I came to hunting un-naturally; growing up in the suburbs of Washington DC as part of a mixed race 1st generation immigrant family.
The hunting magazines, in the barbershop my dad took us to on Saturdays as kids in the 1970s and 80s, sparked a fire: the photos, the stories, the ads for the guns, and yes, the Marlboro man-riding his horse in the snow, carrying a calf to safety in a mountain blizzard! I wanted to be him-well sorta!
That fire was fully doused in gasoline when I took a trip to my family's ranch in Chilean Patagonia in 1981: trout fishing all day long, riding horses, getting thrown from horses, hunting perdiz and hares with my uncles, target shooting...
The fire never quenched. Every rabbit, every grouse, every doe is a trophy. Each one is nourishing food. Each one is a reward and a memory of time spent existing, living: as nature intended.
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