A duck hunter gets his limit of cherished memories For more than half a century, Julius M. Reynolds, Jr. has hunted waterfowl, and the Santee lakes of South Carolina have been his sporting paradise. Early mornings, cold duck blinds, and sunrises on the Santee compose some of his most prized memories. Reynolds has lived on both sides of the lakes and has roamed them from the Santee delta to the Pinopolis powerhouse. He has witnessed both the glory days and the decline of duck hunting in South Carolina. With this heartfelt memoir, Reynolds recalls his best hunting stories, shares his knowledge of waterfowling, and chronicles recent dramatic changes in his beloved sport. Describing himself as a Sumter boy who "grew up chasing ducks in Pocotaliago Swamp and from one end of the lake to the other," Reynolds takes readers into the Santee's best duck hunting areas―from Cane Branch, Billup's Slough, and Line Island, all located around Jack's Creek, to McGirt's Lake, Otter Flat, Riser's Old River, Pine Island Creek, Broadwater, Indigo Flat, and Fuller's Earth Creek, Reynolds's favorite hunting spots in the Santee Swamp. He tells stories of memorable trips, colorful South Carolina sportsmen, favorite dogs, boats, shotguns, and the joy of life in the outdoors. He recalls a time when the Santee National Waterfowl Refuge wintered more than 100,000 ducks, and records the heroic efforts of outdoorsmen who saved the Santee Swamp from timbermen's sawmills. Reynolds touches on his personal milestones―shooting "a hundred straight" of skeet, participating in the national duck calling competition, and hunting in a luxury Arkansas blind―but he also looks to the future of waterfowling. Reynolds challenges the next generation of hunters to save our rapidly vanishing wetlands, for the health of the environment and in the hope that waterfowl migration might return to the Santee., reviewing a previous edition or volume A duck hunter since his youth, Julius M. Reynolds, Jr. has spent more than fifty years searching out the secrets that make South Carolina's lakes, swamps, and marshes special places for abundant wildlife. A graduate of Clemson University, he lives in Orangeburg, South Carolina. As I write these words, the year is 2000, and I m approaching my sixty-seventh birthday. Looking back at all the areas I ve hunted, I recall goose hunting in Canada and Illinois, duck hunting in Nebraska and Louisiana, and over the last few years some special hunts in Arkansas. Trips to all of these top hunting spots were enjoyable. I remember the fellowship and I cherish those friendships made. But of all the duck hunting in those out-of-state places and other areas of South Carolina, the Santee lakes and swamp are where my heart is. They comprise that special place to me. Today, compared to other states, the hunting there is as poor as it is in most of the Atlantic Flyway, but for many years the Santee was tops. Sportsmen didn t have to go out of state to hunt. Our swamps, rivers, and salt marshes were home to a myriad of ducks each winter. Our refuge system on the Santee lakes held in excess of 100,000 ducks. And many ducks frequented private wetlands around our state. Duck hunting was a popular sport on the Santee, and only in the last few years has it faded. But still, the big swamp at the headwaters of Lake Marion holds a special meaning for me. I ve always loved the earthy aroma coming from the muddy banks of its many creeks and flats. The Santee and I shared our early years, and I grew up with the lake s popularity and reputation as a sporting paradise. I began fishing it when I was eight years old, and later I hunted ducks with my Uncle Johnnie in the Wateree Swamp just above the great Santee Swamp. I was a freshman in high school when he first took me in his boat and into his world of duck hunting. Fifty years later I love it as I did when I was a boy; and over all those years, I have drunk heavily from the wonders it created. I ve seen multitudes of ducks visit the Santee to frolic in its waters and to eat the acorns from the swamp s ridges. I ve watched them leave on the moon each March, knowing that they would again come my way. My respect for them as visitors enhanced my understanding of migration, a mystery only they and their kind truly know. They came on tired wings for years, and we would meet in the big swamp. On my many visits, I ve observed the animals that love the swamp and live there in an eclectic community. From the small to the large, all have allowed me a look at their wildness and their natural contentment. I once watched a wild hog teaching her small babies how to root the swamp floor in search of that day s meal. I ve seen a racoon, after following his tracks on the creek s edge, opening clams with almost human adeptness. I ve seen wild turkeys fly across in front of my boat in search of the acorns the great oaks had offered. I ve been led in merry chase by otters in their playful way. I ve seen squirrels,