"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
Fifty-thousand dollar guns. Twenty-five year scotch.
Each guest is fitted to a bespoke, hand-engraved shotgun drawn from the house cabinet — English side-by-sides, Italian over-unders, a Fabbri or two kept under lock for the ones who ask nicely. 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 Waters
Two rivers. Two species. Every morning yours.
Between drives, the rod is waiting. Wade the upper river at first light for wild trout, or drift the deep cut at dusk for smallmouth that fight like they mean it. 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 river 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 — First Light to Late
A walk that becomes a memory.
Coffee before dawn, dogs already whining. Six hours in the uplands — pheasant, sharp-tail, whatever the wind offers. Long lunch in the field. Clays or the rifle range at midday. Trout at dusk. Cellar list at supper.
- IIISunday — 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.