You have the room…
You have the trophies…
An accumulation of magnificent taxidermy, animal hides, sporting art and worn leather furniture adorned the room. He laughed heartily while placing blame for its contents on childhood curiosity and his granddad’s hunting magazines.
“I went hunting before I had a gun. I traveled the world from a tender age,” he confessed. One look around the room verified his honesty, he’d been captivated by the chronicles of wild places.
The wise woodsman continued his monologue with a biographical justification for hunting the far reaches of the world, including an account of his first rabbit hunt. A passed-down L. C. Smith shotgun, a beagle’s song, and a cottontail had left him a recipient of—call it what you will—passion or wonder.
“What do you think of those bosses,” he asked while pointing to the fine specimen. “The PH said that brute was one of the best buffalo taken in the area. Sucker tried to charge. The .375 H&H stopped that nonsense.”
The aged hunter provided a fine mixture of novel and biography. He was the author, his trophy room the book and each mount a chapter. The only thing missing was the publisher—who undoubtedly would have categorized these tales as fiction.
Tales of deep snow, warm fires, and camaraderie shared in hunting camp made the term ‘trophy room’ seem inappropriate—a misnomer. These trophies on the wall were bookmarks carefully placed among the pages of his life story.