"It's not true, what Jose Ortega y Gasset asserts, that only by hunting can you get to know country, be in country."
I agree. Simply by reading Camuto's book on hunting, fishing, and outdoor life in the Blue Ridge Mountains can readers virtually immerse themselves in the landscape without ever setting foot. His language is precise, poetic, and allows readers to feel the wildness around them whether reading this book in their own cabin--as I did--or in the noisy stench of an overpopulated metropolis. It resembles prose less than it does dessert, an autumn breeze, jazz, or some other metaphorical, metaphysical concept.
On the backswing, Camuto's writing seems at most time just that--writing. It lacks any real story, collective point or narrative, or connection beyond its wooded setting. It's a nice read--a breath of good air--but overall rather attention deficit, even within its own chapters...essays...passages. And sitting through Camuto's tendency to list every known tree or bird in Virginia is rather burdensome.
I read this book concurrently with Thoreau's Walden, something I greatly suggest, and in many ways it is a modern-day Walden. Except Thoreau aimed his narrative toward some strong overlying principles rather than listing 426 species of deciduous trees in alphabetical order.
I liked it, but I am a bird of his feather, and we are a rare breed in this golden dawn of WiFi and vegan string cheese.