It is that time of year again: hunting season. My husband, GWH, goes hunting every year. It is his passion. And every year at the end of the hunt, he starts planning for next year’s hunt. He lives, eats, breathes hunting and plans everything to the umpteenth degree.

GWH stands for Great White Hunter, as a few friends and I jokingly call him, but it may as well stand for Gentleman Who Hunts. When you think of a hunter, do you conjure an image of some trigger-happy, red neck in an Elmer Fudd hat whose main goal is to put a trophy head on his wall?

Think again. When I think of a hunter, I think of someone who is passionate about nature and the outdoors, someone who cares about the future of the animals that he hunts as well as their ecological environment. I think about someone who is honest about where his food comes from and only takes what he needs, someone who appreciates that the lives of these animals are used to sustain ours. I think about someone who is dedicated to carrying on these traditions and passing them on to future generations, traditions that promote companionship, camaraderie, and respect for nature.

For me, to sit down to a table knowing that the meat that we are eating is completely organic, from an animal that lived in its natural environment, is very satisfying. Yes, I used to be one of those who were squeamish at the mere mention of wild meat. But seriously, people, our meat does not come from a conveyor belt in the meat factory.

So, alas, my Robin Hood will leave me once again. I have learned to keep my whining to a minimum. (You’re going for how long?!) I know better than to try to stifle his passions just as he knows it would be futile to try to stop me from writing, reading or cooking but I will miss him, dearly, once again. Be safe, GWH.