This smoky manhattan variation gets its name from the North Mississippi autumns which Faulkner painted pictures of.

Together they’d ride, in an old bench seated Ford F-series, one county over – Papaw knew a guy would sell beer on Sundays. Nate described the smell, the crops, the rattles in the truck as though he’d been in the cab with him yesterday.

At the root of what EHC represents is a connection between adventure, friends, and food.

Every year, my father spends countless hours picking out pecans that he collects from my great grandparents pecan grove in North-East Arkansas. I was lucky enough to get a bag and used a few handfuls to put together a luscious pecan orgeat.

There is something about crisp morning air, when the birds stop flying or perhaps you spy the perfect bankside fallen tree to lean on and take it all in, that is enhanced by lighting up the perfect field cigar.

As the mornings begin to get cooler and the trees start to turn, I’m ready. I’ve completed my fall sacrament and am psychologically prepared for the final leg of this year. I’m ready to bid farewell to summer’s bounty, to spring’s newness.

The slow, constant flow of the river, warmer and more welcoming than I remembered, washed over the stress stored since the last time we did this. With each cast, I am fishing less and meditating more. Every toss and retrieve of the line a new mantra.