Taking a trip down memory lane

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For all of you that think that southern charm is a thing of the past, I am here to say it is alive and well in the town of Lax, Georgia. To say Lax is a town is stretching things a bit because it is more of an intersection with a church on one corner and a cemetery on the opposing corner but regardless of what it is, I have fallen for this chunk of the south in the middle of nowhere Georgia.

Thinking back several years ago my good friend Capt. Trent Malphrus and I took a rather unique pilgrimage of sorts to Willowin Plantation for a long weekend of bass fishing, duck hunting, pheasant hunting, quail hunting for those that chose to, even deer hunting. It all started a couple of years prior to our outing when Trent guided Willowin’s owner, Will Wingate and somehow managed to get an invite to this annual cast and blast event. As for me, Trent was told he could bring a friend and to this day I believe I was chosen for no reason other than comic relief. In all there are usually twenty attendees, most all from the Atlanta area while Trent and I were the only representatives of the lowcountry.

The 3-hour drive to Willowin along rural roads is a trip in itself. You have never seen so many churches and pecan groves and at first glance it almost looks like a hard snow has fallen along these back roads. That white stuff isn’t snow at all but cotton that has blown off tractors and trucks on their way to the cotton mills. It’s absolutely everywhere. Old barns and farms dot the landscape and before long it becomes mandatory to find a country music station on the car radio. The scene becomes even more surreal with Hank Williams, Jr. leading the way.

Arriving first, Trent and I immediately grabbed our fishing rods and though the competition is friendly, we have fun seeing who can land the biggest largemouth in Willowin’s lake. This lake is a bass fisherman’s dream holding some monster bass that lurk around massive cypress trees that line the shoreline. He spanked me the year before but this time I redeemed myself with some fine big mouths. Just about then the Atlanta boys started rolling in and Trent and I went to work preparing a lowcountry boil for the entire group. With a roaring bon fire, introductions were tossed around along with a cocktail or two as Trent and I cooked up a lowcountry boil complete with May River oysters, sausage, corn and shrimp for the masses. If you ever want to make friends with city boys, seafood that you have harvested yourself is the way to do it. These guys tore through that stuff like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

For some of us, the next morning started at 5am. Struggling into waders, we trudged through a pitch-black swamp to do some wood duck hunting. It was chilly but as the early twilight exposed our surroundings, you couldn’t help being awed by the cypress trees and black swamp water. Off in the distance you hear the first squeal of a wood duck and you know they were coming. Like rocket ships, they weave through the trees and if you hesitate at all, it’s too late. In my opinion colorful wood ducks are the crème de la crème of nature’s paintbrush with the added bonus of being wonderful table fare.

After a breakfast of eggs, grits, biscuits and home-made cane syrup at Rusty’s, Willowin’s barrel-chested, Georgia Bulldog fanatic chef it was time to do some pheasant hunting. A stiff breeze was enough to make these cackling beauties a handful to hit. How can you miss a bird that big and noisy? As many of the guys will tell you, it’s pretty darn easy. By the time we finished, I was ready for a nap but there would be no rest for the weary this weekend. It was back to Rusty’s for lunch and then quail hunting.

To me, quail hunting is all about the dogs. Watching a good quail dog hold a point is a thing of beauty. A mix of release birds and wild coveys, Trent and I started out slow but after getting past the initial jitters, we did pretty darn good especially since we only get to do this once a year. The camaraderie along with exceptional flying birds made it the perfect ending to our weekend…or so we thought. Heading to Rusty’s for a rowdy last night, we were treated to a whole suckling pig and all the fixins.

In retrospect, I came home feeling like I had stepped back in time to the south in the early part of the twentieth century. I could have stayed at Willowin Plantation for another month but even that wouldn’t have been long enough. I did bring home some birds and a jar of Rusty’s home-made cane syrup so until the next possible invite, these two things will keep me salivating for my next trip down this marvelous memory lane.

Collins Doughtie is a 60-year resident of the Lowcountry, is a sportsman, graphic artist, and lover of nature. collinsdoughtie@icloud.com