A Brotherhood Among the Pines.

It's all about who we walk with in the fields, the shotgun handed down father to son, the tradition of family and love of one another and the great outdoors.

The morning air at Turkey Hill Plantation was sharp enough to wake the soul, filled with the fresh scent of pine needles. I was wrapping a wool scarf tight against the wind—cursing my forgotten gloves—when a familiar truck rattled into the clearing at Log Hall.