I may have told this story before.....but it's special to me.....

The little gun that roared!.....well maybe whispered is more like it.

I was born in New Haven, Connecticut.....well manufactured is more appropriate it seems... in 1917 and was sold to a guy in Mantorville, Minnesota. His name was Higbe and he was good to me as he took me hunting a few times and cleaned my barrel when ever he took me out. He liked my lever action styling and back then I was a favorite varminting caliber.....I am a M-92 in .25-20 and was highly sought after.

Then after a few years my owner sold me to another younger guy in the area who took me hunting jack rabbits almost every Sunday. There was a lot of hunters and we ruled the corn stubble in that little southern Minnesota country.

Others used the .30-40 Krag and the .250-3000, but I was always the one they all wanted. Maybe I was a bit smug about it, but it was my right I thought.

In 1932 my new owner took me deer hunting near Tofte, Minnesota where I killed three deer with three shots in three seconds.....this new guy and I got along well! He knew how to throw my lever and pull my trigger! One of the deer was a fine eight pointer that still hangs on the shop at his farm.

Then came my introduction to the concept of politics as the buzzards in St Paul said I wasn't worthy of deer hunting and outlawed me.....bastards anyway!

My new owner bought a Savage 99 in .303 to sit beside me in the gun cabinet (it didn't even look good) for deer hunting even after the great performance I gave them!

I still got to go fox hunting and squirrel hunting even though I was a bit rough on the squirrels. A few crows felt my mighty roar as well

But as time went by the lad grew up and had less and less time for me. I would sit for years at a time, before I got used. There were kids now as well. They couldn't afford ammo for me, and I just sat there waiting for my time.

Eventually the man grew old and passed on leaving me to his son who loved hunting. I got to go out a bit more, but he had a lot of guns and some of them were far past my abilities. I couldn't keep up to his .25-06 rifles and didn't get to go big game hunting for a very long time.....until the big day came.....

One day the Son picked me up and stuffed me into a Tuff Pack and that's when I knew my time to shine had come.....I couldn't believe it.....I was actually going to ride on an airplane and go to.....of all places.....Africa.

I hope no one noticed the tear in my eye as I got off the plane in Port Elizabeth. This was just too much to be true. I was going big game hunting again after almost 75 years, and I was very excited.

I was put on a Safari vehicle and everyone took very good care of me as many of them had never seen a "cowboy" gun let alone seen one on safari and everyone wanted to shoot me and had fun doing so.

Yes....I had to share the limelight with an old Remington 721 in .300 H&H but I knew those Kudu weren't for me anyway.....I was looking for the "tiny ten" and was just waiting for the time to again prove my worth.

It was the third day out when I felt the Son grab me and jump from the safari vehicle. We were off after a Duiker that had been spotted. It didn't take long about ten minutes and I felt my lever jack a round into the chamber and this was it....the time I was made for....the time of truth.....and I didn't disappoint at all.... The 60 grain bullet hit the duiker amidships, and the tracker....(yes....a real tracker) found the duiker a foot or two away. I was the star of the day. It's hard to smile while you have a tear in your eye, but I did it that day! I've done it may times in my memories too....only you guns out there like me can understand my story!

Here's a pic of my Duiker!


and my buddy the .300 H&H barked a few times too

This is from my book, "Sixty Years A Hunter," that Safari Press will publish someday soon. -- Bill Quimby

Six Ton Rattlesnakes

I learned to despise elephants. We saw them everywhere while I was at Westwood and every single day at least one of them would make a mock charge at us. There is no way I could remain calm when one of those huge beasts threw up its trunk, waved its gigantic ears and ran trumpeting at us. These were not the docile, easily trained Asian elephants everyone has seen at a circus or zoo. If an adult male African elephant’s head is four feet wide, and each ear is five feet wide, it means that when it charges, it is fourteen feet wide from the edge of one ear to the edge of the other ear! It stands ten to twelve feet high at the shoulder. There is nothing that walks on this earth that is larger or better equipped to kill a man.

Nobody had to tell me that if an elephant decided I was dead meat then there is nothing I could do to stop it other than killing it first. I couldn’t climb a tree. Elephants routinely knock down hundred-year-old trees while feeding. I couldn’t outrun an elephant, and I certainly couldn’t scare one away by bluffing it. The best way I can describe suddenly coming upon an elephant in the bush is to say it is like bumping into a six-ton rattlesnake. Their gray-colored skin reflects no sunlight at all. And, if they are feeding quietly, you often don’t know they are around until you see them just a few yards away. I know, you are thinking animals as large as an elephant can’t hide. In truth, they can be hard to see, even in a minimum of cover, and even for someone who has lived among them all his life.

A case in point occurred the first afternoon I was at Westwood. Fanie Pretorius had taken me out on a short drive to introduce me to his concession. He and I were talking when we drove past a lone tree near the edge of a pan. For some reason I looked back and caught a glimpse of something white that was moving at least seven or eight feet up in the tree. It took a second or two for my brain to register that I had spotted at an elephant’s tusk. I tapped Pretorius on the shoulder and pointed to the animal. When we stopped and watched it I could tell that he was contemplating whether to allow me to shoot it. After seeing many hundreds of elephants since then I now believe that bull’s tusks would weigh between fifty and sixty pounds, which meant it was a trophy under today’s standards.

It wasn’t until I was packing to return to Johannesburg that Pretorius told me he could have arranged for me to sell the elephant’s hide for slightly more than the trophy fee. I wish he had suggested it when we saw that big bull. Today, the cost of shooting a trophy elephant such as that one has skyrocketed, and it is my understanding that it no longer is legal to sell elephant ivory and hides, even inside Zimbabwe.

Once, while we were in our Land-Rover, Rob Martin, Cabbage and I found ourselves caught in the middle of a herd of elephants. A dozen or so were crossing in front of us, and another dozen or so were behind us when we stopped the vehicle on a two-track rut. Martin warned me to be quiet as I stood up on the seat to take pictures. We were in what he called a “dicey” situation because we couldn’t drive away if they should decide to come after us.

Suddenly, one of the cows behind us spotted the Land-Rover, threw up her ears, waved her trunk and, unprovoked, launched a screaming charge. For an agonizing moment or two, the Land-Rover’s starter motor dragged. It seemed as if the engine would never start. When it did, there was a gap in the herd on what was left of the road in front of us and Martin roared us through it. The charging cow stayed behind us for a couple hundred yards before returning to her companions. Martin laughed loudly about the experience for five minutes afterward. It had scared me silly. She was only playing, he said. I said he had my permission to tell the entire world that this outdoor writer from the United States of America was a coward when it came to elephants. I refused to play with anything capable of tossing his Land-Rover around like a soccer ball, or pulling down a tree and beating us to death with it.

At sundown that same day, Martin and I were afoot a few miles from that spot, returning to his Toyota, when five or six elephants that we couldn’t see began trumpeting all at once. It was an interesting experience but I didn’t like walking toward the sounds. Martin said he never had heard an entire herd trumpeting together continuously as these were doing. We stopped for a moment to listen to them. On a hill a hundred yards away we could see trees swaying as elephants leaned and pushed on them. Their continuous trumpeting was broken only by the sounds of falling trees. We never saw that herd that evening because, to my relief, we stayed away from where it was. However, the next day when we walked through the area where it had been, the forest looked like a battleground. (I know, that’s an over-used description, but it is apt.) Huge trees were down and stripped. Brush was piled up and the ground was torn up where things had been pulled up. Martin said there may have been fewer than a dozen elephants there during the night.

Later, I asked Pretorius where I should shoot an elephant if we were forced to shoot in self-defense. I expected him to describe exactly where an elephant’s brain is found, something like, “draw an imaginary line through the ear holes and tell yourself there’s a loaf of bread exactly in the middle of that line, and shoot it.” Instead he said:

“You shoot him in the elephant and keep shooting him in the elephant.”

It wasn’t until several years later that something I read made me realize he was not being facetious. Unlike a Cape buffalo's charge, an elephant charge reportedly can be turned by shooting it anywhere in the head. The shot does not need to be fatal to get an elephant to turn away, or so the author said.

Before I left Zimbabwe I promised myself that if I returned, I would shoot an elephant and sell its tusks and skin to take revenge for the rude way elephants treated me on my first trip to Africa. These were no gentle giants. The elephants at Westwood were aggressive monsters and it took only a few encounters before I found myself fearing them.

Despite my vow, although I returned to Africa many times and encountered many more elephants over the next two decades, I never hunted them.

quote:

Originally posted by Balla Balla:
Holy Smoke Saeed

That is some serious coinage you are offering. It might bring forward some guests retirement age if they win it.
Cheers, Peter

I just run this through a current exchange rate calculator.....and 100,000,000,000,000 Zim dollare is roughly equivalent to.....$0.085 USD or 8 1/2 cents!

I'm not known for writing really short stories - hunting or otherwise - but this is a really short one.
A few years ago, my brother was guiding a client here in the Save Valley. They had been walking all morning, and come midday ascended a small kopje, with the intention of doing some glassing. I don't know what they were looking for, but they were looking for something, probably with four legs.
Reaching the top of the kopje, my brother began glassing about, as one does, the client doing the same thing. Presently a sound was heard - something that went like pfffffffft...A couple of times this sound was heard, before the client turned to my brother and asked what it was. Absorbed with glassing and not really paying attention to the sound or anything other than glassing, Jonny answered, 'Impala rutting, over there somewhere.' He gestured vaguely to the valley below. Well, the sound persisted, every once in a while - pffffft, pffffft, and nobody took any notice...It was, after all, only impala rutting 'over there somewhere'. All was calm until my brother's tracker, Amos, pointed out that the pffffft sound was not actually coming from 'over there somewhere', but from right underneath Jon's substantial hunting boot. He also explained that it was not being emitted by impala rutting, but by a very large puffadder, the head of which my brother was standing on! My brother is a large man and the trackers and client remain amazed to this day at how fast and far he jumped!


How many times am I allowed to enter? I am already a multi trillionaire but could always do with some more loot.

Dave

Whilst the moderators slumber, let me take advantage and chuck in another entry....

So... My buddy had just recently qualified as a PH, no restrictions. This was about ten years ago now. My friend was very proud and so he should have been - it took him long enough to get there. Fresh off the proficiency exam with his PH number (fully licensed) in hand, he sallied forth to make a name for himself. This he achieved with aplomb, on his very first hunt as a fully qualified PH.

There they were, PH and client, along the banks of the Angwa river, in some thick stuff, stalking slowly along, looking for a good bushbuck. Presently the tracker hit the deck, as trackers do. The PH spots the buck through the entangled scrub, partially visible but a doable shot. Hasty trophy assessment, the sticks are up, the buck standing stockstill and staring at the hunters uncomprehendingly...The moment is then, but the hunter turns to his PH. 'It doesn't look very big,' he whispers.
The PH gives his client that indignant 'recently qualified and it took me years to get there, during which time I saw and hunted hundreds of bushbucks' stare. The client is still not convinced but capitulates when he receives the 'how many bushbuck have you seen' stare, and he subsequently shoots and fells the buck, which turns out to be a disappointing ten inch spikey.

Well, it should go without saying who paid for that sound trophy judgment. To this day, my buddy swears that brush, stick and horn had confused him. He says that at exactly the point where both bucks horns ended, two sticks which looked exactly like bushbuck horns were conveniently placed by the hand of God. Like bushbuck horn extensions. It must have been the hand of God indeed, for how those two sticks conveniently stopped growing exactly 5 inches above the bucks horn tips, we will never know.

Incidentally, that friend has gone on to be a most successful PH. One of his strongest points is hunting bushbuck.

So there we were, hunting leopard and other animals along the Nuanetsi River, some time in 1997. I was working for a well known operator and hunting with a well known PH and his client. I don't know if the client was well known, but am sure he was back home.
Eventually we got what appeared to be (and did turn out to be) a decent cat feeding. Into action we went with blind building, path clearing etc etc. Later that afternoon, I dropped off the hunters not too far from their walk in route, and returned the way we'd come, making sure I put suitable distance between the bait/blind zone and the vehicle. Then the trackers and I waited, and waited...
9 pm we heard a shot, and a few minutes later a squawk on the radio. In we drove, very confident - it had been a great set-up. Once we arrived at the scene, however, we were not so confident. And neither were the hunters who instructed me to drive the Cruiser to the blind, because it was suspected we had a wounded leopard in the long grass somewhere. Oh dear. Once the PH and client were on board (client in passenger seat beside me, PH in rear with trackers, mag-light and shotgun), I drove slowly up to the bait tree. On the tree bark, beside the bait, could quite clearly be seen a bullet strike mark, and a splash of fresh blood, but no leopard. Oh dear. At that point I noticed that the client has wound his window down and was leaning out, looking around. I told him he probably shouldn't do that, and that he should wind his window up. 'Do you think it could get in the cab?' asked he. 'Yes I do,' said I. Quickly he wound his window up.
'Dave,' said the PH from the rear.
'Yes.'
'Open your door and ease your way out. I'll pass you my shotgun and whilst I shine about, you can have a quick scout about.' He was not asking but this was one order I was somehow reluctant to follow. Anyhow, young, dumb and full of misguided bravado, out of the cab I eased myself, grasping the shotgun close. The boss then proceeded to shine about and I made painfully slow progress away from the vehicle, through the long grass. I had gone but a few meters when there was a rustle in the grass, about ten yards away, in a black spot. The PH whipped his beam in the direction of the sound, and all I saw was what I though was the rear end of a leopard, disappearing. It did indeed transpire to be the wounded cat's rear end that I saw, but that would only be deduced the following morning. To this day, I don't know why that cat didn't spring on me. Maybe its wound was too severe, although I doubt that. Maybe the darkness, torch beams, talking...Although I doubt those factors too - the disturbance, added to its wound, should have incited the cat to attack with absolute fury, one would have thought. We are talking about a wounded leopard after all. Fortunately, at that point, the boss called time and I was allowed to return to the vehicle. Phew!
'It's too dangerous,' said the boss, 'we'll have to return in the morning.' Too dangerous - could have fooled me!
So, I spend that night lying on my bed in the tent I share with the boss and another PH, listening to wounded leopard horror stories. The next morning we were at the site shortly after dawn. There were a shortage of shotguns and I was handed a .458, which didn't fill me with confidence. I am much more comfortable with a shotgun on leopard follow-ups, though I know many are not. In that instance, however, all 4 shooters preferred a shotgun, and since I was fourth in line and there were only 3 shotguns....458 it was. Not that it mattered, the way things turned out.
We arranged ourselves in a kind of skirmish line, like when bird shooting, only very close together, mere yards apart. And then we converged on the zone where I thought I had seen the leopard the previous night. There we found blood. A tracker took up the trail and we crept along slowly, two guns flanking the tracker on either side...
We progressed about 50 meters in this fashion, and then boom, boom, boom, boom, boom....
shotguns voicing. I didn't even shoot as I was farthest from the leopard at that stage, on the extreme right flank. But everyone else let rip. Amazingly, the leopard was once again trying to break for it, not come. Poor bloody creature. Anyhow, the leopard disappeared over the Nuanetsi river bank, into some really thick scrub below. The bank was pretty close to sheer in that place, and probably about ten meters high. Nobody was overly keen to lean over the bank and take a peek, with good reason. All the hunters believed their shots had been true, but still, being a wounded leopard and all...
'Dave...' As with the previous night, the boss intoned gravely and my heart sank. 'Head upstream about twenty meters or so. There's a path there. Sneak down into the riverbed and then take a look from below and see if you can spot spots.' He didn't actually say 'spot spots' but I wanted to write that. It was something to that effect anyhow, just not as entertaining. Off I went with my low spirits, and, thankfully, a shotgun this time. I knew the precise point where the leopard had disappeared in relation to the riverbed below, and soon I was in line with that point. And then I cautiously crawled into the scrub on my hand and knees, the other hand clasping the shotgun tightly. With the shotgun barrel leading the way, I made tediously slow progress up the bank. It was not easy going, and soon I was sweating freely. Although, there was not too much exertion involved and it was cold....Hmmm, don't know where all that sweat came from actually! After what seemed a terribly long time, I saw the cat - clearly stone dead, a few meters above me.
'Okay guys,' I called, 'I see it and it is dead.'
'Are you sure?'
Yes, I'm sure, I threw a rock at it.'
A couple of faces appeared above, squinting into the scrub, trying to discern the leopard's and possibly my form. And then the most almighty explosion as one of squinters from above discharged his shotgun into the leopard's skull at almost point blank range, totally destroying the trophy and almost destroying Dave. Silence and then screaming fury, and it wasn't me that did the screaming. I was too busy trembling.

Just in case none of the amaturish anecdotes above win first prize, here is a professional submission. Siabuwa, 1992, from my book 'The Shangaan Song'.

A TALE OF TWO LEOPARDS


I spend the next few years working in the Zambezi Valley. This valley is a spectacular expanse of ruggedly imposing bush country, bounded by two impressive escarpments and bisected by the mighty Zambezi River itself. The
Zambezi Valley is the valley of the buffalo, and of the tsetse fly, and of jesse
bush, and much, much more. The Zambezi Valley is, I am to discover, untouched
Africa incarnate. Although I am initially reluctant to leave the Lowveld, I soon realize that this awesome valley has much to offer the adventurous soul, and I thoroughly enjoy my time in that place.

Few men of the bush are as competent as Mulavu, and none that I have ever come across. And that’s saying something for I have come across many competent men of the bush. Mulavu means lion in the Tonga language and it is a most fitting name for the man in question. Mulavu knows the bush intimately, as does his namesake.

I am a mischievous youth at times, constantly craving and looking for stimulation that is not always there, that can never always be there. Most of the time, my efforts at entertaining myself are propelled by an impetuous frame of mind, the plan seldom suitably thought out. Sometimes my efforts backfire horribly, as they did late one night deep in the heart of the Zambezi Escarpment, at a fascinating and totally isolated place known as Mchesu.
This mountainous area is named for the Mchesu River, which jinxes and drops away through it,
constantly dodging the terrain’s formidable defenders and working its way doggedly toward conclusion, somewhere far in the valley below. It is on the banks of this appealing little mountain river that my boss and I have decided to build a fly camp, primarily for elephant and lion hunting purposes. I arrive at the Mchesu River one day with very little in the way of anything – a Land Cruiser and a few guys, axes and shovels, essential camping gear, food supplies and nothing much else. Whilst trying to find the agreed upon place, I pass through an isolated mission station known as Kariangwe, and manage to employ a couple of local lads there. The word subsequently gets out, and soon I have a gang of about fifteen guys building the camp. It is at these guys that mischief
is directed late one night, deep in the heart of the Zambezi Escarpment.
My boss is a kindly soul and he understands the loneliness of bush life, he too spends much time away from civilization. Don’t get me wrong, it is a fine way to live, but it can be lonely at times. Because of the loneliness factor the boss has installed a state of the art stereo system in my Land Cruiser, a link to
civilization should I ever feel the need for it. I have a dozen or so cassettes and, at times, while away the evenings listening to music. I believe that music has much to offer this world, and I have always derived a great deal of comfort from music sessions. Anyway, amongst my collection of cassettes is a collection of African animal calls, given to me by the kindly boss. The combination of this cassette and my prankster nature is the cause for mischief late that night, on the banks of the Mchesu River. Or maybe I should say the attempted mischief, for the backfire is loud.

I have been listening to soft music for some time and am beginning to get drowsy, thinking about bed, when the idea kicks in. It suddenly dawns on me that none of the guys have yet heard the animal call cassette, and that this is a perfect opportunity to entertain myself a little. The guys are camped a couple of hundred metres away and I know that they will all be sound asleep by now.
And so I rummage about in the cubbyhole for the animal call tape and insert it in the deck, turning the volume down low and locating the minute long lion recording. Then I twist the volume control to maximum, and the roaring and
grunting of alien lions shatters the silent night. There are many lions here in the escarpment, and I confidently assume that the high quality recording will be accepted as nothing other than the real thing. I play snatches of the lion recording on and off for a few minutes, before satisfying myself that the desired effect will have been achieved. Then I walk over to my tent a few metres away, retrieve a feeble torch and my .223 rifle, and head up to where the guys are camped, not far off.

Naturally, the silence is absolute at the workers’ camp. I chuckle quietly to myself, thinking what a great prank it is turning out to be. Then I call out into the night.
“Varume, pane shumba pa chikowa.” “Men, there are lions down at the river. Come and help me, I wish to scare them off.”
I chuckle again, having great fun. It is well known about camp that I have next to no big game hunting experience, and now that fact must be absolutely compounded. I mean, whoever heard of scaring lions off? It is also well known
that I have only a light calibre weapon in camp, good for impala and nothing much else. The guys, whom I know are wide awake, must think I am either drunk or have gone totally insane.
“Varume,” I persist, “wuya mu batsira.” “Men, come and help.”
Silence prevails.
A couple of minutes of unanswered false pleading ensues, as I sink the hook as deeply as possible, before deciding to let the guys in on the joke. Although, I never actually get a chance to share the joke, for at that moment I am turned conclusively into the joke. I hear a hut door scraping open and a stocky, barechested
figure approaches, materializing from the gloom. A soft spoken but strong voice speaks.
“You wish to scare away the lions? I shall come with you, let us go.”
The man moves off, watched in the feeble torchlight by a thoroughly deflated and disbelieving prankster.
“Wait,” I say, and the stocky man turns to face me questioningly.
“Let us go and scare the lions,” he says, hovering.
I hope that my discomfort is not detected but sense that it is, as I haltingly
stammer out an excuse.
“They have been silent a while now, maybe they have moved off?”
“It may be so. Still, do you wish us to go and check?”
“It could be pointless,” I stammer, back-peddling furiously. “It seems they
have moved on.”
“Yes. Then let us sleep, there is much work to do tomorrow.”
With that the stocky man walks back to his hut and the door scrapes shut.
Alone in the night I feel humbled.

The next day, whilst lashing together the skeleton that shall soon be the dining room with the guys, I get to know something of the stocky man. His name is Mulavu and he has lived in this area forever, as his father did before
him. And he is a hunter, as was his father. Mulavu explains that, though he believes himself to be a hunter, unlike his father he is considered by the law to be a poacher. He says he does not wish to break the law and has had to think up alternative means of making a living now. Anyway says Mulavu resignedly,
whilst we work a heavy mopani corner pole into position, such is the way of the world, the disappointment that is commonly referred to as changing times and progression. That a man may not hunt to sustain his family in his own
homeland, but commercial poaching may continue unabated and on an unprecedented scale – abetted, in all probability, by the very powers that publicly denounce it. Mulavu’s bottom line opinion is that we are not progressing but are stuck firmly in reverse, and I take to the man wholeheartedly. Later in the day, whilst walking down to the river together, I bring up the lions, saying how brave I found his reaction of the previous night to be. Mulavu chuckles and gives me a wink.
“Last night was very strange,” he says, “very strange indeed. At first I was uncertain, but not for long. I have lived in this area my entire life and I have heard and seen many, many lions, but never have I heard lions such as those. Those lions were on a kill during the day and not drinking down at the river by
night. It was all very strange indeed. The lions intimidated most of the men, but not I. How is it possible, after all, to fear something that is not? And those lions certainly never were, for I have never come across lions that do not leave their prints on the ground.”
Smiling wryly to myself, I follow Mulavu down to the river.

A truck arrives one day from our main camp Sengwa. Sengwa is a camp we built a few months before, about eighty kilometres away, down in the valley proper, on Lake Kariba’s shoreline. The truck is carrying a couple of buffalo
carcasses and instructions from my boss to do some lion baiting and assess cats on the ground, in preparation for a big incoming safari. Mulavu and I set about the task with gusto and we soon have four baits spread about the vicinity, strung up in likely looking spots. We check these baits on a daily basis,
anticipating a prompt hit. Although the lions keep a low profile, we soon have several leopards feeding. One day, we find that a pair of leopards is feeding from one of the half-buffalo hunks, in an ebony tree not far from the Mchesu River, downstream from camp. Obviously the leopards in question are male
and female, and Mulavu says that they are mating, that it is the right time of the year for that activity. We continue monitoring cats on the ground in the fascinating Mchesu area.

The two leopards return to the bait every night, and soon even the considerable half-buffalo is beginning to show the effects of their nightly feasts. When they get the opportunity, leopards, particularly males, are able to eat a disproportionately great deal of meat in a sitting. It is winter and the weather is cool enough now to keep meat for some time. Well, for longer than usual anyway – usual being hot conditions and a couple of days at most. At this time, we can easily get a week's mileage from bait. One night, a lone male lion that transpires to be moving through the area depletes the bait further, and Mulavu and I become somewhat elated about our ability as lion baiters. The leopards obviously stay away that night, but the lion doesn’t return and they are back on bait the following night. In any case, it turns out not to matter that we fail to get lions feeding, because the client cancels his safari a few days later, due to
illness. Mulavu and I consequently do the bait run, dropping all the ripening lion baits for the scavengers. All but the bait in the ebony tree, the two leopards are still feeding and we are both thoroughly enjoying that.

Of course, the leopard larder is also ripening, and we realize that we will have to replenish it soon or they will stop feeding. I am allowed to occasionally shoot a couple of impala for workers’ rations, and Mulavu and I decide that, in the interests of furthering our knowledge of leopard behaviour, it would be permissible to
sideline some of this ration. Not that we are going to explain ourselves to anyone anyway. No one shall ever know what we get up to in these mountains. We could have a huge poaching racket going on up here if we felt the need – the need that others do feel. Anyway, Mulavu and I go out one day and shoot an impala ram, which we replace the bones and maggot infested, rotting flesh of the buffalo with, stringing it up high in the ebony tree. The leopards are most pleased with the advent of the impala and, though they must already have seriously sagging bellies, gorge enthusiastically on the fresh offering.

Early one morning, Mulavu and I surprise the leopards on the bait. I am driving a petrol-propelled Land Cruiser and it has a fairly quiet approach. Not that the leopards are too concerned anyway. Mulavu sees the female first,
flattened out on a tree limb, close to the dangling impala carcasse. He gestures and I brake reflexively. As the female descends the tree in a flash, the male appears not forty yards ahead, padding heavy-bellied across the track and giving us an angry glare. The grass is sparse here and, after rolling forward a few
more metres, we are treated to a spectacular sighting of the leopards trotting off toward the trees, in no real hurry it seems. The male disappears into cover but the female stops once in the open ground. Curiously she turns back, staring at us for long seconds. Then she too disappears, obviously satisfying curiosity.

Leopards are seldom seen in the bush and the sighting excites Mulavu and I tremendously. And it was such a grand sighting, not the normal bush-obscured, fleeting glimpse. Mulavu says that these leopards encounter very little
disturbance up here in the mountains, and do not readily fear man yet. We follow the leopard tracks into the trees and a short distance further, just for doing it. And then we amble happily back towards the vehicle – ambling happily along and chatting about leopards.
“Let us wait for these leopards tonight,” says Mulavu, “and watch them feed.”
Of course, there is no question and we start planning. Shortly afterwards, we complete piecing together a rudimentary blind from sticks, leaves and grass. We situate the blind about sixty yards away from the bait, in a small clump of bush across the track, downwind and well camouflaged. As we drive back to
camp, Mulavu and I eagerly anticipate the forthcoming evening.

At about 4 pm we leave the Cruiser a fair distance from the bait and walk into our blind. Soon we are firmly ensconced and well concealed within the clump of bush, seated side by side, breathlessly expectant. A short time passes and then we hear the male leopard grunting close at hand, from somewhere downstream. Not fifteen minutes later he is in the tree, appearing on the dinner supporting limb in illusionary fashion, as only leopards can. Without delay,
the large tom hooks honed claws into the impala carcasse, effortlessly lifting the meat up onto the limb and displaying his remarkable strength. Tom does not waste any time getting stuck in, obviously not going with the ‘ladies first’ theory. And then the lady is also there, sitting at the base of the tree, occasionally
inspecting her nails and looking about the place. The leopards are wholly unperturbed and I know that our blind is serving its purpose well. We watch the leopards feeding for about one mesmerizing hour, until the sun sets and
darkness descends. And then we listen to them feeding, for several hours more. It is late when Mulavu touches my thigh and leads the way cautiously from the blind, into the bush away from the leopards, leaving them completely
undisturbed, as we had wished to.

We return a number of times to the blind and watch the leopards feeding. They soon work their way through one impala and we string up another, and then another. It is a most inspiring feeling to watch these remarkable cats feeding in this remote wilderness area, with Mulavu sitting by my side. This is as wild
as it gets, I think to myself. Mulavu and I observe much intriguing leopard behaviour from our concealed observatory within that clump of bush, including an evening when mating takes precedence over feeding. Most intriguing
behaviour indeed, especially for a virgin like me. We keep the leopards feeding for weeks on end and spend much time watching them from our blind. By now there is a well-worn and most familiar path leading from the blind into the
bush. Excursions to view the leopards become a very important part of our routine, an activity that we keenly look forward to. Mulavu even christens the two splendid cats, with very suitable names. They are Induna (Chief) and
Musikana (Girl). As the weeks pass, Mulavu and I become very attached to the Chief and his girl.

We arrive early one morning to see how much the leopards have fed during the night, and to assess the condition of the bait. We did not sit the previous evening, being totally exhausted by a hard day’s work and turning in very early as a result. Leaving the Cruiser a distance down the road, we walk into the bait.
Looking up at the dangling remnants of what was once an impala ram, Mulavu says that the leopards have not fed. We find this to be odd, for they have not skipped a night yet. Even when apparently not hungry, they have always come in and taken a few mouthfuls, making an appearance and guarding their larder from other cats, one assumes. Mulavu suggests that we scout around a little and look for spoor. He says the leopards may have come in and not fed, that he finds their absence to be strange. For what self-respecting Zambezi Valley leopard would turn its nose up at a guaranteed and undisturbed feed? Obviously none that Mulavu has ever come across.

We cross the open ground together, walking slowly along and scouring the ground for fresh tracks. Just before the trees, Mulavu discovers what he assures me are the tom’s tracks, from the night before. Mulavu is a master tracker and
if he says so then it must be. Mulavu leads the way off, following the spoor and muttering about how unusual it all is – that the tom had definitely come in during the night but had not approached even close to the bait. Mulavu follows the spoor into the tree-line, with me following behind and wondering. Shortly afterwards we find Musikana, the girl.

She is lying on her side in the grass, dead and stiffening. The wire snare around her hips has dug in deep and, aided by her own threshing claws, disemboweled her completely. Shocked to the core, I kneel down and stroke her soft velvety coat. After a few minutes of disbelief, we scout about some more and discover a path worn into the earth around the death scene. A path imprinted plainly into the earth by a helpless and confused Chief, throughout the long night, on a repetitive circuit of pain and frustration. With a heavy heart and a massive lump in my throat, I carry the stiffening body of the beautiful girl to the roadside.

It is possible that the Chief only moved off when Mulavu and I arrived at the bait early that morning. Certainly he spent many hours with his girl that night, as she died and afterwards. Later in the day I returned to the place with a small gang of guys and we lifted many snares that were obviously meant for

antelope. Although we may have saved some, it was too late for at least one beautiful girl.

as a kid of 13, i had a montgomery ward .243.... i'd learned to reload from a neighbor.... a friend of my dad's took me hunting 1 morning.... west texas deer hunt.... i hardly slept the night before, got up at 4 am... i was hauled ofer to the friends house... he checked license and off we went... west texas hunting at this time was driving around in a pickup, and then getting out to shoot... les turner put me on several deer, and buck fever took over.... missed about 18 shots and then discovered that the scope was loose.... found this out when i missed a broadside shot at about 20 yds....never did get a deer, but enjoyed it anyway....

My brother Joe and I were hunting in Zimbabwe a few years ago with HHK Safaris. We were in the Chirisa Safari area and everything was going well during the hunt. We were traveling up a rather large draw and there was a steep rock bluff and hillside. There were 7 waterbucks standing along the bluff. They were spread out and the one on the extreme left was a "world class" bull. Joe got out of the truck and set up on the sticks with Brent Hein our PH. Myself and Brent were looking at the large bull and Brent was talking to Joe on which one to shoot. Joe's rifle discharges and not one of the waterbucks moves. Brent and I did not see any dirt fly so we thought Joe was shooting over the waterbuck. Joe empties his rifle and reloads. For whatever the reason the waterbuck do not move. The next shot we hear the whop of the bullet hitting a waterbuck, but it was not the huge bull. The Bull that was shot was wounded, so we went up after him. Both Brent and I were speechless. We did not say anything to Joe, we just went after the bull that was wounded. We knew that it was a smallish bull. We got up on the wounded bull and Joe finished him off. Still nothing said. We get to the bull and he was really small. Out came the camera for a photo. and Joe says "what in the hell is going on, have I got an inferior animal or what"? I asked why he asked the question, me thinking that he knew and we did not want to rub it in. Joe replied, "something is not right as sometimes silence says more than a speech. Brent replied, nothing really wrong, you just shot the wrong waterbuck. With that we could not hold it in any longer and we broke out laughing. Most of the reason was that Joe decided that regular size binoculars were just too heavy to carry around, so he bought some really small pocket binoculars with objective lenses about the size of a pencil. The field of view he had showed him only one waterbuck and he did not see the other six. On our next hunt, Joe's binoculars were rather large ones with a good field of view.

This hunting tale is not my own. It belongs to a second cousin living west of San Antonio,Texas. My cousin has proclaimed the 25-06 to be the most perfect rifle for any situation you could come across in Texas including BIG pigs. The story goes that he shot a hog straight on right in the middle of the head and it dropped like a rock. He went over to the pig decided it was too big to handle himself and thought at the very least he should slit its throat to allow any blood that might to come out(personally I have never been successful at bleeding a dead hog). He went to get some help and when he returned He said," Where the hell is my goddamn pig!" They saw it rise up under some scrub brush about 50 yds away. Two quick shots with 220gr 30-06 made sure it was dead this time.

Apparantly my cousin's shot merely grazed the skull and rendered the pig unconscious. He rants about it to this day about wishing he would have had a bigger knife. The pocket knife he used was less than 2 inches long.

My cousin still hunts pigs with 25-06 but will never again shoot one straight on in the middle of the head.

THIS ACTUALLY SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING WALTER WOULD HAVE DONE!!!

I heard this tale the first time back in 1996. I joined AR in 2007. Maybe one day we can arrange for Walter to meet my cousin and they can see who can tell better stories.

Andy B

Sort of a hunting story.
In the early 70's I read an article that said big game outfitters sometimes had problems finding reliable help. I made up a resume listing my quailfications of being pretty handy with horses and equipment and sent it off to several outfitters in Colorado. I landed a job as a wrangler with an outfit that hunted the Flattops pimitive area of the White River Natl Forest.
I had been riding a nice little gelding that I had picked out of the herd of horses called Sonny who reined nice and was pretty handy. One day I had to pack one of the guides and his clients to a spike camp. We saddled up before daylight and headed out with the pack train and the clients. As we rode along, Sonny kept stopping and I had to keep kicking him constantly to keep him going. It got to the point where my legs were starting to get sore and I was wondering what the heck had happened to my horse. Finally as it began to get light I found out what the problem was. In the dark I had saddled Molly, one of the pack horses who had similar markings and coloring to Sonny. When we finally got to where we were setting up the camp I could hardly walk because my legs were so sore from giving Molly all of that encouragement. I rode a different horse on the way back.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Will those of you who have posted a story, and have not sent me a PM with your address, please do so now.

Thank you for participating.