There is a rough stone wall at the bottom of the Blackmer place in Massachusetts that runs north to south along the forest edge. In New England fashion, it is straight and true despite its age, three stones wide and another three high, a dry-laid bulwark of native schist. The slab-handed dairyman on the place claims that the width implies the boundary of a long-forgotten garden, as the pasture walls of his forebears were built upon the width of a single stone. But that garden is gone now and the flint corn and squash and drying beans that once grew there, like the farm itself, are New England heirlooms. As for the wall, I dare say in the last hundred years it has contained nothing at all except a grown-over section of bittersweet tangle…and a steadfast supply of grouse and woodcock for the unlikely likes of me.

For several years, I helped out on a hunting preserve that offered several species of gamebirds, including pheasants. Depending on the time of year, the pens held anywhere from 200 to 2,000 pheasants. At the main door to the pen, there was a hook holding a pair of old welding gauntlets and, underneath, a sign reading “Danger: Man-Eating Pheasant” in large, black letters.
I stepped into the pen for the first time one warm July morning, smiling at the absurdity of the sign as I passed. I was halfway to the feeders when I felt a swat on the back of my right calf. I looked over my shoulder to find a rooster pheasant stalking me, body feathers fluffed, wings drooped slightly, clearly in a pugnacious mood. I turned around and feinted toward him. He jumped back a step and watched me. When I turned away, confident that I’d shaken his resolve, he attacked again. Luckily, I was wearing high boots-I could see the marks his spurs left on the uppers. He spent the next five minutes stalking me while I filled the feeders, and then trailed me back across the pen, looking for an opening. I scrambled through the door, slammed it behind me, and double-checked the lock. No sense taking any chances…

What’s new for bourbon this year? This loaded question requires a little background in alcohol marketing and business practices. Beer has seasonal releases as brewers use seasonal ingredients to spice up or sweetin the brews. The special releases bolster mainstay brand and the line extensions play an important role in beer marketing.
Winemakers use similar tactics when championing vintages. For the record, 2009 and 2010 were incredible Bordeaux years. “The weather was perfect,” the French say of these years. The fermented beverages never quite taste the same, creating a beautiful imbibing journey and giving consumers something to look forward to every year.
However, bourbon is a little different. For most of the 20th Century, bourbon brands didn’t have annual releases. Then, in the mid-1980s, George T. Stagg (now Buffalo Trace Distilllery) master distiller Elmer T. Lee came up with the idea for a single-barrel product, giving consumers a taste of inconsistency and special barrels for which to hunt.