In this chap­ter titled The Man Who Hunts and Does Like It, intro­duces a thought­ful por­trait of a hunter whose rela­tion­ship with fox-hunt­ing is marked by equal parts pas­sion and per­plex­i­ty. He is not a novice or a casu­al par­tic­i­pant, but some­one deeply com­mit­ted, whose love for the sport remains strong even as he wres­tles with its many tri­als. His expe­ri­ence high­lights a unique para­dox: the hunt brings immense joy and yet demands unre­lent­ing sac­ri­fice, test­ing both his patience and pri­or­i­ties. Weath­er, delays, missed calls, and sud­den changes are part of the pack­age, yet he continues—driven by some­thing that rea­son alone can­not explain. This chap­ter brings to light that fox-hunt­ing is not mere­ly a hob­by but an emo­tion­al, almost exis­ten­tial pur­suit that shapes and chal­lenges the iden­ti­ty of those who embrace it.

The hunts­man­’s morn­ing rarely begins with cer­tain­ty. Often, he pre­pares in dark­ness, only to find him­self stand­ing in the bit­ing cold, wait­ing for a sig­nal that may nev­er come. The day’s prospects rest on uncon­trol­lable elements—fog may roll in, hors­es may be late, or hounds may strike a cold trail that nev­er warms. And yet, he waits, dri­ven not by log­ic but by loy­al­ty to the chase. Dis­ap­point­ment comes often, and yet it does not deter. He returns again and again, know­ing that the finest days can fol­low the bleak­est morn­ings. His per­sis­tence reveals a deep­er truth: to love the hunt is not to love ease but to val­ue resilience and the promise that some­thing unfor­get­table might emerge from frus­tra­tion.

Mod­ern hunt­ing is no longer the close-knit affair it once was, and the man who hunts and does like it feels this change. The inti­mate rur­al gath­er­ings have giv­en way to orga­nized, reg­u­lat­ed meets that often require trav­el, plan­ning, and finan­cial invest­ment. Unlike the past, when one might have rid­den out from their own farm, today’s hunts­man often must make long jour­neys and sig­nif­i­cant sac­ri­fices just to arrive at the field. Still, he does so will­ing­ly, choos­ing dis­com­fort and unpre­dictabil­i­ty over pre­dictabil­i­ty and ease. This devo­tion illus­trates how the hunt remains more than tradition—it becomes rit­u­al, almost sacred in its pow­er to con­nect man to land, ani­mal, and com­mu­ni­ty in a way few oth­er activ­i­ties do. Though the struc­ture may evolve, the emo­tion­al bond holds firm.

Cama­raderie plays a vital role, even as moments of soli­tude shape the hunt. Fel­low rid­ers may trade ban­ter or encour­age­ment, but there are also long stretch­es when the hunts­man rides alone, scan­ning the hori­zon, lis­ten­ing for the horn, trust­ing instinct more than map or mem­o­ry. These moments fos­ter reflec­tion, an inter­nal dia­logue where doubt min­gles with hope. He may ques­tion why he continues—especially on days when his horse tires ear­ly or the fox escapes with­out a prop­er run. And yet, despite the mis­steps, the missed turns, and the mud-soaked regrets, he remains com­mit­ted. The emo­tion­al val­ue of these expe­ri­ences out­weighs their incon­ve­nience, rein­forc­ing the hunter’s per­son­al mythol­o­gy: that mean­ing often hides behind dis­com­fort, and sat­is­fac­tion rarely comes with­out effort.

Even­tu­al­ly, after a long morn­ing of uncer­tain­ty, the fox breaks from the covert, and the hunt final­ly begins in earnest. For a few elec­tric min­utes, all ear­li­er frus­tra­tions are forgotten—the wind in his face, the rhyth­mic gal­lop, and the sud­den clar­i­ty of pur­suit erase the mem­o­ry of wait­ing and won­der­ing. But this ela­tion does not last for­ev­er. In the heat of the chase, he finds him­self alone, dis­tant from the hounds, unsure of where they’ve turned. The excite­ment is replaced by dis­ori­en­ta­tion, and he must decide: press on blind­ly, or retrace his steps with patience and humil­i­ty. It is a moment of sym­bol­ic tension—one that echoes the deep­er ques­tion every pas­sion­ate hunter must face: how much do you give for a sport that offers no guar­an­tees?

Though fox-hunt­ing may appear glam­orous or roman­tic from the out­side, the truth is more rugged and reflec­tive. The man who hunts and does like it is not chas­ing fame or thrill alone; he is chas­ing a sense of belong­ing, a con­nec­tion to a world where instincts still mat­ter and land­scapes still hold sto­ries. His dis­ap­point­ments are as hon­est as his joy. He may curse the cold or resent the missed run, but he also trea­sures the sun­rise glimpsed over frosty fields, the cama­raderie at the meet, and the qui­et thrill of out­pac­ing uncer­tain­ty. He hunts not because it is always reward­ing, but because he knows that the rare moments of ful­fill­ment are worth every tri­al that pre­cedes them.

Through this lens, the chap­ter offers more than a depic­tion of sport—it becomes a study in devo­tion, resilience, and the emo­tion­al com­plex­i­ty that under­pins all pas­sion­ate pur­suits. The man who hunts and does like it under­stands that joy often walks beside frus­tra­tion, and that mean­ing is not always found in suc­cess, but in the act of try­ing, again and again. He reminds us that to tru­ly love some­thing is to embrace it in all its imperfection—mud, wind, lost scent, and all. And in doing so, he embod­ies the time­less allure of hunt­ing: a pur­suit not of con­quest, but of under­stand­ing.