I loved hunting in Africa.

That said, I cannot even describe how I feel about hunting the American Midwest.

Oh, hell, I’ve been skunked the last couple of years, for one reason or the nother- but I’m not about the getting so much as the hunting itself.

And where I hunt. Indiana is a plains state, and the terrain and flora and fauna of the midwest are comfortable to me as a pair of old slippers, or a hudson’s bay point blanket.

Walking through the fields and forests is comforting to me as anything I know, and while I sit there, sucking in the scenery, it makes me think of the poems of Frost, who I love just as much.

My specific favorites are Mending wall, which I have discussed here before, Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening, from which the title of this post comes, The Road Not Taken, and In the Home Stretch.

I recite what I can remember, and drink in the wonder of Frost’s words as I watch the breeze blow the tall grass around.

This is hunting. The deer, when it comes, will be nice, but it is incidental.