Friday (September 25) not only marked my first trip to Sportsman's Warehouse in Ankeny; it also marked the first occasion of me touching a gun. A 38 revolver no less. My current writing project involves a feral pig hunt, for which, apparently, I am going to need protection. Now, I am a softy, liberal. I don't really want to know where my bacon comes from, nor am I completely comfortable with the fact that for a mere $800, I could walk out of a store that is an outdoors version of Wal-Mart with a handgun, but, all that being said, when I am staring down a 400-pound hunk of angry porker, I am guessing I am going to want more than my wits and my liberal bias between me and the beast.
This is my new buddy Dave. He thinks I am going to need a 44, rather than 38. None of that really means anything to me. (I think I am going to need a hanky and my mommy, to be quite honest.)
I am going to wrap up this blog before the NRA starts calling, but I will say this. I'd never realized what a fascinating world hunters inhabit. And underneath all the bragging boards, taxidermy and high tech gadgetry is a love of the land and joy in being outdoors.
More on the feral pig hunt soon.
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