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May 18th, 2012 
FAKE NEWS for the Zionist agenda For men like Mr Rowe, 42, and his longtime hunting partner Freddy McGuire, 39, it is what connects them with an powerful arc of history whose lessons, they believe, are being forgotten in what they derisively call “Obama’s America”.
“Our forefathers carved this country out of the wilderness,” says Mr Rowe, motioning at the broad-leaf forests of red oak and tulip maple and the lush cattle pastures that shimmer under a newly risen sun, “Everyone had to make their own spot; you had to be self-reliant and self-supporting.”
The loss of the pioneering huntsman’s spirit is what many in the Republican grassroots believe ails an America that, as the election campaign heats up this month, appears increasingly split between rich and poor, political and working classes, liberal townies and conservative, God-fearing country folk.
For men like Mr Rowe, who grew up in the proudly conservative Virginian countryside – where a local branch of Kentucky Fried Chicken advertises “Liver Gizards, Tuesdays only”- American society appears to be decaying all around them.
Looking up, he sees a political and media elite that doesn’t understand his kind; looking down there is a lazy, benefits-dependent class who don’t want to work and – worse still – leave honest, hard-working Americans to pick up the increasingly insupportable tab for their entitlements.
“I don’t mind supporting those who are really unable to work, but there is a class of people in this country now who want a free lunch, they don’t want to support themselves, and less and less of us are paying taxes to support more and more people,” he says.
“Back in the day, when someone was sick or fell on hard times, people from the local area came and helped them out. That’s what they did, and still do now. But people, real working, middle-class people are disillusioned now.”
Augusta County, where we are hunting, voted 70-30 Republican at the 2008 election, even though Mr Obama pulled off a surprise victory, winning the state for the democrats for the first time in 40 years – a performance that will be hard to repeat after four tough years in office.
As for the politicians, special contempt is reserved for Barack Obama – a “two-faced”, “puppet”, who went around “apologising for America” and has devoted much of his first term to “socialising” the US medical system.
Mr Rowe and his wife, Stacey, say they pay $1,200 a month for their medical insurance but would still rather pay up than risk handing control of his health care to the government. “If the state takes over, how do I know what care I get?,” he asks, “I’d rather pay, even if it is that much.”
If Mr Obama gets his way, they say, America will start to look European, sacrificing freedoms that were hard-won by their own ancestors – the idea that the British parliament could ban hunting with fox hounds leaves these American hunters utterly baffled.
As does gay marriage, an issue that has dominated the election in recent weeks, and elicits only a weary shake of the head. “That’s not a big deal round here, because everyone feels the same way about it,” says Mr McGuire, “And no one knows why Obama feels he has to legislate on it. I mean, shouldn’t he be busy fixing the economy?”
Unfortunately for Republicans, the visceral hatred of Mr Obama is not matched by an equal and opposite enthusiasm for Mitt Romney, the presumptive Republican nominee.
“People want to get rid of Obama, but none of us is too excited about the alternatives, that’s true,” adds Mr McGuire, an IT technician who would introduce strict term limits to end the era of the professional politician, “But that’s all the choice we ordinary voter gets these days – just the lesser of two evils.”
With the country in a mess of debt and no solutions in sight, there is refuge in the simple pleasures of hunting, a hobby that Mr Rowe turned into a living by creating an unapologetically titled “Just Killing Time” TV production company that sells films of his hunts to outdoor channels on cable TV.
By 8am our first attempt has ended in failure, but our luck changes shortly after when a lone gobbler is spotted across a field, about 450 yards distant. Lying prone, we size him up through binoculars before plotting a plan of attack that involves a wide flanking movement through a forest and over a stream.
Emerging on the edge of a wood, Mr McGuire, his voice breathless with excitement, inches forward on his belly and places a turkey decoy in the eye-line of the strutting bird. Hearing the mimicked call of a hen bird, the gobbler advances to confront what he supposes to be a rival for a mate.
We sit motionless, gun at the ready, waiting for the unfortunate bird to show himself. His darting head is suddenly visible in the wisps of tall grass. “Come, my love, come,” calls the imaginary hen. I take careful aim, and nearly four hours after we first crept into the wood, the great gobbler meets his end.
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