Deer camp is a sacred time for many, a retreat into simplicity and friendship. The cabins are rustic, the air is crisp, and the stories flow as freely as the coffee. This particular year, however, a dark cloud loomed over the trip’s logistics: the sleeping arrangements. The culprit was Carl, whose snoring was less a nighttime noise and more a natural phenomenon. It was a sustained, guttural roar that seemed to echo from the depths of the earth itself. To preserve group harmony, a rotation system was hastily drawn up. It was a lottery no one wanted to win.
Steve, a good sport, took the first shift. He approached the task with a sense of duty. He returned from it a shell of his former self. At the breakfast table, he moved slowly, as if in a daze. His account of the night was harrowing; he described an endless cycle of roars, gurgles, and whistles that formed a bizarre, sleepless lullaby. He had ultimately resigned himself to simply watching Carl sleep, a silent sentinel to the auditory chaos. The group patted his back, their own anxiety growing.
Mike was next. He tried a different tactic, burying his head under two pillows. It was like trying to hold back a tsunami with a napkin. He appeared the following morning looking pale and haunted, muttering about vibrations and lost fillings. His night had been an exercise in futile endurance, a battle against a sound that permeated everything. The idea of three more nights of this rotation began to feel like a cruel punishment. The joy of the hunt was being overshadowed by the dread of bedtime.
Then came Big Frank’s turn. Frank was the group’s pillar, a man of few words and immense practicality. They sent him off with sympathetic nods, expecting even his fortitude to be tested. When Frank appeared after his night with Carl, he was the picture of contentment. He was humming, his eyes were clear, and he looked genuinely refreshed. The contrast was so jarring that the room fell silent. How could this be? Had he discovered magical, super-powered earplugs?
With a calm smile, Frank unraveled the mystery. His method required no gadgets, only a bit of unexpected psychology. After they’d gotten ready for bed, Frank had performed a small, caring ritual. He made sure Carl was snugly tucked in, adjusted his pillow for maximum comfort, and then placed a gentle, paternal kiss on his forehead. The effect was instantaneous and perfect. Carl, thoroughly weirded out and unsure how to process this unexpected affection from his burly friend, had lain perfectly still and awake the entire night, afraid to even breathe too loudly. Frank, blissfully unaware, slept a deep and dreamless sleep. The problem wasn’t solved with confrontation, but with a moment of sheer, brilliant awkwardness.
