The Honey Hole

Personal Narrative by Korbyn Arnold, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

    The Honey Hole wasn’t just a hunting spot to me, it was a role model of my childhood--- a sanctuary, and the setting for countless memories that shaped who I am today. Buried deep in the wild, hidden from the world, it was where I learned patience, respect for nature, and the thrill of the hunt.

I still remember the first time I set foot in the Honey Hole, my boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, my breath visible in the crisp morning air. My heart raced as I followed my elders, listening to their whispered stories of the great hunts that had happened here before me. At first, I was just a kid, watching and learning. But as seasons passed, I earned my place in the duck blind, gripping my shotgun with a mix of excitement and nerves.

The Honey Hole was more than just a hunting spot, it was an education. I learned to read the sky, to predict the movement of the flocks, and to call the ducks down in a way that felt almost magical. There was an art to it, an unspoken language between hunter and prey. The first time I successfully called in a duck and made the shot, I felt a sense of pride that has never faded. I will never forget the drake mallard hovering over the plastic decoys rippling in the tide of the Honey Hole.

Beyond the hunt, the Honey Hole was a place of bonding. Here, I spent long mornings and late evenings with family and friends, swapping stories, sharing laughs, and embracing the quiet beauty of the wilderness. It was in these moments, while waiting for the sun to rise, listening to the distant honking of incoming flocks, that I truly understood why hunting was so much more than the act itself. It was tradition, connection, and a deep-rooted respect for the land.

As the years passed, my relationship with the Honey Hole evolved. It became a place where I could escape the pressures of life, where I could reflect on the past and dream about the future. Every visit brought back waves of nostalgia: the smell of damp reeds, the sound of distant wings cutting through the sky, and the feeling of cold water splashing against my waders.

Now, as I continue the tradition, I realize the Honey Hole is not just a place, it is a part of me. The lessons I’ve learned there extend far beyond hunting, lessons in patience, perseverance, and appreciation for the fleeting beauty of nature. And as long as there are ducks in the sky and hunters in the blind, the Honey Hole will remain a sacred ground, carrying stories of the past and waiting to be the setting where new memories are yet to be made.

Grandma's Farm

Personal Narrative by Cooper Johnson, WHS Junior, AP English Language and Composition

Grandma’s farm was not a typical sprawling industrial farm, it was a place of simplicity. Tucked into a quiet, untouched region of North Carolina, Grandma’s farm was a reminder of times before technology, a time before modern society’s complicated woes. 

It was a farm in the sense of sprawling, untamed acres with pastures of various animals. She owned an array of traditional farm creatures, consisting of chickens, mules, donkeys, turkeys, and horses. As young children, my brother Wyatt and I were always elated to hear news the night before that we would travel to the farm early in the morning, sleeping on the cots Grandma and Grandad set up for us while Dad set out for the deer stand in the dark hours of the morning. The farm was like a treat, an easy and simplistic vacation that offered a warm, cozy place to stay and play. Wyatt and I were always eager to help Grandad feed the animals in the afternoon, and then race back on the gator just in time for Grandma’s home-made feast. Grandma would make everything from scratch, the food would never taste soulless or manufactured, but warm and hearty. Some of my favorite meals were the roasted turkeys Grandad raised himself, or oyster stew that was a Johnson family classic, the recipe passed down from generation to generation. 

However, the grandest meal was on Thanksgiving, a time of tradition and family. Thanksgiving was the time Wyatt and I learned the importance of patience and connection with nature. These important values were mediated through the art of deer hunting. Deer hunting is a way of life for many rural communities. It is an action as old as humankind, once a lifeline for families to survive, now a powerful pastime that invokes the primitive soul to connect mind and body as one. It trains you to make every action deliberate, every decision measured and precise. This is why I appreciated the skills and lessons Dad taught us as we sat in the stand after our grandiose meal. 

Those fall days really were what life was all about, the simplicity of sharing wholesome foods with those you love and then appreciating God’s creation by sitting and partaking in nature. It was the purest form of happiness and satisfaction someone could find, especially to those who live in a bustling society that always chases, yet never waits and appreciates the present. This philosophy of thought on our modern woes reflects the art and beauty of deer hunting on the farm, the same lessons and principles constantly being taught and expressed in the world around us.