A Hunter speaks out
“Try again, Mate. Relax. We have time.” Bullet holes were appearing everywhere but in target's center. Resting the rifles alternately to cool the barrels, Larry kept emptying brass. Finally: “That's good enough,” said the PH, wearily tucking in his binocular. “We'll get close. That's how we hunt.” A diplomatic finish. We cased the rifles and climbed back in the Land Cruiser. There was game just over the next dune.
Larry's first shot was not close. The springbok seemed a small mark indeed. But when he fired, the ram dropped as if smitten by the hammer of Thor. “Such unlucky beasts are best purged from the gene pool,” he dead-panned. Age had clouded his shooting eye, not yet his sense of humor.
The week brought other opportunities, and Larry's marksmanship improved. I was absent a day, to join another hunt. We motored back into camp after dark. Under lights, skinners were deftly peeling the cape, still steaming, from a wildebeest. Its horns were long and heavy. “A magnificently animal,” I said, and meant it.
“An exercise in pain management,” sighed Larry. “Crawling, waiting, crawling again. My knees and elbows are finished!” He flashed a goofy grin. “But worth it.”
The PH cut in, “One shot, spot on, with iron sights. A real hunt!” His admiration was genuine. A
