I have an uncle, John, who hunts. He lives off the land half the year (or at least from what I remember). He is the quintessential “man’s man.”
The man works six months a year doing whatever he does, and the other six months he hunts. He has a half a mountain at his beckoning because he owns it. Literally. Bought and paid for.
One night, when I was about five or six, I was watching him pack for a hunting trip he was going on.
Having yet to see a gun packed, only a bow, I said, “What are you hunting for?”
“Where’s your gun?” I asked.
He looked at the bow, then back at me. “What the hell do I need a gun for? I got my bow,” he said simply.
I never gave that man a smart mouth.