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Yes, there are spiritual moments at the hunting shack.
Last weekend we had not only a burning-of-the-shoes ceremony, a very significant and sanctimonious event, but we also held a burning-of-the-pants which elevated our deer camp onto a metaphysical plane rarely visited by deer hunters.
The added touch of fireworks, dropped covertly into the pyre while our attention was elsewhere, was riveting, especially for the camp member leaning down to light a cigar over the fire.
The burning-of-the-shoes is a tradition that goes back to the early days of deer camp as an effort to rid the shack of mice. Actually, it was a simple act to rid a the camp member’s shoes of mice, which had set up a quite a nest in the toe of a shoe. The camp member decided to honor the shoes by destroying them, something that is done across this great land every waking day.

The shoes glowed in the campfire for most of the night, providing a light that we hadn’t seen before, a pontifical light that told of the struggle of nations, of suffering and plight and redemption. It was a mesmerizing light that turned into a small spinning galaxy that glowed like the Milky Way, that told the story of the beginning of universe, of a time way before the advent of industrial farming methods and fast food restaurants. Primal dust and gases formed into stars that then exploded and sent heavenly material outward, turning into planets and Chevrolets.   

The pants were a different story but we decided to honor them the same way. The fact that they were spendy pants, made in a foreign country, of course, but priced like gold, celebrated our nation’s giving it up to blind progress. Nothing like blind progress to keep democracy on track.
The pants arrived quite by accident as do most revelations.
The camp motorcycle was filled with gas by one of the younger camp members but was quickly spirited away by another young camp member, a prankster. He roared off down the trail at high speed, scattering flocks of snow buntings. By the time he got to the shack, miles later, he’d noticed the telltale signs of a gas leak all over his spendy pants, made in a foreign country, but priced like gold.

Someone had forgotten to put the gas cap back on the machine, and the pants were soaked with petrol. We ordered the young hunter to immediately give up the pants. They nearly exploded as they hit the flames.
We danced in the glowing light of the pants.
But all things must pass.
The Exalted Shack Master said enough was enough and he barged past the celebration with his portable butchering unit, complete with headlights and protective shield. The Exalted Shack Master designed the unit so that he wouldn’t get his hands dirty when cutting up venison. It is mounted on wide-track tires and has a steering wheel and protective rubber arms that are designed for handling sensitive nuclear materials in controlled situations. There is a certain amount of lead in the unit to protect against gamma and x-ray radiation that may be emitted from a deer. 

The Exalted Shack Master found that the unit is a bit cumbersome when it rolls out of its special anti-matter shed to butcher a deer. Several years ago he added robotics to the machine and kiddingly named it “Hal.” 
Hal began to read books and play around with language and seemed to be a rather likable sort, though he began to offer his thoughts on how to run the camp--his way. The Exalted Shack Master did remind Hal he was the boss, not some machine.
Hal said, Ok, Ok. Just thought this was a “democratic” camp and the two began to trade insults but never fisticuffs. Hal began to drink but was a happy drunk and knew every Toivo and Eino joke ever told.
One year the unit got away on its own and with headlights blazing visited many local camps, and returned only after drinking too many brandy Manhattans and eating all sorts of pickled foods.

Hal had begun to feel the stirrings of shack mentality but because he was a machine it was entirely possible that he’d take it the wrong way.