Camping in December: Because Hypothermia Builds Character

The calendar may say December, but any seasoned outdoor enthusiast knows that nature does not consult human schedules. There is a peculiar blend of dread and anticipation that comes with packing your tent and sleeping bag when others are lighting fireplaces and pouring hot cocoa. Yet, as the winter of 2025 settles in, defined by powerful winter storms sweeping across the United States with heavy snow, ice, and severe weather warnings, the call of the cold outdoors has never sounded both more treacherous and more irresistible. Winter camping is not merely an activity; it is an immersive test of preparation, resilience, and, as many will insist, character-building. The bitter chill, the long nights, and the thawing sunrise all conspire to teach lessons that no summer outing can deliver.

This year’s winter conditions provide an apt backdrop for understanding the stakes of December camping. A major storm system sweeping from the Plains to the Northeast brought heavy snow, freezing rain, and dangerously low temperatures to large swaths of the country, creating hazardous conditions that disrupted travel and challenged even well-prepared outdoor adventurers. This storm illustrates the unpredictable and severe weather campers may confront on a cold-weather trip, reminding even the most confident backcountry enthusiasts that nature rules the terrain, not human intentions (AP News, 2025). Meanwhile, in California’s Sierra Nevada, recent avalanches triggered by snowmobilers have underscored the real risks associated with winter recreation in backcountry terrain, warning campers and hikers that deep snow and unstable conditions can shift from picturesque to perilous in moments (SF Chronicle, 2025).

But for those who embrace winter camping, these weather events are not deterrents; they are context. They are the challenge that makes the reward of a winter night by the fire so memorable. Setting up camp beneath a sky freckled with stars and waking to the crunch of frost underfoot brings a sense of achievement that no mild autumn hike can match. The solitude of a winter trail—where footprints may be scarce and silence deep—is a powerful contrast to the crowded summer campgrounds. Winter’s stillness offers a space for reflection, a chance to reconnect with the raw elements and test one’s limits against their own expectations.

Preparation differentiates those who suffer from those who thrive. The right gear—a sleeping bag rated for sub-freezing temperatures, insulating layers, high-quality footwear, and reliable tent stakes designed for frozen ground—is not optional. Unlike temperate weather camping, in winter anything less than optimal equipment quickly becomes a liability. Additionally, awareness of local conditions and advisories is crucial. The National Park Service, for example, regularly updates visitors on winter sports opportunities and weather alerts, emphasizing safe enjoyment of parks even in cooler months. Such guidance can make the difference between a memorable adventure and a dangerous situation. A well-planned strategy acknowledges both the beauty and the threat inherent in winter landscapes.

Learning to read the signs of winter weather is part of the craft. Clouds that herald snow squalls, wind that pierces even the warmest layers, and the creeping numbness of fingertips are all part of the language of cold-weather camping. These experiences sharpen judgment and foster respect for the environment. Campers learn to make decisions grounded not in bravado but in preparation and patience. Perhaps more importantly, winter camping teaches adaptability. Gear fails, conditions shift, and plans must change. The ability to adjust without panic builds confidence that carries beyond the trail.

Morning after a cold night outdoors brings its own rewards. The sun rising over frost-laced trees casts golden light that seems to glow all the more because of the darkness endured. Brewing hot coffee in a thermos on a frigid morning feels like a triumph. Friends and fellow campers share laughs over stiff gloves and frozen zippers, acknowledging that every shiver and early wake-up was part of the story worth telling. These moments forge memories stronger than any tale told by a summer fire.

Camping in December is not for everyone, and that is its charm. It demands respect for the elements, a keen awareness of weather conditions, and a commitment to safety. Yet the lessons learned—self-reliance, preparedness, patience, and appreciation for nature’s quieter seasons—are the real treasures of winter camping. In a world increasingly crowded and frenetic, the character built through uncomfortable cold nights and clear, star-filled skies is always earned, never given. In embracing the chill, campers find something glad and enduring, a reminder that occasionally stepping beyond comfort expands one’s sense of possibility.

References

AP News. (2025, December). Winter storm sweeps across US with snow, ice and severe weather.

SF Chronicle. (2025, December). Snowmobilers set off large avalanche in California avalanche search and rescue.

Shot Placement: Everyone Agrees Until the Deer Is Down

There are few phrases in the hunting world that carry more authority, certainty, and retrospective wisdom than “shot placement.” It is spoken with confidence before the hunt, with conviction after the hunt, and with absolute clarity by people who were not present at the moment of truth.

The image of the deer target says it all. There it stands—broadside, relaxed, perfectly still, with a brightly painted vital zone that might as well be labeled “Just Put It Here.” No wind. No brush. No quartering angle. No racing heartbeat. No buck fever. No twig that materializes out of thin air the moment you settle the crosshairs. Just a calm woodland scene and a deer that has clearly agreed to participate in your training exercise.

Real deer, however, did not attend this meeting.

In theory, shot placement is beautifully simple. Hunters have memorized the diagrams. They know the lungs, the heart, the shoulder line, and the ethical angles. They can recite the rules with the precision of a medical student. In camp, everyone nods. On the internet, everyone is an expert. On targets like this one, everyone is a surgeon.

Then comes the moment.

The deer moves. Or doesn’t. Or does something halfway between the two that physics textbooks have not yet explained. The wind shifts. Your foot falls asleep. Your release feels different. The animal is “quartering slightly,” which later turns out to mean anywhere from five degrees to “basically walking away.” The shot breaks. Time slows. And suddenly shot placement is no longer a concept—it’s a responsibility.

What follows is the reenactment.

Every hunter knows this ritual. A stick appears. The ground becomes a canvas. Angles are drawn. Distances are exaggerated. The phrase “right where I was aiming” is deployed with sincerity. Someone else nods, because they were there, and because someday it will be their turn. Each retelling nudges the impact point a little closer to the center of that painted circle.

Then comes the equipment phase.

Shot placement matters more than caliber, someone says—immediately before explaining why their caliber is the only ethical choice known to man. Bows, bullets, arrows, broadheads, grains, feet per second—all summoned as supporting evidence in a trial that no one asked to convene. The target deer, serene and unbothered, watches silently from the forest, its painted rings glowing with quiet judgment.

Eventually, reality enters on its knees.

The tracker looks at the ground. Blood is described using words that carry deep meaning in this world: good, sparse, frothy, dark, questionable. Conversations become shorter. Confidence fades into focus. Shot placement is no longer funny. It is practical, immediate, and humbling.

This is where the humor gives way to the truth hunters actually share but don’t always say out loud: almost everyone is trying to do the right thing. Ethical intent is real. Imperfection is unavoidable. And honesty about shots—good, bad, and ugly—is far more respectable than pretending the painted circle always wins.

The target deer is not a lie. It is a reminder. It shows what we aim for, not what always happens. It teaches anatomy without adrenaline, discipline without pressure, and humility without consequences. It exists so the real deer doesn’t have to teach harder lessons.

And that may be the greatest joke of all.

Because despite all the arguments, diagrams, debates, and post-hunt philosophy, the one rule that actually holds is this: do your best, know your limits, own the result, and tell the truth around the fire.

Shot placement isn’t about perfection. It’s about responsibility—preferably learned on foam, under calm skies, with a deer that never moves at all.

When the Hunt Bites Back: How Ticks Are Reshaping Wildlife, Hunting, and Outdoor Risk

A hunter can do everything right in the woods: read the wind, stay quiet, move with patience, and make a clean shot. Yet the most consequential “contact” of the day may happen without sound, blood trail, or even awareness. A tick is small enough to miss in the field, but large enough—through disease, wildlife impacts, and changing land conditions—to alter how people hunt and how game animals survive. Over the last several decades, ticks have become more than a nuisance on the edge of a sock. They now function as a practical risk factor that influences hunter behavior, field routines, wildlife health, and even management decisions in some regions.

Ticks are often casually grouped with insects, but they are arachnids, related to mites and spiders. This matters because their anatomy and feeding strategy are specialized for prolonged attachment and blood-feeding. Their success comes from patience and efficiency: they wait in vegetation, sense host cues, attach, feed for extended periods, and can transmit pathogens in the process. For hunters who spend long hours in brushy edges, grass, leaf litter, and game trails, the conditions of a “good hunting spot” can also be the conditions of ideal tick habitat (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention [CDC], 2024a).

Ticks thrive where hunting happens

Many hunting methods place people in tick habitat by design. Still-hunting and stalking push hunters through brush and leaf litter. Ground blinds and turkey setups keep hunters low and still near field edges. Tracking and blood trailing move hunters off trails and into dense cover. Even routine chores—setting cameras, checking stands, dragging game, and field dressing—create long exposure windows. The CDC emphasizes that ticks are commonly encountered in wooded and brushy areas with high grass and leaf litter, and that avoiding contact often means staying in the center of trails—advice that directly conflicts with how many hunters move through productive terrain (CDC, 2024a).

Tick risk is also seasonal in a way that overlaps hunting calendars. Early archery seasons, upland bird seasons, and fall scouting often occur when ticks are active and when temperatures encourage lighter clothing. When combined with sweat, kneeling, crawling, and pushing through cover, the practical reality is that hunters can rack up repeated exposures across a single weekend.

The life cycle that multiplies exposure

Ticks do not feed once and disappear. They develop through life stages (egg, larva, nymph, adult), and many species require multiple blood meals to complete their life cycle. In practical terms, a hunter can encounter different stages in different microhabitats and seasons. Nymphs are especially problematic from a human-risk standpoint because they are small and can be harder to detect, while still capable of transmitting pathogens (CDC, 2025). This is one reason hunters may come home feeling fine, only to discover a tick later or develop symptoms after a delay.

Range expansion and longer seasons change the “old map”

Historically, hunters learned local tick patterns the way they learned local wind, thermals, and terrain: by experience. But experience becomes less reliable when conditions change. Multiple research efforts have documented that key tick species are expanding their ranges and shifting distribution patterns, with climate conditions playing a role in survival, seasonal activity, and establishment in new areas (Gardner et al., 2020; Eisen et al., 2023). For hunters, this is more than a scientific abstraction. It means places that “never used to be a tick problem” can become a tick problem, and the window of risk can widen.

USGS reporting on surveillance and research efforts highlights concern that climate change can lengthen seasons favorable for ticks, creating more time and opportunity for spread (U.S. Geological Survey, 2025). While the details differ by species and region, the practical takeaway for hunting culture is the same: the mental model of “tick season” is getting less predictable, and tick pressure can appear earlier, last longer, or show up in new habitat types.

What ticks do to wildlife that hunters pursue

Ticks affect hunting not only by biting hunters but by impacting the animals hunters pursue and the ecosystems those animals depend on. Heavy infestations can cause direct physiological stress—blood loss, irritation, and energy diversion—especially when infestations are intense and prolonged. Winter tick (Dermacentor albipictus), sometimes called the “moose tick,” provides a vivid example of how severe those impacts can be for large mammals. Federal and conservation sources note that winter ticks can infest large mammals heavily, with consequences that include hair loss, anemia, and in severe cases death (U.S. Geological Survey, 2025). The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service describes extreme tick loads on moose and reports substantial calf mortality associated with winter ticks in some areas, alongside efforts to explore biological control methods (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 2023).

For hunters, these wildlife impacts matter in at least four ways.

First, animal condition changes what hunters observe. Hair loss, lethargy, poor body condition, and unusual grooming behavior can all become field cues that something is wrong. In some regions, hunters may encounter animals carrying visible tick burdens or signs of chronic stress. This changes the emotional experience of the hunt and can create ethical questions about what a hunter is seeing and whether to report it.

Second, tick pressure can affect movement patterns. Animals under parasite stress may alter bedding, seek different microclimates, or shift activity periods. Even subtle changes can affect success, because hunting often depends on predicting routine patterns—feed, water, bedding, travel corridors. If tick-heavy edges or damp draws become less desirable to animals at certain times, hunters may see fewer sightings or altered travel routes.

Third, disease dynamics in wildlife can shape herd health. Some tick-borne pathogens affect domestic animals and wildlife and can influence population-level health metrics. While not every tick carries a pathogen, and not every bite transmits disease, the ecological role of ticks as vectors is well established across multiple U.S. tick-borne diseases (CDC, 2025). From the hunter’s perspective, the key point is not to diagnose a deer in the field, but to recognize that parasites and pathogens can be part of the population story—especially when agencies report regional spikes in tick abundance or tick-borne illness.

Fourth, in some regions, tick-driven wildlife impacts can feed back into management decisions. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service notes that winter ticks have been associated with very high calf mortality in Vermont in recent years, emphasizing the seriousness of the issue for wildlife managers (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 2023). Whether the management response is surveillance, research, habitat strategies, or population adjustments, hunters are stakeholders in that conversation.

The human cost: the hunt follows you home

For hunters, the primary human risk is not the bite itself but the diseases ticks can transmit. The CDC’s tick-borne disease materials emphasize that hunting brings people in close contact with ticks and encourages specific precautions for hunting season, including treating clothing and gear with 0.5% permethrin before hunting (CDC, 2020). This recommendation is echoed in CDC general prevention guidance, which explains that permethrin-treated clothing and gear can remain protective through several washings and that purchasing pre-treated clothing is an option (CDC, 2024a). State public health agencies provide similar prevention guidance, including permethrin-treated clothing and repellent use (California Department of Public Health, 2024).

The deeper problem is that tick-borne illness can be disruptive even when it is treatable, and it can be severe when diagnosis is delayed or when the illness is less familiar. The CDC’s clinician-focused manual on tick-borne diseases underscores the breadth of tick-borne diseases in the United States and the importance of appropriate prevention and recognition (CDC, 2025). For a hunting household, that translates into a practical reality: an exposure in the field can become weeks of uncertainty, medical visits, missed work, or lingering symptoms. It can also change how people participate in hunting—shorter sits, avoidance of certain cover, reduced enthusiasm for warm-weather scouting, or a shift to more “open” hunting styles.

Ticks also change family dynamics around hunting. Many hunters introduce children to the outdoors early, and the “after-hunt routine” increasingly includes tick checks, showering, and clothing handling. Hunters who travel to other states may also need to update prevention habits because tick species and risk profiles vary regionally.

How tick pressure changes hunting strategy

In practical terms, tick pressure alters hunting behavior in several predictable ways.

Clothing and movement choices shift. Hunters increasingly favor long pants even in warmth, tuck pants into socks or boots, and use gaiters. They may avoid kneeling in leaf litter, sit on pads, or use elevated stands more consistently. The CDC hunting-season guidance specifically recommends tucking pants into socks or boots as a barrier strategy, reinforcing this field logic (CDC, 2020).

Scouting and camera work become higher-risk exposures. A hunter may spend more time setting stands than hunting them, and that time often occurs in late summer and early fall, when vegetation is thick. Hunters may begin to choose routes that prioritize low tick contact rather than purely “quiet” approaches.

Time in the field may compress. In heavy tick conditions, a hunter might limit how long they remain in a ground blind or may avoid certain thickets even if those areas historically held deer. This can influence success rates, especially for hunters whose strategy depends on deep-cover patterns.

Scent-control routines can conflict with repellents. Some hunters worry that repellents will spook game or contaminate gear. Yet public health guidance continues to emphasize prevention. The result is a culture shift: prevention becomes part of the gear system, not an optional add-on.

Meat, ethics, and responsibility during field dressing

Ticks also show up at the most intimate point of the hunt: handling the animal. Field dressing and dragging game can bring hunters into contact with ticks on fur and in surrounding vegetation. Hunters may discover ticks moving off the animal or crawling on clothing during processing. While the presence of ticks is not the same as meat contamination, it does raise practical sanitation issues and increases the need for disciplined handling: keep gear organized, avoid placing clothing or gloves in leaf litter, and do thorough checks afterward.

There is also a stewardship dimension. Hunters are often among the first to notice unusual burdens, hair loss, or abnormal body condition. When these signs appear across multiple animals or in unusual seasons, reporting observations to wildlife agencies can contribute to surveillance and management. In an era where tick ranges can shift and outbreaks can emerge, hunters are not merely recreational users of wild spaces; they can function as field observers who help inform wildlife health awareness.

Prevention as skill: the new marksmanship

If ticks are now part of the hunting landscape, prevention becomes part of hunting competence. This is not about fear; it is about disciplined routine. The CDC’s recommendations are practical and field-compatible: treat clothing and gear with 0.5% permethrin, avoid brushing against high grass and leaf litter when possible, and perform thorough tick checks after outdoor activity (CDC, 2020; CDC, 2024a). State guidance reinforces similar measures and emphasizes treated clothing and repellents as part of prevention (California Department of Public Health, 2024).

Seen through a hunter’s lens, these steps mirror other hunting disciplines. Hunters already accept that hearing protection, blaze requirements, safe backstops, and careful knife work are non-negotiable. Tick prevention fits that same category: part of the responsible craft.

What comes next: hunting in a tick-dense future

Research and surveillance efforts point to continued attention on tick distribution and abundance. Studies tracking the range dynamics of major tick species and the environmental factors influencing establishment show that tick risk is not static (Gardner et al., 2020; Eisen et al., 2023). Federal agencies are investing in surveillance innovations and exploring management tools, including biological control methods in specific contexts (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 2023; U.S. Geological Survey, 2025). For hunters, the key question is whether hunting culture adapts quickly enough to keep participation strong and safe as tick pressure changes.

The likely future is not a world where hunters stop hunting, but one where hunting becomes more intentional about invisible risks. That may mean more education in hunter safety courses, more public-facing guidance timed to seasons, and stronger partnerships between hunting communities and wildlife health professionals.

Conclusion

Ticks have always been present in the landscape, but their impact on hunting is becoming more consequential. They influence where hunters go, how long they stay, what they wear, and how they process game. They affect wildlife health through direct parasitic stress and disease dynamics, altering animal condition and potentially shifting movement patterns. They also pose a real human health risk that can outlast a season. In response, hunting is slowly adding a new discipline to the traditional toolkit: prevention as a practiced skill. The hunt still demands patience, restraint, and competence. Increasingly, it also demands that hunters respect what they cannot see.

References

California Department of Public Health. (2024, July 31). Tick-borne disease prevention. California Department of Public Health.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2020). It’s open season on ticks: Protect yourself from tickborne disease this hunting season. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2024, August 28). Preventing tick bites. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2025). Tickborne diseases of the United States: A reference manual for healthcare providers. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

Eisen, R. J., Kugeler, K. J., Eisen, L., Beard, C. B., & Paddock, C. D. (2023). Evaluation of the association between climate warming and increased incidence of tick-borne diseases in the United States. Parasites & Vectors, 16, Article 58.

Gardner, A. M., Hamer, S. A., & Hamer, G. L. (2020). Landscape features predict the current and forecast the future distribution of Ixodes scapularis and associated disease risk. Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 287(1935), 20202278.

U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. (2023, February 8). Service supports winter tick research using fungi to decrease tick populations. U.S. Department of the Interior.

U.S. Geological Survey. (2025, May 6). Scent dogs join tick surveillance efforts. U.S. Department of the Interior.

The Rising Threat of Hamster Hunting in America

In recent years, the United States has witnessed a troubling and largely underreported phenomenon: the rise of hamster hunting. What began as an obscure pastime whispered about in rural feed stores and online forums has now emerged as a full-fledged subculture—complete with gear debates, ethical arguments, and the inevitable comparison to wild boar hunting.

At first glance, the comparison seems absurd. Wild boars are massive, tusked, aggressive animals capable of destroying farmland and maiming the unprepared. Hamsters, by contrast, are small, fuzzy, and traditionally associated with plastic wheels and children named Tyler. But history has taught us that underestimating a species is often the first step toward regret.

Boar hunters will tell you that the danger lies not in the size of the animal, but in its unpredictability and willingness to attack when cornered. Hamster hunters make the same claim—usually after the third or fourth story involving shredded gloves, emotional trauma, and a sudden respect for prey animals under six ounces.

The modern hamster hunter insists that the threat escalates exponentially when hamsters operate in packs. Alone, a hamster is manageable. In numbers, however, they exhibit behaviors that mirror wild boar sounders: coordinated movement, aggressive squeaking, and the uncanny ability to appear behind you when you are absolutely certain you checked that corner already. There are reports—unverified, but passionately defended—of “wheel-based flanking maneuvers” and “cheek-pouch supply caching” that suggest a level of tactical awareness no one is quite prepared to acknowledge.

Much like wild boar hunting, hamster hunting has developed its own specialized equipment culture. There are debates over gloves versus gauntlets, the ethics of baiting with sunflower seeds, and whether camouflage is truly necessary when your quarry is colorblind and mildly nearsighted. Some hunters swear by high-powered optics, while others argue that eye contact is the only honest way to face a hamster, man to rodent.

Safety warnings now circulate in hushed tones. Never corner a hamster near its bedding. Avoid dusk and dawn, when they are most active and emotionally unpredictable. And under no circumstances assume that silence means retreat—it often means plotting.

Critics argue that hamster hunting is unnecessary, even cruel. Proponents counter that unmanaged hamster populations pose a clear and present danger to household wiring, cereal supplies, and the structural integrity of baseboards. They cite gnaw marks as evidence. They always cite gnaw marks.

As with wild boar hunting, there is also the question of respect. Serious hamster hunters emphasize that this is not about domination, but balance. The hamster, they argue, is a noble adversary—compact, relentless, and possessed of an unearned confidence that borders on arrogance. To hunt it is not to diminish it, but to acknowledge its place in the hierarchy of creatures that refuse to stay in their lane.

Whether hamster hunting will continue to grow remains to be seen. What is clear is that America has once again found a way to take something small, slightly ridiculous, and transform it into a matter of grave seriousness. And if history is any guide, we will not stop until there are licensing requirements, televised competitions, and at least one reality show canceled after a handler underestimates “just one more hamster.”

In the end, perhaps the lesson is simple: never mock the hunter, never mock the prey, and never assume that something small cannot ruin your entire afternoon.

After all, wild boars taught us that lesson first. Hamsters are merely reinforcing it—one squeak at a time.

What Zebras Know That We Forget

Zebras live in one of the most unforgiving environments on Earth. The African savanna offers little cover, relentless predators, and no margin for prolonged error. And yet zebras have survived for millions of years without claws, camouflage, speed dominance, or hierarchical command structures.

They survive by refusing to do what humans are most tempted to do: stand alone.

A zebra is not fast enough to outrun a lion on its own. It is not strong enough to fight back. Its eyesight is good, but not decisive. Strip by strip, trait by trait, the zebra appears poorly equipped for survival—until it is viewed correctly: not as an individual, but as part of a system.

A herd of zebras confuses predators. The stripes disrupt depth perception and motion tracking, making it difficult for lions to isolate a single target. More importantly, zebras operate on collective vigilance. At any moment, some are grazing, some are scanning, some are listening. Danger detected by one becomes knowledge shared by all.

This is not altruism. It is survival intelligence.

Modern culture celebrates independence as the highest virtue. We admire the lone innovator, the solitary leader, the individual who “stands apart.” But zebras remind us that resilience is often collective, not individual—and that visibility without protection is not strength, it is exposure.

Zebras do not compete for dominance within the herd the way many species do. There is structure, but it is functional, not performative. Stallions defend space and safety. Mares maintain cohesion. Foals are surrounded, not pushed forward. Leadership exists, but it is situational—emerging when needed and receding when not.

Predators do not target the strongest zebra. They target the isolated one.

Human systems fail the same way. Organizations fracture when individuals are pushed to stand alone. Communities collapse when visibility is mistaken for value. Leaders fall when they confuse prominence with protection.

The zebra’s stripes are not a badge of individuality. Every zebra has them. Their power lies not in uniqueness, but in sameness. When many look alike, predators struggle to choose. When many move together, risk disperses. When many share awareness, survival increases.

There is a lesson here that modern leadership, politics, and culture routinely ignore: cohesion is not conformity, and unity is not weakness.

Zebras are not passive animals. They migrate hundreds of miles. They endure droughts. They cross rivers filled with crocodiles. But they do not do these things alone, and they do not romanticize isolation.

They understand something ancient and unglamorous:

Survival favors systems that protect their most vulnerable members, not those that glorify their most visible ones.

In a world that rewards standing out, zebras endure by standing together.