There is no sweeter fragrance than the inebriant essence of a fired shotgun shell, and that same aroma transports me in time and space to my earliest memories, following my father’s steps hunting upland birds over our pointing dog, Diana, and retrieving the spent 28 gauge paper hulls.

 Diana, the English pointer, accidentally died when I was still very young but, Diana, the goddess of hunting, has had me under her spell for as long as I can remember. The need to hunt and the pleasure of the chase burn inside me. I live to hunt.