Every season for the past I5 years my two brothers, my father, my brother-in-law, a few nephews, several random friends, and I have come to this small, primitive camp in the Allegany Mountains of western New York. We bought the land when a paper company sold their vast holdings in these timbered ridges, and many other groups of hunters got parcels surrounding ours. For the first few seasons everyone improvised. They hauled sagging trailers up the access road or squeezed into tiny RVs. Some even slept in the beds of their trucks. My family cleared a spot close to a spring and the road and set up a large canvas wall tent. We heated it with a wood-burning stove that my brother Frank made out of an old 55-gallon barrel. Guys started referring to us as "the tent people."