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154 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S the cabin for an early bedtime. You know the old saying about "best laid plans of mice and men," don't you? Well, I made the early bedtime part, but the rest of my plans went awry because D.J. Smith, one of the plantation's guides, made me a better offer—a much better offer! The day was turning toward late afternoon when I heard a knock at the door, and opened it to find D.J. standing on the front porch. After introductions, he allowed as how it appeared that neither of us had anything much planned, and the clock maintained that there was still a couple of hours of daylight remaining. And he had a jeep—with a dog trailer. And a bunch of whining dogs in the back that would dearly love some exercise. And, he explained, "I just thought you might like to take a gun and stretch your legs a bit." Of course he had my immediate attention, so I explained about my eyesight, and what the trip was all about, to which he replied that he was well known to be moderately discrete and that he could keep it confidential if things got too embarrassing. That being resolved, we set out under partly cloudy skies that occasionally closed to emit just a hint of a drizzle. It was pleasantly warm and things were beginning to green up nicely. It was certainly not what one imagines when one imagines quail hunting, but it was no less exquisite. In fact, there was a slow, jasmine-scented sweetness about I, because I knew that this would surely be the last hunt of the season. Dogs have always been close to the heart of Wynfield's operation. By that, I mean that excellent dog-work has been a hallmark of the place from the very beginning. This that we converged from different directions on Winfield. I arrived first, driving in from my North Georgia home. The next day, Duncan and Bud drove in from Columbia, South Carolina. Art arrived late the same day from his home near Seneca, South Carolina. The weather was perfect for a late-season quail hunt. It was cool, shirt-sleeve weather. Partly cloudy skies yielded to an occasional shower that encouraged the halo of green that forms upon the land in the Deep South when late winter poses as spring. It was a great time for our little experiment. The season was near closing; consequently, it all had a mellow, bitter-sweet feeling. We all knew that the next bird hunting would be a long time coming, and it all felt sort of like the last dance of senior prom. Just for good measure I brought along another old friend of mine. Over the years I had gunned Wynfield's quail many times with a petite G.E. Lewis hammer double. Twenty-eight gauge, no less. As near as I can figure, it dates from the late 1890s and its pedigree added a touch of class to the affair that the rest of us just couldn't muster. She's perfectly balanced, and weighs in at a paltry 5½ pounds, with classic lines as clean as a lance. I figure that if you're planning to miss a lot, you might as well do it in style. T he first afternoon I settled into one of the plantation's cabins to read a book. I had purposely arrived the day before my pals. I just thought I'd spend a little time "unwinding" and soaking up a little of the South Georgia ambiance. Then, I supposed that I'd overstuff on the lodge's ample and superb supper menu, and then drift back to O ne of John Denver's most beloved songs was Back Home Again. The essence of its message is summed up in the refrain that goes, "Sometimes, this old farm feels like a long-lost friend." That pretty well states how I feel about Wynfield Plantation. It lies deep in the piney woods of southwest Georgia, over toward the Alabama line, and sometimes it just feels like home. Dear Lord, I've been there a lot! I've been going there periodically for years. I've written a lot of words about the place, too, and a lot of them can be found in the frames that hang on the walls of the lodge. I first met my buddy Mike Altizer there. And Chuck Wechsler, editor of Sporting Classics, too. Over the years the plantation's hunt manager, Randy Hickman has become a dear old friend. We were there about the time that Mike McIntosh got too ill to keep going. We were sitting on the porch, looking out across the lake when Chuck asked if I'd like to continue Mike's "Shotguns" column. I couldn't begin to estimate how many birds I've shot in the backwoods of Wynfield. Any realistic estimate would certainly seem extravagant to most folks. I think it would be safe to say that, "We've got history," which had a lot to do with my decision to go there at the end of last season. You see, I had a stroke a couple of years ago that affected my vision in a peculiar way. Once, I had pretty consistent vision like most folk. Now I have what I call "Swiss cheese" vision. I can still see, but a host of small and not-so- small holes permeate my field of vision. Things slip into holes and become temporarily invisible, only to re-emerge on the far side of the hole. Yep, it's a bummer for a wingshooter. The good news is that over time I began to compensate for the insult. I tested my vision on bigger birds like pheasants and managed fairly well, but I hadn't summoned the temerity to give it a go on quick and tiny bobwhites. When I decided it was time, it was a very personal matter to me. I wanted to be in a place where I was comfortable. And I wanted to hunt with friends! Hunting on the grounds of Wynfield satisfied the first requirement. Sporting Classics Publisher Duncan Grant, his son, Bud, and Arthur Jordan, my pal and personal neurologist satisfied the last requirement. I knew that these guys wouldn't give me any breaks, but I also knew that any ribbing I got would be good-natured. And so it happened