Crooked Beaver Lodge — A Private Sporting Estate for Upland Hunting and Angling
"There are lodges, and then there is the one they only whisper about."
REQUEST AN INVITATIONA Declaration of the House
Five guests.
A weekend carved from time.
— THE LODGE LEDGER —
What awaits, in full.
Chapter One — The Cabinet
World-class guns. World-class company. A world-class experience.
Crooked Beaver Lodge is a world-class sporting estate built for the few who demand the finest. Each guest is fitted to a bespoke, hand-engraved shotgun drawn from the house cabinet — English side-by-sides, Italian over-unders, and a Fabbri or two kept under lock for the ones who appreciate true company. The guides are world-class, the fellowship is select, and every drive is a high-end hunting experience in the truest sense. Every dusk opens with a curated flight from the cellar: single malts a quarter century in the cask and older, poured by candlelight, no measure taken.
"You do not choose your gun. Your gun is chosen for you."
— CHAPTER TWO —
Eight species.
One long, honest walk.
Chapter Three — The Ponds
Two ponds. Two species. Every morning yours.
Between drives, the rod is waiting. Cast the upper pond at first light for wild trout, or work the edge of the lower pond at dusk for panfish that rise like clockwork. One angler to one guide — a man who has read this water since he was a boy and will tell you exactly where the fish is, and exactly why.
"A guide who knows the water the way you know your own name."
Chapter Four — The Table
A private chef. A house butler. Every meal a menu of one.
The kitchen is closed to the world. A resident chef writes the day around the morning's bag and the evening's mood — wild game hung and rested, dry-aged cuts from the smokehouse, cellared wines paired course by course. A butler pours before the glass is empty and disappears before you notice.
"The kitchen is closed to the world. It cooks only for the five of you."
— CHAPTER FIVE —
The fire never goes out.
Leather. Stone. Antler. Rye whiskey and long stories. The kind of room a man forgets what year it is inside of.
The Weekend, In Its Order
An itinerary of the house.
- IFriday — Arrival
Boots at the door, drink in the hand.
Met at the airstrip. Driven in through the timber. The butler has your bags before the truck door closes. First pour on the porch; game hens over the fire; the guides walk in to sit down and go over the morning.
- IISaturday — The Pheasant Day
A full day in the field.
Coffee before dawn, dogs already whining. A full day behind the pheasants — three drives, long walks, birds brought to the bag in style. Lunch in the field. The afternoon keeps going until your legs remind you why you came. A cellar list at supper, and a fire that waits for the stories.
- IIISunday — Clays, Fish, Turkey & Partridge
A different kind of daybreak.
Morning starts at the clays course, then the turkey woods and the partridge coverts. After lunch, the ponds for a long fish, and the range at dusk if you want one more shell. Another full day in the Back 40, and another evening worth keeping.
- IVMonday — The Slow Farewell
A quiet morning. A promise to return.
One last walk with the dogs. A late breakfast under the pines. A cigar on the porch, and the truck to the strip only when you say the word — never a minute before.
— TELEGRAM THE HOUSE —
Only five seats,
and precious few weekends.
Availability is deliberately scarce. Tell us who you are, and the house will be in touch — personally, and without hurry.