I did not realise that jaguars got that big. I thought they were about the same size as cougars.

Jim

a big male can top 300 pounds...

there are a few BIG cats in those pics...

"The name jaguar is derived from the Native American word yaguar, which means 'he who kills with one leap.'"

I read book when I was a kid from guy that was hunting them around the turn of the century and mentioned there were some maneaters in Matto Grosso at that time.
Can't remember the book. It was in another language.

The Jaguar is one of the most beautiful cats in the entire world!

My personal favourite of the big cats. A few of these pics are quite modern though...

quote:

Originally posted by boarkiller:
I read book when I was a kid from guy that was hunting them around the turn of the century and mentioned there were some maneaters in Matto Grosso at that time.
Can't remember the book. It was in another language.

Boarkiller, perhaps you're referring to the Russian Aleksandr "Sasha" Siemel, AKA "Tigrero", who learned his spearmanship skills from the Guató Indians; his book was titled "Tigrero" and published in the English language under the auspices of the Explorers' Club of New York.

Hello,

Many of the pictures are from the book my close friend Tony Almeida wrote many years ago "Jaguar Hunting in Mato Grosso and Bolivia", Safari Press. He and his, then, partner, Richard Mason, have been the two best modern times Jaguar hunting outfitters and guides!! I met them last year in Sao Paulo, Brazil, at Tony´s (many years...) birthday

PH

Column 3, 13th photo down is a picture of David with his huge jaguar.



MONSTER OF THE PANTANAL

by David P.. Lauzen

My jaguar journal finally ended in Bolivia's swamps. We saw no fewer than seven of the
spotted cats during my five-day hunt.
Some guys just have to do it the hard way. Of course, that's what it's all about sometimes
- no pain, no gain. Gordon MacQuarrie, who wrote some of the very finest sporting literature years back (The Old Duck Hunter's Association, Inc.), put it very well in a story called "Ya Gotta Suffer."
Of all the North American big game animals, the jaguar sits on the top of my list for a number of reasons. For one thing, he's a worthwhile animal. He lives in some of the most demanding country found in this hemisphere. He potentially is very dangerous; even the hunting of him causes plenty of physical abuse, not to mention mental wear and tear. But more importantly, he never comes easy when hunted fair chase. And that's the problem with so many of the big game animals today - they're too damn easy.
This is the story of my fourth jaguar safari. The first three were indeed full of all sorts of calamities - nights spent in caves. insect bites, frustrations. sweat. and even a bout with tropical fever. It was booked through Lloyd Zeman out in Cody, Wyoming, with Tony de Almeida and Richard Mason of Sao Paulo and Cuiaba, Brazil. They both are known around the world as the finest and most successful jaguar hunters anywhere. Of the seven documented jaguars taken with 20-inch skulls or better, all seven have been collected with Dick and Tony II need I say more?
The area I hunted was the Pantanal swamps of Bolivia just over the border from the Mato Grosso of Brazil. For some unknown reason, Brazil allows no hunting, even though the jaguars play holy hell on the cattle there. However, the Bolivian officials see the problem a bit differently, and cattle killers may be hunted.
So much for the preliminaries; now on to the meat. After joining Dick in Caceres, Brazil, we flew to one of the ranches in Bolivia that he hunts, deep in the Pantanal swamps. We arrived on February 16,1985.
Sunday, February 17. 1985
Today was very full indeed. It started with wake up at 3:30 a.m.. which was a mere ten minutes after we went to bed, or so it seemed. We then drove one and a half hours to our jumping-off ranch and saddled up for a long, hot ride - six and a half hours. We finally were hailed by our canoes, and after saying howdy for awhile we poled out to camp, which took another three and a half hours. We pulled in at 5:00 p.m. and, during sundowners. were rousted by a six-foot
ananconda. It didn't survive to see the brilliant sunset. Pity.
This is the rainy season in the Pantanal,
and there is at least a foot of water most places. We're using two dugout boats to get around. The remainder of the time (which is most of the time) we walk. The water tends to slow you down, but in the heat, it's nice to have it around. I've found that the pause that refreshes is filling my helmet full of swamp water and then dumping it 'on my head. It's as glorious as the heat is sweltering. I am sitting here, it seems, cooking in my own juice.
After dinner last night, Dantas decided to go out and roar a bit. He was only gone a half hour or so when he returned to tell us to grab our stuff. He'd roared once and three different cats had answered. It promised to be an interesting evening, perhaps the most exciting and perhaps the most foolish of my life.
The first plan was to walk from camp to a vantage spot where we could try to bring a cat up. By 8:00 we were in position and calling. Almost immediately we had an answer, and it appeared we had a cat coming in fast.

Let me try to explain what it's like: You're sitting in a dripping, muddy mess. It's clear out, and when you look real hard, you can make out a star through the thick canopy of vegetation. You're sweating like you've never sweated before (or at least since your last visit to the Pantanal) and, of course, your eyes sting from the salt. I suppose the sweat comes from the sweltering temperature and conditions, but thinking about what's out there doesn't help. Nature did its finest work in the design of a killing machine when the jaguar came about. And now here you sit, waiting - hoping - for the jaguar to make its presence known to you.
It's so blasted dark that the only way you can keep in contact with your guide is by touch. The caller is grunting into a gourd, making a series of low roars. You go into full cock when the cat answers. You know it will come in; the problem is where to position yourself for the shot.
I had at my disposal two 12 gauge tubes loaded with three-inch 00 buck, and they are deadly out to 50 yards or so, but the hair on the back of my neck still tingles when I remember how that cat roared back and came slowly and deliberately splashing through the swamp. Finally, we even could hear the water dripping off the animal. By now, I was shoulder-to-shoulder with Dantas, and he
had me positioned to anticipate the jaguar's
final approach. Suddenly, he shook my shoulder to let me know he was about to turn on his flashlight. I would have only a couple of seconds to adjust my eyes to the light, find the cat, aim and fire.
When he switched on his torch, I snicked off the safety on my double. And - damnit anyway -I couldn't find the jaguar. Dantas

motioned with the light, but I was looking too close. I lifted my cheek off the stock just in time to see yellow eyes turn to look into our light. I could barely make out the shadow of the body - the cat appeared to be very small and about 40 yards away. The flash and roar of my first barrel blinded me; however, I could still detect movement out front, so I let go with the second. Then there was silence. Had I connected? Everyone seemed to think I had, but there was no cat in sight. There also was no blood trail, due to the swamp, but we heard footsteps out in the bog.
I now know why the cat seemed so small. It had been standing in water and a lot of vegetation up to its belly, so I probably shot too
high. Nothing, however, will ever make me forget those agonizing minutes when we heard that low grumbling roar and the advancing footsteps.
That was a lot of excitement for one evening. But it was tame, indeed, compared to what was coming up a couple of hours later.
We were back at camp by 12:30 a.m., and after a bourbon to settle things down, I went into my tent, lit the candle, got out my journal to record the day's events and had just settled in when (seemingly from right outside my tent flap) a jaguar roared. The sensation was incredible. The camp was immediately alive and jabbering. After a bit, Dick hollered over that Dantas wanted to go out after the cat with no delay. In retrospect, I know I'd fallen out of my tree.
It was pitch dark, which was odd because there were a zilIion up-close stars as we poled along deeper into the swamp. The idea was to get around our island and come back on the opposite side and try to call the jaguar in to us. It worked very wel1 - almost too well.
In an hour or so we were around the island and gliding silently up a channel when we heard a plop, plop, plop ahead of us. The jaguar was very close.
Dantas motioned for me to get out of the dugout canoe and we very quietly waded toward the cat as the boy in the boat began call
ing with his hol1owed-out gourd. At first I
didn't realize he was going to call, and when he began - right next to me - I damn near jumped clean out of the swamp.
Damas and I were hip deep in the dark channel and v-e-r-y close ahead (and I mean to emphasize "very") was 240-odd pounds of nature's grandest killing machine. I think at this point Dantas and I definitely were testing each other's machismo. It was very heady, indeed, those who sit at home and watch National Geographic on TV don't know what they're missing.
The next ten minutes were the most exciting of my life. We knew the cat was directly to our front, and he began to move to our left. Dantas flashed his torch, but in the thick bush all we could do is hear the cat. As I said before, it was heady.
As we quietly waded towards the sounds, my nerves were fully cocked and ready to explode. When we suddenly hit an island. there in the mud were tracks so fresh that the water was just seeping into them. We tried to follow, but they led back to the water. There was a reason we no longer could hear our cat no more than ten yards away in the canoe, Dick was facing a very aggravated male jaguar of mountainous proportions some six yards away.
We backtracked and looked, but saw nothing. Just then, we heard it move quickly to our left front and both Damas and I - like complete fools - dashed after it. Once again, the only way we could keep in contact with each other was by touch.
Well, as with a lot of great hunts, it was all to no avail. That cat vanished into the swamp. As we headed toward the canoe, Dick rushed up and filled us in on the whole story, Had he not been where he was, Dantas or I may well have been mauled.
While we were checking the tracks, not more than twenty yards behind us in some bush was a huge male jaguar watching our every move. When one of the boys called again from the canoe, out it came from the bush and headed our way. Dick happened to be standing in the water next to the canoe and flashing his torch into the darkness. Much to his surprise, he found yel1ow eyes staring back. and they were getting closer. Drawing his .357 for protection, he drew a bead. At six yards, the cat stopped and watched. It was a stand-off. Meanwhile, just behind, Damas and I were frantically searching to find which way the cat had gone. Had Dick not intercepted the jaguar. it would have stumbled right into us from the
rear. And that could have spel1ed trouble with a capital T.
Well, Dick was in one hell of a fix. He couldn't holler to us for fear that the jaguar would jump him. It was a nasty situation at best. His only alternative was to stand there, his .357 poised in one hand: his torch in the other, hoping that (I) the jaguar wouldn't make a final charge, and (2) that we'd come
back - and soon.
Just after what had to be an agonizing minute or so the jaguar moved rapidly off. That's when Damas and I heard it.
I hope I've been able to explain all of this properly. Even now, I feel the same sense of excitement I felt when it was all happening. I fear my journalistic talents will not pay tribute to that exciting evening.
We all got back into the canoe to try to head the great cat off once again. We poled and called, and several times we heard the jaguar again. It was very exciting hearing it again, but it kept its distance and never got close to us. We finally gave up and decided to return in the morning with the hounds.
In rehashing the story on the way back to camp, we concluded that we had stumbled into a jaguar love affair. I'm sure I had shot at the female, and the big male Dick saw probably was her suitor. That explains why he answered the call so well.
I would like to take a minute or so to describe our situation in the Pantanal, the world's largest flood plain. During the rainy season, this big (240,000 square kilometers) bog floods and there is anywhere from a foot to five feet of water almost everywhere. The high ground forms the "islands" where the jaguars can be found. Our basic plan was to locate the jaguar highways between these islands by either calling them up at night or running them with our pack of a dozen hounds.
Our camp was located on one of these islands and I sincerely hoped we didn't get too much rain, otherwise we'd float away. The swamp was only a few feet from our doorstep.
Other than Dick Mason and myself, we had a staff of eight locals headed up by the old man," Damas, an accomplished tigrero.
We had two dugouts, but basically we waded through the marsh. Cotton clothing and canvas shoes were a must as they dry out quickly. The heat felt like what a blast furnace must feel like from the inside. We prayed for the daily rain showers because they were our only relief from the intense heat and humidity.
This hunt definitely was off to an exciting start .

Monday, February 18, 1985
Today was a very tough day indeed. I'm bloody exhausted..As you can see, Dick's British euphemisms are rubbing off. Today we spent eleven hours wading in the bog. And, unfortunately, there's no cat skin hanging out to dry.
We were out of bed at 4:30 and after tea and porridge we boarded our canoes and sailed forth, the plan was to have Dantas, Me, and a few other boys take the dogs and put them on the big male's track. Dick was in one canoe with two boys, and both canoes were to act as blockers at the end of the island. I was forewarned that the end of the island was extremely thick, and that on several occasions in the past, jaguars have chosen that place for their final stand. "Extremely thick" is sort of like calling Custer's Last Stand an encounter with a couple of Sioux.
Right off the bat, the hounds took up the track, and off we went. I wish I could put into words how tough that march was. Rarely could I even stand up, let alone see more than a couple yards ahead. It was impossible even to hack our way through.
Once again, the cat gave us the slip. We emerged from the far end of the island to find Dick's canoe waiting for us. I got a break as we poled to the next island where the chase continued. Our pack had split, and it was readily apparent that we had several jaguars on our hands.
That was at about 8:00 a.m. We trudged back into camp around 4:00 p.m. I mean to tell you I was beat. My Prince of Wales helmet had been used to dump at least 50 gallons of water over me in an effort to keep my temperature gauge from going clear off the scale.
This was an exciting beginning, but I had been disappointed once again by the jaguar.
The next couple of days were spent searching the higher ground (usually about one foot above water level) for fresh tracks. We'd leave at first light with canoes full of hounds and hunters, but always failed to turn up anything fresh.
Wednesday, February 20, 1985
Anybody who comes to this bog is advised to bring plenty of rubbing alcohol. You get bitten frequently (hell, constantly), and combined with the wading in rather septic waters, infections grow in bumper crops. The daily dousing with rubbing alcohol at least keeps the sores clean. It also temporarily stops the incessant itch. I'm not sure which is worse - running around looking for anything to douse the fire with because your legs are on fire from the rubbing alcohol, or hopping on one leg while you're scratching the other, anticipating (and dreading) the rubbing alcohol.
Tonight finds me at a cattle station of a 400,000-acre ranch and I've been given the rancher's room. For the first time in a while, I will have a bed complete with mattress, springs, pillows and linen. I feel like a real big shot tonight.
We poled over here today with enough supplies for two days. Dick thought we should try this place because the cowboys say there are at least two big males on patrol over here.
At 5:30, we pushed off in two canoes to go roaring, stopped at two different spots, but didn't get any replies. However, at one of the stops, we did get a dose of excitement and I believe I lost ten years off my life. We had chosen to park on a spot directly over a rather large alligator! Well, that 'gator could stand us being above it for only so long and all at once the water around us erupted with one angry reptile. We were all taken aback, to say the least. .
We were back around 11:30 p.m. which was too late for dinner. The big news was that Dantas' canoe had gotten some response from a jaguar, and tomorrow we'll at least have a clue as to where to start.
Thursday, February 21, 1985 .
It looks as if I've put one well into the record books, and so appropriately, I drank everything in sight short of my rubbing alcohol. Tonight is for good cheer.
Friday, February 22, 1985 Yesterday started out like any other average (if there is such a thing) jaguar-hunting day.
It turned out to be the classic chase.
We left at dawn with our pack of hounds, heading in the general direction that Dantas had heard the roaring. By 5:30, we were poling back to the deep swamp.
The first stop was an island very close to camp. The plan was to get an idea of which way the cat had headed. We quickly determined that there were no fresh tracks on the
island, so we reboarded and poled to the next one.
We had better luck this time as there were fresh tracks, but they led off the island, so we gathered up our hounds and reboarded the canoes again. This happened two more times as we eliminated possible hiding places.
At this point, we had discovered two different tracks. One set was made by a female
that we believed was in heat, the other set had been made by a huge male. The boys were very excited as they looked down at the prints oozing in the mud. We apparently had discovered a real monster of the Pantanal.
While we were still looking in awe at these tracks, our lead dogs let out a howl that
could mean only one thing, that the jaguar was near. I was with Dantas,Volta, and Benedito, and I saw from the expressions on their faces that my guess was correct. They hastily let the remaining hounds go and now all eleven dogs were in pursuit. The chase had begun.
We covered the remainder of that island, slipping and sliding as we ran, trying to keep up with the pack. It was difficult to follow the guides' pace, but in the back of my mind I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, 35 days of pure hell were about to come to an end.
We crossed to another island and then another.
Several times we could hear by the howls the dogs made when the jaguar was at bay, followed by sounds of fighting. I hoped our pack wasn't getting torn to shreds (it had' happened on one of my hunts in Mexico).
The jaguar treed once, but when we sluiced up to the place, the hounds were only looking into the trees and howling. A quick check (which wasn't easy, given the jungle's double canopy), revealed the jaguar was gone. Its tracks led out to chest-deep water and into the thickest jungle imaginable. None of this stopped us. We plunged after it, keeping up the pursuit. .
There were four of us slogging through the bog. Our canoes were on each side of the island. always staying slightly ahead of the chase to keep the jaguar contained - at least until we came to the end of the island. Then there would be hell to pay.
It was obvious to me from the way the hunt was going that we were dealing with a wise old male that realized that to tree was a permanent mistake. It would know that the screaming hounds were merely a noisy distraction. No doubt it already had sent many dogs to their deaths. Given the chance. it would do the same to our pack. Old timers like this male knew that the real danger was behind the hounds. Man was the threat, and that's the way this jaguar played the game.
By now, we were off the last island, wading up to our chests and higher. The jungle above us was so thick that I doubt that we could have gotten through if it had grown closer to the water. Only eighteen inches or so of us wasn't submerged. I also wondered if I would make it at all, considering the heat. Submerged at least my body remained cool enough to keep going.
Most of the time. we didn't even search for an opening. We had to move quickly - the jaguar could cover much more ground than our hounds in the deep stuff. Our main hope was that Dick was properly placed in the canoe to intercept and turn it back so that we could meet face to face.
The hounds sounded as if they were right behind the next thicket. but they always were beyond that. I began to wonder if we would ever catch up, and I truly wondered how much I had left in me. My legs hurt and I no longer could see clearly. The burning sweat was rolling freely into my eyes. The final act began just as I was on my last leg.
There were several shots from the bog
Dick had fired at the jaguar! What was happening out on the flat was indeed incredible - the type of stuff that will be told around campfires in the Pantanal for years to come.
Unbeknownst to us. (he big: male had left the cover, and when it did. Dick (pro that he is) was in the perfect spot to intercept it. Alexander was in the bow of the canoe and Juan Pedro was poling from the stern.
Alexander first noticed only the pair of devilish eyes quickly swimming towards them. When he hollered that the jaguar was coming, Juan Pedro dug his pole into the muck to give the dugout stability. When the animal was in range, Alexander gave it a colossal whack on the head with his pole to turn it back. Unfortunately, this served only to infuriate the cat. Dick drew his revolver and drew a bead in dead earnest when the cat's head reared out of the slime and attacked the boat. Alexander thought this through rather quickly, and hastily abandoned ship while Dick opened up with his .357. We had just emerged from the thick cover, so Dick's shooting turned the jaguar back to the four of us and our pack.
We had no idea, nor did Dick, of the damage he'd done to the cat. All we knew was that it was coming directly at us. This business at hand was for keeps! .
The pack was totally fogged and a bit scattered when the jaguar made for dry ground. It paused briefly on a small clump of thicket and met its end from a single shot from my .357 magnum. At the shot, it lurched sideways and went out of sight. I was in water over my smokes pocket and could see very little from that position.
The canoe advanced, as did we from the opposite direction, until we cautiously met on either side of the thicket. No one was in a hurry to tangle with a wounded jaguar,
especially one that Alexander had told us had been hunted and chased for so long on this ranch that it was famous for its elusiveness and cunning.
Alexander spotted it first, almost at the same time I did, a brilliant display of gold
- and black several inches below the water. The famous old male had finally made a mistake, but only after a courageous final effort.
We all were in awe when four of the boys hauled him out of the ooze into the dugout - that jaguar just seemed to keep getting bigger and bigger. But we dared not spend too much time staring. It was now 11:30 a.m. - six hours into the chase with the sun
directly overhead and beating us all into exhaustion - and we had to get back to camp.
With all the strength we had left, we poled and pushed the dugouts back to our cattle station base and the shade it offered. It took an hour and a half, but, of course, we were too damned excited to rest. The jaguar had to be celebrated and photographed,
measured and weighed. The true surprise was yet to come.
The jaguar, indeed, was an old man of tremendous size - and with a completely empty belly. It probably had been chasing that female whose tracks we'd first seen. Still, it weighed out at 112 kilos, or 247 pounds. With a full belly, it probably would have weighed 20 pounds more. Full or empty, this animal truly earned the title of Monster of the Pantanal.
It measured 84 inches between the pegs, which makes it the longest jaguar ever taken by Richard Mason and Tony de Almeida in their long career of hunting, which includes 88 kills.
(Incidentally, Dick Mason's scale only registered to 100 kilos, so the cat had to be rough-skinned and the skin and head weighed separately from the carcass.)
We awaited the skull with great anticipation. The boys skinned it out and then cleaned off the meat (the accepted method of measurement on a jaguar is the sum of the width and length of the skull), and finally, I was able to put the calipers on the great head. '
It looked to Dick to be a very short skull, but that was only because of its exceptional width. When the scoring had been checked, and rechecked with both Dick and I scoring, we tallied 20 6/16 inches. That makes it No.2 jaguar of all time � only � inch behind the current world record of 20 8/16 taken only last year, once again, by Mason.
As I sit writing this on the veranda cattle station, it's 1 :30 in the afternoon, the beer is lukewarm. There's ever so slight a breeze, but any is welcome. Under shorts- only is the uniform of the day. We are all hoping for a shower later today. I can glance to my left and see the huge hide salted and drying in the shade of a fig tree. The skull lies at the base of the same tree.
It's been 35 days and easily 50 pounds of sweat. I've endured Mexico twice and the Pantanal twice. But finally my jaguar hunting has paid a dividend. There have been dogs mauled and killed, nights spent in caves, and even one of our mules being snatched from under our noses by the very cat we were hunting. The bites on my lily-white body have been, to say the least, numerous.
This jaguar also has cost me a month�s bout with a tropical fever after last years hunt here in the Pantanal, and who knows what could have been the outcome had the fever taken hold while I was still in the swamps.
But it's over - at least for the present. I'll never be able to forget what the bold old
male's track looked like pressed into the mud with hound tracks all over it. And I'll certainly never be able to forget the gold and black splendor as we hauled him from the bog. Over? Hell, it's never over: supercharged moments in one's life come all too rarely, and jaguar hunting has more than it~ share of thrilling moments. Without a doubt, I'll be back.
One final detail on the jaguar I haven't mentioned: When one of the boys was cleaning up the huge skull, damned if he didn't find a spent.22 slug behind the cat's left jaw bone. It made me wonder about the fate of that most-likely lone hunter with a rifle too weak to kill. Did he survive the jaguar's fury?

Sunday, February 24, 1985
Today was rest-up-and-reorganize day. Tomorrow I'll head for home. I'd be lying if I
said I look forward to the trip. Purposely losing one's self in the bush is an unbreakable habit once a man's bitten by wanderlust. Out here, there's no pressure, no demands, and life slows way down. You notice things like the stars and clouds and a running creek. When you get back into "civilization." where it's really dangerous, all the real
pleasures are gone.
One day I'll quit all that concrete, noise, and the rat race, and I'll chuck the television, radio, traffic jams and telephones; and then I'll unwind and recognize long-term what's truly meaningful.
Now for the bad news. According to the U.S. Endangered Species Act, my jaguar's magnificent hide must stay in Bolivia. I cannot take any part of my trophy home (even though it was legally taken) because my government has decided to list jaguars as endangered species,
I find that odd because we were able to locate and identify no fewer than seven
different cats during my five-day hunt here, (I wonder what the total jaguar population in this one area alone must be? After all, how much ground can a hunting party cover when the quickest means of transportation is a poled canoe?) It doesn't make much sense to me,
The good news is that the SCI Board of Directors recently authorized a $20,000 grant for a study of the "endangered" jaguar, The research will be conducted by the same folks who did the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service's leopard study prior to the relisting that reflects that species' true status.
Perhaps there is hope that I someday will be able to daydream of those super-charged moments on the Pantanal while looking at a life-sized mount of my jaguar - in my own
trophy room.

Hi Kathy,

Great story! Thank you!
A typical hunting expedition with the company Tony and Dick were running those days. They were tough as not many and extremely professional. And with a classic education, both, as well...A gift and honor to know them!
Dick has a personal story "hunting", successfully, a group of terrorists in Angola in the seventies, who destroyed his safari facilities and killed some of his employees and trackers when he was in England for a short time offseason....amazing....!

PH

quote:

Originally posted by Peter Andersen:
My personal favourite of the big cats. A few of these pics are quite modern though...

I don't know when or where those particular pics were taken - but I do know that in Guatemala Ranchers can get depredation permits to kill jaguars still.

I suspect it is the same for other countries, and I would imagine modern pics could turn up from time to time...


.

Very interesting.In Bolivia ranchers still hunt them because they kill their livestock.Recently a group f Argentine and brazilian PHs were jailed and torured for months after being catched hunting leopards ,i know the argentine phs and the experience was very unpleasant.

Fantastic read. Just finished it, every word exciting.
Many thanks for sharing it with us.

George

quote:

Purposely losing one's self in the bush is an unbreakable habit once a man's bitten by wanderlust.

Wanderlust, maybe this best describes my need for adventure in far off places.

Great read

Thanks for the great link

Don't know how I missed this thread when it first came around. I remember Dave Lauzen's article very well. It was one of the first South American stories I bought when I became an independent contractor editing and publishing SCI's Safari magazine and other publications.

I don't remember all the details, but I do remember that it set off a hailstorm of protests from animal rights groups and (I was told) a visit to Dave's trophy room by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Bill Quimby

Just read in T Roosevelts "River of Doubt" book the big toms are equal in size to the average lioness in Africa.

This is another fine read too if you're looking for a good book. It's about discovering new areas in So. America.
George

Are the locals allowed to hunt cattle killers etc.?

Man those are some great pics! That would definatly be the once in a lifetime, mortgage the farm hunt to go on.