Yvsa, your brother in law reminds me of a friend of mine who would never clean his gun during deer season because he maintained that the deer would smell the oil and solvents. We called him "Dangerous Dave". This same dude would sit up in one of them big, cracker box house deer stands with his funky, rusty, scent free rifle, and have a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Needless to say, he didn't bring home much meat.
He did have one noteworthy adventure here on Fort Hood. It was a "guided hunt", meaning the guides drove you out to whichever stand they wanted to stick you in, and left you there until they came to get you. With sunrise still about a half hour away, and dawn breaking pearl grey among rising mists, Dangerous Dave began to hear something strange and unearthly sounding. There had been a range scheduling error, there are several Native American burial sites on the Fort Hood ranges, and that very morning the Four Winds Council was conducting a ceremony, probably only about a couple hundred meters from the very tree stand in which Dangerous Dave sat perched. Oblivious to this fact, Dave sat there in his stand, surrounded by dense forest dripping with dew, and shrouded in rising mists, and he began to "hear things". It started with the rythmic throbbing of tom-toms, but pretty soon the drum beat was joined by chanting and wailing, which started softly at first, but gradually rose in volume and intensity. Dangerous Dave put out his cigarette. Convinced he was encircled by the ghost warriors of the entire Comanche nation, all of whom were coming for his scalp, he nervously prepared for his defense. Just then a shiny Dodge pickup came sliding up to a stop, and a very perturbed looking game warden got out and yelled up "get yer a$$ down from there, we gotta git the he&& out of here". Involuntarily weeping a bit in relief, Dangerous Dave climbed down.
Sarge