Lighting a cigar is the final step in the preparation ritual, but it entails more than simply bringing a fl_ame to the foot of the cigar. Much like the cutting process we examined in the previous issue, you have to make choices and follow procedures to guarantee a great smoking experience.

The first decision is selecting the type of flame used to light the cigar. The fl_ame from paper matches is usually too small and inadequate. Candles, Zippo lighters, gas stovetops, and BBQ grills will introduce odd fl_avors to a cigar and should be avoided. A true cigar-smoking purist will insist on using a wooden cigar match with a sulfur-free tip. You can use wooden kitchen matches in a pinch, but only after allowing the sulfur in the match head to burn off. Some aficionados take the extraordinary step of using a lit cedar strip called a spill to create a _flavorless light.

The easiest and most popular lighting method is using a torch lighter designed for cigars that burns tasteless and odorless butane fuel.

About 90 miles northeast of Dallas as the waterfowl fly, on the outskirts of the sleepy town of Sulphur Bluff, Texas, you’ll find the Hageman Reserve—a 14,000-acre private sporting club that is the first of its kind, and will likely set the precedent for a new standard in sporting clubs. Arriving at the stately entryway of the Reserve, you follow a winding road offering mere glimpses of the property’s diversity. Traversing ranchlands dotted with small lakes and pristine upland habitat, you crest the final hill and begin to see it—like some medieval apparition, appearing out of the East Texas plain is what looks to be a 400-year-old French chateau. A marvel of classic architecture, this 65,000-square-foot lodge is the cornerstone of the Hageman Reserve, and the place in which countless relationships, memories, and traditions will be forged.

The realization of this property largely has to do with the forethought and tenacity of a man who is equal parts visionary and humble Indiana farmer—Steve Hageman. A third-generation farmer, Steve has spent his life grounded in agriculture and, poetically, has seen his life’s work grow from a 40-acre plot in rural Indiana to founding partner of a company that produces 20 percent of the nation’s seed corn. But in truth, this is not a story of achievement, farms, ranches, or lodges—it is a story about family. It’s about wisdom and virtue passed down from generation to generation, and working hard to ensure that your family will be provided for in the years to come.

The last week in September, the week prior to Opening Day for grouse and woodcock in New England, had been stunningly perfect. The days were modestly warm and the evenings chilly. Cooler temperatures motivated farmers to cut silage corn early, and some began spreading fields with liquid manure to prepare for planting winter rye. I was scouting for gamebirds, and when I traded the field edges for the dirt roads the mud and manure spun out of my tires and rattled the wheel wells. I never tire of hearing a sound that I associate with hunting season.

A few sugar maples had changed color, and all hunters and bird dogs champed at the bit. It had been 10½ months since we’d last hunted woodcock and 10 months since we’d last hunted grouse. We wanted to liberate dogs from their boxes and cast them through the coverts. Some might say that this time was my Christmas, for I had a new pup that I couldn’t wait to put down. I was a spring coiled with excitement.

She was a little tricolor setter pup from good, solid covert-dog stock. Her daddy was Crackling Tail Blue and her momma was Zipper’s Sassy Girl, and as a yearling she weighed 28 pounds soaking wet. She sight-pointed out of the box, had the snappy footwork of her field-trial lineage, and when the bell went on her neck she was all about the hunt. As the runt of the litter, she was softer in attitude than her siblings, and during our training sessions I was careful not to be as hard on her as I am with other dogs.