Hunting is a sport where the unusual happens.

We were having lunch with friends when I was asked about strange things happening on our hunts.

One incident jumped to mind.

A perfect example of someone who should have taken up golf rather than go on a hunting trip.

We were hunting in Chete, Zimbabwe.

When a couple passed our camp on their way to another camp.

They were from Germany.

A man and an older woman.

I cannot remember what relationship they were.

As usually happens, we talked about hunting and guns with them.

He had a custom stocked Ruger 77 in 416 Rigby.

The rifle had a thumb hole stock.

Extremely heavy, probably close to 15 pounds.

He wanted to shoot a lion.

That is it.

He refused to shoot a buffalo cow for bait.

But agreed to shoot a kudu cow for bait!!?

He had one box of ammo.

Apparently he never fired his rifle, as it was “shot and tested by my gunsmith”

At the range, he found it hard to even hit the target box!

I think his PH sighted it for him, after he had fired several shots.

Off they went looking for a kudu cow.

They found a herd, his PH picks an old cow and tells him to shoot it.

He fires, and the cow runs off with the herd.

But, a young bull standing several feet away drops dead!

Must have been an all mighty flinch!

Anyway, a big argument followed, as the price of the bull was more than a cow.

They did put the kudu for lion bait.

But thankfully no lion came to feed!

He wanted to book another hunt the following year.

He was informed that they had no openings for several years!

We were hunting elephant and buffalo in the Caprivi strip when another hunter came through our camp.

He and his PH planned to spend the night with us prior to leaving the next day for another camp farther down the strip.

He was an American dentist from California who was hunting buffalo.

We were sitting around the campfire and started talking about guns and what he would be using.

He told me he had a new Dakota rifle in caliber .450 Dakota, but he thought something was wrong with it. He said it seemed “loose.”

He asked me if I would take a look at it.

He brought it out and handed it to me. As I opened the bolt, the action seemed to shift.

I looked at the tang and there was about a three quarter inch crack behind it in the top of the pistol grip.

Plus, the wood in the area just behind the tang was actually splintered!

I pointed this out to him and he seemed surprised. He said the rifle was brand new.

My PH got his tool kit from his tent and luckily had a screwdriver with a bit that would fit the rifle’s action screws.

The front screw was barely tight, but the back screw, the one that screwed into the tang, was even less so.

I told the hunter we should tighten the screws, but that ultimately he would need to get the stock repaired.

I also told him I was afraid the crack would get worse, even with the tightened action screws.

He was not happy about this.

I tightened the action screws as well as I could, and he went on his way the next day.

I never heard anything further about his rifle or his hunt, except that he did kill a buffalo.

On that safari, I did not!

I would not shoot that gun again. I had a 450 Dakota. Anything that takes 112 grains of powder behind a 500 grain bullet could turn that stock into kindling! It has some recoil!

I had a game scout murdered in front of us on a hunt. He had confiscated a net from a poacher. The poacher demanded it back, scout said “No” so he stuck a filet knife under his rib cage in retaliation.

I won’t reveal the country or area because I wouldn’t want that operator to suffer because of a one time incident with a single crazy person.

My late friend Walter liked to shoot pigs.

We were in Zimbabwe, an at that time whatever is on quota can be shot by anyone with a hunting license.

No limit to the number of animals.

Sadly, whenever we found shootable warthogs, Walter was not with us.

So I ended up shooting a few.

It was end of season, we were finishing the quota.

One after Walter was with us, and we saw a warthog.

Out if the truck with Roy, and we all went after the warthog.

We course it close to where we stopped, and Walter cannot walk very far.

He had his rifle, a Blaser in 7x64.

He decided to let me go after the pig, and was going to go back to the truck.

We tried following the warthog, it it was not easy.

A few minutes later, we heard a shot.

Back to where we left Walter.

There he was standing with one foot on the warthog!

With a big smile on his face.

Apparently we scared the pig, which went back to Walter.

Walter: Hey Roy! I don’t need you to guide me to hunt. I can do it by myself! Useless hunters like Saeed need your help!

Roy: Good Walter. As you seem to be self efficient, get that pig on your shoulders and walk back to camp!

Roy started walking to the truck, leaving Walter behind!

Walter, shouting : Wait! Wait! I was only kidding! Both you and Saeed are my friends! You more than him!

quote:

Originally posted by Wendell Reich:
I had a game scout murdered in front of us on a hunt. He had confiscated a net from a poacher. The poacher demanded it back, scout said “No” so he stuck a filet knife under his rib cage in retaliation.

I won’t reveal the country or area because I wouldn’t want that operator to suffer because of a one time incident with a single crazy person.

HOLY CRAP!

Guys,

I can't top the murder story but I did have what I'd call an interesting start to my safari hunting on my first safari in '94. I've told this story before but it's been years and I don't expect that most member will remember it.

August '94 Sadie and I arrived in camp in the Zambezi valley to start a 14 day buffalo/PG hunt. Upon our arrival we were told our PH was finishing up with his current clients and would be arriving in camp shortly. We got unpacked and were relaxing with a beer around the campfire when the PH and the current clients arrived in camp. The clients had a fantastic safari with some great trophies and everyone was in a great mood. The PH called for beers all around and the party started. We went to bed about 10 PM and about 3 AM I heard a radio playing loudly. Then all was quiet until we were awakened for our first ever safari day. The PH didn't show up for breakfast and the day got worse from that point onward with the PH showing up at 10 AM wanting to go hunting as he blew booze in my face! We had a few words and he may still have a bruise from my finger as I poked him in the chest.

After some negotiation we conceded to let him try to continue the safari. I'm glad we did that as he stayed sober thru our safari and turned out to be very good at his job.

Fast forward to the next morning the PH was waiting for us ready to go and just a litte way out of camp a elephant bull popped up on the road. He iwas flapping his ears and false charging the open vehicle. My first thought was we probably should get the f!@# out of here but the PH wanted me with my binoculars to look at the bulls forehead for wounds. He expected that poachers had tried to unsuccessfully kill him. Sure enough he had two festering open wounds just above the tusk line. At this time the bull ran off into the bush. I was relieved to say the least and was thinking that this was a Hell of a way to start a safari.

My relief was short lived when the PH said we needed to put the bull down. His job in the Campfire Area required him to do animal control. Ok! I was game to seeing him shoot the bull. We found the bull in a few hundred yards from the road with his head hidden behind the leaves of a tree. The PH pulled me to the left and said "This is your elephant". When he said that a state of calm came over me, I asked where to aim and I put a 500 gr solid at the top of the V behind the shoulder. The PH followed up with a shot as the bull turned to run and we heard him crash to the ground shortly there after. I was left feeling WTF just happened??????????

There have been alot of hunts and safaris since that first safari but I think this one always sticks out most in my memory.

Cheers,

Mark



Next

Couple of sort of humorous stories, though neither were in Africa.

We hunted elk for years in Colorado, Rio Grande National Forest south of Del Norte. We found an accessible road that went deep into the mountains (since closed by USFS due to dumbasses tying to drive 4x4’s up the sides of mountains). Very nice camp site, there were 4 of us that hunted there for several years, had to hunt on foot, really steep climb out of our camp site. Two friends, also from flat land Texas brought two horses one year. We thought this is great! The horses can pack any elk we were lucky enough to shoot! Opening morning, the horsemen pushed their steeds to the top of the ridge above camp, passing my buddy and me who were huffing and puffing up to the top. When they reached the top, both horses went nuts, bucking both riders off and running away, took them 3 days to recover their horses. Guess the horses didn’t like the mountains.

Second story…I, along with three friends had a deer lease near Goldthwaite, Tx years ago. We had a small raggedy-assed travel trailer where we stayed. Everyone brought their own supplies, including food. One guy seldom brought food and would eat anything left in a cooler or refrigerator. I hated that and brought it up several times, didn’t help. So, my youngest son went with me one weekend and he put a handful of jerky dog treats in a baggie and left them in our cooler. We went hunting the next morning and when we returned, the “jerky” was gone and so was the guy that ate it, seems he went home with an upset stomach! Too bad, never told him though he might read it here!

How it all started for me.

Late 70’s.

Some of my younger friends here might find this story falling in the “unbelievable” sorts of stories.

But I assure you everything is true.

Of times, sadly, gone bye!

A lady from the previous Yugoslavia was working for me.

She and her husband used to come shooting with us.

The husband gave me the book DEATH IN THE LONG GRASS by Peter Capstick.

I read and enjoyed it.

I was in Seattle, Washington, as a guest of Boeing, before going to Houston, Texas, for my commercial pilot training.

I had a 2 month break before that started.

Looking at a hunting magazine, saw an advertisement for Klinenbergers, who were in Seattle, advertising African hunts.

Well, I thought I had two months to kill, so why not go buffalo hunting!

Went to Klinebergers, met Bert, I think, and his son.

Only hunt available immediately was one in Zimbabwe.

It was with Roslyn Safaris.

No choice, so I booked a 21 day full bag hunt.

I had no rifles, Bert asked if I wished to buy any.

Sure.

Off I went with his son to a gun shop.

My intention was to buy two second hand rifles and leave them in Zimbabwe.

Both a Ruger 77 in 25-06, and a Remington 700 Safari in 375 H&H Magnum.

I was going to go to England, then to Zimbabwe, so how to get the rifles there?

No problem.

Bert said he can get one of his clients to take them to Victoria Falls, and I can collect them from the airport.

Imagine THAT happening today!

I arrived at Vic Falls airport, and had to go through all sorts of excuses to get my camera and spare lens through customs!

My rifles and ammo were in a box left in the corridor in the airport!!

A few minutes and I was out, meeting Roy Vincent who was going to be my PH.

This was morning.

Drove to camp, had lunch, and planned to sight in the rifles in the afternoon and go hunt.

Roy was asking what I wanted to shoot.

“Anything” I said.

What trophies was looking for?

“Anything”

The poor man got confused.

And stayed confused for over 40 years we hunted together!

After sighting my rifles, we went out hunting.

Shot a waterbuck.

Got back to camp just before sunset .

Roy used to carry a small 22 caliber pistol to finish off animals around his waste.

When we got to skinning shed, we could hear a loud argument going on.

Apparently the head skinner was drunk!

In late afternoon!

He was having an argument with Peter Johnson, who owned Rosalyn Safaris.

Our arrival didn’t help things, as Roy and the head skinner were not on the best of terms.

The skinner told Roy he would sort him out if he did have a pistol!

Suddenly Peter whacks the skinner on the head with his hand!

Threats started flying from the skinner!

Back to the lodge, and my girlfriend was asking if it was going to be safe for us!

At night I had the Ruger next to my bed, as I wasn’t sure what might develop in the dark!

Nothing further happened.

We had a fantastic safari.

And the African buffalo hunting saga continues.

And the African buffalo hunting saga continues.
...an great beginning of an hunters life...
You should write your biographie, Saeed.

Those were the days, my friend.

Bert and his wife Brigitte were two of my favorite people.

Absolutely honest, humble and down to earth.

I miss them both.

Have a story similar to K Evans. Five of us in Elk camp near Eagle Colorado. We were using the rancher/outfitter's experienced ranch/pack horses. A load of Okies pulled into the ranch with two crew cab duallies. one pulling a trailer with 4x4s and enough gear for an army. the other truck was pulling a million dollar horse trailer load with slick, shiny "top horses" that had many show trophies from back home.
Three days later I happened onto two of the guys standing next to a very beat up and bloody horse and looking despondently at the completely broken stock of his brand new Weatherby 340 mag. Apparently when they strapped a fresh elk quarter onto the show horse, it freaked out and the elk quarter beat the horse near to death. of course the rifle was in the scabbard.
they didn't make fun of the scraggly ranch horses after that.

When I was younger and dumber. Put in for a goat draw and won. Took dad with me and off we went. Another two hunters had been attacked in their tent the previous year same hunting unit by a grizzly but wasn't a full on attack.

Long story short. Goats were too high up. Would need mountaineering gear and ropes to get up to or retrieve.

Slept last night off a trail and in middle of night we didn't know but a branch broke off a tree above us and slammed onto side of tent. Dad assumed it was a grizzly and sat there with gun loaded rest of night. I Woke up normal and found the tree limb and chuckled.

As we packed up and walked out. About 100 yards away in the creek bed we travelled. Was a mom and cub grizzly tracks, that had walked past in the night and walked exactly out the same path we were about to.

We both walked with loaded guns at that point!

I made my first trip to Tanzania in 94. One of my brothers went along . He got deathly ill in Masailand. I truly believed he might die.

The day this went down, we were in serious volcanic dust. Pete looked like Al Jolson in black face . If he had not been so sick, I would have laughed my ass off.

We got to the camp . It was clear that Pete needed a bath. Guess who got the honors to help him. I got him in the shower and advised that if he told anyone I had given him a bath, that he would wish he had died . He told me to shut the f@&k up and not to make him laugh.

We flew to Amsterdam. We were on standby to Orlando. Things were a bit different back then. Cell phones didn’t work. There was no e mail . No one knew we were traveling .

We were sitting in a restaurant eating lunch. I heard my name being called over the PA. Odd I thought . I took off in search of the room I was told to report to . I noticed there were few passengers around .

At any rate , I went down some stairs where a uniformed guy was standing . He asked if I was Mr. Shores. I indicated I was. When I answered , he pulled out a gun and several uniformed people rushed out from under the stairs . One was a woman who was very nervous. That made me nervous . Guns were being pointed at us. My brother starts to make smart ass comments . I tell him to shut the hell up or I am going to knock him out .

They started to question us about our bags. The bags were sitting on a table. They asked if they were ours. Yes, they were ours. They inquired what was in the bags. Pretty normal stuff like dirty clothes and boots. They wanted to inspect. Feel free I told them. The female agent opened my duffle. There sss a garbage bag with dirty clothes on top. The female agent cut the bag open. She sticks her hand inside and brings out a pair of my dirty underwear. I broke up laughing . The male agents started laughing. The woman turned bright red.

At this point , I was pretty sure they realized that we were not terrorist. I assured them that we had nothing that was a problem. If they could tell me what they were looking for perhaps I could help them. They advised that we were on standby to Orlando. Our bags were checked to Orlando. They saw a lot of batteries and thought it might be a bomb. Well, I was absolutely shocked to hear this .

I told them we had several batteries for a video camera. They looked at each other with a sense of relief . We pulled the batteries out. All was good .

A hurricane was about to hit where my brother lives . He went straight home . There was no power anywhere. By the time he could see a doctor , all his symptoms had disappeared. To this day, he has no idea what happened to him.

A couple more…
We hunted mountain goat in BC a few years ago, near Revelstoke. Lodge/cabins were on a very nice lake. Only access was by boat across the lake. Outfitter loaded 4 wheelers on a boat, carried them several miles and unloaded to ride trails into mountains. We did the only a couple of time due to being fogged in for several days. We saw a couple of goats that were unreachable. Second to last day arrived with clear skies and no fog! We drove several miles into the mountains and glassed for hours, spotted a decent hot waaay up a snow covered peak. We decide to try for one and strap on crampons and start climbing a very snowy/icy steep slope. About 2/3 the way up I lost my footing and started sliding down the mountain on my stomach, feet first. After a couple hundred feet and going seemingly 100 mph, I managed to roll over and catch myself in a small bush. The hunt was over at that point . Oh, outfitter said he hired a couple of young guys to clear trails and so forth and they tried loading 4 wheelers (after he told the not to) and lost two of them in the lake. It was almost 250 feet deep right off of the shore.

Larry’s story reminded me of another weather related oddity, this one in Newfoundland, moose hunting on the Gander River and staying in a lodge on a bluff overlooking the river. While we were there a hurricane struck Newfoundland. Never imagined a hurricane would make it that far North. Where we were it was pretty intense, the lodge was a large log building and it honestly shook from the wind. We could look out over the river and as we watched we could see it rising, feet per minute! It rose probably 45 or 50 feet, came out of its banks and came up to the lodge foundation. This lasted maybe 3 hours and then the wind switched direction and the water subsided, pretty crazy. Shot a moose the next morning, too.

We were in the Deka Safari area in Zimbabwe.

Went in the afternoon to look for buffalo.

Never shot one before, and after reading DEATH IN THE LONG GRASS, I thought I better be prepared.

Somehow I managed to cram an extra round into the magazine of my Remington 700 Safari rifle, 375H&H Magnum.

We found a herd and followed it.

Just as the sun was going down, we caught up with them drinking at the camp waterhole!

Roy picked a bull and I fired at him.

My rifle magazine opened up, dropping all the ammo.

Never mind that, I loaded a round and took off after the shot bull.

Roy screaming “Stop! Don’t run after wounded buffalo!”

A few yards further, we found our bull on the ground.

It was getting dark as we took pictures by flash.

Rene and her kids, Alan and Diana, were actually watching the buffalo at coming to drink.

Totally unaware we’re about to shoot!

I have another.

My maternal grandfather liked to hunt . The thing that really rattled him was turkeys . He totally lost his mind when a big gobbler was around.

I must have been 15 or thereabouts. We went squirrel hunting . I spotted some gobblers and even watched them roost. I passed on shooting the squirrels.

My grandfather always called me boy for whatever reason. I get back to the car to meet him. He said , “Boy what are you all smiles about ? You didn’t even shoot.” I told him that I had seen these gobblers. He got wide eyed at that news.

He had a million question for me . Boy can you find them again? Bow was it a big gobbler? And on and on.


We take off early the next morning. I was grill again. Boy can you find them ? Boy are you sure? He was quite excited.


We walked to the place where I had see the turkeys . It was dark. We sat with out backs against a tree. My grandfather leaned over and asked I was sure we were in the right place. Before I could answer , we heard something hit his hat. I looked over at him and the turkey had shit on his head.

We both broke out laughing which ended our turkey hunt for the day .

Back in 2000 I was hunting with Barry Styles with Buffalo Range safaris. We left looking for eland and about 2 miles from camp we encountered 3 poachers. I grabbed my .458 and we jumped out of the truck to chase the poachers down. Barry yells at me to shoot shoot shoot. I said no, you shoot and handed him my rifle. He fired, and we walked up to what I thought would be a dead poacher but instead found a dead dog that the poachers were using to kill warthogs. I told Told Barry that he needed to be more specific next time when telling me to shoot

Reminds me of another one.

I was hunting with a hard core, allegedly crazy, non-native-English-speaking PH during the hot season in a sub-Saharan African country, all names of whom and which will be withheld to protect the guilty.

We had been out hunting all day and got back to camp late in the evening.

One of the outfitter’s private anti-poaching patrols had caught a poacher that day and forced him at gun point to go around and gather up a bunch of his snares from various sites in the concession. Then they had brought him back to camp and locked him up.

We needed to head out early the next morning, so my PH told his guys to keep the poacher locked up and confiscate his snares. In the meantime, my PH said he would contact the government game rangers, who would come to camp (the next day, he hoped), arrest the poacher and haul him away.

If you’ve ever seen the movie Cool Hand Luke, then you’ll remember “the box,” where the bosses who ran the chain gangs in a deep South prison camp would lock up inmates who were bad actors.

Well, the anti-poaching crew had built a tiny shed that was basically “the box” – so small that it barely held a man, blisteringly hot and with tin walls, a tin roof and a tin pot in which the unlucky occupant was forced when nature called to piss and shit.

I learned later that they had locked this poacher in “the box.”

The next day, we got up way before dawn and went hunting.

We stopped for lunch.

I asked my PH what they had done with the poacher.

“Merde!” he said, “I forgot about him!”

It was about 110 degrees Fahrenheit that day.

“I hope he does not die. Putain!”

When we got back to camp later that day and checked on the poacher, the poor bastard wasn’t dead, but he didn’t seem to be far from it. The anti-poaching guys had kept him in “the box” all the previous night and all that day without food or water.

My PH was relieved but as mad as hell at the poacher. He yelled at him in a local foreign language that I couldn’t understand.

I asked my PH what he had said to the poacher.

He said, “I told him he is so stupid he almost died by accident! I told him he is lucky I only kill poachers on purpose!”

When I was a boy we were told to cape any trophy animal asap and cool the head skin as much as possible.

However, when I shot a buffalo in Africa my PH was going to leave the animal intact and send staff back to deal with it the next day. I said that if they didn't cape it there and then I would do it myself, and he relented.

In the following days I shot a sable and an impala on the other side of the concession. Instead of caping the animals on the spot, they put them whole into the pick-up truck and drove both two hours back to camp in 35C temperatures.

The reason for this was so they could be skinned in a hut with a concrete floor. That's fine if your main concern is selling meat - but that was not my concern at all.

Months later the taxidermists told me both of those animals had suffered hair slip, making the capes unusable. I asked if substitute capes could be found, and one was found for the impala. The 'search' for another sable cape  apparently went on for years, to no avail, possibly because finding one might cost the PH a $3000 trophy fee.

Finally, the taxidermists told me they had the answer: they could buy a mounted head for $US3000, cut the horns off and stick mine on to it.

No, I replied disgustedly, just put the horns on a shield and all the trophies on a boat.

This is a great thread! Especially the story about Larry’s Grandpa having a gobbler shit on his head

Here’s one I think you’ll all enjoy…

I was on my first safari in May of 1983, with Roy Vincent on Deka. It was a 24-day hunt with pretty much everything on license except lion. I should have made it 28-days as I’d have been able to include lion and the first afternoon we saw a fantastic lion at 20 yards. It would have been my first African animal. We happened onto a sleeping lion at close range and Roy turned the truck so I could see it out of my open window. He didn’t count on me being so excited that I grabbed my camera and jumped out of the truck before he could stop me. I was about 20 yards from the south end of a north bound lion and Roy jumped out with his 460 Weatherby while screaming at me to get back in the truck. I was so excited that I never thought about the danger, only that I wanted a great photo. He was not happy with me! (BTW, Rene Snider shot that same lion a year later).

One afternoon we went to look for a 45” sable bull we’d passed up earlier in the hunt as Roy had seen a bigger bull the previous year that he thought was 48-49”. We found that bull but couldn’t get him killed, so Roy decided we’d go back to have another look at the bull we’d passed up. My girlfriend was with us as we set out to find the sable. We were walking slowly through the forest where we’d seen him previously and since we were looking for sable I was carrying my 300 Winchester.

The bush was fairly thick and instead of finding the sable we bumped into 4 nice buffalo bulls at close range. We were all in a small clearing, the four buffalo on one side and Roy, me, my girlfriend and Roy’s tracker, Roger, kneeling down in front of them at maybe 25 yards. I figured we were just watching them since I had my 300, not my 458; but Roy had other intentions. The buffalo suddenly spooked, disappearing into the brush. Roy immediately directed Roger to ‘stay here with Madam’ and the two of us took off into the bush in hot pursuit. Somehow, one of the bulls ended up behind us and as soon as it saw me and Roy, it took off straight back toward my girlfriend and Roger. OH SHIT!
Roy and I began running back to the clearing and when we came out of the brush nobody was there. No buffalo, no girlfriend, no Roger.
We started yelling for them and shortly Roger came down from the brush, laughing heartily. When we called out to ask where madam was he pointed back behind him so we ran that way while calling her name. Finally, we heard ‘I’m up here’. She had climbed a tree! She had no idea the buffalo was running away from us, only that it was going to kill her if she didn’t get up a tree ASAP. We had a good laugh at her expense, but that wasn’t the real excitement for the day.

I’ll share part two separately…

AND??....how did the relationship with the girlfriend go after that?

In 2003 I was on a leopard hunt in the Matopos Hills of Zim. The lodge was an old converted farmhouse and had the usual small number of house geckos crawling around. The first 2 days I was the only client but a banker from Madrid and his 20 something daughter arrived the evening of day 3. He spoke very limited English but his daughter was quite fluent. The next morning at breakfast she happened to mention that she was deathly afraid of lizards. I didn’t mention the house geckos and she hadn’t seen them- yet…..That evening at dinner we we were all having a nice meal when suddenly a geckos fell off the ceiling and landed directly on her plate. She screamed bloody murder and dashed from the dining room to her room. From then on for the next week, she ate all her meals in her room and left it only to get in the hunting truck. She would come out only to hunt and for sundowners outside around the fire. I thought she was going to have a heart attack when that lizard hit her plate.

[QUOTE]Originally posted by DLS:
. . . She had climbed a tree! She had no idea the buffalo was running away from us, only that it was going to kill her if she didn’t get up a tree ASAP. We had a good laugh at her expense . . ./QUOTE]

Stupid woman! (As Rene on 'Allo 'Allo! would say.) Obviously, she forgot to interrogate the buff as to its purpose there.

I was with my brother and a friend of his.

Young teenage boys.

We were shooting birds in the creek.

Far away on the other side of the creek, was a big flock of flamingos.

No idea how far, but several kilometers!

My brothers friends asked if I could shoot that far.

So we had a bet.

I had a 300 Weatherby Magnum with me.

The bet was I would fire one shot.

If I hit anything, he would walk over and get it.

It was very swampy. Mud in which one sinks to his armpit sometimes!

If I miss he gets a 100 dirhams - roughly 30 dollars.

I rested the rifle over the car, and looked at the flamingos.

Very far away. The high rise buildings of the city were visible behind.

I raised the sight up until all I could see was the top of the high rise buildings at the bottom of the scope, and fired.

It took a while, then the flock started flying.

Once they were up in the air, we could see one flupping in the mud!

My brother was screaming with laughter, telling his friend to never bet with me!

He took off to get the flamingo, it was early afternoon, and he didn’t come back till almost dark!

His shorts were falling off his backside by the time he caback.

He has grown up and has his own kids.

In 1978 I was culling for the New Zealand forest Service. We liked to call ourselves "Deer Cullers" but in truth, in that area, we shot a lot more goats than deer. I was based in a hut in the headwaters of the Otara River and was surprised one day when the boss, Brian Carson, turned up with a new guy he had just hired. Brian asked me to try him out and break him in.
I wasn't too thrilled at the prospect, animals were thin on the ground, but on the other hand it was nice to have someone to talk to. You got a bit "bushie" if you spent too much time living alone.
The next morning, I took him out for a bit of a stroll. Let us call him "Dave".
We walked up-river for an hour, most of which time we were actually wading knee deep. The rivers were our roads as there were no tracks in those days that far up. When we came to a leading ridge I hadn't climbed before I led him up, hanging on to scrub for support. That country is a bit steep.
With some altitude the ridge became less precipitous, and you could walk upright. My pigdog
"Hog" raised his head then took off down the side of the ridge so we scrambled down after him as we could hear him bailing something.
We reached a deep "gut" where a mountain stream had cut a steep sided gorge out of the soft rock. The dog was barking just downstream but the face was too steep to climb down. Fortunately, there was soft gravel in the creek bed so I told Dave we would have to jump. He didn't like it, but it was only about 12 feet. When we reached the dog I was disappointed to find it was only a feral goat he had bailed up on a ledge. I told Dave to shoot it and he collected his first tail as a culler.
We then walked upstream looking for a place to climb back out until we came to a 30 foot waterfall, far too steep and wet to climb. Walking back down stream we came to the top of another similar sized waterfall. I didn't like the situation much. It was starting to rain and those streams could come up very quickly and the gut was only a few feet wide with a flat bottom. We returned to the top waterfall and again found nowhere we could possibly climb so went back down to the lower fall.
A tree had gone over the fall and the jagged top was only about a yard out. I told Dave to hold onto my ankles and I dropped out and grasped the top of the tree. Arching my back I told Dave to push the dog over me onto the sloping log. Hog slithered a few feet down the tree then fell into the pool below, emerging unhurt but decidedly displeased.
Dave then climbed over me and held my wrists as I swung down to grasp the trunk with my feet then I slid most of the way down before falling into the pool. Dave managed to slide all the way down but he looked a bit shaken.
By then I had had enough for one morning and was glad to return to the hut before the river rose too much.
The next morning Dave announced that if that was the sort of thing we had to do to make a living he was having none of it. He packed his gear and walked off down river.
I went out myself a week or two later to have a break in town over Easter. When he picked me up Brian asked where Dave was. I told him the story and we were a bit worried as he hadn't reported back to the office in Opotiki and we wondered if he had drowned in the river.
Brian phoned his Mum and she said he had gone to Australia and had told her he was never going into the NZ bush again!

I was lion hunting in Burkina Faso in 2011. I was hunting with 2 PH’s, 2 trackers a game scout and the safari operators son all of which only spoke French which made things interesting. As we approached a water hole and were just about to leave as one of the PH’s spotted two male lions that that spooked and started to leave. I quickly got on the sticks and was trying to get good communication on which lion to shoot while the owners son is tugging on my ammo belt telling me shoots, shoots, shoots. With all our attention focused on the male
Lions a female with 2 cubs charged is from a bush on our right and stoped 15 yards away snarling at us. The owners son still kept tugging at my ammo belt telling me shoots shoots shoots. By this time I was getting really annoyed and trying to focus on the Lioness while he keeps jerking me and tugging on my ammo belt. I’m thinking why isn’t he tell the other PHs to shoot and just me. Finally the lioness and cubs turn and run off. Once things settled I started cussing out the owners son for distracting me during this extremely dangerous situation and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. It turns out he was carrying my .470 and forgot to load it when we left the truck so when he saw the lionsss charge he was trying to get .470 rounds from my ammo belt and calling them shoots. That was the last time he went out in the field with us. He said it’s way too dangerous