The Wild South

Deep in the woodlands of South Carolina there's magic in the stillness of the night.

Art is courtesy of C. Ford Riley

My husband stood there dressed in camouflage from head to toe, including a hat, gloves, face mask, and snake-proof boots. “We’re going to scout out the area,” he announced.  He and the general who lived next door loved to do anything involving spending hours in the woods.

Last fall he had shot a deer from a pop-up blind near the pond, sitting on a folding chair with the gun barrel poised out of one of its shooting ports in anticipation of an unsuspecting buck. Each year the annual deer hunt marks the beginning of the holiday season in our family. 

Tomorrow in the wee hours of the morning, the general will begin the hunt with one long blast blown through his cow horn.  The sound will echo through the ancient live oaks, across the marshlands, longleaf pines, and throughout the fields. Hunters will be dropped off at designated stands in the woods to listen and wait with their shotguns ready.

It’s part of our Lowcountry tradition that goes back long before the British arrived on our shores. Yemassee Indians dined on venison and used every part of the animal, making knives from bones, bow strings from sinew, and clothing from the hide.

C. Ford Riley