The Tar Heel Outdoorsman

Marks and scraped paint here and there along the edge of a drab-painted metal pit blind.  They're left from a duck hunter's tapping a stubborn raw oyster in the afternoon cold, attempting to coax the thing open.  A lasting reminder of the good times had.   A compilation of ENC shenanigans.   Ducks. Liquid Refreshments.  Oysters.  Toe Jam.  Soft Crabs.  Stogies.  Steaks.  Big White Birds.  Biscuits.  Tyrrell County.  Wilson County.  New Hanover County.  

I’m not asking ya’ll to fully understand what it was like growing up hunting and fishing in Eastern North Carolina.  But it was great.  It’s something I really am thankful for.                         It was cold and dark.   There was that nip in the salty morning air that tells you its hunting season.   The flame from the propane burner and the hot oil just starting to pop and bubble in the charred aluminum fish fryer would only momentarily warm my hands.   My little brother and I stood around the burner.   When the thermometer read 350, I dropped in two lightly breaded bluefish filets, trying not splash the oil.   The cold filets sank in the hot oil.   A few minutes later they floated to the surface, the breader crusted into that gold brown characteristic of most fried food.   We ate them and they were darn goo...