: Ripley isn't for everyone. Hunting with hordes of others is a little weird. The camping can be inconvenient. The roads are dusty, bumpy or both. And nine out of 10 hunters go home with nothing.

Still, it's an opportunity like no other because the country is like no other. And at the end of the day, everyone wins: hunting opportunity is expanded, and the size of the camp's whitetail herd is kept in check.

By dark, the boys and I had left Ripley, having never slung an arrow. We smiled all the way south.