F&W Magazine Winter 2026

A Southern Roots + Global Adventure Magazine

Winter 2026

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

F E AT U R E D AR T I C L E S Inside This Issue – WINTER 2026

THE WHALEHEAD CLUB 24 A century on, this North Carolina Art Deco hunting lodge stands as a silent witness to time—an enduring monument to love, tradition, and waterfowl.

FIRST MALLARDS 40 A boy’s first morning in the duck woods—cold hands, whispered lessons, and the moment dawn breaks and mallards finally cup their wings. Jon Wongrey captures the timeless magic of a first hunt and the bond that makes it unforgettable.

SAM NOW DREAMS THE HUNTER 52 On a cold morning afield, an old dog hunts with the heart of a pup—proving that trust, partnership, and purpose endure long after youth has passed.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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DEPARTMENTS WINTER 2026

24 SOUTHERN ROOTS

52 GLOBAL ADVENTURE Travel

Pintail Point Candles in the Window 16 Southern Supreme Fruit Cakes 17 Bookshelf 19

Scroll Less Adventure More: What Hemingway Taught Me 58

Artist Profile 20 Tasting Notes: Bourbon Balls 21

Travel The Currituck Beach Lighthouse turns 100 22 Wild Horses of Corolla 30 Leland Little Sporting Art Fair 32 Dixie Deer Classic 34

50 Years Nahunta Pork Center 36

w

Sporting

A Century of the Winchester .270 46

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

Sporting A Southerner’s First Ice Fishing Trip 49

In Every Issue Contributors

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Editor’s Letter

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Southern Social Scene 64 Flora & Fauna

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Fiction

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SIGNS OF THE SEASONS | WINTER

The Moon

of the Popping Trees The “Moon of the Popping Trees” is a name given by Plains tribes, including the Lakota, to describe the deep-winter moon when the cold becomes so sharp that the sap within the trees freezes and the trunks crack with a sound like distant rifle fire. It usually falls in December or January, marking the harshest part of winter — when campfires burn long, smoke hangs low, and even the woods themselves seem to speak. To the people of the plains, it was both a warning of endurance and a reminder of nature’s voice in the stillness. F&W

FEATHERS & WHISKEY

A Southern Roots + Global Adventure Magazine

Michael Maynor

Instagram @mike.maynor Chris Midgette is a lifelong hunter, traveling across the country with his Boykin spaniels chasing waterfowl, upland birds, and the occasional story.

Connoisseur of good bourbon, gas station pork rinds, and the worst duck caller east of the Mississippi. You can follow his adventures on Instagram @thehuntingtraveller

Robbie Perdue is a native North Carolinian who enjoys cooking, butchery, and is passionate about all things BBQ. He straddles two worlds as an IT professional and a farmer who loves heritage livestock and heirloom vegetables. His perfect day would be hunting deer, dove, or ducks then babysitting his smoker while watching the sunset over the black water of Lake Waccamaw Instagram @perdue.robbie

Jon Wongrey is a native of South Carolina and has been writing about the outdoors since 1967. He was the first full-time outdoors writer at The State newspaper and later served as a food editor for Outdoor Life.

A prolific storyteller, Wongrey has written more than 1,800 magazine articles and 14 books, and is currently working on his fifteenth.

Email jonwongrey@yahoo.com 8

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

CONTRIBUTORS

is a proud native of North Carolina with a deep love for the sporting lifestyle and everything Southern.

My book collection seems to grow endlessly, and I have a particular fondness for collecting vintage duck decoys. Despite appearing content, my heart longs to return to Africa for another safari adventure. John 3:16.

WINTER 2026 C.H. Daniels

Instagram @cdfishes Cody Fongemie Born and raised in New England, Cody developed a passion for American history, the outdoors, and adventure from an early age. After studying in South Carolina, he enlisted in the Air Force, where he continues to serve. When he’s not working, he enjoys hunting, fly fishing, or pursuing new adventures. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, Carlei, and their dog, Winnie Instagram @fongeinthefield Doug Pelton is a South Carolina transplant who now proudly calls the Old North State home. A lifelong outdoors man, he’s happiest chasing trout with a fly rod, Bobwhite quail with his English pointers and a vintage shotgun, or exploring the African bush. When not in the field, he enjoys reading tales from the golden age of safari and spending time with his family enjoying all the Carolinas have to offer.

Instagram @outdoorsmanclassics

CONTRIBUTORS

is an outdoors man and storyteller with a passion for upland hunting, bird dogs, fly fishing, and fine whiskey. His work has appeared in Strung Sporting Journal and Southern Culture on the Fly, with a forthcoming piece in Project Upland. He lives in North Georgia, where he guides fly fishing and continues to chase wild places and good stories.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

To Southern Winter, With Steel and Feather!

Winter has a way of slowing the world down. The days grow shorter, the air turns sharp, and the land settles into a quiet hush. Frost clings to the fields at first light, fires burn a little longer, and every sound feels more deliberate.

In the South, winter isn’t about retreat—it’s about leaning closer to tradition, to the outdoors, and to one another.

This issue is rooted in heritage and reflection. We mark the 100th anniversary of the Whalehead Club, tell the story of a boy’s first mallards in a South Carolina marsh, and follow a senior dog who still hunts with the heart of a pup. From Southern traditions to a century of the .270 Winchester—carried from Alaska’s wild country to the whitetail woods of home—these stories honor the moments that shape us.

So set down the phone, pour a glass of something warm, and step into the season. Winter reminds us that adventure is still waiting, often closer than we think, and that the best stories are found outdoors, shared in good company.

Welcome to Feathers & Whiskey. WildlyRefined.

The Shoppes at The Charleston Place Hotel 205 Meeting Street Suite 104B Charleston, SC 29401 nortonandhodges.com

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

Michael Maynor Editor-in-Chief

pintail point

The Essence of Living Southern

Photo courtesy of Samantha Comey | Instagram @antlersandarchitecture

HEIRLOOMS OF THE MANTLE Treasures of the Southern Home That Hold Our Hearts

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here’s a shelf or a mantle in every Southern home where the past still lingers — not as dust or memory, but as presence. A duck call that’s outlived its maker.

A skillet seasoned by a hundred Sunday suppers. A photograph curling at the edges, catching the same afternoon light it did fifty years ago. These are the things that make a house a story — quiet relics that hold the sound of laughter, the weight of work-worn hands, and the warmth of love that never really leaves. Here, at the heart of the home, we honor the heirlooms that keep our stories alive.

For this feature, we turned to our Feathers & Whiskey Social Club and asked readers to share the heirlooms closest to their hearts — the pieces that tell their family’s story in wood, glass, and iron. The following pages showcase a few of those cherished items and the memories they carry — a celebration of the home, the hearth, and the heritage that binds us all.

“The things we keep are just the places where memory lives.”

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

HOLY BIBLE Charles Perdue, North Carolina

My grandfather gave this Bible to my father the Christmas before he deployed to Vietnam, embossed with the name we shared. He carried it throughout his naval service. After his death, it became mine— one of the only physical pieces I have of the man I was named for, but never knew.

CAINE’S DUCK DECOY C.C Williamson, South Carolina

The Caines Brothers were the only known decoy carvers from South Carolina’s golden age of duck hunting. I strive to carry those traditions forward through my work, duck call making and decoy carving.

A SOUTHERN WINTER AT HOME Winter draws us indoors without separating us from the land. Natural elements—feathers, antlers, evergreens, and warm candlelight—bring the outdoors in, quietly echoing cold mornings in the field and long evenings by the fire. In this season of stillness, the home becomes a place to slow down and gather around the simple beauty of the wild.

Photo courtesy of Evan Hughes | Instagram @duke_and_hughes

A Major Award!

A conversation piece for winter nights.

HEART OF THE HOME | Where Southern tradition and design meet.

CANDLES IN THE WINDOW

“It’s not the candle that warms the room- it’s the thought behind the flame” In Southern Homes ,light has always been a sign of Welcome-small steady flames that once guarded travelers home through the dark December nights. Today, they burn for simpler reasons: comfort, memory and the beauty of tradition.

On cold evenings, when the air smells of pine and smoke, the glow from a single window feels like an invitation to pause. Photo courtesy of Evan Hughes | Instagram @duke_and_hughes

Southern Supreme A Slice of Holiday Redemption

By Michael Maynor How one North Carolina fruitcake changed my mind-and holiday tradition.

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’ll admit it — I’ve never had a positive view of fruitcakes.

Honestly, most of the time I even thought about them was in a negative way. To me, fruitcake was that obligatory holiday gift — passed around, nibbled on out of politeness, then left to mold in some forgotten tin. It was just something people did.

It’s odd when you think about it. I love fruit, and I love cake, but somehow I’d built up a prejudice against fruitcake. Last Christmas, my parents couldn’t stop raving about Southern Supreme Fruitcakes. They even made the trip to the little shop where they’re baked. Still, I brushed it off — one ear in, one ear out — determined not to give in.

Fast-forward to November 5, 2025. As I write this, I can honestly say my view has changed. In fact, I just had a couple of slices before sitting down to type this.

It started last week on a family outing to Southern Pines.

Daddy asked me to stop by Fresh Market and pick up a few boxes of Southern Supreme Fruitcakes. I agreed, and on the way home he asked if I’d tried them yet. I hadn’t. He told me he thought I’d like it — and, as it turns out, he was

“Where has this been all my life?” right. That following Tuesday, over lunch with a bowl of homemade vegetable soup, I decided to give it a try. I unwrapped a slice, took a bite, and thought — where has this been all my life?

Like they say, this isn’t just another fruitcake. You can taste the legacy, the care, the craftsmanship. The sweetness of the dates and richness of the walnuts stand out beautifully, paired with pecans, golden raisins, and candied cherries.

It’s sweet but not overpowering, chewy without being rubbery, and just moist enough to hold it all together — a perfect bite of Southern tradition done right.

I’m glad we’ve now added this to our holiday tradition, and I’ll admit I might be a little biased — there’s something special about knowing it comes from a North Carolina– based, family-owned company that’s been baking for over forty years. It just feels right — the kind of small-town Southern legacy that makes the holidays taste like home. southernsupreme.com F&W Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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THEBookshelf

Books that feel like home—season after season

When winter settles in, there’s no better place than beside the fire — a good drink in hand and a better book waiting. It’s a season made for slowing down, letting the flames dance, and savoring stories that warm the soul.

On a December morning in 1943, two trains collided in rural southeastern North Carolina, creating one of the state’s deadliest tragedies. A nearby farmer— already burdened by a difficult choice—raced toward the blast and into a scene of unimaginable chaos. Among the twisted metal lay a soldier heading home for Christmas, unsure whether forgiveness awaited him, and a young bride hopeful for her future yet fearful of the man she had married. From the Fires Scattered There recounts the true story of the Tamiami Champion wreck that claimed seventy-four lives. In this gripping debut, Kammeron Polverari blends history and fiction to illuminate the heartbreak, humanity, and resilience found in the shadows of disaster

In this fourth installment chronicling the duck-hunting heritage of Currituck Sound, Travis Morris explores the histories of the Currituck, Pine Island, and Narrows Island clubs. Using long-held documents and vivid firsthand accounts, he uncovers stories rarely brought to light—from distinguished members like J.P. Morgan and William Vanderbilt to the local guides who worked the marshes with their old float box rigs. Whether familiar with Morris’s earlier books or stepping into this world for the first time, readers will find themselves carried into the marshland, drifting with the echoes of duck calls and the traditions that shaped these storied waters.

Nancy Roberts, known as the “First Lady of American Folklore,” spent her life collecting ghost stories and interviewing people about their brush with the supernatural. She began writing for the Charlotte Observer and, with encouragement from Carl Sandburg, published her first book in 1958. Called a “custodian of the twilight zone” by Southern Living, Roberts grounded her eerie tales in real history, earning national recognition for her work on the Carolinas and Appalachia.

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ARTIST PROFILE

SMOKEHOUSE FORGE WAXHALL, NORTH CAROLINA

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n Waxhaw, North Carolina, blacksmith Anthony Helms is keeping tradition alive the old way—by hand, by fire, and with deep respect for the craft. Working from a converted smokehouse dating back to 1926, Helms forges iron at Smokehouse Forge, turning a piece of local history into both his workshop and his muse. Helms’ path to blacksmithing began in 2015 at his father-in-law Karl Helms’ small slab-wood shop. What started as simple instruction—drawing a taper, squaring round stock, adding a twist—quickly became something more. Watching raw steel transform in the fire lit a spark that never went out. With limited resources, Helms fabricated his first forge using scrap wood, charcoal, and makeshift tools, slowly building his craft before investing in traditional equipment.

shaped like duck heads, fish, and the occasional skull, along with decoy stands and other everyday tools meant to be used, not shelved. Each piece carries the mark of time, patience, and a craftsman who understands that the process matters as much as the finished product.

As his skills grew, so did the need for a permanent home for his anvil, forge, and tools. The answer stood quietly on the property: an old smokehouse no longer used to cure meat. Etched in its concrete floor was the year 1926. Nearly a century later, Helms relocated the structure, added a wooden floor and sheds on three sides, and gave the building new purpose. Today, smoke once again drifts through

While regular monthly demonstrations are currently paused as Helms continues to outfit his shop, he plans to host blacksmith demonstrations periodically throughout the year, offering visitors a firsthand look at craftsmanship still done right. For those looking to own a piece of this living tradition, Helms’ work is available locally at Mule Barn Mercantile in Waxhaw.

the lap siding—not from curing hams, but from hot iron and hard work.

Smokehouse Forge stands as proof that some traditions don’t fade—they just wait for the right hands to bring them back to life.

Helms’ work ranges from decorative iron to functional pieces rooted in sporting and Southern tradition: custom bottle openers

You can follow Smokehouse Forge on Instagram

@thesmokehouseforge

TASTING NOTES

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oliday gatherings in the South have a rhythm all their own—crackling fires, good company, and the unmistakable aroma of something sweet in the kitchen.

Bourbon Balls, dusted with sugar and touched with warm whiskey notes, are the kind of treat that bridge past and present. A simple recipe elevated by tradition, they’re a small luxury meant to be savored.

• • • • • • •

1 cup finely crushed vanilla wafers 1 cup finely chopped pecans 1 cup powdered sugar 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder 2 tablespoons light corn syrup or honey ¼ cup good Kentucky bourbon Additional powdered sugar for rolling (optional)

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

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In a large bowl, combine the vanilla wafer crumbs, chopped pecans, powdered sugar, and cocoa powder.

Stir in the corn syrup (or honey) and bourbon until the mixture is evenly moistened and holds together.

Roll the mixture into 1-inch balls using your hands.

Roll each ball in powdered sugar if desired.

Place on a parchment-lined tray and refrigerate for at least 1 hour to firm up.

Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator.

Flavors improve after a day or two.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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SOUTHERN TRAVEL

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

The Currituck Beach Lighthouse -Guarding the Banks Since 1875-

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ne hundred and fifty years ago, on a cold December night in 1875, a new light rose over the wild shores of North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

Built of unpainted brick and towering 162 feet above the marsh, the Currituck Beach Lighthouse cast its first beam across the Atlantic—a steady flash meant to fill a dangerous, 40-mile stretch of darkness between Bodie Island and Cape Henry. For mariners, hunters, watermen, and the families who called this remote barrier island home, that beam became both a warning and a promise.

A few weeks ago, that legacy was honored as the Currituck Beach Lighthouse celebrated its 150th anniversary of illumination. The evening carried the same quiet magic the Outer Banks has always known—wind sweeping through the live oaks, the steady pulse of the beacon turning above, and the memory of countless ships that once depended on its glow. Community members, historians, and longtime locals gathered beneath the tower, reflecting on a century and a half of resilience, restoration, and the unmistakable character that makes this lighthouse unlike any other on the coast.

Unlike many of its famed black-and-white siblings, Currituck stands in raw red brick, its color a tribute to the craftsmanship of more than a million hand-laid bricks. It was built not only as a navigational aid, but as a symbol of human determination against the wild and shifting nature of the Banks. Over the decades it has survived storms, neglect, and the passage of time, restored through the dedication of the Outer Banks Conservationists and kept shining by those who understand how deeply this place matters.

1875-2025

Today, as the lighthouse marks 150 years of guiding light, it serves not only sailors but storytellers, artists, sportsmen, and generations of families who return each year to stand beneath it. The beam that once saved ships now draws people in—reminding us that heritage, like a lighthouse, is meant to be tended and passed forward.

A century and a half later, Currituck still shines. And the coast is better for it.

December 1,1875 First Illuminated 162 feet to lantern Over one million hand-laid red bricks The only major Outer Banks Lighthouse left unpainted Built to illuminate a dangerous 40-mile “dark stretch” between Bodie Island and Cape Henry First-Order Fresnel lens (still in operation) Maintained by the Outer Banks Conservationists 220 steps to the top

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THE WHALEHEAD CLUB Corolla, North Carolina

By Michael Maynor

Completed a century ago, Whalehead Club has endured a hundred years of wind, salt, and change along Currituck Sound. In that time, it has weathered nor’easters, shifting sands, and the slow turning of history itself. Yet through every season, it has remained—standing not only as a monument to sporting life and craftsmanship, but as a quiet beacon of love, built by a man for the woman who shared his devotion to water, wildfowl, and the life they dreamed of together.

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n the early 1920s, a wealthy industrialist from the Northeast and his bride came to North Carolina for a winter retreat and to enjoy their shared passion for waterfowling. Edward Collins Knight Jr. and his wife, MarieLouise LeBel Knight, traveled south to hunt ducks and spend time together in the coastal landscape they had come to love. Rather than joining an established hunt club, the Knights envisioned a place entirely their own—a private retreat where they could entertain friends, hunt, and enjoy the Outer Banks on their own terms.

SOUTHERN TRAVEL By the time the Knights arrived, the age of market hunting was over, and “sports” were coming from out of state to enjoy the fabulous waterfowl hunting. Edward purchased the former Light House Club along with four and a half miles of land on the Currituck Sound, envisioning a private sanctuary that combined elegance with modern convenience. In 1922, construction began on the Knights’ 21,000-square-foot mansion by the sea.

The exterior and interior of the home featured Art Nouveau details, but it was also a bold fusion of Pennsylvania farmhouse, French-Canadian country, and Arts and Crafts styles. The estate, meticulously designed with five stories, five chimneys, and a copper-shingled roof, was far ahead of its time in both design and functionality. The home was originally called “Corolla Island” for the are on which it stood. The home took three years to build and, not including the land, cost $383,000.

The Whalehead Club was equipped with groundbreaking features for its time, including electricity and its innovative design included humidity-resistant cork flooring, steel-reinforced walls, and a 2,200-gallon pumping system that brought water from the boathouse through underground lines. Additionally, the home featured an Otis #1 counterweight elevator, the first series ever manufactured by the Otis Company. The mansion, which has five floors, also incorporated a clever design trick: the basement is actually the first floor of the home. Mr. Knight built the first floor in brick and then pushed dirt around the brick walls to give the illusion of a basement.

The Knights shared a love of the outdoors and enjoyed being in nature, but they did not return from a day afield to a rustic lodge. No expense was spared at “Corolla Island” when it came to comfort and elegance. After a

Edward Collings Knight, Jr Born in Philadelphia, he was an amateur artist but succeeded his industrious father as President of the Delaware & Bound Brook Railroad Company, and the Northern Pennsylvania Railroad Company.

Marie-Louise-Joséphine (LeBel) Knight She was born at Quebec. She survived her husband and died at their home, Stonybrook, in Newport. The bulk of her estate was left to the Newport Hospital and the Mercy Home 26

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

The End of Market Hunting.

When the Knights came to North Carolina, market hunting was already drawing to a close. The passage of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 delivered the final blow, ending the commercial harvest of waterfowl and allowing depleted populations the chance to recover. With the demand for feathers in fashionable hats—and ducks and geese on restaurant tables—suddenly gone, the market hunter’s way of life vanished. Many, however, adapted, turning their hard-earned knowledge of the marsh into guiding work for Northern sportsmen, who soon began traveling south in search of North Carolina’s legendary waterfowl hunting. An unknown woman poses with waterfowl.

day in the marsh, the Knights and their guests could retreat indoors to comforts rarely seen along the Outer Banks.

Bathrooms featured hot and cold running water, while the house itself boasted modern conveniences such as a washing machine, dishwasher, and multiple refrigerators.

The home was also the first in the region to be powered by electricity, generated on site in the boathouse.

The lavish details did not stop with the amenities but extended to the style inside the home. As previously mentioned, the home had Art Nouveau styling, which was going out of style by the time Corral Island was built.

However, the Knights styled their hunting lodge with what they loved. While some of the woodworking and decorative objects predated the home’s construction by decades, it was a home built with love and comfort. All the Tiffany lighting in the home is signed by Louis Tiffany, and Mrs. Knight’s Steinway piano still stands in the home today. Over the years, the Whalehead Club’s long history—set against the

Outer Banks’ broader tapestry of shipwrecks, lost colonies, and coastal legends—has given rise to occasional stories of the unexplained. While the museum acknowledges that such lore exists, it is treated as a small footnote rather than a defining part of the home’s story. One oft-repeated account involves a young visitor who said he saw a little girl inside the house. Those present that day recall that the child calmly left the building and shared what he believed he had seen— without panic or distress, and with no report of physical contact. Another detail visitors continue to mention is the scent of cigar smoke drifting through the museum, despite it being a smoke-free space—an observation that aligns with Edward Knight’s well-known fondness for cigars and remains one of the more curious anecdotes associated with the house.

The Knight family’s departure from Whalehead in the mid-1930s has sometimes been linked to speculation, but records show their leaving was tied to Edward Knight’s

Interior photos courtesy of Courtesy of Currituck County Department of Travel and Tourism.

declining health rather than anything supernatural. While stories may linger, the true legacy of Whalehead Club is rooted not in mystery, but in generosity and community.

Each year during their time in Corolla, the Knights hosted Christmas gatherings for local residents, providing meals, gifts, and fellowship—a lasting reflection of their character and the spirit in which the estate was created.

In July of 1936, Edward Curtis Knight Jr. passed away at the age of 72, and in October of the same year, his beloved wife Marie passed away at the age of 60. The Knights’ beloved “Corolla Island” was left to their adult granddaughters. The lodge was sold for a mind-blowing $25,000, which was $358,000 less than what it took to build it just 15 years earlier. Ray Adams would rename the lodge Whalehead Club, and a new era would begin.

The Whalehead Club was leased to the US Coast Guard during World War II, and once the war was over, Ray Adams used it as a hunting lodge for friends and guests.

The story of the Whalehead Club takes many twists and turns over the coming years. For several years in the early

sixties, the home and grounds were a boarding school for boys, and then there were the home’s ties to the space program in the late 60s, testing rocket fuel. The home fell into a sad state of disrepair for nearly 20 years until it was purchased in 1992 by Currituck County, and a full, loving restoration took place to bring the home back to its former glory. Today, the Whalehead Club is fully restored and sits on 39 acres of land, a fraction of the over 2,000 acres that once belonged to the Knights. The house is now a museum and an important part of the history of Currituck County.

The Whalehead Club might not be as well-known as another mansion that sits in Asheville, North Carolina, but for those with a passion for history, architecture, hunting, or just a good story, the Whalehead Club is worth a visit.

Anyone who does visit will surely fall in love with this beautiful cottage by the sea, just as the Knights did. F&W A special thank you to Jill Landen Site Manager and Curator for the Whalehead for assistance with this article.

Visit northernouterbanks.com to plan your visit!

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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The Wild Horses of Corolla The wild horses of Corolla have weathered centuries of shifting sand and Atlantic wind. In the quiet months of winter, they move slowly, deliberately—unmoved by time, untouched by hurry, shaped instead by wind, salt, and time.

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

SOUTHERN TRAVEL

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WINTER ON THE BANKS There is a side of the Outer Banks most never see! t arrives once the crowds have gone home and the season turns inward. The roads grow quiet. The dunes settle back into themselves. The ocean moves as it always has—steady, patient, unconcerned with the calendar.

Winter on the Banks isn’t about busy piers or sun-soaked afternoons. It’s about empty stretches of shoreline, long walks with no destination, and the sound of waves unbroken by anything else. The light softens. The sky opens wider. With fewer distractions, the land shows its true character.

Those who come this time of year rarely do so by chance. They come for the quiet, for the space, and for the chance to experience the coast as it was meant to be—unhurried, reflective, and wholly its own. visitnc.com

SPORTING ART FAIR

Rooted in community and tradition, The Sporting Art Fair at Leland Little invites guests to slow down and engage with sporting art through live demonstrations, shared meals, and hands-on experiences. Welcoming and accessible, the fair offers something for everyone—from collectors to families discovering the craft together. lelandlittle.com

The Dixie Deer Classic brings together the top whitetail bucks from across North Carolina.

DIXIE DEER CLASSIC A North Carolina tradition that honors our hunting heritage and conservation.

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he case can be made that the Dixie Deer Classic is the granddaddy of hunting expos across the country. The Classic began in 1981, organized by the Wake County Wildlife Club as a one-day event to find the largest whitetail deer ever taken in the state of North Carolina. That first show, held in the Kerr Scott Building at the North Carolina State Fairgrounds, drew around 5,000 attendees and featured more than 200 trophy whitetails scored.

In the forty-four years since that first gathering, the Dixie Deer Classic has grown into a three-day event attended by roughly 20,000 people each year, with more than 600 deer officially scored annually.

For those unfamiliar with the concept of scoring a deer, in simple terms it’s a series of measurements used to determine which buck has the largest rack.

Measurements include the inside spread of the antlers and the length of each tine. When all measurements are added together, the rack is given a final score.

By Michael Maynor

It’s no secret that one of the most satisfying parts of spending time outdoors is sharing those moments with family. The Dixie Deer Classic is a family-friendly event through and through.

While the primary focus is on deer hunting and trophy scoring in North Carolina, the Classic truly offers something for anyone with even a passing interest in the outdoors. With over 300 vendors, the show floor is filled with everything from gear, décor, and art to outfitters offering hunts across the western United States, Canada, and Africa. Another aspect that makes the Classic so special is the chance to meet and talk with well-known figures in the outdoor industry. Each year, the Dixie Deer Classic hosts prominent sportsmen and women, giving fans a chance to meet the people they see on television, read about in books, or follow online. Over its decades-long run, the Classic has welcomed icons such as Fred Bear, Ted Nugent, Phil Robertson, Michael Waddell, Jim Shockey, Lee and Tiffany Lakosky, and Steven Rinella—cementing its place as a true celebration of hunting heritage and the outdoor spirit of the South. F&W

As mentioned, the Classic was started by the Wake County Wildlife Club, which is not a hunting club but a conservation organization dedicated to giving back. The Club funds outdoor summer camps for children each year, offering week-long, hands-on experiences in wildlife identification, conservation ethics, shooting sports, fishing, and other outdoor activities. The Club also supports Hunters for the Hungry, providing venison meals for thousands of less-fortunate individuals each year. In addition, it maintains an education facility that has taught more than 10,000 students on topics related to wildlife and conservation. The all-volunteer organization holds just one fundraiser a year—the Dixie Deer Classic. Ticket sales from the event help fund the Wake County Wildlife Club’s conservation and outreach programs.

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50 Years of Nahunta Pork Center For fifty years, Nahunta Pork Center has been more than a place to buy pork — it has been a cornerstone of Eastern North Carolina foodways. Founded in 1975, Nahunta Pork Center grew from a local operation into a trusted name known for quality, consistency, and a deep respect for tradition.

Rooted in the hog-farming heritage of the Coastal Plain, Nahunta has built its reputation the old-fashioned way: honest work, careful processing, and a commitment to doing things right. That reputation has traveled far beyond Wayne County. On any given week, it’s not uncommon to see license plates from Florida to New York, with coolers packed tight in the back, drivers making the trip just to stock up.

From fresh cuts and house-made sausages to cured staples that find their way onto family tables across the state and beyond, Nahunta’s products carry the flavors of home and the pride of a community. Fifty years on, Nahunta Pork Center stands as a reminder that good food still begins at the source — with land, people, and time. F&W www.nahuntapork.com

WHERE THE SMOKE STILL RISES Southern winter’s work in salt, patience, and fire.

L

ong before electricity hummed through the countryside, winter work on a Southern farm carried its own rhythm — quieter, slower, but no less vital. When the first hard frost settled, it meant one thing across much of the South: it was hog-killin’ time. Out behind the farmhouse, a small wooden building waited — simple, square, and blackened inside from years of use. The smokehouse. Its role was humble but sacred, a place where the fruits of a year’s labor were preserved against the hunger months ahead. Salt, smoke, and patience — that was the recipe, and it worked as well as any miracle.

Hog-killing wasn’t a task for one set of hands.

Neighbors came from across the fields, swapping work for a share of sausage or a ham to hang in their own shed. Children watched wide-eyed as grown men scalded, scraped, and salted. Women rendered

By Robbie Perdue

lard, packed jars, and whispered recipes that never saw paper. By sundown, smoke curled lazy into the cold air — a promise that the family would eat well until spring.

Each farm had its own signature. Some favored hickory, others oak or applewood. The scent drifted for miles, and folks could tell who was curing what just by the smell. In that smoke lived tradition — a blending of old-world craft, African knowledge, and sheer necessity that defined Southern cooking long before it ever reached a kitchen.

Today, most of those small buildings lean a little to one side, the door hanging open, their fires long cold. But if you step inside, the scent lingers — deep in the wood, faint but unmistakable. It’s the smell of work well done, of winters endured, of a people who knew how to make plenty out of little.

SOUTHERN SPORTING The Enduring Art of the Southern Day Afield.

The old deer stand on the edge of the field doesn’t look like much. And even though its main purpose is to conceal the hunter from his game, that weathered, worn wooden box has been much more. It’s been a place of quiet contemplation and reflection—a spot to think things through and relive all the words left unsaid. It’s a retreat from a world that keeps changing, a place for the hunter to take refuge and find comfort in knowing that, no matter what, deer season will be there next year.

FIRST MALLARDS

By Jon Wongrey

M

y Uncle Pappy was not 15 yards from me, though I could barely identify the winter-bundled figure as he leaned against an oak tree in the predawn darkness. He struck a match and held it above his wristwatch to count the remaining minutes to legal duck shooting time. The flame from the incandescent match head flared, illuminating his narrow face and white stubble beard.

He stuck the match into the chilled water where it fizzled and died.

“You cold?” He asked.

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“It won’t be much longer. Thirty minutes from now you’ll think you’re on fire when day comes and ducks come with it. That I promise for sure.”

“There’s nothing quite like it; not even your aunt’s Sunday pot roast with those marble-size new potatoes baked brown and crunchy,” he said in the blackness.

“Yes sir,” I said and went back to hugging myself. I was cold--very cold.

The coldest I’d ever been in my life

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Pappy told me that when I turned 12, he’d take me down to the Santee-Cooper lakes to a place called Sparkleberry to shoot mallards. I was 12 now and hunting mallards just like I fancied. I already had many memories of Pappy coming home and dropping his string of mallards on the back stoop during the duck season. I’d sit there with them while Pappy had a fresh cup of coffee before preparing the birds for the oven. The mallard hens and their drab autumn harvest feathered dresses didn’t kindle my insides, but a big drake mallard would start me to dreaming.

I would pick him up and examine his sateen head ringed at the throat with a white collar separating the green of his head from the chestnut brown of his protruding chest--his legs and feet coral colored.

A crease had now been drawn across the skyline dividing night and day, and now the sky, losing its night time strength, wasn’t so black. Soon the sun would blanket the confines of the swamp and life would again be renewed. A breeze came. I turned my back to it, but a breath of glacial air somehow crept in around my collar, and I knew for certain that I would soon freeze.

“We need a wind,” Pappy said, “but not a heavy wind.

A nice steady breeze will do. Ducks won’t come in here if there’s a strong wind. It makes ‘em spooky.

But a gentle wind will muff the sound of gunfire and give just enough action to the decoys to make ‘em lifelike,” he said. Except for the whispering wind, there was no other noise in the swamp. Everything was so mew back then on the Santee-Cooper lakes.

Prosperity had yet to be conceived. There were maybe a half-dozen fish camps on the lakes’ 171,000 acres.

You could rent a boat for 50 cents with a couple of rough-hewn paddles thrown in for power. And the vast swamp known as Sparkleberry the headwaters of Santee-Cooper, was thick with mast-producing oak and hickory trees that lured ducks into this waterfowl asylum. Few people entered it’s heart to duck hunt.

It was all so very new and untouched and bright and alive with waterfowl in unprecedented numbers.

“The wood ducks will be the first to move,” Pappy said. “They’re fun to shoot and great table birds, but I think we ought to let ‘e pass. No need to create a fuss when mallards might be on the way.”I knew

something about wood ducks, or at least one wood duck. I had killed my first not two Saturdays past. I was squirrel hunting near home in a tiny branch-a clean, black-water stream with a sandy bottom that turned red when the sun reached its noon day post and sliced through the swamp’s middle. Mossclothed trees flanked it’s course. In the spring and summer, people around home caught numbers of large red-breasted bream there. But nobody seemed to bother to fish the stream after the bream quit biting at summer’s end. That suited me fine because there were a fair number of gray squirrels in the swamp to keep me company on Saturdays through the autumn and winter months.

Morning came that Saturday, rosy and exuberant, with waking birds and chattering squirrels. There also came another sound with the light of the new day--a noise I had never heard in the small branch. It was a thin, clean sound, sweet in tone. The wings of flying ducks.

I looked up and saw them sailing down through the trees to where they splashed down unsuspiciously in the creek. There were six, maybe seven, with more in the air. I fired. One duck constricted at the sound of the gun, rolled into a drawn black lump, and splashed down hard into the stream. The duck bellied-up white and floated around a bend. There it was stopped by a fallen gum tree that barricaded the creek.

I walked the gum tree over to the other side, stepped down, and retrieved my duck. It was a wood duck drake. I had killed a wood duck but not a mallard.

My entire ambition was to be caught up in the suddenness of mallards parachuting from the sky on cupped wings. And now I was here and waiting and very cold and very excited and almost too nervous to be of any service.

“Still cold?” Pappy asked.

“Yes sir,” I answered and turned to his voice. He was now becoming identifiable in the strengthening light.

He was a tall man with a slender, supple frame-not one, it would seem, to repel the bitter cold that is the waterfowler’s companion. He had no natural insulation, and yet he never complained of the cold.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

41

Through the week he worked for the railroad for his wages, and on winter weekends he was a duck hunter by desire. The predawn breeze had matured to juvenile vigor.

“If she’ll hold this strength, it won’t be long before we’ll have some mallards in this hole,” he said.

I’ve long since learned what a “hole” is to a duck hunter, and the hole we hunted was a nugget. It was a deep, natural depression between two very high oak ridges, and it held water all year. A hideout where ducks could feed on acorns and rest, and Pappy’s axe had expanded its room to an almost fair-size pond. Turkeys once gobbled and courted here, but no more. They were flushed from the deep swamp when the water of the free-flowing Santee River was blockaded by the dam in 1941.

On the drive to the swamp, Pappy said, “The only thing you’ve got to remember is to shoot and shoot quick.

Mallards can bounce in and out before you know it. They are deceptively quick. When a bird is coming down, shoot at its tail, and when it’s pulling up, shoot at its nose.

That’s all you’ve got to remember. It’s not a bunch to commit to memory, but it’s very important that you drill into your head these two basic duck shooting laws,” he said as we drove on through the star-clustered night.

Now that day was en route and increasing its pace, Pappy decorated the hole with decoys.“You don’t want to bunch your decoys,” he said as he went about his plan of entrapment. “Just place ‘em in groups of twos and fours.

Maybe a couple of singles off to the side. I prefer these to be black duck decoys. Mallards will usually take the advice of black ducks. They’re smart--smarter than geese.

One day, I’ll take you up to North Carolina’s Pamlico Sound to shoot geese.

“You also have to remember to save room between you and the decoys for ducks to light. Ducks will always light on the far side of the decoys, so keep your decoys close to you, but with some room for ducks to settle down,” he said, flinging the last two decoys, black duck replicas, where they would sit by their lonesome. He stuffed the crocus sack bag into the cave of a hollowed-out stump, then he went back to his stand by a tall cypress tree.

Overhead in the growing light, wood ducks were passing.

Their wings were sweet in tone, and I enjoyed the familiar sound, although I had heard it only once in my life--two Saturdays past. “They’re beginning to move,” he said, and I heard the metal parts of his autoloader working as he fed the shotgun its morning meal.“You can load now,” he added. I cocked open the 20-gauge double barrel and dropped a pair of high-brass No. 6s into the barrels. The gun made a solid sound when shut. “Don’t shoot until I give the okay,” he said.

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“Leave the hens alone, just take the drakes. Remember now, when the big ducks suck into the decoys, don’t try to kill the whole flock. Just take one at a time. Kill the first one before you try to kill a second. And if a bird’s head doesn’t flop back when you pull the trigger, give ‘em another charge. The same goes if it hits the water kicking-plow into ‘em again. We can’t be wasteful, can we?”

“No sir,” I answered.

“You’ll have no problems,” he encouraged. “None at all,” he said. The last shadow of the early morning passed, and now the sky was a deep blue with fluffy clouds hurrying by almost as fast as the droves of red-winged blackbirds passed en route to a farm field to feed on spent soybeans.

My feet had gone numb again, and so I began working them back and forth in the water to generate heat. A dull hollow sound of distant gunfire invaded the swamp’s solitude. “Keep sharp now. It won’t be long, and don’t go waving your arms and pointing and screaming when you see ‘em. Just tell me where they are and I’ll do the rest.”

“Yes sir.”

Like the wood ducks, the blackbirds had passed through, and except for the wind and squirrels chattering and the caw, caw of tree-roosted crows, nothing moved except the clouds.

I ate a candy bar and was careful to put the paper in my hunting coat. I remembered what Pappy had told me during our middle-of-the night drive. “You’ll see more mallards than you will ever shoot, but that doesn’t mean they are easy to get. And we don’t want to mess up their living room, so don’t trash the water,” he said.

I looked up again and I saw them overhead--gathered in small bunches and large bunches and twos and singles and the long, long Vs that seem to stretch forever. They were quacking, and you could hear the silk-ripping noises their wings made as they flew. They were big, and I could distinguish the pageantry-dressed drakes from the mudcolored hens. I knew then that the spectacle of a clear day full of ducks was among the most imposing scenes in nature--mallards wing tip to wing tip.

“Pap...!” I began. He shut me off.

“I see ‘em.” he whispered.“Let ‘em fuss a bit longer.

They’re more coming, some black ducks mixed in the recipe, and I can see one flock of eight, no 10, pintails.

We’ll give those pintails a ‘good morning,’ if they come in range, but I don’t have much patience with them. They’re too finicky. You can shoot the limit of mallards while you are trying to get a flock of pintails into range,” he said, and I saw him wipe his lips as if he were a trumpet player preparing his mouth for the instrument. He placed his instrument, a squat, short-barreled wooden duck call, against his lips and began to play a musical score with a series of grunts and friendly cackles and lonesome pleadings.

were lighting, and the hens were carrying on as if they were washer women at work.

More mallards kept coming rock fast from the sky.

Pappy yelled, “Now!” The sun of the new day framed the brilliance of a winter-clothed drake flying straight to me—its wings pointed inward and coral feet stretched out as it came in innocence.

I covered the bird with the barrel and pulled the front trigger. The duck’s green head jerked back and its legs went limp as it collapsed. I turned to my left, pulled the back trigger, and another drake rolled into a tight, black knot, slamming into limbs as it fell to the water.

Ducks were everywhere now, scrambling up and out of the hole. But confusion reigned, and as our decoyed ducks were leaving, others were sifting down and landing.

I paid no attention but went through the water as fast as I could. I picked up my first duck, felt his heaviness, and then retrieved my second duck. He was a bit lighter than the first, but that didn’t make me feel any less proud.

Pappy was toting two pintail drakes with their longtapered tails, and he was wearing a smile as he came over to where I stood with my mallard couple.

“The pintails sort of slipped in the back door and I just couldn’t resist,” he said and thumped my mallards’ fat bellies.

“We’ll get your aunt to fix ‘em special for tomorrow’s Sunday dinner with dressing and gravy,” he said, and then we settled down and went back to duck shooting.

“You still cold?” He asked.

“Not a bit,” I answered. F&W

The sky was lively with ducks circling and quacking. A flock of 20, or maybe it was 40, mallards swarmed over the trees. It could have been a hundred. I really don’t know how many ducks there were, but I knew they were the most ducks I’d ever seen--more than were on my calendar cover picture nailed on the wall facing the foot of my bed. I could hear the wind slipping over and under their wings. A quarrelsome hen was the first to touch water not 10 yards out from where I stood skin close to the tree that served as my blind. She stood on her tail and beat her wings against the cold wind. I could see her tiny round eyes and the dab of olive green painted on the tip of her off-yellow bill.

The big flock spooked and climbed heavenward. Pappy issued another invitation, and then another and another, until they turned. This time they cupped their wings and began filtering down to our hole. The hen I’d kept my right eye on was swimming among the decoys. The lead ducks Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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A CENTURY OF

STRAIGHT SHOOTING

THE .270 WINCHESTER TURNS 100

By Doug Pelton

T

he first brand-new rifle I ever bought was a .270 Winchester. The store was going out of business, clearing out every centerfire rifle they had. My eyes fell on a Browning A-Bolt Medallion—deep blued steel, factory engraving, the signature gold trigger, and a balance that felt like it was made just for me. They had three of them on the rack and brought all three out so I could choose. I didn’t have much money then, but I had saved enough for that rifle, a box of 130-grain soft points, and a used scope from Grandpap. I was already dreaming of the whitetail woods and adventures across the globe. The .270 Winchester was already an old-timer when I brought mine

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

home—though it never acted like one. Released in 1925 and first chambered in Winchester’s Model 54, it didn’t cause an immediate stir. Most hunters were still married to the .30-06 (for good reason) and didn’t see much reason to stray. But cartridges have personalities, and sometimes it takes the right man to reveal them.

Enter Jack O’Connor O’Connor—schoolteacher, sheep hunter, and gifted writer—had a knack for making complicated things simple.

He carried the .270 into sheep country, harsh and unforgiving terrain where a light rifle shines. There he found that the little 130-grain bullet flew straighter, recoiled softer, and hit harder than its critics assumed.

Jack took a .270 around the world and wrote about every adventure, and his readers devoured those stories monthly, eager to learn more about his Model 70 Featherweight.

O’Connor’s writing did more for the .270 than any advertisement ever could. Hunters didn’t just read about the cartridge—they trusted it because they trusted the man carrying it. The .270 became the mountain rifle of the everyman: flat, fast, predictable, and dependable.

But O’Connor didn’t make it a legend on his own. The cartridge earned its place over decades of deer seasons, filled tags, venison on the table, and stories around the fire. Hunters needed a round that worked from hardwood ridges to rugged mountainsides and everything in between—and the .270 delivered.

Now, a century later, we’re still carrying the venerable .270 Winchester through timber, mountains, and plains.

It remains exactly what it has always been: enough gun for nearly everything North America has to offer. Modern materials, new bullets, and sharper optics may have refined it, but the character hasn’t changed. It still shoots flat. Still shoots fast. Still recoils like a gentleman.

More importantly, it still reminds some of us where we started.

I own more rifles today—bigger calibers, older classics, a few with more history than sense. But that first .270 hasn’t gone anywhere. It still finds its way into the truck when deer season rolls around in the Carolinas, still joins me on quiet November mornings when the woods feel alive and every sound could be a buck. And every time I carry it, I’m taken back to the family farm, to those early days with Grandpap.

Some cartridges become legends.

Some rifles become companions.

And every once in a while, you get both.

Happy 100th, .270 Winchester.

“Some cartridges You’ve aged well. become legends, Some rifles become companions” Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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GLOBAL ADVENTURE

Where Southern Spirit Meets the World’s Wild Places!

A Southerner’s First Ice Fishing Trip

By Chris Midgette

A Southern sportsman learns that frozen lakes, northern traditions, and bad decisions pair surprisingly well when good friends and bourbon are involved.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

49

T

here are certain things a man raised below the Mason-Dixon Line has no natural business doing. Drinking unsweet tea is one. Driving on snow might be another. But standing on a frozen lake while drilling holes into it, well, that’s just asking for a conversation with the Almighty.

Still, when the invitation came, I figured, why not? My Michigan friends had decided that the occasion of our friend Charles’ divorce being finalized deserved a proper celebration. They called it “Independence Day.” Not the kind with fireworks and flag waving, more like the kind where you toast freedom with brown water, bad decisions, and a few stories you won’t tell your mother.

I’d been promised that this trip would combine all

the great northern pastimes: friendship, fishing, and libations. Being a sportsman, and perhaps not as bright as I like to think I am, I said yes.

The drive north was something out of a travel brochure titled “Places Southerners Should Avoid After November.”

The landscape changed from friendly pine to something out of a postcard. The roads were covered white, windswept, and I white knuckled my way up.

I arrived at the cabin just before noon, greeted by bacon, coffee, and last night’s bourbon. My friends, who had apparently spent the evening “pre-gaming” for our expedition, were in varying states of recovery. The kitchen looked like a battlefield between bacon grease and hangovers.

“Some of the best memories and stories come from shared misery” “Well,” one of them said between gulps of coffee, “you should see Jack coming across the lake on the fourwheeler soon!”

He said it with the confidence of a man who’d never been wrong in his life, which immediately made me suspicious. We went outside to look across the frozen expanse. I’ll admit, it was beautiful. A bright sun bouncing off snow, the lake stretching out like a sheet of glass. The kind of beauty that makes you forget how cold your toes are until you can no longer feel them.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Eventually, someone said, “Well, we should’ve seen him a while ago. Wonder if he stopped somewhere?”

After some time later, it was clear Jack hadn’t stopped for gas. He had stopped somewhere, and it wasn’t voluntary. That’s when Charles and I decided to go look for him. It was, after all, his Independence Day. We took the truck down to the boat ramp. You know, where, during sane months, you’d launch an actual boat into liquid water. From a distance, we saw something that

looked suspiciously like a man and a machine stuck in the middle of an icy purgatory. Sure enough, there was Jack, standing next to his four-wheeler, which was buried to its fenders in what I can only describe as a frozen gumbo of slush, snow, and despair. Jack, ever the optimist, greeted us with a cheerful, “Y’all got a shovel?”

We did not.

We did, however, have hands, and apparently that was good enough.

Now, you have to understand: I did not pack for manual labor. I had on jeans, a sweatshirt, my every-day boots, and a level of confidence that quickly evaporated once I stepped onto the ice. No gloves, no hat, and no plan.

Charles wasn’t any better off. He had that look of a man who thought he’d be sipping whiskey by a fire, not wading into a frozen lake to dig out a four-wheeler.

The first few minutes were all about optimism. We pushed. We pulled. We even rocked the machine back

and forth, hoping it would magically “catch traction,” whatever that meant on ice.

After twenty minutes, the optimism froze right alongside us. We tried digging out the tires with our hands. We tried leaning on it, cussing at it, and at one point, I think Jack tried to bargain with it. None of it worked.

Then the reinforcements arrived.

Jake and Matt rolled up like two cavalrymen who’d lost their horses. Jake, in particular, looked like he’d had a long night of making bad decisions in a bottle of bourbon.

His skin tone matched the snow: pale and regrettable.

He jumped right in, bless him, but every few pushes he’d stop, lean over, and violently donate his stomach contents back to the frozen wilderness. I’ve seen geese retch with more dignity.

Matt, on the other hand, was the cheerleader of the operation. “We’re getting it! Keep going!” he’d yell, right as the four-wheeler sank another inch deeper into the slush.

At some point, I realized my hands had gone completely numb. I wasn’t sure if that was frostbite or just my body’s way of protecting me from knowing how stupid I looked.

My jeans had frozen stiff around the knees, and my boots had collected so much icy water that I could feel slush between my toes.

After an hour of this nonsense, something had to give.

We were soaked, freezing, and I was beginning to understand why northerners drink so much brown water.

It’s not to celebrate, it’s to survive. Finally, through some combination of physics, luck, and profanity, the fourwheeler lurched free. We cheered like we’d just won the Super Bowl. Jake vomited one more time for good measure.

We stood there, five grown men on a half-frozen lake, steam rising from our clothes and breath, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Jack looked at his four-wheeler, then at us, and said,

“Well, guess we’re ready to fish.”

I don’t remember who started laughing first, but we all lost it. The idea that after three hours of freezing and futility, anyone still wanted to fish was so ridiculous it almost made sense. By the time we got back to the cabin, it was well into the afternoon. Someone opened a bottle, and we all sat there thawing out and swapping stories.

We didn’t catch a single fish that day. Didn’t even drill a hole. But somehow, it didn’t matter. Some of the best memories and stories come from shared misery. It’s the same thing that makes duck blinds warmer and grouse covers friendlier. You suffer together, laugh together, and when it’s over, you’ve got a story that gets better every time it’s told.

I learned a lot that day. I learned that frozen lakes groan in a way that’ll make your heart skip a beat. That slush will find its way into your boots no matter how tall they are, and I also learned that bourbon tastes better when you’ve nearly lost a toe to frostbite.

Later that night, as we sat around the table playing this weird game called euchre (that I still have no idea how to play), someone asked how I enjoyed my first ice fishing experience. I thought about it for a moment, wiggling my toes, feeling the slow return of sensation in them and my fingers and replied “Well I reckon I enjoyed it and will go again if next time there will actually be some fishing” The truth is, I may never become an ice fisherman. I like my water liquid and my fishing trips warm enough that hypothermia isn’t a possible outcome. But I wouldn’t trade that day for anything. That’s the thing about friends, no matter how dumb the idea, if there’s laughter, bourbon, and a story to tell, you’ll go along anyway.

And somewhere between the laughter, the bourbon, and the crackle of the fire, I realized that maybe ice fishing isn’t so foreign after all. Because when you strip away the cold and foolishness, it’s really no different from duck blinds and post hunt tailgates: just another excuse for good friends to come together and do something halfway stupid in the name of a good time.

If that’s not the definition of sport, I don’t know what is.

F&W

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Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

SAM NOW DREAMS THE HUNTER

By C.H. Daniels

I

hope when I am seventy, I have the same enthusiasm my dog does. I planned to take Sam out pheasant hunting this morning. Unfortunately for him, I dislike waking at 5:00 a.m. to hunt eastern pheasants. I have come to hope there are some pheasants out there that don’t want to wake up so early either, so maybe we will be in the field by the time they get up and start moving around. I would rather chase some late-rising, lazy birds than bright-eyed, up-and-at-’em, type A personality roosters. As far as Sam goes, he has no preference. They all stink and that makes him happy.

It was a couple cups of coffee later and after 7:30 a.m. by the time I got around to leaving on this cloudy and cold morning, and I was sort of dragging my feet. Sam was doing happy, tap-dance steps, toenails clattering on floor as he danced around me in that sort of highstepping, half-bounce, half-prance even ten-year-old dogs do when they know something is up. Lately, I have had to coax him up into the truck when I go for my morning run—it’s just too high for his old legs to carry him. Not this morning. He shot up in the truck so fast I thought he was going to go out the back side of his kennel.

When we arrived, he exited the kennel like a furry, rooster-seeking missile launched into the field. We started in a fairly open meadow where it would be easy to keep an eye on him, and I figured he could burn off a little of that extra energy. He looked like a two-yearold dog—for about ten minutes. Now with the edge off of him, we ventured down into a brushy bottom full of high, dense grasses that is a favorite late-day spot for us. Since we were running a little late perhaps some birds had been pushed into the bottom, and I thought the heavy cover would soften him up a little further. After that he was perfect.

Just like back when we would train together each day. Since we don’t anymore, today I had tempered my expectations. But he was masterful.

There is truly something beautiful in watching a good dog work: the way they play the wind, work the scent, decipher the riddle left behind in the cover. When you take that good dog and watch the dog work together with someone...it is sublime.

Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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The dog is an extension of the hunter, and the hunter is perhaps an extension of the dog as well. Sam had it all going this day. He made frequent eye contact. His quartering was impeccable. Any time I thought, “hmm, that clump over there looks promising,” Sam would change direction and work over to the cover like some canine Kreskin. Checking back with me, watching my body language all the while. It was lovely—a poetic reminder of the days we hunted in the Midwest and Rocky Mountain states with some regularity.

Another hour into it and while I was watching poetry, we had nothing to show for it. No flushes. No birds. I wondered how long he would keep it up. There was a nice brushy hedgerow below us that I had a feeling might be holding birds, and Sam had headed over to it more than once before reading my body language and working back up towards me. When we finally got around to that last hedgerow, Sam immediately “got birdy” and flushed out a cackling rooster.

Unfortunately, it flushed out the opposite side of the hedgerow. By the time it swung back over to my side of the hedgerow the bird was out of range. Safe. But I felt better that Sam had at least been rewarded for all his hard work with nice nose full of pheasant. However, he wasn’t done.

He disappeared again into the heavy brush in the hedgerow and a short distance later he flushed another cock bird out to me. The bird hit the ground after the shot, but Sam was absent—still preoccupied in the hedgerow.

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When you have a good dog, you learn to trust them when they tell you they are on a bird. So, like a well-trained Master, I moved up and scanned the hedgerow. The white tip of a canine tail occasionally flashed above the undergrowth, propelling Sam forward through the brambles, vines and goldenrod. Aimless, his path would look to the uninitiated, but aimless it was not. The increasing urgency marking Sam’s progress confirmed the relentless closing of the gap between pursuit and quarry, and moments later the hedgerow disgorged yet another rooster amidst a shower of dried leaves and debris. Another shot, another bird down.

Sam marked this second bird and returned it to me, high stepping as he came. Pleased with himself.

After tucking the bird away, I lined Sam up to send him on a blind retrieve for the first bird. Belief is a crucial element in a blind retrieve. Sam and I have practiced blind retrieves often over the years, and he has completed some shockingly long blind retrieves in the field and in trials. He executes them without fail, believing every time I send him out. So, I was surprised when I sent Sam to retrieve that first bird and he took a step or two, then stopped and looked back at me. I imagine the mental dialogue went something like this: Me: “Sam!” Sam: “Huh? I just gave you the bird!”

Me: “Sam, fetch it up!”

Sam: “Fetch what up? I already gave it to you. Maybe the cat is right.”

Ever the optimist. Stiff and tired as he is, he would go back out again if I would take him.

Me: “Sam? Sam. Come.

The sun has now set, and the pleasant perfume of gun oil and leather fills the room. Sam is contentedly soaking in the warmth of the fire, and I am soaking in the spreading warmth from a tumbler of fine whiskey. Life really doesn’t get much better than this. Sam, by the way, agrees. I chuckle at his soft, rhythmic snoring and look over at him— his nose twitching, paws flexing—and it is easy to imagine he is re-working scents and re-covering the ground. Even in his sleep, he fixes upon his master’s eye and discerns the intent behind the eye. He knows in the same way that he breathes - without hesitation. Sam, master of his dreams, now dreams the hunter. F&W

Sam: “For cryin’ out loud make up your mind. Fetch or come, which is it?”

Me (after lining him up with my hand in preparation for a blind retrieve): “Sam, fetch it up!”

Sam: “Uh. Ok” Sam goes about twelve feet. There is the bird. He stops.

Looks at it. Looks at me. Slow tail wag. Looks back at the bird.

Sam: “Really? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t have taken 4 more steps and just picked it up? And now you are standing there with your hand out?”

Me: “Let’s go, fetch it up” Sam, picking up the bird: “This beloved Master stuff is overrated.” Sam stops and sits just out of reach.

Me: (leaning forward a little more): “Come.”

Sam remembering that the cat told him that Master is going to stuff the dog just like all those other dead animals, turns his head away: “Come on, you can take another step.”

Me: “Sam! Come!”

Sam leaning forward to push the bird in my hand but refusing to take another step: “There.”

Me: (taking the bird and kneeling to pet him and scratch behind his ear): “Good boy, Sam. Nice work, what a good dog!”

Sam: forgetting all about the deceitful cat, wags his tail furiously, “You are my Master, and I love you”.

With my limit of roosters for the day met, I broke down the gun and started back to the truck, the satisfying weight of a full game bag pulling at my vest. Sam, never one to leave an inch of ground uncovered, kept his motor running, testing the wind, high-stepping and prancing all the way. Given his excellent physical appearance, people are surprised when they hear he is over ten years old. I remember him when at three and four years old however, and I can see the difference. I had to lift him out of the truck when we arrived at the house. He was stiff and sore and tired. But typical Sam, he kept an eye on me. If I got up, he got up.

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SCROLL LESS ADVENTURE MORE WHAT

HEMINGWAY TAUGHT ME

An essay on putting down your phone and discovering the adventure around you.

By Cody Fongemie

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here are a few books that every high school student seems destined to read, defining titles like The Great Gatsby or Lord of the Flies. These classics are unique, but most of us don’t fully appreciate them when we’re sixteen. Back then, it wasn’t about savoring the literature; it was just another box to check off on the way to high school graduation. Like most others around Connecticut, we tackled The Old Man and the Sea in my school. Hemingway’s classic came with a reputation. It was the “dreaded” section of the year, whispered about by the grades ahead of us. We knew what was coming: popcorn reading sessions, where each student stumbled through a few sentences before passing the burden to the next. No one had actually read it. No one really discussed it. We checked off the lesson, did our written reflections, and moved on.

school, aiming for the best grade — about how profound his language was and how special it was. But at that time, I didn’t mean it the way I do now. I didn’t understand it as if I believed it was meant to be understood.

Through the painful popcorn reading, I became curious about this tale. I wanted to read it myself, and I devoured it. For the first time, I saw beyond the sentences into something more profound that stirred at the edges of understanding, even though I couldn’t fully grasp it then.

That year, for my major English project, I wrote about Hemingway himself and what might have driven a man to write a story so deceptively simple yet painfully profound.

At the time, I stuck to simple Google searches about his life in the Keys and the islands. I didn’t dive into Hemingway’s entire life and what fueled his writing, but it was a start.

Honestly, I wrote a great paper — the kind you write in

Then came my junior year at Coastal Carolina University.

I came home for Christmas break, and there it was: my old copy of The Old Man and the Sea, sitting right where I’d left it years ago. I grabbed it, threw it in my bag, and brought it back to school with me. A few months later, as spring rolled in with a cool evening breeze, I had time to kill before heading down to the bar just a couple of hundred yards from my apartment to meet my friends. I grabbed the book and a bottle of Blue Chair Bay Rum, filled my 20oz Yeti, and started to read.

After high school, most of us abandoned Hemingway and the rest of the classics. They sat neglected on dusty shelves.

I wasn’t any different. My copy of The Old Man and the Sea remained tucked away after my sophomore year as I moved on with the excitement of high school and applying to college. Reading wasn’t a priority. The priority was figuring out what to do in life, and once I got to college, it was about enjoying all the things that come with that experience: classes, friendships, freedom, distractions, the usual whirlwind.

This time, it spoke to me like nothing else had. The story took me to places I hadn’t explored: patience, struggle, isolation, and dignity. All of it resonated with me. I had reached a point in life when strange things began to happen, whether in personal relationships or professionally. It just clicked. I finished it and closed the book, sitting there in silence for a few minutes, sipping what was probably my third or fourth drink. Looking at my watch, I saw I was an hour or so late. The Yeti, the bottle, and the book all ended up on the counter, and I headed to the bar. That moment felt very Hemingway-esque, heading to the bar after a day’s work like he often would at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West, a long day behind the typewriter. It was a good night, full of laughter and good conversation, but all I could think about was how I wanted to keep reading stories like that.

into my car and drove to Barnes & Noble. I made a beeline for the Hemingway section and walked out with For Whom the Bell Tolls, A Farewell to Arms, and The Sun Also Rises.

Little did I know, I had started a journey. It became my new routine before heading down to the bar or after a night of meetings to settle in with one of these novels. Each one spoke to me differently, and in my eyes, they helped me grow as a young man.

Reawakening a Need to Read

Years passed, and I continued to revisit Hemingway’s novels and short stories. So naturally, when my wife and

As I left my political theory class the next morning, I hopped

Over the next few years, I would often revisit them or read one I hadn’t before. Each word in each novel grew heavier and more meaningful as I aged. They didn’t just deepen my understanding of literature; they helped me understand myself and the world in ways I hadn’t before. Often, they helped me tackle life’s big questions or lit a spark in me when things felt unclear.

I took an impromptu mini-honeymoon trip to Key West, we made a pilgrimage to Hemingway’s house. That walk through the gate, my eyes landing on the house where so many of the classics I loved were written, felt like something sacred. The tour was incredible, from the gardens to the sixtoed cats and finally to the study where Hemingway wrote daily and crafted those unforgettable tales. Walking out of the Gardens and back to Key West’s storied streets, I felt a certain fire in me to prioritize two things in my life: reading and writing daily.

A Pilgrimage to Papa’s The following February, I was back in Key West for a work trip, and once again, I made the obligatory pilgrimage to his home. This walk-through was different. This time, I was a writer, hoping to find inspiration or spark from a much longer visit. But I wasn’t alone; I had colleagues with me who knew nothing about Hemingway. So, I became the tour

guide. During this amateur tour, my younger colleague was just amazed by all that Hemingway had done. The fact that he would just go off to Africa or a war zone and then end up back in the Keys or Cuba, chasing the mammoths of the sea. Listening to him talk about how crazy that all was - it hit me.

It wasn’t just admiration for Hemingway’s daring life; it was the realization that we no longer do this. Not really.

We don’t seek adventure, at least not the way men and women once did in the physical world and the wild frontier of the mind. We’ve traded exploration for convenience, risk for comfort, and stories worth telling for content that disappears with a swipe.

Hemingway wasn’t simply a great writer because he had talent. He lived a life worth writing about. He sought out the raw edges of existence: war, love, death, wilderness, and glory. He fished in the Gulf Stream, hunted lions in Africa, reported from battlefields, drank with artists in Paris, and Winter 2026 | Feathers & Whiskey Magazine

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wrestled with loneliness and despair. He wasn’t chasing likes or followers; Papa was chasing the marrow of life itself.

And in doing so, he gave us stories that still echo decades later. But where is our version of this spirit today? Where is the call to the wild, the call to the unknown?

The Modern World Kills the Need to Adventure It feels like it’s gone quiet. Not silenced, perhaps, but dulled like a distant sound we no longer recognize. People today are no less capable of greatness, but we don’t hand them the same maps or inspire them to chase something beyond the algorithm. We’ve become disconnected from the real dirt, the sea spray, the danger, the suffering, the long silences that only come from doing something truly hard. We crave comfort so much that we forget what it means to struggle nobly, to suffer meaningfully, to risk something big for the chance at something even bigger.

It’s not just physical adventure we’ve lost, either. We’ve stopped venturing into the deeper parts of our own minds.

When was the last time most people sat with a book for hours alone, in silence, letting it do the slow work of changing them? When was the last time someone stared at the night sky and asked the kind of questions you can’t Google? Our attention spans have withered, our curiosity numbed by dopamine loops and endless distractions.

We’re scrolling instead of searching, consuming instead of creating, reacting instead of reflecting.

The tragic part is that we want meaning. You can feel it in the undercurrent of every “main character” TikTok trend or the wave of nostalgic obsession with “romanticizing life.”

We’re aching for stories, for something real, for the sacred.

But we’ve forgotten where to look or how to listen when the call comes.

“There’s adventure left in the world. In your hometown. In your mind. In the quiet places you’ve been avoiding. You just have to listen to it. Find your book. Take the trip. Ask questions that don’t come with easy answers.

Struggle. Risk. Get lost. Come back different.

That’s what makes a story worth telling and a life worth living.”

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A Solution in the Words of the Past Hemingway and writers like him were part of a generation that wasn’t afraid to feel deeply, suffer, observe the world with sharp clarity, and then distill that into words. They lived lives of intensity and meaning. Not because they had to, but because they chose to. They believed that to write and to live truly, you had to go out into the world and your soul.

We need to rediscover that. We need to remember that adventure isn’t just a faraway jungle or a battlefield, though it can be. It can also be found in a sunrise hike, pushing your limits on a trail, a long conversation with someone very different from you, or even picking up a book you’ve always been “meaning to read” and actually finishing it.

We need the physical and the intellectual to meet again to live boldly and reflect deeply. That’s the recipe for a meaningful life and the path to telling better stories, becoming more than just background characters in someone else’s narrative, and becoming authors of our own.

When I stood outside Hemingway’s study with sunlight filtering through the Key West palms over the little platform that was attached, I thought about the man at his desk - sweat on his brow, scratching down the bones of a story with nothing but a pencil, paper, and the weight of his experience. I realized that we don’t need to be Hemingway. We don’t need to copy his life. But we need to hear the same call he did, the one that whispers from the edge of comfort, daring us to go further, risk more, think harder, and live better.

There’s adventure left in the world. In your hometown. In your mind. In the quiet places you’ve been avoiding. You just have to listen to it. Find your book. Take the trip. Ask questions that don’t come with easy answers. Struggle. Risk. Get lost. Come back different. That’s what makes a story worth telling and a life worth living. F&W

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SOUTHERN SOCIAL SCENE

Southeastern Wildlife Expo Charleston, South Carolina February 13-15,2026

The Southeastern Wildlife Exposition (SEWE) celebrates the great outdoors with fine art, live entertainment, and special events. Bringing together artists, craftsmen, collectors, and sporting enthusiasts. sewe.com

Dixie Deer Classic Raleigh, North Carolina February 27-March 1, 2026 Celebrate the sporting heritage and culture of North Carolina and the South at the 44th Dixie Deer Classic. The Dixie Deer Classic is the oldest hunting expo and the granddaddy of them all. It is held each year at the North Carolina State Fair Grounds in Raleigh and offers something for the whole family, deer head scoring, vendors, crafts and food. dixiedeerclassic.org

Sporting Art Fair

Hillsborough, North Carolina February 21st, 2026 This community-focused event celebrates the world of sporting art with captivating live demonstrations, delicious food, and activities for all ages. Designed to be a fun and engaging experience, The Sporting Art Fair offers something for everyone, from art enthusiasts to families! lelandlittle.com

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Flora & Fauna

Carolina Chickadee

Every Leaf and Paw Holds a Story

The Carolina Chickadee may be small, but it’s full of Southern charm. With its curious nature and cheerful calls, this tiny songbird is a familiar sight at backyard feeders, woodland edges, and quiet country lanes across the South. Loyal to its territory and quick to investigate anything new, the Carolina Chickadee brings life and song to winter woods and spring mornings alike.

Habitat & Range

Carolina Chickadees inhabit mixed and deciduous forests, wooded suburbs, and gardens. They prefer areas with plenty of mature trees and shrubs for nesting and foraging.

Though often mistaken for their northern cousin, the Blackcapped Chickadee, the Carolina Chickadee is the voice of the Southeastern states.

Physical Trait Size: 4-5in. long, wingspan about

6-8 in.

• Plumage: Black cap and bib, white cheeks, soft gray back and buffy underparts.

• Call: A clear “chick-a-dee-dee-dee or a whistled “fee•

bee-fee-bay”, especially in spring.

Nesting: Cavity nester-uses tree holes or nest boxes lined with moss and animal fur.

Value

Carolina Chickadees play a vital role in Southern ecosystems, feeding on insects, spiders, berries, and seeds. They help control garden pests and disperse native plant seeds. Their flitting presence often draws other songbirds, forming mixed flocks in winter that share safety and food sources. A feeder stocked with black oil sunflower seeds or suet is sure to earn their trust.

Field Notes

Chickadees are bold and inquisitive—often the first to investigate when you step outdoors. In colder months, listen for their soft contact calls as they travel in family groups. Their tameness makes them a favorite of birdwatchers, and in quiet backyards, they may even eat from an outstretched hand.

Fun Fact

Carolina Chickadees have remarkable winter survival skills. They can remember the locations of hundreds of hidden food caches and lower their body temperature at night to conserve energy—a true Southern study in grit and grace.

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FICTION

The Man in the Pines

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By Michael Maynor

he man sat cross-legged beneath the low sweep of pine boughs that formed his makeshift leanto. The scent of fresh-cut branches filled the cold air, sharp and clean, and for a fleeting moment it carried him home—to Christmas mornings in Tennessee, when life was simpler and the world still felt small.

He reached for the worn leather pouch beside him, pinched a bit of tobacco, and packed his pipe. A glowing branch from the fire served as his match. The first puff rose slow and lazy before the wind caught it, twisting the smoke into the night. Pulling the shaggy buffalo hide tighter around his shoulders, he watched shadows move across the deep chocolate elk antlers laying next to the fire.

His thoughts drifted—home, his parents long gone, and the brother and sister scattered by distance and years.

Word in a Sheridan saloon the winter before spoke of a trapper killed by Cheyenne. The description, the belongings… it might’ve been his brother. He couldn’t be sure, but maybe it was easier not to know.

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He took another pull from the pipe, the flame dancing with the wind. The elk horns caught the firelight again, and with them came the memory of a Christmas long ago—a little brown pony his papa had surprised him with, and the feel of its shaggy mane in his small hands. He would ride him around their farm and dream of distant places he could only imagine.

Maybe he’d ride east come spring and find his sister in St. Louis. She’d married a doctor, and had a son last he’d heard, he would take the boy a grizzly claw and some Indian arrowheads. The thought of it brought a small, tired smile. He drew on the pipe once more as a lone wolf’s howl carried across the valley, threading through the pines and the smoke, a sound both wild and lonesome—like the man himself. F&W

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