When I drove over the border into Zimbabwe,
the country was barely nine years old,
the signs of civil war still everywhere.
Bullet-holes scored the outer walls of the
farmhouses spotting the savannahs.
We live in an age where Point B is to be arrived at as quickly and as comfortably as possible. Despite these obvious efficiencies, we ought to be saddened by what is missed along the way. This is especially the case if Point B is Fort Kent, in the northernmost woods of Maine...
They describe it as Dust, Sweat, and Gears. And bloody hell it is that. But so much more.
Lunatics gallivanting through the bush with striped down, juiced up 4x4s, up hill and down dale.
I mean besides wanting a drink, I also want to be free from dread.
So says the poet Jim Harrison. Drink, of course, is the antidote to dread, but its effects are short-lived and I always feel worse afterward. Harrison often writes...
You couldn’t say we weren’t warned. The old caretaker—and, in winter, the sole inhabitant—of Chesuncook Village made it very clear. “Wait,” he said with a peculiarity that immediately earned him...
“Ladies gun, sir”. Those words sneeringly signaled the end of the fifteen-year affair between James Bond and his .25 Beretta. After a Court of Inquiry concluded that he nearly got himself killed because of his choice of ...
In 1875, two innovative fellows at Westley Richards in Birmingham, England patented what is still a mainstay of double-barrel shotgun making to this day—the Anson-Deeley action.
In his oft-quoted Meditations on Hunting, the Spaniard José Ortega y Gasset, muses on what it means to hunt an animal to its death.