The Invite
The Invite
There is little to know about me besides my ability to communicate, my proud Southern heritage, and my love of cars. Each of these has little, yet a lot, to do with the small slice of heaven that is in Adams Run, SC. You see, I, like thousands of readers, enjoy each article published in outdoorsman magazines. I dream of working hard, having a successful career, so that someday I can enjoy hunting trips like the ones I so often read.
However, I do not carve my own duck decoys, have mount after mount on my walls, nor do I have many words of wisdom for those hunters seeking advice. What I do have to offer is a story of how two boys, one from North Carolina and the other from Massachusetts, became friends after a brief conversation about cars, and how that led to my finally getting the experience about which I had so often dreamed.
For those who do not know, young men who attend boarding schools, graduate and often do not see the friends they have made as often as one would want. The young men come from all over the world, and only those who are either close geographically, or who can travel, get the chance to see each other. Being a North Carolina boy who went to school in Connecticut, I rarely get to see my classmates and friends. However, I have been fortunate enough to see this one friend on more than one occasion since graduation.
My friend from Massachusetts and his family happen to have the 2,250 acre plantation in the lowcountry of South Carolina. His family was planning a visit to the lowcountry for the winter holiday. When not in a discussion about cars, he and I would always talk about hunting... and this is what lead to “The Invite”.
I drove down to Adams Run, SC one afternoon a few days before Thanksgiving. Arriving at the address was a bit tricky as I was arriving in the dark, and the closest street light was miles away. At the very end of a country road, after four hours of driving, I could see a green Willy Jeep with my friend seated in the driver's seat. I knew at that moment that this weekend was going to be something I had never experienced. Down the long straight driveway we drove, to the red tin-roof cabin that was to be the place I stayed. We went to bed early in preparation for the day to come.
That first morning could have been something an elder would have told me about “the good old days”. I awakened to the sound of duck hunters in the distance. I walked out to the deck of the cabin, looking over a pond with crisp fog that captured the reflection of the sherbet sky rising to say good morning. The breeze helped the Spanish moss dance as the world came to life. After a quick shower, I joined my friend and his family for a breakfast served at the “big house” by a local cook. This house was head-to-toe Southern charm. From the antique dining room table, wood fire, and flint lock on the wall. All in all the whole visit seemed nostalgic.
Nonetheless, at seven-thirty sharp arrived the properties’ manager. He was in a different Willy’s Jeep with four side-by-side wooden shotguns mounted to the hood of the Jeep beside my plastic Remington 1100. He has worked for the family his whole life, as well as his father before him.
The Jeep was green, smelled of diesel, made grinding gear noises, and had a front seat like the one used in John Wayne’s Hatari. The ride out on the morning’s quail hunt, between the tall pines was almost surreal. Like a painting, the yellow rays of sunlight played hide and seek with the trees’ shadows, and the soothing smell of pipe tobacco, mixed with the damp pine needles and the morning dew, awakened all of my senses. With the Shorthaired Pointers ready, soon enough I was on my first covey. With my heart beating in anticipation, and not knowing the difference in wild and placed birds, the covey scattered like a collection of Apache helicopters. The noise of the wings startled me as the birds flew away, leaving me with the safety still firmly on and not a single shot fired. Now knowing what to expect, I was finally able to hold my own.
After a long morning, we had lunch on the back porch of the big house facing the pond. Enjoying our venison broth soup out of fine china with a quail pattern, we prepared for our afternoon hunt. The property manager once again arrived with the Jeep and guns. However, mid way through the afternoon quail hunt, another employee picked us up in the field and delivered us to the other side of the property where that night, both my friend and I, harvested a doe. After helping get the deer back to the skinning building, we enjoyed our evening meal. We had yellow rice, quail that we had shot earlier that day, and a gravy that was thick and tasted like heaven. It was after the meal and some wine were enjoyed, that I was gifted a pin for my Barbour. The pin is round and slightly larger than a quarter. It is well made, with the plantation’s name on it and the carving of a quail dead center. The family only gives the pins to people after they kill their first quail on the property. I cherish that charm, and it is firmly placed on my Barbour at all times.
I left the next day in a rush to make it for Thanksgiving with my own family. I took more with me than just a full belly and a few stories. I learned Purdey and Sons shotguns cost more than my car, but that my 1100 shoots just as well. I finally had my own set of stories and experiences like the ones I grew up reading or hearing about from my great uncle. Most of all I learned that friendships come in all shapes and sizes. That one interest in common can be enough to forge a friendship for life. After all, a simple conversation about cars created “The Invite.”
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