Ladies and Gentlemen,

Horst has finally managed to make his selection of photos so we can make the calendar for next year.

And as we usually do, we will give a few away in return for a GOOD hunting story.

It does not have be real, as long as it based on SOME facts. Just do as they do in Hollywood, and Walter is going to be very happy - he is the judge, and as long as I have to print, bind and mail the calendars, he does not mind awarding them!

I gave him the first one today, so he is in a very good mood right now.

Please post your entries on this thread, the winners will be notified by PM.

The following is a work of total, unbelievable fiction. But it could happen...

Crawling through the long grass and the tangles of thorns my muscles ached and with each surge forward I left a little piece of my soul behind. The blood we were following was getting thicker and becoming much darker the further we pushed on. Damn my bad luck with Lions. This was my third and I had yet to take one cleanly with one shot. I thought somewhere in the sick recesses of my mind that maybe I like following wounded pussy cats into the thick bush and having to sort them out under five yards when they were in full charge.

The ph was just ahead and I had been trying to watch for any sign from him. He hated me at this moment, I could tell. He hated going after lions in the thick stuff. And I was the reason he was down on all fours working his way to what would certainly be his death.

Finally the brush began to clear a little and we both stood up. The trackers had flatly refused to lead, follow or in any way be associated with the follow-up. Smart bastards. We didn’t really need trackers, for the amount of blood the lion was leaking could have been followed by a half-blind drunk. After a few more steps we saw a pool of blood where the lion had rested. We were pushing him farther than he wanted to go or maybe he was baiting us in. I never knew a lion could bleed so much and continue on.

Then we heard him and I locked in the ready position, my rifle in front of me aimed at the ground. He was off to our left. My ph took a step to my right so we would both have clear shots when he came. I heard him say, “He is coming!†At the same moment I saw the flash of tan coming through the bush. There was no time for aiming, so I pointed off my natural reflex and pulled the trigger just as the lion cleared the bush and leaped in my direction. I worked the bolt as quickly as I could while taking a step back. The lion hit the ground on his right side about 15 feet in front of me. Blood was smeared all down his left side from the initial contact I had with him three hours earlier. And now there was a perfect 40 caliber hole almost dead center in his chest cavity.

I looked at the ph and he was looking at me. He was going to make a good trophy. Not much mane, but big body, huge paws and still possessing a great set of teeth. All in all not a bad day. My ph strongly suggested that I stop using the “Walterhog†bullets. He says he is to old for this follow-up shit.


Thanks for the opportunity,

Brian

"Call me Ishmael.Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--
having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular
to interest me on shore, I thought I would ..."


The rest is too long to put here, so I have kindly provided a link to the rest of my story.

http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext01/moby11.txt

Not going to Africa until May of 2007. But here is one about a buddy and I here in North America.

The New Guy

It was a hot July day, one of those days when you could literally fry an egg on the sidewalk. I still had 3 blocks to walk just to reach the air conditioned sanctuary of my office when I felt someone grab my arm.â€Hey Casey, how are you doing? As I turned to the voice I recognized one of my old friends from my days in the military.†Hey Mark, where in the hell did you come from, long time no see. I just started working for Alcoa and heard you were here so I decided to look you up, stroke of luck finding you out here on a crowded street. he replied. Well damn man, I’m on my way back to the office, why don’t you come up and we can catch up on whats been going on since we left the CROTCH. Being that Mark and I shared some good as well as bad times in the service I was anxious to hear what he had been up to since he retired.

We sat in my office and shot the cshit for the better part of the afternoon, reliving old times and catching up on family and friends. Just before he was about to leave he ask me if I knew any place he might do a little deer hunting come fall. He was originally from South Dakota where he grew up deer hunting. But since he was new to the company didn’t think he would have the time to make a worth while trip home to hunt this year. Why hell yes I can put you on some deer hunting. Why don’t you consider going up to my hunting camp this fall to deer hunt. I won’t promise you the same quality of deer like you have in the Dakota’s and the way we hunt here in Pennsylvania might be a lot different than what you do at home, but I’m sure we can get you pointed in the right direction and you’ll do fine. Ok Casey I’ll take you up on that. Great I replied, lets talk about it later in the year, and by the way if you need any help here at the company let me know and I’ll see what I can do.

All thoughts of that conversation were forgotten as the weeks flew by. Summer ended with a flurry of activity as business picked up and the days got shorter. Before I knew it the leaves were falling and the chill in the air became more than just a night time thing. Then the week of thanksgiving I awoke to a heavy frost on the ground as I headed to work. The cars heater seemed to gasp and spit but never warmed the interior as I pulled into my space. Muttering to myself as I raced to the office up the stairs because the elevator was broken again. When I walked in my office and looked at the buck mount I had hanging on the wall it dawned on me that the Pennsylvania buck season was going to open next Monday. I picked up the phone and called Mark. Hey old buddy you ready for a little cold weather mountain deer hunting. Yes sir he replied, just tell me where and when. Come on up here and I’ll draw you a map to my old camp and we can talk about what you may or may not need. I gave Mark some directions and a map and to my surprise he had been out buying hunting clothes and other supplies since we first talked back in July. He had even bought a new Remington Model 760 rifle in 30-06 for this hunt. I’ll see you at camp sometime before supper on Friday, that will give us Saturday and Sunday to look around the woods before the opener on Monday morning, see you there he said. I checked the weather for opening week and saw the forecast was snow and cold in the northern part of the state. Thursday night after thanksgiving dinner I packed all my warm clothes and loaded my pick-up. Friday morning found me up bright and early driving north. I arrived at about 11am and Mark pulled in at about 4 that afternoon. He said that he would have been there earlier, but had to stop 3 times and ask directions. He explained that when he pulled into the old gravel lane where a sign was swinging on an old wood post. The sign read “ALMOST HOME CAMP†he laughed thinking almost home was 5 hours south from out in the middle of nowhere.

The camp we were at has been a part of my family since 1928. It’s a large wooden house nestled into a hollow surrounded by giant oaks, maples and hemlocks. During the first week of the Pennsylvania buck season there will always be several trucks parked by the back porch and smoke pouring out of the stone chimney. The main room is huge with a plethora of hunting momentos scattered around on the walls and shelves. When Mark came into the main room he looked like a kid in a candy store, he had read about these old northern traditional deer camps, but had never actually seen a place like this. I took Mark over to the big oak table where 5 men and 2 young boys were busily wolfing down food and talking all at the same time. I introduced Mark to everyone and when he shook my dad’s hand, he said thanks Mr. Purcell for the invite. Please don’t call me Mr. Purcell dad said, there are no formalities up here, just make yourself at home and call me Tony. We grabbed a plate of food and joined the group at the table. Mark went for seconds and said, didn’t realize that I was starving. The group laughed and said it was the mountain air that increased your appetite and to chow down. As we ate my eyes wandered around the table taking in this group of men that I had known since I was a young boy, everyone was smiling and seemed to be enjoying their selves as usual but one. He sat quietly just picking at his food, never once looking at anyone just staring at his plate. He looked older than the cabin his skin so wrinkled and dry it reminded you of old shoe leather. His full head of hair was the whitest I’ve ever seen, and he sat with his shoulders slumped like a great weight sat on his shoulders. Mark leaned over and said what’s up with him, suddenly his head snapped up and he looked at Mark with startlingly green eyes that were clear and hard. Snappily he said†what you looking at green horn’. There was meanness to his voice as if he was daring Mark to reply. Dad laughed and said c’mon now Bill this is Casey’s guest for the week. You could at least be polite. Bill just looked at Mark for a second and said†Guest or not he still abides by the rules. And Casey’s responsible to make sure he knows them. Then he turns to me and says make sure he stay’s the hell away from my tree stand. Don’t have him wandering around where he’s not wanted.†angrily he gets up and goes outside. Everyone sits there embarrassed by the out burst and then dad explains. Mark, you have to understand bill was one of the original fellows to build this camp. He turned 87 last week and he’s the last surviving original member. Casey’s grand dad was an original member also but he passed on last June. So this year will be hard on Bill, but don’t worry he will come around. He’s usually a very mild mannered fellow. Now as far as the rules, the new guy does the dishes and you had better get started. We still have to run into town and get a few things, this snow is expected to get real bad this weekend. At that the whole group started laughing, they knew that my dad was headed for an old bar where he could pat the young girls on the ass and visit with some of the locals he had become friends with over the years. After the meal everyone was busy picking up and cleaning. After trudging in several loads of firewood we headed to town to pick up supplies and listen to some country music and try to get lucky at the bar.

Saturday found me and Mark going over some topo maps and a long hike in the woods looking for buck sign. That evening everyone relaxed around the fireplace sipping beers, whiskey or sodas. The stories of past hunts were told and retold. Listening to the banter and ribbing of good hearted fellowship really had me laughing. I think this was the first time since last season I could really say I was totally relaxed. Mark told me he could feel the camaraderie among these guys and felt like he was part of it. They included him in their conversation by giving him advice on Mondays hunt, shot placement and what to look for. Joe Goebel told him he had just the place for him to hunt on Monday, a little hollow just behind the cabin. It would be a great place to start till he got himself acquainted with the area. He was also encouraged to wander around as long as he was careful and to watch for hunter orange.


Sunday was more of the same looking at maps and walking the woods, but I was looking forward to our traditional supper of steaks from a beef my dad would always slaughter at the farm in October. This steak supper had been going on from before I was born. With the dishes washed and everything put away I headed for the fire place with whiskey in hand. Dad and a few other guys were going to play some high stakes nickel and dime poker and the young boys who where there with there grand dad’s this year were headed for bed. Like all young boys they couldn’t wait for morning and a deer hunt in the big woods. Mark and I had a few drinks and talked about hunting when we were young boys. The roaring wood fire and the whiskey was putting me to sleep so I headed for my bunk with Mark right behind me.

The shaking of the bed woke me with a startled alarm. Looking threw bleary eyes I see dad standing at the foot of the bed fully dressed with a cup of coffee in his hand. Wake up boy its time to get moving. I looked at the clock next to the bed, it was 4 am. Time to rise and shine Mark. I’m awake he said, but tell me, how in the hell can your dad be smiling at 4 am. As I rolled out of bed. I could smell coffee and eggs cooking. Yep old Roddy was up and had the cook stove doing overtime. What in the world is going on Mark ask, it’s not even daylight yet and these guys are running around like its Christmas or something. I walk to the kitchen and notice everyone is eating and dressed.†Hurry up sleepy head we head out in 40 minutes†said dad. Mark and I hurriedly wolf down food and scalding cups of black coffee just to get awake and run up and get dressed. Rushing back down the stairs dad hands me and Mark a small paper sack and a couple of thermos bottles of hot soup. While I was waiting for you I packed you guys a little something for lunch. Thanking him we grab our rifles and head out the door. I tell Mark that my dad still thinks I’m 10 years old. He is forever taking care of the little details for me.

Brrrrrrr, damn it’s cold and now I noticed that it snowed another 3 inches during the night. We start slowly moving down an old logging road. The small flashlights illuminate the way as we move deeper into the woods. Mark stops and shows me tracks of a deer that cut across the trail. After about 15 minutes we climb down a small hillside and Mark stops about halfway down.†Ok, I’m going to find a tree and just sit tight. We shake hands and wish each other good luck. I tell Mark that daylight is not far away and I got a long hike to get to my stand and explain that later on he should feel free to walk around and warm up. Just be careful, and with that I am on my way to my stand in the hollow at the bottom of the hill. I make it to my old stand and settle in and wait for day light. I have hunted this spot for years and it has always given me a buck on opening day. No monsters, but some nice 6 and 8 pointers, along with a few spikes as well. As I sit in the dark waiting for daylight I reflect on how my grandfather had brought me to this spot and helped me build my first ground blind there. I recall his telling me about how the deer would always move up hill to the pine thicket above me in the mornings to bed, and how they would have to come right past this spot. How right he was because they have been doing that for the many years I have sat here and will probably be doing it long after I’m gone. Finally the gloom starts to lift over the hollow that I’m watching over. As the sun starts to rise it is greeted by the chirping of chickadees and the occasional bark of grey squirrels. Out of nowhere an owl slowly glides silently down the hillside. Snap, I slowly turn in the direction of the noise , can’t see anything, must be the weight of the snow breaking a branch. Snap, there it is again but this time I see 3 does making their way up the hill to the pine thicket. Does are not legal now so I just relax and watch them make their way up the hill until they disappear into the pine cover. About an hour goes by and I’m starting to get cold and decide to drink a little hot soup to warm me up. Just as I get a mouthful of hot soup I see another deer working it’s way along the hillside coming straight to me. Here I am with a mouthful of scalding hot soup trying to make out this deer and set the cup down without it seeing me. In the process I spill soup all over the front of me. Finally I get my rifle up and find this deer in my scope. It’s a big bodied high and wide 4 point and he is standing there staring at me. I ease the safety off and try to make up my mind if I want to shoot this deer. I decide to take him and squeeze the trigger. He bolts at the shot but in the scope I can see the blood from his nose spraying a carpet of red on the white snow. As I watch he goes down and is sliding down the hill. It’s over he’s dead and my season has ended as well. Pennsylvania only allows you one buck per year. I field dress him and start the drag down hill to an old road where I know that sooner or later someone will give me a ride back to camp with my deer.


Here is Mark’s story about his hunt after we went our separate ways on that November morning.

I look around and find a stump, brush the snow off the top and park my behind. I turn off my flashlight and sit in the dark I pour myself a cup of soup out of the thermos that Tony so graciously packed in my bag and wait for sunrise. I sit spellbound and amazed at the amount of activity in this little part of the world. BANG!!!!!!BANG!!!! As I jump to my feet sloshing soup all over myself, I hear yet another shot. After a few minutes the woods slowly come back to life and I watch the chipmunks as they dig in the snow looking for caches of seeds stored back in the warmer days of October. I sit this way for 4 hours, not moving and enjoying watching nature and taking in the scenery. Eventually though the cold starts to seep into my joints and I decide to take a walk. I`m starting to wonder if there are any deer around here since I haven’t seen one yet. As I ascend to the top of the hill I see a set of tracks in the snow. Following them I eventually come to a farmers field on top of a large hill. As I walk around the edge I see an orange blob way off in the distance. Not wanting to get too close to another hunter plus remembering Casey’s warning I stop. Suddenly out of nowhere I hear, hey greenhorn, I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. Oh No it was grumpy Bill! Sitting in against a dead tree I never even saw him. Immediately I start to apologize and turn to leave heading back the way I had come. Get over here and grab a seat, before you scare all the deer out of the county. Bill says with a smile. I climb in over the deadfall vowing to sit quietly so as not to mess up his hunt. Bill asks me if I’ve seen anything as he sips his coffee, I tell him not a thing but it was still an enjoyable morning just being out in woods again. With a twinkle in his eye he says, that’s the right way to look at it, that’s what hunting’s all about. Killing the animal is just a byproduct of being out here in the outdoors. I’m sure you were wondering that at some time or another this morning out here in the dark.†A light chuckle escapes his lips as he slowly looks around the area. Silently I sit there and ponder his words and wonder why he decided to talk to me after the way he had torn my head off at the cabin yesterday, and so I ask him about that.

Bill sits there quietly for several minutes with his head turned away. I`m starting to wonder if he heard my question when he turns around and starts to speak. I didn’t mean to be rude to you Mark. You just caught me at a bad time, I found out a couple days ago that this will be my last deer season and haven’t figured out a way to tell the other fellows. Its stomach cancer, is what the doctors are saying, I got about 6 months of life left before I leave this world. In silence we sit there, no words are spoken but I reach over and grasp his shoulder and squeeze it. What can I say I barely know the man yet I can feel his pain? He coughs and then continues†Not that I’m complaining mind you I’ve had a good life. I have hunted these mountains for 60 years now and that’s what I'll miss more than anything. The only thing that bothers me is I have no one left to take my place up here. See my son was killed in back in 1969 and I have no other children. This camp up here has always meant a lot to me, the best memories in my life are centered around this camp.â€

I ended up hunting with Bill the rest of that week. He patiently taught me how to locate ambush locations. How to read sign and look for acorns and other mast crops in these northern Pennsylvania woods. His 60 years of experience made him an excellent teacher for this mid western boy that had no clue. I didn’t harvest a deer that week even though we saw a large buck on the last day just at dark. But what I learned that week opened my eyes to a whole new world. After getting home I was once again caught up in the holidays and my heavy work schedule.

It was a beautiful May morning, warm and sunny; the kind of day when you wish you drove a convertible. I had just arrived at my office when Casey walked in. Good morning sir, how are you this fine day, I said as I sipped my coffee. Wearily he sat down and with a look conveyed to me that he didn’t bear good news. Mark, I have some bad news, Bill died yesterday. I wanted to let you know we are having a memorial service Saturday at the cabin and we are going to spread his ashes there in accordance to his last wishes. He asked me to invite you; he took a real liking to you last December and hopes you keep hunting up there with us. “With a lump in my throat I assured Casey that I would be there as he left my office. Saturday morning found me on the highway heading north to the camp. This time I didn’t get lost and when finally pulling into the driveway I did feel like I was coming home. After a brief service I told Casey that I was going for a walk and I would be back shortly. Working my way across the ridge I noticed how everything looked different with the leaves on the trees. I climb the hill till I reach the field that I bumped into Bill on that cold morning. I see a groundhog standing guard over his domain till he spots me and vanishes down his hole like a ghost. I reach the old blow down where Bill had spent hours telling me stories and find a small gift from nature. There nestled in the leaves was a 10 point shed, maybe from the one I had seen up there. I leave it there where it lies, maybe it’s a sign. As I head back to camp smiling and whistling, I find myself longing for November.

When I contracted to clean up some old barbed wire and field fence on an area high-fenced ranch, I was told to watch out for #87, a tagged 4 yr old 8 point that was in the rut. He had been a bottle-fed orphan and had an unnatural lack of fear of humans. He was by no means a pet, as he had lived the last three years in the brush. He had been off limits to hunters and had recently shown some aggression near a box blind.

At about 10:00AM in the morning last Thursday I parked the Kawasaki Mule near the head of a brushy draw where an old fence had made a turn and old wire was still lying on the ground. I had my gloved hands on several rusty strands trying to pop them out of the brush and overgrown cedar trees. I just happened to catch some movement out of the corner of my eye - 10’ away #87 was walking at a 45 degree angle to me with his head cocked and his hair bristled up like I have never seen before.

My next thought was “Oh crapâ€.

I was standing in a mess of brush, wire, and softball sized rocks when he charged. I couldn’t move my feet fast enough and he clocked me and knocked me back into an old gnarly cedar tree. I didn’t even feel the old broken limbs of the tree dig into my back. He didn’t hit me that hard since I caught most of his antlers with my hands, but I couldn’t move my feet fast enough in the brush and rocks to try and pull a Rob Smetts on him. Once I hit the ground I was stuck. I was 100% busy trying to keep his antlers out of my chest and face. I can honestly say that in my adult life I have never been at risk of dying, that I know of. At that moment I was scared. I was going to tire out long before he was, and he didn’t want to give up. We wrestled with him on top of me for a good 30 seconds to a minute or more. I managed to get my knees into his chest and use my right hand to pull the fence pliers out of my back pocket. I was going to try and hit him in the eyes, but the way his head was oriented, his antlers were protecting his face. I hit him on the side of the head a couple of times, but that just made him madder.

With both hands back on his main beams I was slowly able to work myself to my knees and use my weight to my advantage. I somehow managed to drive his antlers down into the dirt and rocks and sort of lock him in place while I caught my breath. I quickly decided my best option was to try to race him 20’ back to the mule and dive inside the roll cage. I turned loose and took off – luckily his back feet were tangled in the old field fence and it slowed him down. I won the race.

The ranch manager and land owner where horrified and apologized profusely. This deer needed to be killed and they graciously offered me the opportunity to do it and would pay to have it processed.

He field-dressed today at 112 lbs and scores in the 120s. He was not a really big deer, but with 4 hooves and a swelled neck pushing 8 well proportioned antlers, it didn’t matter. The only antler damage to me was on the inside of my left knee, an abrasion and bruise in the center of my chest, and a bruised wrist. The worst abrasions were from the cedar tree and rocks in my back. I have a new found respect for wild animals and everyone was reminded of the dangers of wild animals that don’t have a natural fear of humans. I was very lucky and glad I am around to share!
__________________

This is a true story . Based in 1995, between Vaalwater and Ellisras in the waterberg mountains. I was 19 years old

“Number please ?â€
“1522 thank youâ€
After a few rings the phone is picked up.
“Delport, hello !â€
“Hallo this is Frederik, I got a message to phone you back urgently how are you ?â€
“Fine, yes my neighbour’s and I have got a problem that needs to be solved and I think you could help out.â€
“Ok, it sounds serious.â€
“You know I have told you about the big leopard that goes round between the 4 farms catching either game or livestock?â€
“Yes!â€
“He has struck again this time a sable calf and last week a young afrikaaner calf from next door.â€
“Oh no, a sable calf ? That is a bit costly.â€
“Yes and I don’t know how many more of them he has taken or from the other expensive game for that matter! So I got a permit for one problem leopard from Nature Conservation. â€
“So how can I help ?â€
“We will give you R2500.00 if you come and shoot the leopard free board and extra cash if you need to set up bait and some of your fuel costs.â€
“Ok, you know that a couple of ph’s has tried to outwit this tom don’t you? What makes me better than them ?â€
“You know the farm and you are the only person I know who is available this time of year in December, to do something like this.â€
“Ok I have a week to blow and no real work to do on the plot for that time so I will come and try my luck.â€
“Thank, you Frederik.â€

Getting on the farm the next day early I went scouting we usually picked up the tom’s tracks if we followed the brown hyena’s tracks. This was easy to do as the hyena usually walked in the roads and around the same area. After some tracking we found some fresh tracks and then the remains of a young impala female. The leopard has eaten its fill and should be happy for the next two days. This is either good for me to setup a blind and bait or not when he could move to the next farm. Now, I knew that the other ph’s didn’t get any success picking up a dead calf from the state vet and using it for bait. The ph later added an impala and the leopard actually walked over the calf and ate of the impala. But, never came back a second time.

So this leopard was cunning he knew not to eat livestock unless he caught it and on putting impala bait he ate once and never came back. That left me with sort of a predicament what bait I will need to use. Driving back to the farmhouse I drove past a donkey ! A, donkey why not that could be something they haven’t tried yet and maybe they won’t be scared of it. So I went out and shot a young impala ram and bought a donkey.

There was a nice spot where two valleys ran into each other and the leopard use to frequent it had a nice tree with a nice branch 7 foot from the ground running horizontal for about 6 foot. I hung one hindleg of the donkey and then the impala so the leopard had to go over the donkey to get to the impala. I built a rough hide 30 meters away which made for a perfect view in which a silhouette could be seen if there was enough moonlight on the baited branch. I decided to sleep over on the farm and check the bait the next morning.

The next morning was super we had a bit of a shower early the previous evening and the fresh tracks will show up much easier. On my way to the tree I saw some good game sightings including a big kudu bull which would easily have pushed 55†plus. What a nice sight it was with a couple of waterbuck bulls close by to the kudu. The tree being almost at the furthest end of the farm was situated far from any dwellings or people which suited me perfectly. As, it would be away from any human sounds. Arriving closer to the tree I switched off my bakkie half kilometer away and took a slow walk searching for tracks. I found the hyena’s tracks quickly and saw that it went to the tree following it I hoped I could find the leopard tracks as well but to no avail the bait wasn’t hit neither was there any leopard tracks close by.

I went back to the house and phoned the neighbours to hear if they didn’t get hit by the leopard but the good news was that there were no fresh tracks of the leopard on their properties so far so hopefully he would still be on the farm except for the farm adjoining the back which was unoccupied. I decided to stay and maybe sit in the blind the night. At around 5pm I pulled my bakkie off the road a kilometer away and carrying a torch a biggish 12volt battery my 375 H&H and a torch with a thick jacket as well. Walking to the hide I saw the hyena tracks again and was wondering if it was after I left the morning or a bit later. It gave me hope sitting in the blind after the long walk with all the equipment I settled myself in sitting on the jacket and making a shooting hole with a rest and a hole to use the spotlight trough. I would have to shine the spotlight with my left hand and hold the rifle steady with my right hand it sounded much more difficult than it was as the rest for the rifle was perfect.

I took my seat and started the long wait. Just before dark a honey badger gave me the fright of my life using his strong jaws he cracked one of the ribs on the impala I almost jumped out of my skin. I looked at the honey badger until it was completely dark and he left a little while later obviously having enough. Suddenly some klipspringer gave their alarm call and I jumped into ready mode. Time slowed down and the klipspringer stopped their alarm calls they were in the valley opposite the hide not far off. Would the leopard come in to the bait or was it the hyena ? It suddenly went very quiet with even the crickets stopping their nightly orchestra or was it just me getting paranoid ? I waited for another half an hour when from behind I heard a kudu cow bark and then some impala. With those alarm calls I knew that the leopard won’t be close by and was somewhere in between those impala and kudu.

I gave it another 5 minutes or so and decided to give it up for the night. I left the battery and spotlight and took the walk back to my bakkie. Without spotting much on the way back to the farmhouse I stopped there at around 10pm the farmer was still up and walked over to expecting good news but I told him what happened. He told me that he had high hopes but lets see tomorrow.
I could have checked the bait in the morning or leave the area to quiet down more and go back in the afternoon. Again I phoned the neighbours and there was no activity of the leopard on their side again. I hoped that the tom would start to get hungry and hopefully he wasn’t successful in bagging something recently. The day went by slow and I decided to go earlier and stopped the bakkie at 4pm, I found hyena tracks again and tracks of the leopard crossing the road that must have been last night when the impala’s and kudu were making alarm calls.
Anyway I settled in and just before dark that damn honey badger gave me the fright of my life again ! I almost decided to shoot the F#cker but got hold of myself and decided not to. I waited until he left and the same thing as last night happened the klipspringers alarm calls and then afterwards the kudu and impala. I called it a night earlier this time and went home.


The next day I decided to go in the morning after all and check the bait, there next to the hide was the leopards tracks was it made while I was there or after ??? I got very cold thinking that I was there without any protection from my back. Anyway the bait was not hit except for the hyena tracks all around. I went home and decided to give it one more try that night and I had to gather a lot of guts to go out again that afternoon. With all my guts gathered up I took the road 4pm and decided to give it one last chance. I settled down and it became dark at least the badger didn’t come in this time.
Again the klipspringers made their alarm calls and again the kudu and impala as well so the only hope I had compared to the other nights is to sit longer. I must have dozed off as the next time I checked my watch it was past 10pm . The bloody badger came in and if he thought that he gave me a fright the previous evenings it was ten times worse this time. I settled everything made sure I had a view of the tree trough the scope the spotlight far ahead of the scope and switched on the spotlight there he was the bloody badger couple of milliseconds away from a bullet that I almost fired.

I don’t know if it was the same one or not but he looked quite big and definitely made my finger itch but I called it off and switched off the light. Darkness returned and the surrounding sounds came back after my heartbeat that was going like a big bass drum slowed down. That is it, that was my night I switched on the light scared everything away except a hungry badger time to pack up. I grabbed my rifle and torch and took the road at a slow pace. Halfway to my bakkie I heard some movement to my right and very close. I decided to have a look and switch on the maglite. There he was 8 feet away and lying down the big tom, time stood still while I stared in those eyes my mind was working overtime what to do if he jumps ? As suddenly as the time stood still so fast did it speed up as he turned around and vanished into the bush. This time my heart went like a steam engine very loud and strong it was too much for me.

The leopard beat me and the other ph’s fair and square and the farmer could push up his reward to R10 000 and I would still say no. No-one could bag the leopard but a couple of years later he seemed just to vanish and worry nobody anymore. Except for the usual leopards in the area there wasn’t a real problem leopard like him afterwards not to talk about those tracks you could see it clearly when it was him, huge and clear.

As Walter slowly (the only speed he knows) walks up to the shooting sticks that the PH has positioned. Walter adjusts his glasses, moves the first GPS system that hangs around his neck over his shoulder...scraches his nuts....moves the second GPS system that hangs around his neck over his shoulder....looks at the PH and says, "what Warthog?"

"That bloodly one right there staring at you, Walter!"

Walter, staring at the PH with a blank look of confusion over his entire face, says nothing and turns and looks through the scope once again.

"I see only grass," Walter finishes.

The Warthog, having stood bravely broadside for two minutes, having been egged on by his fellow piggies to play chicked with the famous White Hunter, Walter, waddles off.

Walter has to walk to find the piggie again.

Walter walks some more, cursing every few minutes.

Finally, the great hunter is told that the game they are looking for is but 80 meters away.

"Where," Walter says to the hunting group.

"There," the PH says, pointing to the Piggie standing silently in a barren field - no other tree or scrub or bush within 100 meters of it.

"I do not see him. I only see grass."

Fuming with frustration, fianally believing the words Saeed has said of Walter these past 18 days on safari, the PH said, "Right there. Pull the trigger or you are walking all the way back to camp."

Walter raises his rifle onto the shooting sticks...moves the first GPS receiver that hangs around his neck over his shoulder...he pushes his eyeglasses back onto his face...he moves the binoculars off his neck and hands them to the PH. "Here, hold these."

He moves the second GPS system that hangs around his neck over his shoulder.

"Where is he? I only see grass," Walter says.

"Shoot the bloody animal, Walter."

BOOM! The big gun barks.

When the dust settles, Walter is cletching his shooting shoulder. "God damn gun..."

Everyone is laughing.

Down range eveyone realizes that Walter bagged yet another deadly African tree. The piggie Walter was after lived to tormet the great white hunter another day.

I'm sure this story will not even come close to some of African hunt stories but I'll give it a whirl anyhow. A true story.

In the early spring of 1993 a good friend of mine invited me to hunt sheep with him and his wife in his "honey" hole in the Brooks Range. The plan was to drive to Galbreath Lake and meet our pilot who would fly us into Lake 1. We arrived in early August as scheduled but the weather was dreadful, low ceiling, rain and fog would delay our trip out. So we decided to kill some time by driving the Haul road and see what we could see. This was my first trip up that way and I was amazed by the sheer numbers of caibou we were seeing. We also saw several grizzlies and some musk ox.

The next day was clear and our pilot was able to land at the lake and fly us to our destinantion. After getting dropped off we set up base camp and did some glassing, within minutes my friends wife, Dee spotted what she thought were3 huge caribou bulls. I peered through my spotter to see that they were not caribou but 3 very large bull moose that had comeout of a riverbed choked with willows. What a sight!! Well the next morning was once again clear and cool and we set out for our sheep hunting area which was a 5 hour hike from base camp. After reaching our hunting spot we set up camp and got things situated, cleaned our rifles, had some dinner then off to bed.

We hunted hard for 2 days and didn't see much in the way of legal sheep but on the 3rd day my friend Jeff connected on a nice full curl ram with a split right horn. He packed the ram back to camp in his backpack and after unloading it, he washed it in the creek behind our camp. We set up a meat cache 200 yards upwind from camp and went about our business.

The following day we split up once again to try and find 2 more legal rams but the weather started to turn on me so I decided to go back to camp. When I arrived I could see that Jeff and Dee were already there and had a nice fire going so we wiped our guns down and put them in the tent, a mistake that I will never make again. We were standing around the fire talking about NASCAR and Dee was cooking a Mtn House lasagna dinner when I heard what I thought was a low flying raven. I was looking up at the sky when Dee screamed "bear"!! I turned around to see where it was and saw the sow with cuns in tow, only 30 yards away and coming fast. I had no weapon and no chance to get my rifle. The sow stopped behind my tent which was less than 10 feet from me and she stuck her head in Jeff's pack, trying to find the sheep that she thought was in the pack. Dee started to turn and run and I yelled to her"Dee! don't run.....stop" and she stopped immediately but in doing so we got the sow's full attention.

The sow, which was on her hind legs, got down on all 4's and came at us slowly as her cubs searched around our camp. This was the closest I have ever been to any animal in the wild, I could have reached out and touched her nose she was that close. We managed to get into the nearby dry riverbed and the sow broke off her slow charge and went back into our camp. As soon as she turned her back Dee ran like hell to go and find help, there was a spike camp about a 1/2 mile away but Dee would find out later that they had already left. Jeff and I stayed behind to see what the bear was going to do to our camp. They milled about camp until they found our meat cache and proceeded to eat the entire sheep in less than 2 minutes, leaving nothing but a scapula and half a game bag.

We watched intently as they continued to look for food but could not find any. We were pretty worried that they were going to destroy our camp and thats why we stayed so close. Well eventually the cubs must have winded us and didn't like what they were smelling so they took off out of sight while the sow continued to search for something to eat. After a few minutes she noticed that the cubs had run off so she took off after them, once she was out of sight we ran back into camp and retrieved our rifles. We drew a line in the sand, so to speak, and that was the line we would defend if we had too. It wasn't 5 minutes and here they come running back at us but this time I was ready, with a fully loaded rifle and another 20 rounds in my pocket, I blasted a rock in front of the sows nose. This had no affect on her so I did it again, still no affect........8 more times I shot at her and she never even flinched.

I guess she must have had enough as she woofed at her cubs and off they went, out of sight in a drainage up the river bed. I could not believe she would not leave and had a bad feeling that this was going to end on a very sad note for either her or us. We were watching the bear when Jeff says to me "if she takes one step towards us, let her have it", I didn't want to shoot her but if she attacked we would have no choice. Well, the worse thing that could happen, did........she stood up growling and as soon as she took her first step, Jeff gave her a 180 grain Nosler in the chest from Big Nan, his favorite 30-06. After the first shot she started growling even worse and clawing at her chest so I gave her one in the neck, another through the nose and one in the mouth. We shot a total of 9 rounds and hit her with 7, from first shot to the last it was no more than 10 seconds and she was dead. I couldn't belive this happened to me.

Needless to say I could not sleep at all that night and as I laid in my sleeping bag I could hear something outside my tent. I yelled to Jeff and I grabbed my gun thinking, not again. I jumped out of the tent to see Jeff chasing an injured wolf up and down the riverbed in his underwear. He didn't get the wolf and I didn't get my ram but I came home alive and in the grand scheme of things, thats all that really mattered. As an aside, When we took the sheep horns and cape into the taxidermist, we aksed him if we did a good job on the cape, he started laughing and said "you guys did a great job, to bad he doesn't have a nose". I could believe it, teh sow managed to eat the nose off the cape without us seeing it and even after fleshing and salting it down he still didn't see it. A funny ending to a trip that could have ended a lot worse!

We stopped the Toyota when we saw the herd of buffalo crossing the white sand of the korongo half a mile away. After 7 days of practice Canuck, Alan Vincent, two trackers (Philip and Kiondo), the game scout (Saeedi) and myself bailed off the truck and were ready in seconds. It was my turn to shoot. We took off at a fast trot through the deep soft sand in the brush before the korongo. Thankfully after a hundred yards Alan heard my labored breathing and slowed to a sustainable jog.

We had to get past them in the wind and it was a long slog as they were also moving downwind on the other side. After Alan thought we’d gone far enough we turned towards the korongo. Canuck saw Alan’s tracker, Philip, shake his head – NOT HERE. Sure enough, 50 yards before the korongo we ran into a cow elephant who promptly chased us back to our original track!

This was fairly routine by now and wordlessly we continued downwind another 150 yards and again turned towards the dry river bed. No elephants in the way this time. As we reached the cut bank we could see the dust of the herd 200 yards upwind. They were grazing their way downwind and downstream the far side of the korongo towards the Luwegu River to drink.

The barren soft white sand stretched about 50 yards to the cut bank on the far side. But there was a stretch of inviting, low green grass growing below the cut bank. There was a splinter of the herd in the bottom grazing their way towards us. The low grass was only 40 yards away – a long bow shot, but the best we were going to get. Alan and I eased down the cut bank and into position downstream of a bush that was half-tumbled into the wash. A perfect ambush setup after days of effort!

From here we were within 35 yards of the grassy strip. Alan motioned to the tracker for Canuck’s rifle (just in case the buff didn’t get to bow range) and Canuck brought it to us from where the non-combatants were huddled 50 yards back from the bank. After he handed down the rifle, Alan motioned for him to back into a thick bush about 3 yards back from the bank and told him to stay as still as possible.

As we all settled into position we could hear the buffalo coming towards us, and smell the dust on the wind. Very soon we all heard something else. That cow elephant was also grazing downwind towards us. We could hear her breaking off branches and chewing the bark off as she closed the distance.


The buffalo were approaching, too. The elephant sounds were louder now, and seemed to give the buffalo confidence. A cow and a three-year-old bull split off the herd and crossed over the korongo and began feeding on the bush we were hiding behind. I saw Alan ready his cherished bunduki (a 450 Ackley) for the first time in an already adventurous week. I could hear the young bull’s breath and see every hair between his horns. The smell of his breath took me back to the barnyards of my youth. When he exhaled gustily after a particularly tough morsel I could feel the damp warmth on my cheek. He was within 6 feet of us.

The buffalo cow soon scrambled up the bank and was feeding on the top of our bush, between Canuck and us. Meanwhile the elephant had worked her way to within 20 yards of Canuck. This was getting a bit complicated, but I stayed focused on the buffalo herd. There were no shooters in the scattering of buff in the bottom of the korongo, but I was keeping my eye on a mature bull on the far bank that looked like he might work his way clear of the herd and onto the edge.

Alan rustled the leaves under the bush - trying to emulate a snake and move the young bull. He ignored it. Alan then shook a branch – at first softly and then harder -- but still the bull kept pulling leaves and twigs off the bush and munching them hungrily. Alan was just starting to thread the shooting sticks through the bush – I can only assume he was going to poke the bull in the nose with them – when suddenly there was a commotion behind us.

Up on top of our bank the trackers had seen the elephant coming and had been motioning frantically for several minutes for Canuck to join them. Canuck had held his ground to keep from spooking the buffalo until the cow elephant actually started feeding on the bush he was sitting in. He felt naked since he was unarmed, but couldn’t see exactly where the elephant was. He could clearly see the cow buffalo only 8 feet to his left, directly between him and us. Canuck carefully got up into a low crouch position and slowly moved directly away from the bush he was in. After a loooong half-minute of this, the cow buffalo jumped off the bank. Once Canuck was clear of the opening between him and the korongo, he bolted to join the trackers who were in a hasty retreat from the elephant cow.

The cow buffalo on the bank had not smelled Canuck – and had not had a clear look at him, but the motion was enough to move her. As she scrambled back down the bank she jostled the young bull and both started back to the herd.

The herd was not badly spooked but moved off away from the disturbance. We let them go since we did not want to push them across the river onto another concession.

When Canuck and I had first contemplated this hunt over two years before, we both wanted to experience Africa at its wildest and wanted to see elephant while tracking up buffalo. We both agree we got even more than we hoped for. Although no buffalo were brought to bag on this day, it stands out at one of our finest hunting experiences of all time.

Hatari tembo!

I had Paul last year, and it was a disaster. He brought his wife and their best friends along. Two couples, young, early 30's, friends since High School. Husbands were hunting, wives observers. I was guiding Paul, Hank had Jim. They were here on a 10 day Buffalo and plainsgame hunt. From the start there seemed to be a little tension between Paul and Misty, his wife. They didn't seem to go together. Paul looked like the captain of the debate team, Misty the head cheerleader. Who knows, maybe opposities attract. Things started out well. Paul was a cautious hunter. He only took shots that he knew he could make. After 3 days we had a kudu, impala and a warthog in the salt. Three trophies, 3 shots. Jim was a different case. If he saw it, he wanted to shoot it. He took his Buff on day one. A mature bull, but small. Hank said he wouldn't wait for a better one, it was all he could do to keep him from shooting a cow. He also had a kudu, an impala and a tsesebe down. Misty started to tease Paul saying that Jim was the real hunter. Paul just smiled, but things got a little more tense. By day 5 Louise, Jim's wife was bored. After a day of complaints, Jim agreed to send her down to Capetown so she could shop and sightsee. Louise flew off and everything went to hell. The next day Misty decided to ride with Jim, she was tired of sitting in the truck while we tracked the Dagga boys thought the bush. The next few days fell into a routine, Paul and I were up and out before dawn looking for tracks. Jim and Misty slept late and rode around with Hank shooting pictures and an occasional trophy. Lunches were long. Dinners were longer. Paul and I tracked and tracked. We were within 30 ft of Buffalo time after time, but a shot never presented itself. Each day Paul got a little quieter, Misty and Jim a little louder, and the tension got a little tighter. Finally the last day. I was up early, but Paul was up earlier. When I found him he was standing in front of one of the vacant tents. The woman's footprints leading from his tent were clear. So were the man's from Jim's tent, "I guess the tent lady didn't have time to sweep them this morning", Paul said. What do you reply? Finally I said "Lets go shoot your buffalo". "Yea' Paul said, "Lets go shoot something". We hunted hard. Early on we got on the track of a big old Dagga boy. Mile after mile we followed him, staying down wind, waiting for him to lay up. Finally he stopped in the shade of an ironwood tree. We stalked, crept and then crawled. Finally we were within 40 yards. Paul cocked his Krieghoff and wispered "I'm going to get just a little closer". He slide forward another 10 yards than stood up and aimed. The buffalo started and the 470 roared. I actually saw the impact, behind the shoulder angling back through the guts, "damn, bad shot!". I stepped to the right and lifted my Brno but Paul stepped into my line. The Buffalo charged, I moved left, so did Paul. Like a deadly ballet we moved in sync, the buffalo paul and I. Finally at the last second Paul aimed right under the nose, fired his second barrel and the Buffalo collapsed at his feet. Paul turned, grinned and said; "now that was fun".
We got back to the camp with just enough time for them to settle up and catch the bushplane out.
Paul came back last week. As he got off the plane I said "alone this year?" "Yea" he replied. "You remember that vacant tent last year?" " Well I used to plug my video camera in there to charge it up. I guess I left it on one night. When we got back I invited the inlaws over to see our pictures, I haven't seen Misty since then".

Here is my story:

We were hunting in the Save Conservancy, south-eastern Zimbabwe, one bright cool morning when out of no where a magnificent old water buck bull moved out of the long grass. We were out tracking buff but we could hardly pass this opportunity up! After all, when in Africa, one must remember, "Take what the bush offers you!"

My PH, Jonathan Hulme of Zambezi Hunters, set up the sticks and said, "get ready". As the bull cleared a small group of mupane trees into a narrow shooting lane, Jonathan said, "take him". At the shot the bull bucked hard as if hit by a bolt of lightening. He bolted over the next rise and we lost sight of him. I was sure of my sight picture and knew he could not have gone far.

Amos, our lead tracker was quick to pick up his trail and the hunt was on again. How could that bull have soaked up a 286 grain Barnes Triple Shock bullet from my 9.3 X 62mm Blaser rifle and run off as if a bee had stung him?

A short time into the follow-up and we came to a small rocky kopje, maybe 2 meters high, and clearly the bull had hoofed it right over the top. The blood trail was so obvious that even I could follow right on the path the old bull had taken. As we crested the rise, we heard a horrific comotion. Two huge lions were on my bull tearing it to shreds! Jonathan yelled and they simply looked up at us. Then, in unison, we fired several rounds over their heads in an effort to save what was left of my cape and horns. Fortunately, that was enough for the lions. However, a rhino, invisible to us, charged from our right at the sound of the shots. We scampered into nearby trees as the female rhino snorted her fury all about us. After some time, she eventually tired of the game and ran off into the bush.

Exhausted from all the excitment we sat for a few moments to collect ourselves. Amos headed back for the truck and we decided to go check out the water buck. The lions were back! Only this time in greater number...and we were low in ammo having emptied our guns the first time. Jonathan began shouting insults at them in Shona...thinking the native togue perhaps was more effective than the King's English. To no effect, they growled and showed there teeth with a menacing expression seldom seen or experienced. I had two rounds left and my trusty PH had one. We shot at the feet of the biggest lion and they all turned tail and ran, we thought we were good. But, it wasn't us that spooked them. The roar of a diesel Toyoto Land Cruiser truck in the distance had been our savior.

It was truly a memorable hunt. We never did get back on the trail of the buffalo. That is another story!

By: Dr. Tim Burkhart

My First Elephant

Day one our first safari got off to a rocky start with the PH dragging himself out of his tent at the leisurely hour of 8:30 AM extremely hung over and smelling like a whiskey barrel. He had just finished a very successful safari with the previous clients and the celebration had gone well into the wee hours of the morning. The PH said “Lets go†I said “I’m not going anywhere with you until you sober up†as I was poking him with my finger to emphasize my displeasure. As you can imagine that day was very unpleasant with discussions ranging from bringing in a new PH to Sadie and I packing up and going home. It was finally decided that we would continue the hunt with this PH rather than lose another day waiting for a new PH. Ultimately this was the very best decision but at the time it certainly seemed a gamble.

Day two of our safari found us off at first light for Lake Kariba to shoot an impala and just look over the area. We got a little distracted from our plan for the day about 15 minutes into the ride.

The sun had not risen yet as a large gray shape materialized from the left side of the road. I distinctly remember being in awe as this was the first wild elephant I had ever seen. I also remember next feeling a little concerned as the biggest wild animal I had ever seen was bearing down on us at speed with ears flapping and all the while emitting some frightful screams. He backed off short of the vehicle but continued to make frightening rushes toward us. The PH had been watching the elephant closely through these threat displays and asked me if I would look at the elephant’s head with my binoculars as he though there was a wound between its eyes. I’d really rather have been somewhere else at that moment but I looked anyway. Sure enough the bull had two large open sores between his eyes. I was thinking “so what†when the PH said that we had to put down the elephant as it was part of his job in this tribal area where we were hunting. In the meantime the bull had moved off into the bush. We bailed out of the vehicle, loaded up the rifles and it became very clear that we were in wild Africa .

As we took up the trail I made note that the PH’s rifle was a well worn pushfeed Model 70 with the pistol grip wrapped in duct tape and the bolt handle up. Hmmmm! After a short bit of tracking into the wind we found ourselves 35 yards from the elephant whose whole body was exposed but he had his head behind a tree and couldn’t see us. Up to this point I had been sort of an observer of all this from a detached frame of mind almost as though I was watching it on OLN. That changed suddenly as the PH pulled me to the left and said “This is your elephant. Shoot him in the V at the top of the forelegâ€. I stepped left a little more to get a clear view, raised the rifle and put a 500 grain solid in the V as instructed. I was no longer an observer. The elephant whirled 180 degrees faster than I ever could have imagined and crashed into the thick bush. I heard the PH fire once to my right as I reloaded and fired twice at the departing elephant. The bull now was crashing off and then suddenly there was a weird silence. I looked back at the crew and everybody was smiling broadly. The elephant was down within 40 yards.

All of us cautiously approached the elephant and as is always prudent I put in the insurance shot. Now it was time for handshakes all around and for me to try and absorb what had just happened. In the first hour, on the first hunting day of my first safari I had shot the first elephant I ever saw. Wow! One of the trackers brought Sadie down to the kill sight and we relived the whole amazing affair several times. The rest of that day was a dream and I did get my impala.

We finished that safari with the original PH who turned out to be excellent with many years experience in the bush. He helped us take a great old Cape buffalo plus taught us a huge amount of bushcraft. We later moved to the lowveld where we had several more excellent days of hunting taking a great sable and other trophies but nothing measured up to that first hour, of the first day, on the first safari.

Mark

I was sitting quietly in an elevated blind over looking a game trail when I heard a noise on the path .... I quickly readied my rifle but at first I couldn't tell what it was .... then I saw it was only a cannibal passing his neighbor on the path.

It's not fair. I barely speak spanish ...imagine me trying to write something in english...

The little rifle that never quits

It started as a hunk of steel and pieces of wood in a New Haven Connecticut plant in 1917. The craftsman put her together with the same care as they did many like her.

She was a Model 92 in 25-20 and was shipped to a man in southern Minnesota and three years later was bought used by a boy that took care of her for the next 70 years. She had a new front sight added when the varminting demanded a faster bullet and the 60 grain OPE required a higher sight but this was the only modification she saw in all those years.

She was called the "fox" rifle even though she had killed several deer and at least one trophy sized deer. The little gun was outlawed in 1934 for deer hunting and replaced by a 303 savage.

Not to be deterred the little gun still did the chores all year round shooting jack rabbits and foxes and occasionally was used for squirrels and other small game.

The boy grew up and raised four youngsters and all of them learned to respect Dad's "fox rifle" as they, in turn, all learned to shoot it but not to touch Dad's prize rifle unless they asked!

As life happens Dad passed on in 1992 and left his prized rifle to the only son that really took to hunting. The little rifle sat in a closet firing only a few shots for over twenty years and desparately needed to get back to work but the son had other and more useful guns to play with and many of them.

Then the little rifle was invited to the ball and being a Cinderella was just fine with her as she was stuffed in the Tuff Pak after being placed in a well padded soft case and she got to ride with another old sister, a 300 H&H and they was getting on an airplane and headed for Port Elizabeth South Africa. The idea of going to Africa was unheard of and the little rifle was so excited to be hunting again but this time in a place unimaginable.

She was met at the airport by a PH who escorted her to a place several KM north of Port Elizabeth and eventually to a place in the back of a Safari Vehicle. She was so very happy there and everyone knew it. She was very proud!

Several days into the safari the Son decided to give chase to a duiker and asked the little rifle to have this dance. She was delighted and after only an hour of walking about this wonderous dance hall she barked her familiar tune and the duiker was hers. She had not let him down. She had done for the son exactly what she had done for those that took care of her now for nearly ninety years.

It was to be the only dance she would get in Africa as the other animals was too big for her but nothing could have made her happier. She had served and served well and she knew what it was, once again, to be proud to be a big game rifle.

She now occupies a place next to her sister in the gun cabinet where she proudly shows off when anyone asks about her. She knows her place will always be in that cabinet and that she will be asked to go again. Such patience!!!!!

Remembering How to Hunt
(Jerry Rutkowski)

Most Texas deer hunters depend on enclosed blinds, food plots, and electric feeders to ensure deer sightings and controlled shot opportunities. All the above are excellent tools that contribute to a selective harvest and good management. But these tools can, over time, dull our hunting instincts.

I knew different tactics would be needed after receiving a surprise call from an old friend. We had been drawn to hunt on the Chaparral Wildlife Management Area. The Chaparral WMA is a research facility just north of Laredo in the fabled golden triangle hunting area of south Texas. Feeding and baiting are not allowed on the Chaparral. We also soon learned that the available blinds, while well placed, left the blaze orange clad hunter highly exposed.

New this year, hunters are allowed to scout the Chaparral prior to bidding for hunting compartments. The time for scouting, while very helpful, would only provide a high level look at the 15,000 acres of options.

It was time to focus on the basics - cover, food, and water. It does not take long to affirm that drainages are the answer. They provide heavier and taller cover than other areas. Drainages and nearby areas also provide a higher concentration of preferred food. There are abundant browse species dominated by grajeno and brasil along with fall forbs and weeds. Water can be found along major drainages.

In one area along a brush choked draw, I find six rubs and seven scrapes. This is the place I begin my hunt.

Horns are rattled and a young eight point buck steps into a clearing. In another direction a spike appears. I begin still hunting with standing shooting sticks. A thinned horned 10 point walks into my crosshairs. I pass. He is not the one. The spot feels good and I wait. Two dark horned bucks chase a doe in and out of heavy cover but never offer a shot. Nearby I see several small bucks and does. The place is hot. It is only a matter of time.

A problem develops. Others in the party are not seeing deer and want to change pastures. I dissent but agree. Do the right thing. I am always given what I need.

Again I focus on the drainages. Rubs and scrapes are harder to find than in the previous area. I see a few deer including a shooter at long range, but my chances are definitely down. There is not enough time to simply wait on stand for a chance encounter. I rattle and still hunt throughout the day.

It is the last morning of the hunt and I work my way back to the truck. It has been a good hunt. I have learned a lot. I stop one last time to observe the intersection of a dry creek and a sendero. The rifle is on the sticks and I reflect on the past week.

In a surreal moment, that all hunters know, a buck appears. His horns have mass and he is quickly walking to the brush line. I have three seconds to evaluate the buck and make the shot. The trigger breaks and I know I am too far back. It doesn’t matter. I find him dead ten yards from the shot. He is a 4 ½ year old 8 point buck that is a trophy, if only in my eyes.

I hunted hard for that shot. Planning, scouting, proper equipment, hard work, all increased the odds of success. But that is only part of the story.

I picked the spot on a map where he was to die two days before ever seeing the area. I do not believe in luck. The concept of coincidence is for those unable to accept that life is guided by something they cannot understand.

In my left chest pocket there is an old silver compass. It was carried by the grandfather on countless hunts before me. I think of him often as I walk on the red sand. My daydreams shift to my childhood as I wait for John L to return from a hunt. I run across the street as the yellow Pontiac pulls into the gravel driveway. He shows me the heavy horned buck curled in the trunk. Someday I will do the same.

I believe in things we feel and know even if science cannot prove them. Hunter and prey are drawn to each other. I know the buck will be mine. My steps are guided even as I choose them. This is how it always was and always will be.

I pray we will all have a hunt such as this one. Long live the Chaparral!

(Written in memory of R.E. Schneider and John L. Dury. Merry Christmas and thank you my old friends.)

It was the summer of my tenth year, as usual I went to Arkansas to spend a couple of months with my grandparents. Also as usual, the first morning after my arrival, I was up bright and early to meet my Uncle Bob by the mail box to go fishing. He always acted like it was a suprise to see me standing there, but looking back I wonder how he always had a fishing trip planned on my first morning, no matter what day of the week it was. I think he looked forward to my visits as much as I did. My uncle Bob was actually my Great Uncle and was already in his eightys. All his kids and grandkids were grown and gone, so I was his main fishing buddy.

On this particular morning, Uncle Bob seemed very excited and anxious to tell me something. He stopped the truck jumped out and before I Knew what was going on, he had all my gear in the back and me and our lunch, which my Grandma had packed for me, in the front and was away. All this hurrying and rushing off was so unlike him, I didn't know quite how to act. Then he told me the good news. " Son I finally convinced your Grandmother that you will be old enough to Deer hunt, with me, this winter." Uhhhhhh did you say what I think you said? Thats right, but we will have alot of work to do, to get you and the dogs ready. (They still hunt deer with dogs in Arkansas.) " Okay lets skip fishing, turn around and get started." " Lets go ahead with our fishing trip so we can talk a while and get all the details and ground rules laid out. Besides I've been real hungry for some nice, fat, Gogle Eye Bream." I don't remember a single detail about the fishing that day. All I could think about was hunting with Uncle Bob and the dogs, that winter. I won't go into all the details but he told me how a proper hunt would be conducted with much emphasis on safety, after all "you will be carrying a gun and they can be very dangerous if you are careless." "What did you say?" " Oh, did I forget to tell you that part?" I'm sure Uncle Bob was having great fun with me and my reactions but he finnaly said it. " Go look behind the seat of the truck." There it was... My great Grandfather Smiths old, single shot, 12ga. shotgun. All the blueing was gone, along with the chekering on the wood. The butt stock had a big S carved in it and was repaired with a piece of rawhide and a few brass tacks. It was and still is the most beautiful gun in the world.

We worked real hard that summer, when we weren't fishing. We worked the dogs every day and we worked on my shooting almost every afternoon. We kept the path cleared to the old cabin and stayed the night there several times. "Just so I could get a feel for the place." ( Uncle Bob built that cabin, with his bare hands, back during the depression. He and his young family lived there and made their living off the land and from the woods, for several years.)We built a new trailer for the dogs and all our gear. Uncle bob had an old John Deere lawn tractor that he had pulled the mower deck off of. He said we would put the tractor in the truck and pull the trailer to the foot of the cabin trail. Then we would pull the trailer, with the tractor, to the cabin. That way we do not get the truck stuck and we will always have a ride out. Pretty good thinking.

Man, did I hate to go home at the end of that summer. School seemed to drag on and on. Every day was torture. Each new day was the longest day of my life. October rolled around and it got worse. All I wanted to think about was hunting. I could hardly concentrate on my school work. Uncle Bob had let me carry that shotgun home and let me tell you brother, if there had been any finish left, I would have rubbed it off with that oily rag. No rust would form on that prize while on my watch. No sir.

Then came November. When school, finally, let out I was already packed and ready to go. It seemed like it took a week to make that five hour drive. When we got there, there was no way I could wait until the next morning to see Uncle Bob. I jumped out of the car, grabbed my shotgun and ran all the way to his house. He was waiting for me on the porch. Uncle Bob had the trailer loaded with all the gear. He said, you sleep in the front room tonight. In the morning we will load the dogs, swing by to get your stuff and we'll be at the cabin in time for breakfast. We did just that. It was still a few days before opening day so we spent our time scouting and fooling with the dogs. Uncle Bob's friend, Jim Tobin, showed up to help out and Uncle Bob explained that Jim would take the dogs out so he could sit the stand with me, since it was my first time. Fine by me, I can't wait. Opening morning dawned very cold but clear. We ate breakfast and were gone way before sunup. It didn't bother me, I hadn't slept a wink anyway.

We finally got to the spot where we would make our stand. We found a good place to sit, piled some brush around us and sat down for the wait. Old Jim Tobin had taken the dogs a couple of miles in the opposite direction. Hopefully they would pick up on a dear and run it by us. They call that a race in that part of the country. Uncle Bob took this opportunity to inform me that if I missed my first deer, they would cut off my shirt tail, write my name on it and hang it on the wall down at the Farmers Coop. Great. No preasure at all. Soon we heard the dogs hollering and we got ready. I must have checked my gun a hundred times. "Your gun is loaded. Quit fooling around and get ready. They will be hear before you know it." Sure enough, before long we heard the lead dog. Uncle Bob said they were on a deer. He could tell by the sound of the dog's bark. They kept getting closer and closer then, all of the sudden there he was moving through the brush at an unbelievable speed. A medium sized, five point buck that looked like a Giant to me. When he came within about forty yards Uncle Bob whistled, real loud. The buck stopped, looked our way and I shot. After that every thing became a blur. The next thing I remember we are standing over my deer. Uncle Bob is smearing blood on my face, shaking my hand and hooping and hollering. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I just sat down. When I finnaly regained my composure Uncle Bob showed me how to field dress a deer and we drug it back to camp. We dined like kings that night on backstrap and fried potatos. I don't think anything will ever taste that good again.

Uncle Bob and I enjoyed many more hunting trips over the next few years. I will always be grateful for all the time we were able to spend together. Uncle Bob is gone now and it is my turn to be the teacher. My son turned ten this year and we hunted hard. We did not get a deer but we spent many wonderful hours together and we are looking forward to many many more.

There is no way I could tell this story with all the details, the way it should be told but they will live forever in my memory.

Happy new year to all of the good folks here on AR.

Early one winter's morning in 1984 a shot rang out in the Limpopo Valley. My first Kudu trophy hunt I had saved up for 4 years for this hunt. Skimping here working some extra over time, I finally had the money.

We were out after kudu in typical mopane scrub and were approaching a small range of koppies where we knew the lone bulls were to be found, often forming large bachelor herds.One of these had been an old bull the skin that light grey from age and bleaching from the sun. We had seen it the day before his horns were exceptional long with good deep curls that give that extra length as well. A trophy in every sense. This was my bull four years in the waiting and slaving was worth the animal I had seen.

Halfway to the koppies my eye suddenly caught a flash of movement in some dense mopane about 50 metres away. Again I saw it - this time the telltale pale stripesand massive chest, the dusky grey brown colour blending so beautifully with the mopane stems. Again the movement, and this time a large chest filled a perfect gap in the mopane scrub. This was the bull I knew it. The head and neck perfectly obscured him from seeing me.

By now the adrenaline was pumping furiously and all the heady excitement of the hunt was in full swing. I hadn't yet seen the horns, but surely the horns belonging to this huge chest must be the biggest in the Limpopo Valley!

I slowly lifted my rifle to my shoulder and excitedly looked through the scope at my target, still miraculously positioned in the tunnel of bush, giving me a clear chest shot. Unbelievably the kudu bull seemed completely unaware of our presence. Shaking like a leaf I edged towards a small sapling to give me a dead rest for the rifle. In spite of the support from the springy branch my rifle was still bobbing up and down. Eventually, knowing that kudu, especially the big, clever bulls, aren't tied to one spot, I steadied the rifle as best I could for a lung shot, and squeezed the trigger.

The effect was dramatic. The cool winter morning was shattered by the tremendous crash of sound. The valley and koppies seemed to reverberate like never before. Birds screeched, and even a troop of monkeys added to the din.

What was the effect of the shot? It must have been deadly, with a 180gr 30.06 bullet through the lungs he wouldn't go far, if he wasn't down already.

To my utter amazement the kudu was still there! The huge chest was still in the clearing. I had seen this sort of thing before - a stunned, mortally injured or spine-shot animal may stand for a brief while before falling or running off.

I quickly re-loaded, determined to give the bull a second shot in case it recovered sufficiently to run off.

As the cross hairs again settled on the centre of the chest, which miraculously didn't show any signs of blood, the animal slowly moved forward into a dense patch of scrub out of my view. This certainly indicated that it was mortally wounded, probably on its knees by now, as it had only taken a few steps and I had heard no sound of it running or crashing off through the bush.

Again I saw the chest appear in the next tunnel along how could I have missed? I lined up the cross hairs yet again on the enormous chest and let him have it. But there was no sound of running or crashing as expected with a lung heart shot. Had I missed again? Surely not I had shot a clover leaf at the sighting range.

Buck fever had never really troubled me before, but today I was not sure what was happening.

The tracker and I went forward to where I had taken the first shot. The ground behind the tunnel I had shot through was a raised area almost a ridge and there laying in the gully was a grey mound the chest was huge. But my heart stopped just a bit further along there was another grey mound I had done the unthinkable. I had shot two animals spine shots.

My tracker was pale he could not speak. When he did move it was to take the bells off the donkeys necks I had shot.

This is a true story, and even if it don't win a calendar, some of you might enjoy it.

This past March, when we were doing our guided Javelina hunts in west Texas, we had something happen that was not planned, but was as funny as hell.

Lora, my wife and business partner had gone to the ranch 3 days before our first hunter was to arrive to get things ready and do some scouting.

We were expecting our first hunter in on the second Friday in March, so on the day before, we drove out several areas of the ranch trying to spot some javelina. We didn't see anything.

Next day we hang around the hunt headquarters waiting for the hunter and his wife. They pull in a little after noon, and after the hellos we let them get their stuff unloaded and set up in one of the houses on the hunt area.

The hunters name is Ed, and he had hunted with us in 2005, and we get along real well. after he got his wife settled in, he came back over to the hunt headquarters and we went out hunting.

We checked out a few places and didn't find anything, so I decided to go on the north end of the ranch and see if we could stir something up.

We went back into an area where Lora and I had been the day before. We are driving along, and I spot a javelina about 40 yards or so from the road out in the pasture. I ease to a stop and point the animal out to Ed, and he picks up his rifle and eases out of the vehicle and goes to the back of the pickup and takes a shot.

At the sound of the shot, the animal drops, and Ed takes off out to where the javelina is lying. I bail out of the pickup, and as I walk up with my hand out to shake Ed's hand, I look down, and the javelinas left front foot is in a coyote trap.

Ed had not noticed this, so all the time we are shaking hands, I am apologising for the animal being in a trap. The animal was not there on the day before when Lora and I went thru there, and the Government trapper was not supposed to be running traps on that part of the ranch, but there we were.

I get the animal out of the trap, and field dress it and still apologisuing, tell Ed that we will take this one to the hunt headquarters and hang it and go back out if he wants to.

His only comment at that moment was, "That sounds okay, have you got any more traps set?"

Ed is coming back to hunt with us this year and when he wrote me tro confirm his booking, he asked if I was running the traps again this year.