“…Hunting,” the Old Man said, “is the noblest sport yet devised by the hand of man. There were mighty hunters in the Bible, and all the caves where the cave men lived are full of carvings of assorted game the head of the house drug home. If you hunt to eat, or hunt for sport for something fine, something that will make you proud, and make you remember every single detail of the day you found him and shot him, that is good too. But if there’s one thing I despise is a killer, some blood crazed idiot that just goes around bam-bamming at everything he sees. A man that takes pleasure in death just for death’s sake is rotten somewhere inside, an you’ll find him doing things later on in life that’ll prove it.”
Those words from Robert Ruark’s The Old Man and The Boy recently sank deeply in my soul while resting under a large swamp oak with the Spanish moss hanging from the branches lazily tossed about in the warm March spring breeze. I was taking a break on my South Carolina wild hog hunt.
