F&W Magazine Winter 2025 by Feathers & Whiskey

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”

― John Steinbeck

FEATHERS & WHISKEY

Wildly Refined

Michael Maynor

is a proud native of North Carolina with a deep love for the sporting lifestyle and everything Southern. His book collection seems to grow endlessly, and He has a particular fondness for collecting vintage duck decoys. Despite appearing content, his heart longs to return to Africa for another safari adventure. John 3:16. @feathersandwhiskey

Evan Hughes

is a native of Texas, he moved to Alexandria, Virginia, with his dog Duke in 2015. He quickly fell in love with the history and enduring charm of the East Coast. A lifelong design enthusiast, Evan recently began documenting his interior design projects. Through his Instagram account, Duke and Hughes, he shares inspiration drawn from vintage finds and classic aesthetics. Instagram: @duke_and_hughes

Sam Comey

is a native of Florida she was born into ranching and hunting family. God’s plan led her to Texas and to her native Texan husband, who is an avid hunter and outdoorsman. She worked alongside him as interior designer for his construction company until she began staying home full time with their two children. Instagram @antlersandarchitecture

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 blackwater of Lake Waccamaw.

Casey Arthur

is an avid decoy maker and waterfowler from Stacy, NC, who loves to spend time on the waters of Core Sound. When not on the water, you can find him whittling and carving in his decoy shop or with his wife Julie and their two dogs, Rubie and Polly. Instagram @caseyadecoys

CONTRIBUTORS

WINTER 2025

is a husband, father, and full-time fireman. Raised in the North Georgia mountains, he has explored vast public lands his ancestors called home since the late 1700s. Passionate about hunting, fishing, and preserving wild places, he embraces the responsibility of ensuring future generations share these experiences. Instagram @vance_collins_708

is a writer based in Savannah, GA. He is an outdoor enthusiast and an avid bird hunter. He is a member of numerous conservation organizations and is currently a board member of the Georgia Chapter of Backcountry Hunters & Anglers. He also holds multiple certifications in wine and spirits. Follow his adventures in the swamps and woods of South Georgia on Instagram @gunnerhall

is a retired law enforcement officer and is originally from Eastern North Carolina. Cecil grew up on a tobacco and hog farm and still loves the rural life. He enjoys waterfowl, upland, and big game hunting. He loves the idea of field to plate and enjoys cooking and eating all of his harvests and cannot wait until the next hunt. Instagram @cvcherry

Trevor Hubbs

is a former Airborne Infantryman turned storyteller. He grew up chasing ducks, bucks, and quail in the eastern ozarks. Trevor currently edits the Mule Deer Foundation and Blacktail Deer Foundation magazines and contributes to Strung, Tom Beckbe Field Journal, Fur, Fish, and Game, and others. Instagram @trevorhubbs

Erin Woodward

is an outdoor writer living amongst the great plains of America. He hunts with a 1947 Ithaca pump shotgun and his French Brittany Moses at his side, enjoying the escape of simple words. Together they venture through thickets and thorn in search of the next covey. Erin’s words have been published with Project Upland Magazine, Endless Migration, & Free Range American.

CONTRIBUTORS

Vance Collins

Gunner Hall

Cecil Cherry

FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

Welcome to Feathers & Whiskey Magazine – Reimagined.

For years, Feathers & Whiskey has been a haven for storytelling, a celebration of the Southern spirit, and a window to global adventures. What began as a humble blog evolved into a bold leap with our Africa Edition. But today, we present Feathers & Whiskey as it was always meant to be – a true magazine, crafted with care and intention, where the richness of the South meets the thrill of the world beyond.

This inaugural issue of our seasonal magazine is more than pages bound together – it’s a labor of love, a testament to who we are, and a glimpse into where we’re headed. Why start in winter? Some might expect spring, a season of renewal, to mark this beginning. But winter, with its quiet resilience and its call for reflection, offers the perfect moment to pause, gather, and share the stories that bind us. Like a fire crackling against the cold, this issue is here to warm your spirit and spark your sense of adventure.

Inside, you’ll find what makes Feathers & Whiskey unique: Southern Roots, Global Adventure. From tales of heritage and craft to journeys that span continents, we’ve curated content to inspire and connect. As the wind howls outside, let these stories transport you to places both familiar and new.

Welcome to Feathers & Whiskey. Wildly Refined.

Michael Maynor Editor-in-Chief

HOME

BAR

Story

and photos

by Evan Hughes

To achieve a classic, refined bar area with a vintage touch, it’s all about layering timeless elements. Start by selecting a sturdy surface, whether it’s a bar cart, sideboard, or a builtin shelf. The key to styling is incorporating a mix of old-world charm and personal flair.

Antique trays provide the perfect foundation for organizing bottles, glassware, and accessories. Look for trays in brass, silver, or leather, as they evoke a sense of heritage and sophistication. Adding decanters with cut-glass or crystal stoppers gives the bar a refined, polished look. These decanters add elegance and a touch of formality while also making your favorite spirits more visually appealing. Vintage brass figurines, such as hunting dogs, stags, or eagles, are great for giving the bar character and tying in the theme.

To enhance the layered look, include natural elements like antlers or feathers, which speak to the tradition of hunting and the outdoors while providing texture and visual interest. You can drape antlers across the bar or lean them casually against decanters or trays. Glassware featuring etched images of waterfowl, deer, or other wildlife adds a nod to rustic elegance, especially if you’re aiming for a Ralph Laureninspired aesthetic. Pair these glasses with whiskey or bourbon for a cohesive theme.

Additionally, adding a vintage lamp to your bar setup is a brilliant way to enhance both the overall aesthetic and functionality of the space. A lamp not only provides practical lighting for the bar area but also adds warmth and an inviting ambiance. Look for a lamp with a brass or carved wooden base, or one with a

shade made from rich materials like leather or linen. These materials complement the vintage elements and help tie the entire space together. A strategically placed lamp on a sideboard or bar cart gives your bar a lived-in, curated feel, evoking that timeless, Ralph Lauren-inspired charm.

The beauty of this style is that it doesn’t need to break the bank. Most of these items can be found at antique or thrift stores. From wellworn leather coasters to vintage glassware, these treasures are often affordable and come with a sense of history that enhances the charm of your bar area. By layering these vintage pieces, your setup will not only be functional but also visually rich, creating the feel of a curated collection rather than a typical bar.

Here is a simple step-by-step guide to help you get started on creating the perfect vintage-inspired bar setup in your own home:

1. Start with a solild foundation

Choose a sturdy surface like a bar cart, sideboard, or builtin shelf to create the base of your bar area.

2. Layer with a vintage tray

Find an antique tray made of brass, silver, or leather to organize bottles and glassware while adding a touch of sosphistication.

3. Add decanters for elegance.

Incorporate vintage decanters with crystal or cut-glass stoppers. These not only look refined, but give your spirits an elevated presentation.

4. Introduce brass figurines.

Enhance the space with brass frigurines of animals like hunting dogs, deer, or eagles to add character and reinforce a classic masculine theme.

5. Incorporate natural elements.

Use antlers or feathers to layer textures and bring a rustic, outdoorys feel to your bar. These elements add depth and a sense of history

6. Include themed glassware.

Look for glassware etched with images of waterfowl, deer and other wildlife to tie into the overall vintage, Ralph Lauren-inspired aesthetic.

7. Illuminate with a vintage lamp.

A vintage lamo with brass or varved wooden base brings warmth and atmosphere. Its soft glow will highlight the textures and colors of your setup, creating a cozy and invinting space.

8. Shop at antique or thrift stores.

Most of these items, from trays to glassware to lamps, can be found affordably at thrift or antique stores. Huntin g for these treasures makes the process fun and keep your budget manageble.

Antlers & Architecture

Story By Sam Comey

This recurring column in Feathers & Whiskey Magazine celebrates spaces that beautifully blend the rugged allure of the outdoors with the sophisticated elegance of interior design. Each feature spotlights distinctive homes that creatively incorporate elements like antlers, hides, feathers, and mounts into a range of styles—from sleek modern and rustic charm to French country elegance and industrial chic. Whether you’re a passionate hunter or simply an admirer of nature’s splendor, our featured spaces are designed to inspire you to infuse your home with the wild’s untamed beauty— elevated with grace and style. Let the outdoors become the centerpiece of your home, not just an accent!

The Bushbuck Lodge, the library of James-Scott WONG

On an unremarkable evening in west Texas, I stood in the empty halls of our newly constructed home. Boxes of my French country, feminine décor were strewn about, interspersed with my husband’s animal mounts—about forty in total (with even more at the taxidermist). As I stood there, hands on my hips, I thought to myself, How am I going to combine his passion with my own style without our house looking like a hunting lodge or man cave?

My husband noticed my pondering and asked what I was thinking about. “I wish there was an HGTV for hunters,” I mused aloud. As soon as I said the words, I grabbed my phone and started searching. I found plenty of interior design accounts, and just as many taxidermy or hunting accounts, but none that combined both worlds. Right then, I decided to create my own. The name came naturally: Antlers & Architecture.

“I wish there was an HGTV for hunters”

- Sam Comey

I wasted no time scouring the internet and began posting beautifully decorated rooms featuring antlers, feathers, or mounts. The account grew quickly, and soon, we started receiving submissions from across the country (and even internationally), showcasing different interior styles and types of mounts. Taxidermy is often stigmatized by mainstream interior design, channels,leading to a significant underrepresentation of how to incorporate it into our homes. However, with millions of hunters in the United States alone, there is a clear need for taxidermy representation in the design space.Whether you’re married or single, male or female, a hunter or a gatherer, young or old—if you want to integrate feathers, antlers, or animal mounts into a specific design style, our account has something for you.

Choosing the Right Space

While fireplaces are the classic location to display a mount—timeless and iconic—there are countless other spaces to consider. Through submissions to our account and hours of research, I’ve learned that mounts can make even more of a statement when placed in less common locations, such as kitchens, mudrooms, or even bathrooms!

From the home of Trey Sperring

For instance, I was initially hesitant about incorporating mounts outside of traditional spaces, but after seeing how others did it, I felt inspired. Now, a deer head hangs proudly in my son’s bathroom, a blackbuck and oryx flank an English Country sideboard in our dining room, and an axis overlooks the living room from atop a whiskey barrel. Even our playroom boasts a zebra, wildebeest, and impala, while an aoudad skull adorns the brick wall on the

back porch. Fireplaces may be a classic spot, but expanding beyond the expected opens up endless possibilities. Try placing antlers on a kitchen counter, mounting a duck in the bathroom, or displaying an animal skull on a bar cart. When choosing the right space, think creatively—you might surprise yourself with what works!

“The Blackbuck from India and the African Oryx are at home flanked on either side of an English Country sideboard. In the author’s dining room.”

Balancing Natural Elements with Other Decor

Incorporating taxidermy into design is all about balance. People often avoid mounts because they fear overwhelming a space, and, indeed, grouping too many together can give off a hunting lodge or trophy room vibe. But taxidermy doesn’t have to dominate—it can seamlessly blend into a variety of styles, from French country to modern farmhouse, Scandinavian to industrial. For example, a single mount on a dark accent wall can become

What’s Next?

Antlers & Architecture is growing rapidly, and our goal is to gain enough visibility to reach larger audiences through big-name design channels. Ultimately, we want to help people achieve harmony in their homes, whether they’re trying to combine taxidermy with modern decor or just looking for fresh design ideas.

an intriguing art piece in a modern room.If your style is more vintage or eclectic, a gallery wall is a great place to nestle a mount among other decor. Antlers add drama to industrial spaces, while pheasant feathers or sheepskin can bring a touch of softness and warmth to rustic or contemporary rooms.Our Instagram page showcases how diverse taxidermy can be. No two homes look alike, and the creativity of our followers keeps us inspired daily.

We’re excited to bring Antlers & Architecture to Feathers & Whiskey as a recurring column, where each feature will spotlight a different home, sharing the stories behind their unique style. Stay tuned for more inspiration in future issues! To become inspired be sure to follow Antlers & Architecture on Instagram @antlersandarchitecture

Sam Comey the founder of Antlers & Architecture started it as way to show that taxidermy can work with all interior design styles. Photo @kellitylerphoto

From the home of John Ed Dowden

From the home of John Hill

Southeastern Wildlife Exposition

WHERE, ART, NATURE, AND CONNECTIONS FLOURISH

Story and Photos by Michael Maynor

It was February 2023 and I was in Charleston, South Carolina, a city that I dearly love and one that, to me and co founder Robbie, is the physical embodiment of Feathers & Whiskey. However, this article is not about Charleston the City, this article is about art and more importantly the art of the Southeastern Wildlife Expo (SEWE ). I was standing in The Charleston Place Hotel in the Fine Art Gallery of SEWE and I was having a conversation with Montana artist Liz Lewis. “Art is all about evoking emotions and creating connections” remarked Liz, encapsulating the essence of SEWE. As we were talking, a charming Boykin Spaniel named Woodford sauntered over, diverting our attention from art to his

endearing presence. This seamless blend of art and nature, where dogs are welcomed with open arms, epitomizes the unique atmosphere of SEWE. Liz’s words lingered in my mind, resonating with the profound emotional impact of art and the connections it fosters.

Art has always been a big part of my life. When I was growing up in the 90s, my friends were into comic books and video games while I patiently waited for the next copy of Southwest Art Magazine to arrive in our mailbox. I would eagerly thumb through it to see the latest featured art. I idolized artists like Howard Terpning, Frank McCarthy, and Bev Doolittle. These artists held the same status to me as movie and rock stars.

There was no social media then, and websites were just starting to become familiar. Most of the time, it was magazines or brochures sent out by galleries to update customers on artists’ work, but things have changed. You can still see yourself reading and learning about artists through magazines or visiting a gallery. Still, meeting and talking with artists adds something to the experience, and that is where a show like SEWE comes in.

“Mountian Lion” by Asheville, North Carolina artist Jen

The evolution of SEWE has been nothing short of remarkable. From it’s humble beginnings in February 1983, the event has burgeoned into a cornerstone of Charleston’s tourism calendar, marking the commencement of the city’s bustling tourism season and intertwining with the festivities of Presidents’ Day weekend. What initially commenced with 100 artists and exhibitors and 5,000 attendees has now

blossomed into an extravaganza that draws around 500 artists, exhibitors, and wildlife experts, captivating an audience of approximately 40,000 visitors each year. This impressive growth has not only solidified SEWE’s status as a premier cultural event but has also yielded a substantial economic impact, estimated at around $50 million annually.

SEWE unfolds across multiple locations in the vibrant city of Charleston, but for the purpose of this article, our focus remains on the captivating world of art and artists, making a compelling case for attending SEWE if you have an affinity for wildlife, nature, and sporting art.

Stepping into the Fine Art Gallery of SEWE, which is located in upplever of “ The Charleston Place” Hotel, is akin to entering a colossal art exhibition. Here, one can find a diverse array

of nature and sporting art. As we walkked through the exhibition, we were approached by numerous artists and art enthusiasts, intrigued by our association with “Feathers & Whiskey.”

While many jokingly inquired about the presence of whiskey, it provided us with a platform to share our story and the significance behind the gold letters adorning our polos.

As you walk the rows of artist itsvery possible to see an artist doing a live demonstration!

During our walk around the exhibition hall, a gentleman with a captivating presence caught our attention. It was none other than Townley Bassett, a dedicated artist who has spent over thirty years documenting and recreating the rock art found in South Africa.

His process and methods were truly fascinating, and our conversation with him left us inspired and eager to feature him in future articles, further solidifying the connections fostered at SEWE.

Each year, SEWE features a prominent artist who creates a work of art displayed on various items related to SEWE, with the original piece showcased at Charleston Place. This year, I was thrilled to learn that Ryan Kirby would be the featured artist. Not only have I collected his works, but I also admire his artistry.

Ryan, who calls the mountains of North Carolina home, has had his paintings featured on numerous covers of popular outdoor publications and ammunition boxes. It was a delight to speak with him and capture a photo, further enriching my experience at SEWE.

This year’s event also marked the SEWE debut of our friend and wildlife artist, Rebekah Knight. Rebekah’s booth was situated near Liz’s location, providing a delightful opportunity to converse with my friends, as well as other artists and art enthusiasts.

Rebekah thoroughly enjoyed her SEWE experience, relishing the connections forged with everyone who visited her booth and acquired her art. She eagerly anticipates returning for next year’s event.

Another artist I had the pleasure of engaging in a conversation with was Grant Hacking, a wildlife artist whom I initially connected with a couple of years ago. It was during SEWE in 2022 that I had the opportunity to meet him in person for the first time, further enriching the tapestry of connections woven through this remarkable event.

I also had the pleasure to catch up with artist John Tolmay of John Tolmay’s Bronze Africa. I saw Johns the previous year and later purchased a Cape buffalo bronze form him that paid homage to my first cape buffalo hunt. As the curtains closed on another spectacular SEWE, I found myself filled with gratitude for the enriching experiences and meaningful connections that had graced this event.

The captivating wildlife art, the engaging dialogues with artists, and the warm embrace of the Charleston community had made this SEWE a truly unforgettable affair. It was a testament to the enduring power of art to unite individuals and kindle a deep appreciation for the natural world.

If you are learning about SEWE for the first time, or you have been saying for years that you will go next year, I encourage you to make SEWE 2025 the year that you finally mark it off your list! The 2025 featured artist is Kathleen Dunphy, and her painting “Family Outing,” a depiction of a family of Canada geese out for a swim, is the featured painting. You can learn more about the Southeastern Wildlife Expo as well as purchase tickets and plan your trip by visiting the offical site. www.sewe.com

“Veiled” Ray Brown

Brown is the featured Artist for SEWE 2025

LIZ LEWIS

INSPIRED SPORTING & WILDLIFE BRONZES

For the past 27 years, Liz Lewis has called Bozeman, Montana home, where the vast outdoors serves as both her studio and inspiration. A life steeped in sporting pursuits— from her time as a fly-fishing guide and outdoor photographer to her roles as a shooting instructor, avid bird and big game hunter, and accomplished equestrienne—shapes the essence of her artistry.

Lewis holds a BS in Fish & Wildlife Biology from Montana State University, but she’ll tell you that her true education has come from the prairies, rivers, and mountains of Montana. Her bronzes, imbued with the soul of the wilderness, often feature the subjects she knows and loves most: trout fishing, horses, bird dogs, and wildlife.

“

As a contemporary but traditional wildlife, sporting and equine artist, I strive to create representative work with an updated vision of our American traditions. I have long admired historical European and American sporting and wildlife sculptors and animaliers. Over time I developed focus primarily on the subject of dogs, but I continue to enjoy the equine form as well as that of gamefish and birds. I take great care and study to accurately convey not only the correct scientific proportions of the subjects, but also the portrayal of their natural history and behavior. The harvest of fall and the rituals of spring drive the story of my subjects and their pursuit.

”- Liz

Lewis

“Mama! Look! There’s a hippo

In our Bookshelf section, we highlight Sam Comey’s delightful children’s book, There’s a Hippo in my Hamper, now available for purchase. The story, inspired by a playful moment with her son, began with his joyful exclamation: “Mama! Look! There’s a hippo in my hamper!” That simple phrase sparked a poem that grew into a full-fledged story, capturing the magic of childhood imagination.

With the encouragement of her husband and the support of a talented illustrator, Sam brought this whimsical tale to life. Don’t miss your chance to share this heartwarming adventure with your family. You can purchase There’s a Hippo in my Hamper through Sam’s website www.samcomey.com

Raven: Keeper of Mysteries

"Intelligence, Myth, Nature, and Poe’s Timeless Symbol"

M a s t e r s o f W i t

Ravens are among the most intelligent animals on the planet. They can solve complex puzzles, mimic human speech, and even plan for the future. Known for their cleverness, these birds have been observed using tools, playing games, and displaying behaviors that rival primates in ingenuity. Their intelligence has earned them a reputation as nature’s problem-solving geniuses.

Ravens have soared through the myths and legends of cultures around the globe. In Norse mythology, they were Odin’s trusted companions, Hugin and Munin, bringing him news of the world. Native American tribes view ravens as tricksters or creators, bringing light to the world. In European folklore, ravens are both harbingers of doom and symbols of wisdom, their black feathers casting shadows of mystery and prophecy.

No other bird has captivated literary imagination quite like the raven in Edgar Allan Poe’s iconic poem, "The Raven." Published in 1845, the poem tells the haunting tale of a man tormented by loss and visited by a raven that utters the foreboding word "Nevermore." Poe’s raven embodies grief, mystery, and the eternal struggle between hope and despair, making it a timeless symbol of the macabre.

Ravens thrive in a variety of environments, from arctic tundras to desert landscapes. They are opportunistic feeders, dining on anything from berries to carrion, which showcases their adaptability. With their gleaming black feathers and a wingspan reaching up to 4 feet, ravens are not only striking in appearance but also skilled aerial acrobats, known for their barrel rolls and playful mid-air antics.

THE BRAND

Tailin’ Ties draws its name and inspiration from one of the most thrilling sights for coastal fishermen: a tailing redfish cutting through the spartina grass. This moment, often met with wide eyes and the words “They’re here,” captures the essence of Tailin’ Ties—standing out among the crowd with subtle but striking details. Tailin’ Ties is designed for those who cherish the outdoors as more than a hobby—it’s a lifestyle. Like the sight of a redfish’s spotted tail, these bowties are for those who appreciate refined yet rugged craftsmanship that stands out in any setting.

THE STORY

What began as a dream in June 2021 quickly became a reality when owner and founder Evan Keisler set out to create quality products with a unique flair for fishermen. Armed with determination, Evan learned how to sew, developed prototypes, and spent months refining his designs.

After countless trials, the Redfish bow tie was born, launching the Tailin’ Ties brand in December 2021. Just a few months later, Evan debuted the Inshore Slam Collection, a nod to his passion for fishing and love for Charleston’s coastal lifestyle.

www.tailinties.com (843)-696-4187 Info@tailinties.com

TAILIN’ TIES

A BOWTIE BRAND ROOTED IN ADVENTURE

The Product

Every Tailin’ Tie is crafted with precision and care, proudly made in Charleston, South Carolina. Evan Keisler designs each bowtie and sources the finest materials from across the globe. The striking fabric patterns are printed on cotton satin in London, while the durable black twill used for the body and strap is sourced from the U.S. Talented local seamstresses handcraft each bow tie, ensuring top-notch quality and an adjustable fit. Each design is pre-tied and meticulously checked before making its way to customers, blending Southern charm with a touch of adventure.

Seared Tundra Swan Breast

with Green Bean Almondine and Rice

Seared Tundra Swan Breast with Green Bean Almondine and Rice brings together the elegance of the wild and the simplicity of timeless flavors. The tender, rich meat of the tundra swan is expertly seared to perfection, offering a taste that reflects the rugged beauty of the bird’s northern habitat. Paired with a classic green bean almondine and fluffy rice, this dish creates a harmonious blend of textures and flavors. Whether you’re celebrating a special occasion or savoring a unique meal, this recipe promises to transport you to the heart of the wilderness with each delicious bite.

DIRECTIONS

INGREDIENTS

1 Swan breast

Salt, to taste

Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

1 tablespoon olive oil (for searing)

Green Bean Almondine:

1 tablespoon olive oil (for sautéing)

¼ cup sliced almonds

1 cup fresh green beans, trimmed

Salt and pepper, to taste

Rice:

1 packet of Uncle Ben’s instant rice (or any preferred microwaveable rice)

The Seared Swan Breast

Season the wild game breast generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper on both sides.

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a cast iron pan over high heat until hot.

Sear the breast for about 2-3 minutes on each side, or until a nice crust forms on the outside, leaving the center medium rare (internal temperature of about 130-135°F).

Remove from the pan and let rest for a few minutes before slicing.

The Green Bean Almondine

Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a separate pan over medium-high heat. Add the sliced almonds and sauté until they begin to brown, allowing some to char slightly for extra flavor (about 2-3 minutes).

Toss in the green beans and continue sautéing for another 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they are tender but still crisp.Season with salt and pepper to taste. The Rice

Prepare the rice according to the package instructions (usually 90 seconds in the microwave).

To Serve

Plate the seared wild game breast alongside the green bean almondine and instant rice. Enjoy the simple but flavorful meal!

You can read about the hunt that inspired this dish on page 70, where Gunner Hall shares not only his experience hunting tundra swan in the wilds of North Carolina but also the recipe that brings this dish to life. Gunner’s story captures the spirit of the hunt—its challenges, rewards, and the deep connection to the land. This article in Feathers & Whiskey takes you from the field to the table, showcasing both the passion behind the pursuit and the flavors that follow.

Southern Social Scene

Events & Excursions

Southeastern Wildlife Expo

Charleston, South Carolina

February 14-16, 2025

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 is the ultimate gathering for those who share a passion for wildlife and the outdoor lifestyle. www.sewe.com

Sporting Art Fair

Hillsborough, North Carolina

February 22, 2025

Lake Waccamaw, North Carolina

April 26,2025

Every year, Lake Waccamaw comes alive with Gator Fest, a lively celebration that brings together residents and visitors for a weekend of fun. From craft vendors and live music to exciting games and gator-themed events, Gator Fest is all about community spirit and local pride. It’s the perfect time to experience the heart of Lake Waccamaw. www.lakewaccamawnc.gov

The Fourth Annual Sporting Art Fair at Leland Little Auction House. This community-focused event celebrates the world of sporting art with captivating exhibitions, 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.www.lelandlittle.com

N. C. Gator Festival

“He looked at me as if I owed him money.”

-Robert Ruark

Cape Buffalo

by John Tolmay’s Bronze Africa

BITE & BARRELL Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island, SC

A Burger Fit for the Raven’s Appetite

Nestled along the sandy shores of Sullivan’s Island, Poe’s Tavern offers more than just your classic beach bar experience. This burger joint adds a literary twist by honoring one of America’s most mysterious authors, Edgar Allan Poe. Why Poe, you ask? It turns out that during his time in the military, Poe was stationed near Sullivan’s Island, leaving an indelible mark on the area, inspiring a theme that brings together beach vibes and eerie storytelling.

Burgers

Beyond the Ordinary Known for being voted as the “Best Burger on the Island,” Poe’s Tavern lives up to its reputation. Their burgers come in a variety of mouthwatering styles, from the signature “Amontillado” to the “Tell-Tale Heart,” offering patrons an array of flavorful options that stand apart from the standard beach fare. Whether you’re a purist craving a simple cheeseburger or someone in the mood for more adventurous toppings, every bite promises a perfectly cooked patty.

A Feast of the Mind

What makes these burgers truly special isn’t just their flavor but the atmosphere they’re served in. Surrounded by the dim lighting and gothic decor that gives a nod to Poe’s tales of mystery and macabre, it’s easy to imagine you’re sitting in the presence of the master storyteller himself. The burgers, like Poe’s works, are crafted with precision and offer layers of complexity.

The Best Way to Celebrate Poe

January marks Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, making it the perfect time to stop by Poe’s Tavern and raise a burger in his honor. Whether you’re a Poe enthusiast or simply a fan of great food, this spot provides the ideal setting to celebrate both with a menu that leaves no taste bud behind. If you can’t make it to Sullivan’s Island there are several other locations in a couple different states, and you can find more information on their website at www.poestavern.com

Photos courtesy of Poe’s Tavern

The Black Cat

Grilled Onions, Edgar’s Drunken Chili, Applewood Bacon & Pimiento Cheese

Wonderfully Wild LAKE WACCAMAW

Story by Robbie Perdue |Photos by Residents

Nestled along the peaceful banks of one of North Carolina’s most unique natural lakes, Lake Waccamaw is a hidden gem of the South. Known for its glassy waters, rich history, and warm community spirit, this small town is a place where Southern charm meets natural wonder. With its stunning state park, thriving local businesses, and annual traditions, Lake Waccamaw offers a lifestyle steeped in both heritage and vibrant local culture.

Photo courtesy of Jeff Reichert

ON THE CORNER OF COTTON AND MAIN

Small Towns, Big Stories: A Glimpse into Southern Life

Waccamaw Siouan Tribe

The Waccamaw Siouan Tribe, known as the “People of the Fallen Star,” have deep roots in the Lake Waccamaw area. This proud community continues to celebrate its rich traditions through annual powwows, storytelling, and art, all of which highlight their connection to the land and the resilience of their culture. The Waccamaw Siouan Tribe is a vital part of the Lake Waccamaw story, honoring the past while actively shaping the future of the region.

Photo courtesy of Marie Campbell

The PEOPLE at the Heart of the Community

Lake Waccamaw is more than just a beautiful and peaceful place—it’s a close-knit community that feels like family. Nestled in the heart of nature, it’s a sanctuary where the lake’s still waters mirror the warmth and kindness of the people who call it home. Here, neighbors look out for one another, stories are shared on front porches, and traditions are passed down with pride. The people truly are the heart of this community, their spirit weaving together a tapestry of connection and belonging. I count myself lucky every day to be part of such a remarkable place.

Boy’s and Girl’s Home of NC

Founded over 65 years ago, the Boy’s and Girl’s Home of North Carolina is a cherished part of the Lake Waccamaw community. Originally established to provide care and guidance to children in need, this organization has grown to serve countless young people, offering them stability, education, and a supportive community. The home’s enduring mission and impact on the lives of North Carolina’s youth make it a point of pride for locals and an important fixture within the town.

Lake Photo courtesy of Jeff Reichert

Photo courtesy of Robbie Perdue

Take A Walk on the Wild Side! Lake Waccamaw State Park

Lake Waccamaw State Park is a haven for nature lovers and adventurers alike, offering more than 9,000 acres of protected natural beauty. Known for its unusual geology and nearly round shape, the lake is home to rare plants and animals, including several species found nowhere else in the world. Visitors can kayak along the serene lake shores, hike through miles of scenic trails, and enjoy peaceful moments at some of the park’s quietest spots—all while taking in the unique ecosystem that makes Lake Waccamaw a true natural wonder.

To learn more and plan your visit to the park, explore its official website at www.ncparks.gov/state-parks/lake-waccamawstate-park

Photo courtesy of Jeff Reichert

Photo courtesy of Debra Allen

SHOP & DINE LOCAL

Photo courtesy of Robbie Perdue

www.counciltool.com

Established over a century ago in this quiet corner of North Carolina, Council Tool has forged a reputation for craftsmanship, quality, and durability. Their axes, hammers, and forestry tools, fashioned with time-honored techniques, are trusted by professionals and hobbyists alike.

More than just a toolmaker, Council Tool represents a legacy of skilled artisans who have passed their know-how down through generations, contributing to the hardworking spirit that defines Lake Waccamaw. Here, tools aren’t merely products—they’re a reflection of the community’s pride, resilience, and dedication to honest labor.

“Lake

Waccamaw is a wonderful place to call home, offering breathtaking sunrises and sunsets, along with the warmth of friendly faces.”

-Kara Faith McDuffie

For more information and to plan your visit,explore the town’s official website www.lakewaccamaw.com

Photo courtesy of Jeff Reichert

SOUTHERN SPORTING

Celebrating the Legacy of Outdoor Pursuits in Dixie’s Wild Places

“Making the Book” A tale of Faith, Friends and Turkeys Page. 62

Story by Casey Arthur |Photos by Gordon Allen Photography

The Core Sound of North Carolina is a lagoon located between the mainland of Carteret County and Core Banks, and she is as deadly as she is beautiful. One cold December day the Sound reminded local Casey Arthur just how hard her icy grip can be.

It was cold. Damn cold. The stench of the summer humidity had finally flown south and was all but replaced with a crispy winter brisk wind. Many believe December 25th to be Christmas but for a waterfowler, these are the nights that feel more like it. Something different, everything alive and electric. Local lodging teeming with scores of hunters full of hope that their next morning’s outing will be as fruitful as these conditions have proven in the past. Gas stations full with a line gushing into traffic, flashlights and headlamps shining into back seats trying to arrange last minute gear conundrums, and firepits blazing in each seasonal rental yard offering heat that this front surely wouldn’t provide.

There I was, driving through it. I’m excited. These storms come in once a year if luck strikes but if you truly looked into it, probably more like once every two years proves a safer assumption. I felt like I was in a parade with everyone looking to see who was driving through. It’s very hard to describe, but in that moment, being from the area, knowing where the ducks are, and pretty well knowing how the next morning is going to go, you feel like the only one who knows the secret.

Pulling up to the homeplace where I grew up even had a different feel to it. The fever for getting on the sound and watching birds fly was flowing through me like malaria. My parents knew it too. Everything was in place and supper was on the table. It was an occasion not to be taken lightly. My friends were set to hunt with

me the next morning and were also staying there for the night and would be arriving soon. I wanted to show them a good time, the whole Core Sound experience. This not only meant frequently shouldering and mounting a gun but moreover, eating stewed ducks with rutabagas and dodgers, chewing on a perfectly cooked pecan or chocolate pie, and telling stories of past hunts until we were too tired to finish em’. Nothing left to do but put the boat over and make sure it was ready for the next morning. We did, and it was.

Everyone came back, found a comfy spot, and dozed off to sleep; except me. No one ever knew it, but I was awake most of the night tossing and turning. As luck would have it, the storm had actually drifted further south causing the temperature to drop even more and the winds to pick up slightly at a more favorable direction for the spot we were hunting.

The adrenaline rush from this was like drinking a triple espresso shot and trying to use the coffee cup for a pillow. With everything locking up, our spot was going to be the best. We might have to break ice, but after that it would be the only place left for a wary bird to light. It was a storm, and we were the only place of refuge in the bay. Maybe I drifted off for ten minutes at the pinnacle of my forced relaxation, and I faintly remember a short dream about Blackheads in figure eight flight coming around and twitching to call the shot, but that was interrupted by the sound of my alarm. It was time.

Breakfast was already fixed and in bags. My parents really are the best hosts regardless of my biases. After a short conversation answering a question or two about a few random duck mounts on the walls and maybe a few more about some old decoys on shelves from my hometown, we were all out the door. When we all got out on the porch, we felt it. The coldest wind you’ll find in our area. Some even went back inside to pick up an extra layer. It was colder than expected and we all immediately began discourse about how the ducks would be moving. We headed immediately to the landing where the boat was already overboard and coated in ice.

A two-stroke Suzuki coming to life, one party member falling on the icy deck bringing laughter to cut the nervous tension, a quick check of the trucks to make sure we remembered everything, and a few sacks of hand-carved decoys, and we were off. The harbor was iced over but not too thick. It’s quite a feat to freeze salt water. There were stories from the roaring 20’s of the sound freezing over paving the way for rickety Model T’s to drive from one shore to another, over two and a half miles to the banks.

Whether the tall tale is completely true or not, it had always occupied my thoughts while I gazed out over the sound. What good deeds had we done to deserve to live this historic moment? All of the hunters were huddled around in the boat trying to stave off the cold with their hands deep into their jacket pockets and even some turned around using their hoods to shield them from the wind. My eyes kept freezing over making the red and green navigation lights blurry like a drunken holiday. We were hollering like a group of pirates that just plundered a ship as we torched through the chop headed to our destination.

I nosed the boat up to the bush blind. It was just like I left it. I chuckled to myself as I hadn’t had the time to check on it lately and was surprised that the recent king tide had left it alone. All cargo was being removed from the boat while I made sure she stayed pinned to the shore. I started throwing decoys over from the stern. I noticed that the boat had built up more ice as the water was as freezing as we were busting waves and snowing on us.

One sack of decoys over. I turned to the bow and noticed that most of the gear was off the boat. Two sacks of decoys over and set. Out of the corner of my eye I barely caught a glimpse of the first ducks flying into the bay. Three and four sacks of decoys over, floating upright, and spaced. I needed to hurry and put the boat up as shooting time was coming up quickly.

After getting the all clear from the boys on shore, I clicked the shift lever to “rewind” and backed the skiff off the shoreside. As I was pulling away, I told everyone to get their guns loaded and be on the lookout as legal time would surely be before I got back from hiding the boat from plain view several hundred yards up the shoreline. I shoved the boat in head-gear and the bow popped to attention before me.

Gripping the helm, I cut the boat hard to starboard around the point hastily as to get out of the way for incoming ducks. At least the other boys would have a chance on the first birds although I’d be late to join them. As I kept cutting around, I noticed that it felt like the wind had picked up even more and the temperature seemed to have plummeted to new depths.

This extreme cold is hard on a boat, any boat really. These temperatures really complicate matters. It was no different for me. This is the point of the adventure that turns around on me.

This is the moment that Core Sound was going to show me who was in charge. I came into the shoreside with the intention of nosing the bow to shore, stepping off with my anchor, and setting it. After all, the wind was blowing me directly offshore and wasn’t supposed to shift. This was perfect, as I could simply plant an anchor in the marsh and let the wind hold the boat off. A quick exit was exactly what I was planning so I could get to hunting. But plans can never be carved in stone on the sound. I grabbed the icy wheel and began to turn back to port about 30 yards away from my destination when I felt a snap.

The boat continued to careen to starboard regardless of my correction to the left, so I had no choice but to pull the throttle back and into neutral. Something was wrong, very wrong. As I tried to reason with the helm the wind was picking up even more. By the time I looked up from my reasoning, I was 100 yards offshore. I was headed for South Core Banks at a rapid clip. The wind was gusting to 40 knots and my gap from land was increasing by the second.

The motor was frozen in place causing the boat to do endless circles. The harder the throttle, the tighter the circle. Useless circles. I laid down in the back of the boat and began kicking the motor yelling “Damn ye! Damn ye!” to try and get it to come around straight or to figure out any way to release the pressure from those damned iced over cables so I could manually steer even in a primitive fashion. It was no use. I was along for the ride and was no longer the Captain.

I stopped kicking the motor when I started to sweat. Though much younger and a little less wise, I knew that if I got soaking wet from sweat in this weather that would be

the end of me. I went back to the console to keep figuring on a solution. Something kept telling me to not give up and that I could figure a way out of this. Finally, my brain thawed out when the lightbulb over my head turned on. I could throttle the boat enough where the bow would turn into the wind, then release the throttle and let the wind kick me back around. After all, sailors use this tactic to get where they want to go, and this seemed like my only way to make forward progress.

So that’s what I did. I did this for maybe an hour and covered a very short distance, but it was enough distance to get me behind an island I was familiar with from hunting there when I was very young. I knew this terrain in my sleep which would prove very useful. Once some of the wind was cut off, I was able to travel faster and seemed to be making good time getting back to the mainland where I knew I could at least walk around the shore back to safety, a warm cup of coffee, and options of other boats to pick the hunters up with.

If my luck was running away from me like a carrot on a stick, this is the point where the line gets cut and the carrot falls overboard. My shifting cable, which had been my lifeline to this point and was causing my panic and fear for my life to fade, snapped in half. When I pushed the gear shift up the next time, nothing happened. My skiff was officially a lifeless barge.

I don’t know where I learned this, but when you make a plan, always make a plan b. Once you make a plan b, have a plan c. If all of the plans seem to be failing, take that time to come up with a plan d and so forth and so on. I think at this point I might have been on plan z! Nevertheless, I had one.

I had chest waders on and Core Sound really isn’t that deep overall, so I could simply walk to the nearby island that I was so familiar with and wade across the shallow channel to the mainland. With this in mind, I immediately threw the anchor. The Danforth style anchor blades caught on a Core Sound grass bed and held. I tied it off to the front cleat and began to make my way over the gunnel to begin walking to shore. I kept dipping further and further into the sound and eventually water was coming in the top of my waders around my underarms. It was too deep!

I had managed to anchor in one of the only spots this close to shore that was too deep to wade in. I worked hard to get my legs back up over the gunnels to get back in the skiff, but I couldn’t do it. I pulled myself to the back of the boat and got my feet up on the motor and finally was able to get back in the boat.

Exhausted, mentally drained, and starting to get really… really cold, I rolled into the deck of the boat. I stayed there the better part of 5 minutes, but it felt like 5 hours. I mustered up the energy to get up and decided to start over with a new set of solutions. I did have one anchor out but for some reason I didn’t think of my second anchor. Not two months earlier I had added a stern anchor with a fair length of chain and anchor rope.

That’s when it hit me; I can throw one anchor, pull the boat to it, then throw the other anchor before I lose my progress. If I throw these anchors one at a time and pull to them, I could eventually get close enough to shore that I could wade the rest of the way.

One anchor thrown and tied off and the other anchor at my feet, I began to put my plan into motion. By this time, I was soaking wet with sweat, and I could feel

the cold creeping in. With each pull of the frozen anchor rope I could feel my brittle gloves ripping and tearing and soon started to notice that the rope was rubbing my hands raw. This was not good news but if I just kept this plan going, I would soon be close enough.

I was too weak to throw the anchor anymore. My gloves ripped off of me and my energy levels completely dropped to nothing, I had to quit. With my body temperature steadily decreasing, I had to try to wade yet again. This time, I knew if I was unsuccessful, I might not have enough strength to get my legs back in the boat. It did take me quite some time to muster up enough courage to take the plunge. I knew if I took water in my waders that I would not survive the below freezing waters long enough to get to shore if I didn’t drown first. So, with that, I lowered the remaining anchor rope and checked it against my body.

The anchor rope was wet above my underarms but only a little bit. I knew it shallowed up quickly there; I also knew I couldn’t afford to hang out on the boat until someone figured that I was missing. I laid on the gunnel and launched my legs over the side holding on until I could ease myself down into the sound. I kept sinking and sinking. The water was up to my waist. My grip started to weaken and now the water was up to my chest. I felt a slight trickle of water come over the top of my waders. It was cold.

The kind of cold that you instantly knew to respect. The deadly kind of cold. Just when I was starting to give up hope that I had pulled myself close enough to shore, my feet both touched bottom. It was sandy, I could tell. More good news as a muddy bottom might have been my final destination.

As I began walking to shore the waves would lift me up and set me back down. I kept lifting my arms and pulling my waders up as high as they would go hoping I wouldn’t take on any water. This went on for about 40 ft until I finally reached the edge of the shoal. Finding a sure footing in shallow water was certainly something I won’t ever forget.

I still had to wade to the mainland but I had done that many times.

As kids, my brother and I used to walk around this same stretch of beach, shotgun in hand and a sack of decoys over our shoulders.

We would wade over to the island I had now currently and firmly landed upon and lay in the middle on a small pond awaiting Canada Geese or a duck desperate for a small amount of fresh water.

With this experience, I knew that I could easily wade across and be safe.

Once on the mainland I began to warm up some as the wind was largely cut off of me. I couldn’t believe I had made it. Suddenly, many other things that used to be important no longer held much meaning to me. The care of how many birds were harvested on a hunt really melted away, and all I cared about was that I was alive and had a sure way out of this thing. As I got up off my knees from kissing the sandy shore and thanking God for my recent relief, it dawned on me that I had a new problem.

The friends that were with me had now been out in this harsh weather for quite a long time with no shelter. I had to come up with a way to get them which I began formulating on the long walk back to my parents. I was able to procure a boat and some gas from a friend. I called my own phone which my friends quickly picked up wondering where I was.

When all of the gear was removed from the boat, so was my drybox which had my VHF and cellphone.

I let them know that I had trouble with the boat but that I was going to pick them up soon in another vessel and to hang tight. This was the only plan that went right that day and I picked them up shortly after as well as towed my broken-down boat back to the harbor on the same trip. We still laugh about parts of this story every now and then, but the real meat it is not talked about much. It gets too real.

Core Sound let me go that day. She has not been so kind to others in the past.

My Mother lost her first husband to the sound. Several others before and after him have been lost. She’s nothing to take lightly. The salt and the sea run heavy in my blood whether I was born with it or it was injected over the course of a coastal childhood, but I reckon my blood’s not salty enough to keep me afloat in her grip. I don’t think any of us are. She’s beautiful and always there when you need something to look at to get your mind off of the everyday stresses. But I can tell you, she’s harrrrrrrddddd to live with. F&W

R e b e k a h K n i g h t . c o m

MAKING THE BOOK

A TALE OF FAITH, FRIENDSHIP AND TURKEYS

Story and Photos By Vance Collins

Isaac and I went to school together, but it has been years since we have seen each other in person. We still only live forty five minutes apart, but with busy schedules it is hard to find the time for early morning adventures together. One common passion has reunited us for an opportunity to ramble through the Southern Appalachian Mountains together this morning, the love that we each have for the Eastern Wild Turkey.

As luck would have it, Isaac has already tagged out for the year in the state in which we reside. I, on the other hand, have not. Pulling up his driveway, I can see the light of a headlamp break through the early morning darkness and streak across the yard. Through the headlights of my truck, I begin to make out the image of my camouflaged clad acquaintance through the grey. We planned to meet extra early so that we could secure our spot on a piece of public land that we were familiar with, he more than I.

As we beat down the gravel road, heading up the mountain, we begin to catch up with each other and discuss the happenings of life. It is amazing how much can change in such a short time, but also how easily you can pick right back up where you last left off. It feels like we have somehow managed to stay connected despite the lack of interaction.

As we park the truck in the gap and continue our reminiscing, Isaac mentions the sound of the first songbird to begin this morning’s chorus. We get out of the truck and with this begins the sober concentration of what we are gathered for. Within a few moments we hear a turkey gobble in what sounds like the next county over. We continue to earnestly listen for another turkey that would be within reach. Daylight slowly creeps in, and with it so does the silence. Finally on the third series of the eight note Barred Owl hoot from my counterpart, we hear a gobble ring out within playing distance.

My heart flutters, and we drop a pin where we believe the turkey to be roosted at. After preforming a fly-down sequence and then some affirmation from the bird, we elected to drive back down the mountain and up another road that would get us closer to the direction we believed the gobbler would be heading. We park the truck, grab what little stuff we will need for the morning, and begin the trip back up the mountain. When we cross the creek, we are about two hundred yards from where we dropped the pin at earlier. With lots of fresh scratching in the area, it looks like we’re close to where the turkey wants to be. Now we are getting to play the game.

When Isaac beckons to the turkey with his diaphragm call, a gobble rings out from the ridge above. Just as we had suspected, he was still up where we had left him. We make a plan and decide to slide up the next finger ridge over from him. The turkey made his

way up and down the ridge just over from us, sounding off every few minutes in his attempt to call the “hen” he was hearing to him. We repositioned to where the ridge that we were on meets the main ridge of the mountain. The turkey was still gobbling every few minutes, and shortly after our move I finally see him one hundred fifty yards away coming toward us at a full run.

Issac hunkers behinde a tree to my right, and I sit and wait, ready to pull the trigger. To my surprise, it wasn’t going to be that easy. I fully expected for that turkey to come straight to us, ready to die. Especially after all his excited squawking, and the fact that I caught a glimpse of him running straight toward us. As we sit there watching the turkey strut back and forth on the main ridge up above us, coming in and out of sight, I started to wonder if we were going to get beat.

The mosquitos were landing on my face and ears, and my Original Bottomland Remington 870 SP was feeling like a punt gun at this point. My arms trembled and I was trying to blow air to shoo the mosquitos away and just about to just give up when I heard Isaac begin another short sequence. He faced downhill, let out some aggressive, yet appropriate calls, which included a jake yelp or two in the mix. Whatever he did worked. The bird made his way back towards us, strutting, gobbling, spitting, and drumming, doing all the things we came here to see. Something had changed and whatever it was made him break character. The turkey closed the distance to forty five yards, still doing all the things you hope for. He is within my range and about to work over the ridge we are on and out of my life.I glance over to my right and notice that Isaac had hunkered down and plugged his ears, figuring this was my que, I assured my face was down on the stock of my gun and lined up my bead with his waddles, then started to squeeze. BOOM!

As soon as I settle back to earth from the recoil of the 3” shell, I jump up to my feet and start to run up the mountain. Grabbing the flopping turkey by his neck and lifting him up in the air. By this time Isaac had made it up to me and we were admiring this fascinating creature while it flailed around in my hands.

He mentioned how excited he was when he got back up to his knees and didn’t see a turkey flying away. So was I. We sat there on the side of the mountain together replaying the mornings happenings. Discussing all the fine details of the event, taking in every moment, and truly cherishing it. We took a few photos, doing our best to honor this bird and give him the glory that he deserved.

This was as wild of a place to hunt as any and a bird worth delighting over. While lying on our backs in the leaves Isaac informed me of a tradition that he had started a while back, he called it “making the book.” He carries around one of the small KJV New Testament Bibles inside his turkey vest.

When someone is with him and a turkey is killed, together they read a few verses out of the good book and Isaac writes the date, time, and location in the margins. Just like that, on April 16th, at around 8:45 am, I made the book. I thought that this was a beautiful way to commemorate the hunt and a great way to relate the way we enjoy creation to the creator.

We gathered up our belongings, grabbed our bounty, and began our descent. On the way back down, I couldn’t help but think how grateful I am for the opportunity to be able to chase these birds in wild places, right out my “back door” and for the friendships that are grown through the process. F&W

SOUTHERN SWAN

SONG

Story by Gunner Hall

For Georgia resident Gunner Hall, a Tundra Swan hunt in North Carolina turns into more than just a pursuit of one of North America’s largest waterfowl. It becomes an unforgettable experience, filled with new friendships and memories that will last a lifetime.

“Tundra Trifecta” Rebekah Knight

Iwas in South Louisiana when my phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Michael with Feathers & Whiskey. Either this was a good phone call, or they never wanted me to submit another article.

After catching up for a few minutes, Michael cut to the chase. “You commented on a Facebook post of mine that you wanted to try to hunt swan. Were you serious?”

I immediately thought of the picture of Michael proudly displaying a beautiful massive white bird he had harvested. This bird was a far cry from the popular wood duck hunts in my part of South Georgia. “Yes, very serious,” was my stuttering reply.

Michael explained that a group of folks were trying to get drawn for a swan quota hunt in North Carolina and wanted to know if I was interested in joining. “Absolutely” was the only word I could utter. I was in shock. When I returned to Savannah, I logged into the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission’s website and applied for the quota hunt. Then I waited. As the time ticked by, I learned more about our hunting party. It would be myself, Robbie and Michael who are the founders and editors of Feathers & Whiskey, and Rebekah, a renowned award-winning wildlife artist and some local hunters.

The quota drawing for this hunt was months away. I am usually a patient man, but not for this. I checked the website constantly, not wanting to miss the drawing. Thoughts of drawing the winners early continually entered my mind. If I wasn’t thinking about missing the drawing, I was daydreaming of what this hunt would be like. How would the layout blind be set up? Would there even be a blind? What type of shells should I bring? So many questions. After months of waiting, the day came for the winners to be announced.

As luck would have it, our party was selected. I was going on my first tundra swan hunt. Plans were made, and we selected a weekend for the hunt.

We were going to set up in an agricultural field. It was thousands of acres in any direction. I was told that our guide, had scouted the area for the past few days leading up to our hunt. He mentioned there were plenty of birds in the area and a massive amount of different species of waterfowl hanging out in one of the larger retention ponds. This mixed bag included Tundra Swans. The stage was set. Now, it was up to us. We decided to meet early enough to sneak into the fields without the birds noticing us. We all said goodnight after eating an early dinner, and I returned to my hotel. I slept for an hour or two. The excitement of the upcoming morning hunt kept me awake.

We met in the middle of the night and drove as a caravan to our hunting grounds. When we parked, we all shook hands and said our good mornings to each other, and we started our pre-hunt ritual of getting ready for the hunt. Duck waders were strapped on, shotguns were checked and rechecked, and duck stamps and hunting licenses were secured and placed within easy reach. All of this was done under a moonless night, with the only light we had being the beams coming from our headlamps.

Once we were all ready, we headed into the fields. We set up a few hundred yards from where the birds our guide scouted earlier that week had been hanging around. We didn’t use layout blinds. Instead, we were spread out in a 4-5-foot-deep drainage ditch between two massive barren agriculture fields. I was thankful that I brought my waders. It was muddy. As the sun broke, we started to see birds on the horizon. None of them were swans. It was an assortment of other waterfowl. I wasn’t here for those birds. I was here for a swan. Our guide decided that calling in swans would be our best bet.

A swan call is unlike any other bird call I have heard. Think less duck quack and more Ric Flair the wrestler “woo” sounds. As funny as it sounds, that calling worked. It wasn’t the swan song I thought I was going to hear. After about 20 minutes of calling, I saw massive objects flying on the horizon. As the objects got closer and we could make out wings, we all hunkered into the drainage ditch and hid our faces from the sky. Like most waterfowl, swans can pick out poorly camouflaged hunters and tend to spook easily when they spot them. We couldn’t afford any mistakes. Eventually, I heard our guide call for me to pop up and take my bird. When I looked up, I was face to face with a massive bird circling above me. I fired. The bird flew away. I missed. I was so shocked by the size of this bird that I didn’t get a good shot off. As he flew away, I saw 5-6 other swans circling us roughly 100 feet in the air.

“Each fall, approximately 65 - 75 thousand swans migrate to northeastern North Carolina to take advantage of the abundant food sources found in our lakes, sounds and farms.”

I was awestruck at their size. I did not feel that i was hunting in North Carolina. I felt as though i was hunting in Jurassic Park. The size of these birds reminded me more of a prehistoric bird than the birds I usually hunted in Coastal Georgia. After a few more close calls, I finally took my bird. I will never forget the sight of the massive bird cupping up and getting ready to land roughly 30 yards from me. As soon as I fired my shot, I knew it would hit its mark. I fired another shot just to be sure that I downed the bird and not just wounded it. It folded and fell from the sky. I had tagged my first Tundra Swan. My heart was racing. I had to remember

to breathe. I immediately started to thank everyone. My hands might have been shaking a little with excitement.

Instead of bringing the bird into the drainage ditch we were using as our hunting blind, our guide quickly grabbed it, folded its head under

a wing, and placed it in the field with the plastic decoys. What a great idea! It worked. As the morning minutes clicked away, more birds came into our setup. Thankfully, other firsttime swan hunters filled their tags, including Rebekah.

After the hunt and the multiple goodbyes to my new friends, I returned home to Georgia. As I was driving home, I began to think of the hunt and how I knew I needed to do it again. I also thought of the meals that would be made featuring this bird as the main course. I also knew I wanted to send the wings to the taxidermist to have a permanent memory of this experience enshrined in my home.

Looking back on this hunt, I realize it was much more than a pursuit of a beautiful bird and some incredible meals (seared swan goes excellent with wild long-grain rice and green bean almondine). It was an experience of building friendships and creating memories that will stay with me for the rest of my life. In essence, those memories are my own Southern Swan Song. F&W

The author brings a unique culinary perspective with his recipe for grilled swan breast, featured on page 40. This sophisticated dish combines traditional Southern flavors with a gourmet twist, showcasing the versatility of wild game. Perfectly paired with a rich reduction sauce and seasonal sides, it’s a must-try for any adventurous foodie looking to elevate their next meal.

IRON & OAK DUCK CALLS

GLOBAL ADVENTURE

Where Southern Soul Meets Global Horizons

“I’ll trade this grouper for a Cuban cigar and a few more drinks, then let the lovely woman at the front desk talk me into some female company” I decided aloud to no one.

If Blackbeard had 18 months, I certainly have at least one more night.

Pirates and Pukua Shells

North Carolina Strong

Our state has weathered devastation from Hurricane Helene, but resilience is in our roots. Together, we rebuild. Join Feathers & Whiskey in supporting recovery efforts. Visit https://cfwnc.org to donate and make a difference.

The Clean Dirty Martini and Bar Hemingway

Story

and Photos by Cecil Cherry

Fans of Ian Fleming’s James Bond, both in print and on the big screen, helped make the martini a household name during the 1950s and 1960s. Any fan of Fleming’s famous British spy knows he orders his martini “shaken, not stirred.” Bond’s martini recipe is three measures of gin, one of vodka, and a half measure of Lillet, shaken over ice and served with a thin slice of lemon in a deep martini glass.

The cocktail known as the martini is believed to have been invented in a mining town in California. As the story goes, a miner wanted to celebrate finding gold and went to his local watering hole to ask for a drink. According to legend, the bartender mixed gin, vermouth, maraschino liqueur, bitters, and a slice of lemon, calling it the “Martinez Special,” after the town it was concocted in. The vodka martini, on the other hand, is believed to have first been served in America in the early 1950s. A vodka martini typically consists of two and a half ounces of vodka, a half ounce of vermouth, shaken and poured into a martini glass, and garnished with a lemon slice or three olives.

Martinis peaked in popularity during the late 1960s, only to be replaced by the wine spritzer fad of the 1970s. However, in the 1990s, there was a resurgence of flavored martinis, with varieties like the lemon drop, chocolate, and green apple becoming some of the most popular new interpretations of the classic drink.

One particularly popular take on the cocktail is the Dirty Martini. One recipe calls for 2 ½ ounces of vodka, ½ ounce of vermouth, ½ ounce of olive brine, and three large olives. A unique place to order a Dirty Martini is Bar Hemingway, located at the Ritz Paris in France. Bar Hemingway is named for the famous author who frequented the bar in the 1950s when it was known as the Little Bar. During his stays in Paris, Hemingway befriended bartender Claude Decobert and became a regular

patron. Their friendship grew so strong that Hemingway invited Decobert on a live pigeon shoot with actor Gary Cooper. As a gesture of friendship, Hemingway let Decobert choose a gun from an assortment of shotguns or rifles as a gift. Decobert selected a 12-gauge Browning Superposed Over/Under shotgun. In 1979, long after Hemingway’s death, the bar was renamed Bar Hemingway as a tribute to the larger-thanlife author.

Hemingway himself was a fan of martinis and is rumored to have bought over 50 martinis for the troops he was embedded with in France during World War II. These drinks were reportedly ordered from one of the bars located in the Ritz Paris in 1944. Today, one of the standout cocktails at Bar Hemingway is the Clean Dirty Martini.

The recipe for this drink remains one of the bestkept secrets in the cocktail world. Unlike the traditional Dirty Martini, which has a murky, cloudy appearance, the Clean Dirty Martini is, well, clean and clear. It’s a smooth, cold concoction, perfect for sipping while enjoying the ambiance of Bar Hemingway, which pays homage to the writer with Life magazine covers, photos, and taxidermied big game heads.

It took some detective work on my part to develop a facsimile of the Clean Dirty Martini. After months of experimentation, I determined that the elusive ingredient responsible for the drink’s clean appearance is the olive brine. One particular brand of brine that stands out is Filthy Olive Brine.

Armed with this discovery, I mixed the following ingredients and created a new elixir: 3 ounces of vodka and ¾ ounce of Filthy Olive Brine, shaken over ice and poured into a chilled martini glass. The martini is garnished with three hand-stuffed bleu cheese olives. We chose to omit vermouth from the recipe. The homemade version is just as delicious as the Bar Hemingway original and doesn’t require a reservation at the Ritz Paris. F&W

Pirates and Puka Shells

Story by Trevor Hubbs

The tones of reggae and the soft ting-ting of the metal drums drift through the open window of the cheapest hotel on the island.

The paint is peeling in my room. There are unpatched holes in the one chair. The room ha no TV or potable water, but the staff is friendly, the sheets are clean, and the azure blue tones of the Caribbean meet the beach sand fifty yards from my window.

A half a mile down the beach is a cluster of shanties made of straw and questionable lumber that serve as a fish market and restaurant hub.

Despite its appearance, the structure is an icon of the island and the woman at the front desk often encourages me to try it for lunch or in the

evenings with female company, which she says she could easily find for me. I walk by the cluster of shacks mid-morning sometimes to see the fisherman brining in the snapper, grouper, spiny lobster, and of course conch. They chat with the chefs and restaurant staff while they work on their boats. The people here are always laughing, always happy. It could be the vivid colors they wear or the stark contrast between the sunbaked skin and the whiteness in their smiles that causes the appearance of laughter, but I think it is the way they speak. As if every sentence could end in some punchline. The whole of the island is in perpetual soiree where the participants are always all the exact right level of drunkenness. It’s hard to imagine how people could be unhappy, the sun, the sand and the seas all combine at this point on the earth to create a paradise. I can see why the founders

of the Pirate Republic chose this place to make their capital 300 years ago. After 10 years of rotten foods and forced service to the king’s navy during a war with Spain I can see how this place could be a heaven on earth..

The Island fishermen spend their nights asleep on the abandoned beach chairs littering the coast. Their empty quarts of rum dangling loosely from one hand. They wake before dawn to fish for a few hours, then dine on the least profitable of their catch before returning to the bottle and the beach to repeat the process.

This morning a group of young boys are playing on the pier outside the window. They toss chucks of conch and corn meal packed onto rudimentary hooks tied to whatever twine they can find, into the sea. Every few minutes their cheers reach my window signaling that they have caught another small silver wriggling fish with fins and scales that catch the sun while it flops on the wood planks until their jubilation wears off and they regain enough sense to put the fish in the white construction bucket they share and resume fishing.

God how I want to be down there with them, the commercial fishing crews, or even the boys. To lead the simple life of catch, cook, and repeat until the end of time. I wouldn’t have a dollar to my name, but they sure look happy.

My attention is pulled from the sea and the fish by a small noise in the bed behind me. The bronze goddess still full of last night stirs in her sleep. The sheets are a crisp white and her figure peaks out from under them in distinct contours purpose built for distraction. Yet here I am glued to the room’s window, to the ocean, and the bone fish cruising the flats just out of reach. By this time in the morning, I should be on the beach or the rocky points further down the coast double hauling against the wind. Today though, I am afraid if I leave her in the room to go fish, when I return my possessions will have disappeared and all I will be left with is the aroma of coconut perfume. In an hour or so the fish will be chased from the shallows by

the swarm of tourists coming off the cruise ships and I will have missed my chance. The woman shows no sign of stirring. Maybe the hotel bar man will let me rent his vespa later today and I can go to the south end of the island where tourists don’t venture and wash some flies by the old pirate fort.

A cargo ship is pulling into the freight bay near the fish shack. It’s a smaller ship but it is loaded down with containers. If the captain blows his horn as he rounds the jetty to the inlet the girl will surely wake and be on her way in no time.

Salvation. Like clockwork the huge bellowing horn on the ship echoes through the inlet and up the beach through my open window. The woman rolls over, neglecting the modesty of the sheets completely now and sighs deeply before raising herself off the bed without a word and hops into the shower. Ten minutes later she emerges dressed for work, says “that was fun”, kisses me on the cheek, and walks out of the room forever.

Free at last, I grab a handful of small pink and white shrimp patterns, my 8-weight rod, and walk down the beach. The local fisherman enjoying a smoke after unloading the day’s haul eye me suspiciously. Unaware I can hear their conversation one wonders whether I came in on the cruise ship, while another thinks I am from the fancy fishing lodge a mile or so away, but an older gentleman with a brilliant white beard corrects the men by assuring the group I am one of the few guests of the shabby hotel. My old linen blue shirt has a tear in it and the flat pants made for shallow wading a decade ago are badly stained. Nevertheless, I must not have mastered the local look quite yet. Despite this being my third month on the island I still appear to be the sort of person with three grand for a week of bone fishing.

The sun hovers over the edge of the sea and I can hear the loudspeaker from the cruise ship faintly announcing activities and directions

to off-loading passengers. That loudspeaker means I’ve got about forty-five more minutes to myself before the obese mob takes over the restaurants and the beach. I tie on a new pattern, blue highlights amongst white rabbit hair and fluorescent ribbon, with a deep red belly. I make short aggressive strips through the calm transparent water. The wind in my face is a curse to casting but it keeps me from feeling the full effect of the ninety-degree October day. Another cast, strip, strip, a sliver blur streaks through the water in front of me and the old rod bends precariously. My fingers burn as I let the line peel off the reel while the fish runs out toward the docked cargo ship. I am midway through my backing before I can get her stopped and start testing the drag as I work to bring the line back in. The fish pulls hard for a few minutes then seems to give-up. As the reel starts to fill up with line the fish’s outline becomes visible through the waves. A small, slender, silver, torpedo shaped specimen about two feet long. Bringing the fish alongside the rock outcroppings near the small dock I can see it is a young Barracuda. The leader around the fly is frayed badly. I hurry to secure him behind the gills so I can take out the hook but before he is firmly in my grasp a violent shake of his head breaks the leader and frees the fish.

Bad Luck. I decide to head back to the hotel and inquire about that vespa rental for this afternoon and enjoy a cocktail. I stop halfway near the canal where I see a small lionfish suspended near one of the pilings surrounded by a horde of the small black and yellow striped reef fish feeding on the vegetation growing on the column. Given their venomous nature and their status as invasive pests in this hemisphere I spend another thirty minutes throwing a shrimp pattern, then a big rattling popper that might as well be a spinning lure. Finally, I try smashing a weighted carp pattern against the bridge and letting it fall into the canal near the lionfish hoping to imitate one of the big blueishpurple land crabs crawling around the beach all night.

Alas, this fish simply isn’t interested in anything I can show him. Frustrated with my failure and

poor timing, watching the first tourists of the day unfurling towels at the beach, I shove my rod tip in the water jabbing at the fish, sending it scurrying to the bottom and out of sight.

Nine o’clock now, I head back to the hotel as quickly as is comfortable to avoid the inevitable time suck of conversations with well-meaning travelers from Wisconsin or Nebraska who want to know where I rented the rod and what fish are here. As if seeing me makes them suddenly aware that getting a sunburn and eating conch fritters on the beach might not be the best way to enjoy this country. I break my rod down while walking and hurry down the limestone alley to the rear entrance of the hotel where Barry the doorman is emptying the trash from the small cantina bar. I wasn’t close with Barry but like most of his countrymen he wore a smile throughout the day and was very polite. He agreed to loan me the vespa that afternoon for ninety dollars American.

The heat of the day is best spent in the shade of a palm tree or more preferably under the low slanted roof of the Grey Parrot Cantina. The small bar is just out of the way enough to avoid contact with all but the most adventures cruise ship passengers. When I arrive George, the barman is alternating between chopping up freshly delivered coconuts to sell as overpriced under poured cocktail receptacles and cracking conch shells to pull out the snail meat for appetizers. When I settle onto a stool George comes around front and pours me a rum and water on ice with a pineapple garnish. He knows my order by now.

“What if I wanted a pina colada or daiquiri today”, I say feigning discontent.

George smiles, “If I thought you had the money to buy the fruit for any of those drinks, I would have already worked out a way to talk you into one.” The afternoon passes without cause for discussion and by three in the afternoon I am straddling a 1980s-era moped that feels like it is going to shake itself to pieces at 30 km/hr.

Convinced that being near the pirate fort counts as work for the day I am headed down the coast road to the deep-water port and the cliffs on the far side of the island where the massive container ships are forced to dock, and the island’s power plant is located.

Two miles from the hotel the streets are empty of taxis and coconut stands leaving space for me to meander down the winding road wedged between the limestone floor jungle and the sea. Almond and avocado trees crowd in and the pavement turns to gravel, then sand signaling I am close. I park the vespa in the shade of an ancient pine whose brothers and sisters were probably cut down for use as masts in the English navy in the 1700s. Before me lies the limestone bluff carved by centuries of hurricanes. If the map Barry drew was correct the “pirate fort” should be here somewhere. He did say that the fort was a bit of an exaggeration so I was not looking for anything incredible, but I couldn’t see anything but a dense forest of palms and shrubs butting up to the cliffs.

On my fourth pass of the area a piece of glass audibly broke under my sandal. I kicked at the rubbish a bit to reveal a weather worn sign lying face down on the side of the road. I could barely make out the word “fort” on the lower section. I must be close. The vegetation blocked my view of the sea from the road and seemed too thick to penetrate but encouraged by the sign I risked a step into the jungle.

I couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction when I barely caught the cerulean tones of the ocean between the trees. Soon the jungle gave way to bare limestone which dropped off steeply into 40 feet of clear blue water. Looking to my left I could see the huge deep water container ships unloading their cargo a few miles down the coast. A few feet away was a small break in the rocks. A narrow path carved by a hundred years of felon feet marked an old pirate staircase that led to a flat natural dock at the bottom of the cliff. Now I really was working. Three hundred

years ago Black Beards crew used these stairs to carry cargo on and off the island in secret after the English government agent Woods Rogers seized the Pirate haven back from the renegades.

Today the spot made for excellent casting, shielded from the wind and with a few split shots and patience making your fly look like a small baitfish getting pushed into the rocks was a simple task. Soon I was into Ladyfish, Grouper, and snapper regularly. I kept the biggest grouper to sell. How had I let three months on this island go by without finding this spot, I thought as I stripped in line.

The tide was coming in, pushing larger and larger waves into the rocks and soon I was ankle deep in the rising water. Packing up my rod I started up the old stone staircase. How long could I stay down here before life catches up with me? No paradise lasts forever. The stairs were evidence of that. Black Beard was a pirate for only 18 months before it caught up with him on a river in North Carolina. He used these stairs and this island to cling to that freedom and sense of self long after the writing on the wall was evident. In the end they killed him for it. I had been out of the military only a few months and didn’t know what I was clinging to on this island. I reached the top of the stairs, climbed aboard the moped and headed to the hotel. What was I running from and how long before it caught me, I thought as I lazily rode through the palms back into civilization.

“I’ll trade this grouper for a Cuban cigar and a few more drinks, then let the lovely woman at the front desk talk me into some female company” I decided aloud to no one. If Blackbeard had 18 months, I certainly have at least one more night. F&W

The red drum (Sciaenops ocellatus), also known by many names like channel bass and redfish, holds the honor of being North Carolina’s state saltwater fish. With their iridescent silvery-gray bodies and a coppery glow on their backs, red drum are a striking presence in the coastal waters. The characteristic black spot near the tail adds to their distinctive look, often helping them blend into their natural environment.

SIZE & HABITAT

Red drum can grow impressively large—up to 5 feet and 100 pounds. They inhabit coastal and estuarine waters from Massachusetts down to Key West, Florida, and throughout the Gulf of Mexico. While they are often confused with the large Atlantic croaker, the red drum’s unique color and size set them apart.

NORTH CAROLINA RED DRUM

STATE SALTWATER FISH

Bowtie Company Tailin Ties takes name and logo from the Red Drum

In 1971 the Red Drum or Channel Bass was designated as the state saltwater fish for North Carolina.

FEEDING & BEHAVIOR

Primarily bottom feeders, red drum feast on small crabs, shrimp, and small fish. When they are feeding in shallow waters, anglers can spot them “tailing”—a behavior where the fish’s head is down in the grass, exposing its tail to the air.

Chris Douglas, host of the North Carolina-based television show CAROLINA ALL OUT, proudly displays an impressive drum caught during a trip to the Outer Banks with Inshore Charters www.cwwcharters.com

LIFE CYCLE & SPAWNING

Female red drum mature around age three and spawn during late summer to early fall. This activity usually takes place at dusk in coastal waters near inlets, passes, and bays. After hatching, larvae are carried into estuaries by winds and currents, where they remain for up to eight months.

FISHING TIPS

Fishing for red drum is a celebrated pastime along North Carolina’s Outer Banks. Anglers catch them either through surf fishing or sight casting with traditional flyfishing rods. Pamlico Sound, near the Neuse and Pamlico rivers, has developed a legendary catch-and-release fishery targeting these giants, with some weighing over 50 pound

WINTER’S HYMN

Story by Erin Woodward

Harland stared out the window past me, his eyes fawning over a raft of mallards swimming. A slight smile emerging, his plump cheeks rising. Stout in stature and balding, he possessed a slight lean in his gate. “Daddy thought this would be a good place to raise us boys. The fresh air good for Momma,” he said. His baritone voice was soft and welcoming for a man so big. His tired eyes longed for some once happy memories. “Daddy loved them ducks, no doubt about it,” Harland murmured. A yellowed photo showing as much. “Momma snapped that one on my tenth birthday. See there, cheerful boys all with ducks!.” Puffs of Sir Raleigh perfumed the workshop. The winds of youth having long since passed for Harland. Pipe in mouth, he returned to carving his decoy. I liked Harland immediately.

Lenoir is two stoplight town, a generous moniker to a place of such limited size and stature. “Stop over at A’s will ya? I need to pick up a few things for the morning.” Harland eased his way inside. He disappeared into the tapestry of sporting goods. The old bait and tackle smelled of sour memories and broken hearts.

“Like that old bar top, do ya? This place ruined many fella’s back in the day. I bought this place outright from old man Smith some time ago. Every good town needs a bait and tackle, ya know?”

A raspy voice interrupted my writing. Earl, the proprietor, flashed his Hollywood smile. He was four years Harland’s senior; a spitting image of Harland, save for the robust belly. You could not ask for a finer older brother or a better shot. Gin bottles were replaced with fine Parkers and LC Smith’s. Boxes of shells rested where shot glasses once called home. Harland reached behind the counter for a few boxes of #4 Peters.

“You gonna pay for that, you cheap fool?” Earl’s ribbing met a simple response. “It’s duck season, you old fool, put the smoke and shells on my tab and get busy being bored.”

Earl quickly shut up. Harland was his best customer. A few boxes of shells and a couple of pouches of pipe tobacco were a simple request. The front window of A’s would soon attract the Christmas yearnings of young hearts and their folks’ wrinkled money. We left Earl until morning.

As I laid in my motel bed that night, peace filled my heart. No gunshots rang out. No sirens blaring through the streets. All that awaited me back in the city were bitter memories accompanied by a girlfriend more interested in the guy in apartment 9C than our relationship.

“It’s best you stay here in the reeds, I’m a wee bit particular on setting my decoys.” Harland set forth on his composition as if he were Debussy composing Clair De Lune. Harland moved with purpose, each decoy set with great detail and reason. “A man that takes care is a man that is cared for, ya understand?” Even if I did not, I nodded while I warmed myself with coffee.

“Now we wait.” A wry smile emerging from Harland

Dawn awoke over the horizon in fashionable pinks and deep blues. Harland scanned the dissipating fog. A silent eagerness emanating from his Fox. A rush of dark silhouettes emerged through the gray. Three Mallards hooking hard

left, their dashing wings cupped, unsuspecting of our presence. In one fluid motion, Harland was young again, the echoing blasts from his Fox jumping from a long slumber awoke still waters, puffs of feathers filling the morning skies. My jaw lay silently open.

Popeye would have loved this morning. God I miss him.” He slid a photo from his wallet and handed it over like it was a dry brittle leaf: three jovial boys with a proud father and mother frozen in the happy memories of time. Harland quietly sat, water lapping against his waders. His thoughts were hidden again, like summer giving way to the first frosts of autumn.

“Come on, drive me over to Earl’s. He gets a tad grouchy if them decoys ain’t set out with his annual Christmas display.” The ride to A’s was quiet. Harland mostly starred at the sky. “Tomorrow will be a fine morning to hunt. You’re coming along, right?” Harland murmured. I had no plans. All that awaited me was a can of Dinty Stew and a lonely bed.

I made arrangements with the motel for one more night. We set to helping Earl place the decoys in the front window of A’s. Proud shotguns taking their rightful place amongst the window display. Soon, helpless, loving fathers would give away their money in exchange for a prized Harland Andrew decoy and perhaps a new shiny side by side for a proud child. The Andrews brothers filled themselves with coffee and old stories of Christmas. Earl joined us the next morning looking sharp in his Mackinaw.

“Gotta look good on the pond.” Earl smiled like Clarke Gable. He was quiet, and a fine shot with a side by side. Frost consumed the edges of the water, giving notice of a winter that would soon give into a snow. Ducks buzzed around like angry hornets. Darting this way and that. The brothers, trwue to form, quietly were filling up their game straps with a mix of Mallards, Woodies, and a few Pintails.

“I believe it’s time,” Harland said. His voice caught me off guard. My eyes awed by the beauty of the cold frost and the ripples of water left by these beautiful waterfowl. Without hesitation Harland loaded two number fours into his shotgun, snapped the barrel closed, and passed his memories into my shaking hands. “Don’t flock shoot, pick out one, lead your shot, and ease the trigger back.” A shotgun replaced my pen.

Christmas Eve was here. The window display at Earl’s bait and tackle all but empty of decoys and shotguns. I joined the brothers for evening mass, and a fine supper above A’s, where Earl hung his hat each night. The brothers learned well from their mother’s cooking. We served chutney with my wild duck and sipped on wine like it was communion.

Harland looked up from the table and said, “You’ve become quite a fine shot. Best you put that pen away for good and pick up duck shooting.”

“Before the evening consumes us with laughter and drink, I have a gift for you both,” I said.

The brothers sat their glasses down. Harland laid his pipe aside. Earl lifted the needle away from a Jim Reeves record.

“Your generosity has exceeded my expectations. These past weeks here in Lenoir have been more than I could have hoped for. The old photo in Harland’s workshop found a special place in me that I tucked away long ago. Please take this as a gift of thanks.”

The brothers reached deep into a large box pulling out two chocolate labradors.

I know you’ve missed Popeye for sometime now. With the help of my editor back at the paper, we tracked down Popeye’s old breeder, a fella named Irving. These two pups are from the same line as Popeye. Merry Christmas,” I said.

The men were quiet. There were tears.

Earl placed the needle back on the album while the puppies made quick work to mark their territory at the base of the Christmas tree.

“Oh, these puppies will fit in just fine, won’t they, brother?!” Earl’s voice drowned out the record player with laughter. Harland nodded in agreement.

“If you’d allow us, we have a gift for you,” Harland chirped. He handed me a box. Inside was an old LC Smith. “It’s yours,” Harland said.

“This?!”, my jaw dropping to the floor.

“Damn straight,” Earl said. “Every fine duck hunter needs a first shotgun. Daddy gave that one to me. I gave it to Harland, and now we are giving it to you.”

“Write your stories here in Lenoir, tend to the shop, hunt ducks with us. Lenoir could use a fella like you.” Harland said.

I knew what they meant. I could use a place like Lenoir as well.

Warming myself with a cup of coffee, I stared outside. Ice had formed on the barren limbs. A cold front had pushed through. Tomorrow would be Christmas morning, a fine day for a duck hunt with friends. F&W

F&W Magazine Winter 2025

FEATURED ARTICLES

Lake Waccamaw

FEATHERS & WHISKEY

Wildly Refined

CONTRIBUTORS

WINTER 2025

CONTRIBUTORS

FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

HOME

BAR

Antlers & Architecture

Choosing the Right Space

Balancing Natural Elements with Other Decor

What’s Next?

Southeastern Wildlife Exposition

WHERE, ART, NATURE, AND CONNECTIONS FLOURISH

LIZ LEWIS

INSPIRED SPORTING & WILDLIFE BRONZES

Raven: Keeper of Mysteries

"Intelligence, Myth, Nature, and Poe’s Timeless Symbol"

THE BRAND

THE STORY

TAILIN’ TIES

A BOWTIE BRAND ROOTED IN ADVENTURE

The Product

Seared Tundra Swan Breast

with Green Bean Almondine and Rice

DIRECTIONS

INGREDIENTS

To Serve

Southern Social Scene

Events & Excursions

Southeastern Wildlife Expo

Charleston, South Carolina

BITE & BARRELL Poe’s Tavern, Sullivan’s Island, SC

A Burger Fit for the Raven’s Appetite

Burgers

A Feast of the Mind

Wonderfully Wild LAKE WACCAMAW

Waccamaw Siouan Tribe

The PEOPLE at the Heart of the Community

Boy’s and Girl’s Home of NC

Take A Walk on the Wild Side! Lake Waccamaw State Park

SHOP & DINE LOCAL

SOUTHERN SPORTING

MAKING THE BOOK

A TALE OF FAITH, FRIENDSHIP AND TURKEYS

SOUTHERN SWAN

SONG

IRON & OAK DUCK CALLS

GLOBAL ADVENTURE

Where Southern Soul Meets Global Horizons

Pirates and Pukua Shells

North Carolina Strong

The Clean Dirty Martini and Bar Hemingway

Pirates and Puka Shells

SIZE & HABITAT

NORTH CAROLINA RED DRUM

STATE SALTWATER FISH

FEEDING & BEHAVIOR

LIFE CYCLE & SPAWNING

FISHING TIPS

WINTER’S HYMN