Keeping meat clean and cold until you can get it back to civilization is daunting, but it’s doable as long as you’re prepared.

Photo above: Processing meat in the backcountry can be challenging, but if done properly will result in healthy, delicious meat for your freezer.

Wind moaned through the alders, whipping the tops of stunted spruce into a frenzy. Crouched between a couple small trees, I stared at a big eyeball peering back at me from behind a spruce thicket. Above the eye a massive antler reached outward and upward like some primeval brown wing, but that was all I could see of the moose. One eye and one antler, although he was only thirty-five yards distant.

The day before I’d picked up an old grizzly-chewed moose scapula from beside a rushing creek. Just moments before, I’d beaten the same scapula up and down the trunk of the small spruce I now hid beside, in an attempt to lure a grunting bull from his timbered hillside stronghold. It had worked better than I planned, but thanks to the intervening tree I still didn’t have a shot. Slowly, I reached the bleached scapula into the air above my head and starting rocking it back and forth where the bull could see it. His eye sharpened, then rolled back in rage at the effrontery of a perceived small bull posturing at him. He strode into the open then, and I answered his challenge with my .300 Winchester Magnum.

My friend Greg and I were deep in Alaska’s interior, floating an unruly stream in one-man packrafts in an attempt to find undisturbed moose hunting. We’d found it, but now we had a problem. This moose was BIG. Big and heavy, and after skinning and quartering it we had one and a half miles to carry the meat on foot, thirty miles of ragged, capricious stream to float, and a dozen miles of terrible ATV trail to haul the moose across before we were, literally and figuratively, out of the woods. Add the complexities of rain, bilge-washed rafts, and hungry grizzlies, and it was apparent that keeping this meat good was going to be a challenge. Fortunately, we were prepared.

Regardless whether you’re hunting Coues deer in Arizona, elk in Montana, or moose in Alaska, meat care is likely to be challenging. Heat, cold, bugs, and bacteria all create obstacles to keeping meat fresh while extracting it from the backcountry. Here are tools and tactics that will help.

Heat

The number one threat to your meat is heat, both external (weather) and internal (body heat). Bacteria only thrive in warm surroundings. Hence, it is imperative to chill your meat as rapidly as possible after harvest.

Your first task after harvesting a backcountry animal and completing your photography session should be to skin and quarter the animal. This will enable body heat to escape rapidly. I prefer the gutless method, as it renders a quicker job and cleaner meat. Use 550 paracord to hang the quarters in a shady spot till the meat cools, and develops a nice crust. Drape the backstraps and other trim meat over clean shaded branches or rocks to cool. Then bag it all in meat sacks to keep bugs and dirt away from the meat. If bugs are bad (particularly flies), you’ll need to bag the meat the minute it comes off the animal. It’ll cool fine inside the meat sacks, it just won’t develop as good a crust. During the quartering and cooling process, take extra measures to protect the meat from dirt and debris. The cleaner your meat, the longer it will keep and the better it will taste.

If the weather is cool enough, say low 40s at night and daytime highs in the 60s, your meat will keep fine for several days as long as it stays in the shade. Cooler temps are even better, and will keep the meat longer.

If temps are hot, say in the 80s during the daytime and 50s or 60s at night, you’ll need a way to chill your meat. The best and only way I’ve found to chill meat in the backcountry is to bag it in contractor-grade trash bags and submerge it in a cold spring or creek. The meat will chill rapidly, and will stay good for a long time.

Cold

Rarely indeed does cold become a problem, unless you hunt the Far North, or late-season high-elevation elk. But it can happen. Your meat will never spoil, but it may freeze so hard that you can’t reduce it to carrying-size pieces. If temps stay below 32 degrees F during the day and drop into the teens or colder at night, even big, thick elk or moose quarters will freeze solid as the rock of Gibraltar. If you need the meat boned out or reduced to a packable size, you should cut it up before it freezes solid. Keep the meat perfectly clean and cut it as though you were processing it at home, then seal it into gallon-size zip-top bags. When you arrive home, simply toss the already-frozen meat into your freezer, preprocessed in the backcountry. Later you can defrost the meat and grind, wrap, or whatever at your leisure.

Bugs and Birds

We’ve already touched on bugs and the damage they can do to your precious meat. In my experience, the nastiest damage your meat is likely to incur will be from flies, which, if present, will lay colossal amounts of eggs in every crack and crevice of the meat. You can trim them away, but in the process you’ll loose significant meat as well as your appetite.

Another threat to your precious meat comes in the form of hornets and yellow jackets. They’re carnivorous, and can consume astonishing amounts of unprotected meat. They’re not nearly as nasty as flies, but might inspire you to employ some expletives if you inadvertently grab one while handling your meat.

Lastly, birds can be a real problem in certain locals. Camp robber jays will ruin a lot of meat in a day’s time, and ravens, magpies, vultures, and the like can devour your entire meat cache in rapid order.

The best way to protect your meat from these predators is to bag it in good meat sacks and keep it hung in a shady spot. Place each quarter in its own bag, and place the backstraps, tenderloins, and other trim meat in one or two additional bags. Tie them off tightly so even a fly can’t get inside.

Moisture

Simply put, moisture is not your friend when it comes to keeping meat good in the wilderness. Moisture harbors and encourages bacteria, which is what spoils meat. Do your best to get your meat dry and keep it that way. If you’re hunting the far north where rain is to be expected and there may be no trees on which to hang meat, carry a sturdy 8×10 tarp that you can lay the quarters on to cool. Later, you can build a small scaffold to hang your meat on, and then cover it with the tarp. If you’ll be backpacking or floating a river through rainy weather, seal the meat in contractor-grade trash bags until the time you can again hang it to dry and air.

Bacteria

Bacteria in your meat are enemy number one. Unfortunately, all meat comes with inherent bacteria, and picks up lots more as soon as you introduce it to the atmosphere, your hands, your pack, and so on. Still, keeping your meat clean will drastically reduce the amount of bacteria it must deal with, and dramatically up your odds for good, tasty, wild meat. Remember, for bacteria to grow rapidly (thereby spoiling your meat) it must be warm. Keep the meat cold and it will stay good for many days without any problem.

One interesting “fact” I encountered while hunting and outfitting in the Rocky Mountains as well as Texas, is that not all regions are created equal. Two guides who were working for me almost came to blows over a disagreement about leaving an arrow-shot elk overnight before recovery. One guide was from Utah, and used to hunting cool, high-elevation territory. The other was from southern New Mexico, accustomed to hunting much lower, warmer country. The Utah guide maintained that it was a good idea to leave bow-shot animals overnight if the hit was at all questionable. The New Mexico guide was adamant that doing so would result in complete meat spoilage.

I listened with interest before finally stepping in and telling the guides to cool it, while adding my testimony to the Utah guide’s that I’d often left bow-shot elk overnight in high-elevation areas without experiencing any spoilage whatsoever. The New Mexico guide was disgruntled and unconvinced. I later learned that he, too, had been correct. In his warmer, lower-elevation neck of the woods, meat spoils much more rapidly, and an elk left unprocessed overnight will almost certainly spoil. I can only attribute this to the presence of more aggressive bacteria. 

This point was driven home to me one cool west Texas autumn day. I arrowed a deer perfectly with my longbow three hours before dark, and watched it tip over seventy yards distant. I had a whole pocketful of deer tags, and elected to let the buck lie while I sat for the rest of the evening in hopes of taking a second deer. In my home territory in the Rockies, the deer would have been at no risk of spoiling. However, upon recovering and quartering this west Texas buck exactly three hours after shooting him, I found that the meat was already souring. I was astonished and not a little chagrined, and then remembered the disagreement between my two guides. Based on this, it is my belief that meat will keep much better and longer in high-elevation, northern territory than in lower, more southerly territories, even when temps are similar, so keep that in mind.

Wild game meat can be incredibly flavorful, healthy meat. Do yourself a favor: Next time you hunt the backcountry, go prepared to treat your meat right. Steaks sizzling on the grill and a freezer stuffed with healthy meat will be your reward.

Meat Care Tool Kit

Here is a basic list of must-have meat care tools for wilderness hunting. It will vary slightly depending upon hunt type and species. For instance, I might carry a nice fixed-blade belt knife during a float hunt for moose or a horsepack hunt for elk, but would exchange it for a skeletonized superlight knife during a backpack hunt.

Knife and Stone: I recommend carrying two knives, so you have an extra should one get lost. I also carry a tiny diamond stone made by EZ-LAP. With it I can restore a razor edge in less than a minute. I personally don’t like replaceable-blade knives, because I don’t like how they handle and because in my opinion they pose additional danger to the user. In the backcountry that’s a significant thing.

Meat Sacks: Lightweight meat sacks are essential. I like sturdy cotton sacks best, unless I’m hunting in Alaska where conditions are more challenging. For that I recommend the premium synthetic bags that come in kit form, tailored to contain the quarters and piece-meat from one moose, one caribou, etc. You’ll pay upward of $100 for such a kit, but they are reusable and worth the money.

Parachute Cord: Fifty feet of 550 paracord will serve to hang quarters, build meat poles, secure meat sacks, and so on. I like brightly colored cordage–it doesn’t seem to disappear as readily as the olive-green stuff.

Latex/Nitrile Gloves: Sturdy latex gloves make life easier, especially when it’s time to wash up. I carry two pairs.

Contractor-Grade Trash Bags: Heavy-duty trash bags are essential for keeping your backpack clean while packing meat, cooling quarters in mountain creeks, and 101 other meat-related tasks. I carry at least two.

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A new study finds that American hunters are incredibly unselfish about sharing the bounty of their wild harvests.

For most of human existence, hunting was an integral component of our species’ ecology, an act of pure survival and a primary means by which our communities were sustained. A successful hunt meant sustenance and security, brief but vital achievements within a tenuous, animal existence.  Understandably, both were celebrated by the hunter and the non-hunter alike. By means of story telling and mythology, both groups participated in the hunt, though certainly neither could have understood hunting in terms of recreation or sport, its beleaguered, modern terminologies. Rather, hunting was a necessity; the hunter deemed provider. And, it was the perceived generosity of the hunter, even more than his skill, that elevated him to a position of respect. Sharing his success was what mattered most, to the hunter’s status and to his community’s survival. Through this mutual benefit a core value system arose in human society, one where success and sharing became intertwined.

Today, we may often feel that this past is but an imagined whisper; a reality long dispersed and leaving us with an entirely new human world that little reflects its ancestral roots. Indeed, if you look at the declining rates of hunting participation and listen to the mounting objections of anti-hunting groups, you might conclude that hunting itself has become unacceptable and largely irrelevant in our modern world. 

Scratching the surface, however, you will find this diagnosis premature. Although it is true that only about 4 percent of the population in the United States engages in hunting activities, roughly 80 percent of Americans approve of hunting. Few activities, and far fewer controversial ones, which hunting surely is, enjoy anything close to this level of support. How and why is this support maintained? What can explain it? Could it simply be that the non-hunting population inherently agrees with hunting, no questions asked? Or is there at play some more profound human dimension that can help explain all of this? I have always felt there is, and that uncovering it will likely be a key to preserving hunting as we know it in North America. 

While there is certainly a complex set of factors at work, I believe these numbers suggest that hunting is not an isolated activity that occurs outside the experience of the majority population. Somehow, the non-participatory mass of people remains connected to hunting, or are made to feel as though they are. Somehow still, remarkably, hunting remains resonant across the larger fabric of society. But how? Is it possible that non-hunters can still perceive they benefit from hunting in some way, just as they did in the past, and thus continue to acknowledge, in a more muted process of quiet support rather than celebration, successful hunts and successful hunters? Does the broad public, in fact, still regard hunters as providers, in some atavistic way? Is this the wellspring from which the 80 percent public support rating derives? If so, what could possibly be reinforcing this societal tendency that seems so invincible to time, change, and controversy?

Traditionally, the most concrete manner in which hunters impacted the lives of other community members was through the shared consumption of wild meat. If this sharing tradition has been maintained, then this might be one way in which hunting could sustain both its presence and legitimacy in modern society. But while it is known that many non-hunters in the US have tried game meat and that hunters regularly share their wild meat harvest with others, the extent and patterns of wild meat sharing in the country are largely unknown. Without this information, it is difficult to conclude what role meat-sharing might play in maintaining public support of hunting. 

Obtaining this information lies at the heart of a comprehensive new program designed to explore the modern relevance and value of North America’s hunting traditions. The Wild Harvest Initiative represents an expanding network of partners dedicated to evaluating the varied dimensions and social impact of wild harvesting activities in the US and Canada. Uncovering, for the first time, the full economic, conservation, and social benefits of recreational animal harvests, this initiative is building an evidence-based narrative on the relevance of these activities in today’s society. As a crucial part of this effort, the Wild Harvest Initiative has set out to determine the full extent of wild meat sharing that takes place throughout the United States and Canada.

Starting with Texas as an initial point of inquiry, the Wild Harvest Initiative, in partnership with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, administered a Wild Meat Sharing Survey to resident hunters throughout the state. The survey findings, which were made available in 2020, are indeed remarkable. They shed new light on an ancient tradition that has been maintained long after it was essential for human survival. They open a modern passageway to our hunting past and expand our appreciation of hunting’s present.   

The survey revealed that nearly all successful hunters (98 percent) regularly share meat, and that this meat is shared with an estimated 5.8 million people across the state of Texas annually.  Considering the fact that, on average, less than 1.2 million people in Texas are hunting each year and, of this number, only around 718,000 are successful, the social reach these individuals are having is astounding. Roughly speaking, successful hunters in Texas are expanding the number of people benefiting from their wild harvesting activities by eightfold! This statistic has profound implications, especially when considering that approximately 1 in 7 people (4 million people total) in the state are experiencing some level of food insecurity. 

Significantly, individuals receiving the shared meat are definitely not restricted to those living within the same household as the hunters themselves. In fact, the majority of people receiving this meat–3.7 million (about 64 percent) – live outside the hunters’ home.  And the amount of meat involved is substantial.  The survey revealed that hunters share nearly 43 percent of their meat harvest with people living outside their domiciles, embracing a community of extended family, friends, neighbors, and associates.   

So, why do hunters do this? The Texas sharing survey also looked at the motivations behind meat sharing and hunting participation itself.  More than half the respondents stated that spending time with family and friends was a primary motivation for hunting while the most common reasons for harvest sharing were that hunters had more than enough meat for their own household and wanted to help family and friends with food stocks. Each of these responses speaks to an overall awareness and deep appreciation of family and community within the Texas hunting tradition.

While the results of this survey are specific to Texas, I suspect the story is similar in many other parts of the United States and Canada. And we will certainly find out. Building on the survey administered in Texas, the Wild Harvest Initiative has now partnered with several other state wildlife agencies to gather findings from other parts of the country. Once compiled, these results will reveal a more complete picture regarding the motivations and expansive social benefits associated with hunting in the United States.

But already the data are telling a positive, compelling story about our society and its traditions, and one that is contrary to the overarching narrative we so often hear.  We are constantly bombarded with stories of how community ties are eroding under the increasing weight of individualistic, self-absorbed pursuits and technology-mediated relationships. Generosity and magnanimity are certainly not the most often mentioned attributes used to describe today’s society. However, those who harvest wild meat, and who share so much with others, provide a powerful counterpoint to that narrative. I suspect this will be proven true of all who harvest from the natural world, hunter and gatherer alike.

This culture of generosity, demonstrated so emphatically by present-day hunters, is rooted in our evolutionary history. For tens of thousands of years communities have come together to share, celebrate, and enjoy the wild sustenance provided through successful hunts.  The Wild Harvest Initiative, through its Hunter Sharing Survey, is uncovering the modern dimensions of this historically rooted, cultural network that connects hunters and non-hunters in a community built on generosity and shared resources. The inherent beauty in these connections is worth preserving and speaks forcibly for the relevance and social value of North America’s hunting tradition. After all, who does not admire those who share?

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Braving COVID and travel hassles to experience an unforgettable adventure in Tanzania.

East Africa feels like southern Africa without the guard rail. Anyone who’s ever spent any time there can attest that its danger matches its startling beauty, making the region a premier destination for the traveling hunter. Tanzania is massive, and still very wild; less than 15 percent is accessible by paved road, and medical attention can be days away.  The mosquitoes alone can kill you.  Sure, everyone knows about COVID, but locals will tell you it’s the hippos you need to worry about.  

After the international travel standstill of early 2020 had eased, my husband, Ricardo, and I made our way to Tanzania as quickly as we could.  We hunt together worldwide, but instead of just traveling with rifles and archery equipment this time, we were also armed with facemasks, industrial-strength hand sanitizer, and negative COVID-19 blood tests.  Our original booking was on Turkish Airlines, which unexpectedly canceled all flights to Tanzania for September and October due to COVID concerns; unfortunately, they had not bothered to let us know until we arrived in Chicago from Texas on the day of our departure. The clock was ticking, as Tanzania requires proof on arrival of a negative COVID test within 72 hours of departure.  Despite our efforts, we were unable to get onto alternate airlines that evening. The following morning, at 5:30 am, we caught the first flight to Dulles, for a series of connecting Ethiopian Airlines flights that took us to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, on to Zanzibar, and finally to Kilimanjaro Airport in Arusha.  

Oh, the joys of travel, especially in this crazy COVID era. We arrived in northern Tanzania with just three hours remaining on our COVID test’s validity, and very eager to start our thirty-five days in Masailand with Tanzania Big Game Safaris. We were greeted by Lorne Ramoni, our primary professional hunter, Dustin Van Staden, our second professional hunter, and Barry Bingle, apprentice hunter.  

I was handed an arrangement of fresh flowers—well played, gentlemen–and several men assisted us with luggage and clearing Ricardo’s archery equipment through customs. From the airport, the Monduli Camp is about a three-hour drive. The company had arranged for all staff to be COVID-tested before our arrival. The staff sanitized everything daily, and they offered to have all staff wear masks.  At our request, however, the first thing to go was social distancing and face masks. 

The free-range concession area is approximately 650 square miles, which is the size of the Houston city limits and is considered relatively small by Tanzanian standards.  Arriving at our tented camp (ladies, think glamping), we were welcomed by about thirty staff members who keep the concession and lodge running smoothly. There was still enough light to allow Ricardo to sight-in his bow in preparation for the next day’s hunt.  Finally, after the hectic journey and settling into camp, we were able to sit around the fire and contemplate the riots, economic uncertainty, and health concerns of the modern world happening so far from us.  We had peace with the knowledge that tomorrow we’d be leopard-crawling through the dust after game. It was good to be back in Africa.

Monduli

I had previously hunted in Masailand with my father, Joe Hosmer, in the mid-2000s, and I wanted Ricardo to experience the region.  The Monduli area is rolling with a few tall, rocky outcrops and numerous dry riverbeds. It looks relatively scrubby, with a peppering of taller flat-topped acacias, the vegetation all a monotone of different winter grays and brown.  It’s not the most picturesque area, but does it ever produce some unbelievable trophy specimens of gerenuk, lesser kudu, Thomson gazelle, Kirk’s dik-dik, and Grant gazelle.

At first light we were off, bouncing about in the back of the Land Cruiser.  Walk-and-stalk-style bowhunting is not a straightforward endeavor, especially in open country; however, with the plethora of Maasai goat and cattle herders passing through, the game was used to human disturbance. While trying for a gerenuk, Ricardo and I donned the traditional Maasai red shuka fabric, walking slowly behind a big, red, two-dimensional cow decoy. This got us within about 150 yards of several antelope, but never close enough.

Dusty and Barry had seen an exceptional gerenuk in another area several days prior, and Lorne wanted to see if we could find him. As we turned a corner on the path, we spotted the gerenuk, Ricardo’s number-one priority for the hunt. We split up, with Dusty, Barry, and myself positioning ourselves on higher ground, watching Ricardo, Lorne, and the game scout as they wove in and out of the vegetation to get closer to where the gerenuk was last spotted.  As we watched with anticipation, we could hear the hollow ding-ding-ding of Masai cattle bells, and soon we spotted a cattle herd led by a Morani, a Masai warrior, who proceeded to move his herd between Ricardo’s group and the gerenuk.  Spooked, the gerenuk trotted off. The three hunters then stepped out of the vegetation, appearing like ghosts from the bushes, to the Morani’s wide-eyed bewilderment.  They chatted for a bit, and through the binocular, I saw the Masai take off his personal shuka cloth and hand it to Lorne.  Now the hunters had proper cover scent in their favor, as well as the appearance of Masai. Ricardo and Lorne followed the herder, walking upright and nonchalant, with about twenty head of cattle.  Around the bend of the path, the gerenuk stood erect, browsing with its head in a bush. As the cattle wandered around, Ricardo was able to get within forty yards of the gerenuk and make a killing shot.  

On another day, Ricardo had shot a Kirk dik-dik and we drove up a mountain to set up for some scenic field photos. From high on the mountain, Dusty spotted several very nice lesser kudu browsing in the valley below.  Quickly finishing up the photos, Lorne and Ricardo made their way slowly down the steep slope, wobbling on lose rocks, and pausing every few feet to untangle each other from the dense thorn thickets.  Being now at the same elevation as the lesser kudu, Lorne and Ricardo had no idea what direction the animals had moved, and with exaggerated hand signals, we guided them from above.  There was a massive flock of guinea fowl between Ricardo and the lesser kudu, and as the team slowly zigzagged their way in closer, their movement startled the flock.  The guinea fowl flew up in a massive explosion, and Dusty, Barry, and I, watching from above, thought for sure the long stalk was over.  However, the lesser kudu instinctively stopped when the birds took flight. Lorne whistled sharply, and Ricardo was able to let an arrow fly from forty yards away. The hunters watched the animal dart off into the brush, but from above, I was able to see exactly where the kudu went down in a puff of dust. It was a perfect heart shot and an impressive stalk.

One of the most challenging elements of hunting on foot in Masailand is that while stalking, you are constantly bumping into other species of game.  Often we would be stalking one species and suddenly get an opportunity for another species and have to make a split-second decision to modify the hunt.  With the quality and quantity of game on these  well-managed concessions, there were always a lot of ears and eyes in the bush.  In ten days of hunting, Ricardo collected seven species, most of which were new number ones with a bow.  At a time when so much of life seemed to be canceled or postponed, when there was so much separation from friends and family, it felt good to be back in a wild place, hunting.  As every campfire turned to embers, we counted our blessings.  

Ruvu

After fourteen days in Monduli, we traveled about four hours to another of Tanzania Big Game Safari’s concessions, also considered to be within the Masailand ecosystem, called Ruvu.  This area is known for its Cape buffalo, Patterson eland, fringe-eared oryx, East African greater kudu, Coke hartebeest, and impressive East African impala.  Most of the game was concentrated in heavy thickets of brush dotted with ancient, towering baobabs and funky-looking euphoria trees. A few weeks was not enough for intimate knowledge of this 1,000-mile- square area, but there was a quick and intense sensory absorption with the magic of hunting the land. 

In Ruvu, I helped collect some leopard bait and camp meat.  Ruvu is one of the most beautiful camps we’ve stayed in.  Expansive canvas tents and private bathrooms were well-appointed with local artifacts, handsome local textiles, and cool objects found in the bush.  The best part of the camp was its main dining room, bar area, and campfire, nestled among several huge boulders at the base of a small mountain.  The site offers an incredible vista of the surrounding hunting lands unfurling into the dusty haze.  Changing camps is like starting a new chapter–a whole new hunt.

The following evening we came across a stunning East African greater kudu standing in the brush, about 300 yards away.  There was no way for Ricardo to get within bow-shot distance in the brush with the light fading fast.  A wild-eyed Lorne grabbed me and said to get the rifle ready. This kudu was too good to pass up.  We hustled along the edge of the brush, shielding our silhouettes, and got set up on shooting sticks.  Just 100 yards away, as I watched through the scope, I could tell the kudu was uncertain where we were, but he seemed to sense our intentions. He moved, alert to danger, with straight-legged stomps, ears fanned out, and nostrils flared.  Lorne watched through his binocular and walked me through the shot, anticipating the kudu’s movements.  Catching my breath from the dash, I settled steady on the shooting sticks and balanced my right elbow on Lorne’s shoulder, and the shot was accurate and clean.

The following afternoon we had a very unusual hunting experience.  Lorne and I were stalking a herd of fringe-eared oryx that kept spooking despite our best efforts to keep the wind in our faces and our outlines concealed; there were just too many eyes aware of our presence. Then two bull Coke hartebeest moved in the same direction as the oryx herd, and broke off to the far right. The area had been intentionally burned by the Masai cattle herders, making the ground crunchy underfoot, and it was challenging to get close enough to judge the trophy quality between the two. When the hartebeest moved off, we were able to make a broad, sweeping loop to get within a hundred yards for a better view and subsequent shot. My hartebeest went down; the other, however, was confused and stayed within about fifty yards of his fallen comrade.  

The Land Cruiser was only about a half-mile away, and the crew heard the shot and came up toward us as Lorne and I hunkered down behind a bush watching the second hartebeest. Lorne scuttled back to the vehicle and told Ricardo to grab his bow. He had no time to explain the situation, and I think Ricardo was more perplexed than the hartebeest! I couldn’t help but giggle at the scurry of confusion on the vehicle.  I remained hunkered down in the bush, watching everything unfold, as Lorne and Ricardo belly-crawled past me and into position about fifty yards ahead of where I knelt. The second hartebeest had moved off, but not far. Ricardo drew, and with an arrow planted in the hartebeest’s vitals, it was game over. Two Coke hartebeest within a matter of minutes! These animals are typically very skittish, and it is an impressive feat to take one with a bow. 

In recent years, the Masai have become increasingly less nomadic and are opting more often for a semi-permanent, agrarian lifestyle. They clear the land of all brush, creating protective boma walls around soon-to-be cash crops like tobacco, corn, and cotton. The Masai cut and remove all the small trees and then line the base of the trunks of the massive trees with firewood, like a medieval witch-burning pyre, to burn down the ancient trees they cannot fell by hand. Then these giant hardwoods are burned into charcoal, adding to the illegal charcoal market.  I felt a pang of anger mingled with sympathy at all the new farms and bomas I saw being built in the hunting concession, knowing there was nothing we can do, as it is technically legal.  With new settlements come additional problems: increased human-wildlife conflict, overconsumption of ecological resources, illegal mining operations, poaching, and habitat destruction, and these are the main reasons for declining wildlife populations in Tanzania.  

Because of COVID, international hunting and tourist dollars for humanitarian aid and conservation have dried up considerably this past year. This is evident in the increased illegal timber felling and bushmeat poaching we saw firsthand, and we learned that Tanzania Big Game Safaris’ private anti-poaching teams have intercepted far more bushmeat poachers this year compared to last.  The impact of hunters traveling to remote parts of the world is crucial to conservation, and this is why hunters need to travel now, more than ever.  Hunting and eco-tourism dollars give direct value to wild places that otherwise would have greater monetary value as mines, slash-and-burn agricultural lands, and new settlements. I highly recommend taking advantage of the opportunity to travel this coming year to support wildlife as well as our outfitter friends. Despite the uncertainly we all face, we need a reason to dream.  Plan your hunts; book your adventures; the time is now–go.

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Are they really a good idea?

When we think of classic African hunting rifles we’re usually thinking of big-bore double rifles or bolt-actions, or perhaps a combination of the two. The other action types, not so much. Despite their popularity (and versatility and utility) in the U.S., semi-automatic sporting rifles are specifically illegal in many African jurisdictions. The slide-action, though still common with shotguns, isn’t as common in rifles as it once was, and is rarely seen elsewhere. In fact, the only slide-action rifle I’ve ever seen in Africa was a battered Remington .30-06 carried by a hunting partner clear back in 1981.

Lever-actions also aren’t as popular as they once were, but millions of Americans have a Marlin, Savage, or Winchester lever-action. I’ve taken lever-actions on several safaris. They performed just fine, and you’d be surprised how many hunting households in Africa also have a lever-action squirreled away. Even so, we don’t think of the all-American lever-action as a classic safari rifle.

The single-shot also doesn’t come immediately to mind for African hunting, but at one time it was a safari classic. Frederick Selous came to prefer single-shot falling blocks on the pattern of the Scottish Farquharson action. Photos of Selous in the field often showed him with one of these elegant rifles.

A decade ago, I used a Holland & Holland single-shot from Bill Jones’s collection. It wasn’t exactly a Farquharson action, but it was a falling block, chambered to 6.5x53R and made for Selous in 1898.

Although never exclusive in their use, I’m a single-shot fan. I’ve always wanted an original “Farkie,” but I’ve never owned one; they’re scarce and expensive. Instead, most of my single-shots have been Ruger No. 1s. Bill Ruger admired the Farquharson, and the influence is obvious. Although production has never been large, chamberings have been myriad, with many variations. The No. 1s I like best are the Light and Medium Sporters and the Tropicals. These all carry rear sights on quarter rib (which doubles as a scope base) and barrel band front sights. They also have barrel-mounted forward sling swivel studs. Mind you, I like all No. 1s, but the Sporter and Tropical models are most reminiscent of the classic British single-shots.

In my use of single-shots I have not remained true to the Ruger. I admire the trim little Dakota Model 10, also a falling block, but sleeker and even more elegant. I’ve used Dakota single-shots on several safaris, and have a gorgeous M10 in .275 Rigby. I’ve also used the Thompson/Center break-open in Africa. The T/C isn’t as pretty, but it’s inexpensive and the switch-barrel capability is handy.  I took a T/C with .22 Hornet and .270 Winchester barrels on a couple of safaris, a great combination.

So, where might the single-shot fit in on the modern safari? Technically, just about anywhere . . . with reservations! Most single-shots have a two-piece stock, and the fore-end is often attached to the barrel by a screw. These factors aren’t ideal for utmost accuracy. I love my single-shots, but I haven’t used them for much mountain hunting, and I wouldn’t choose one for extreme-range shooting. That said, single-shots are plenty accurate for most hunting, certainly in Africa, and some are tack-drivers.

No matter where you are, the first shot may not be enough and another shot is needed. It will be slower with a single-shot, but I can’t recall problems because I was using a single-shot. Knowing you can rely on just the one shot makes you careful, and that’s good.

In western Tanzania, hunting with Jaco Oosthuizen, I used a Dakota M10 in 7mm Remington Magnum for a variety of antelopes: topi, waterbuck, bohor reedbuck, my longest shot on a sitatunga, and a really lucky long shot on a side-striped jackal. Ten years ago, I did a “single-shot safari” with two No. 1s: An exceptionally accurate .300 H&H Medium Sporter, and a Tropical in .450/.400 3-inch. We started in Mozambique with Mark Haldane, then went on to northwest Zambia with Pete Fisher. Naturally, the .300 H&H did most of the work. At last light, I took a fine nyala, a tricky shot off sticks. We hadn’t quite gotten to the animal when Haldane stopped and put up the sticks again. “That’s a huge red duiker; you must shoot him.” I did, for a most unusual double.

With non-dangerous game, there are two limitations to using a single-shot. First, a second shot, if needed, will be slower. Second: Unless action is imminent, I never carry a round in the chamber. So, carrying a single-shot requires a mind-set: First cartridge ready, second cartridge handy. When the time comes, you must be able to load quickly! I’ve used Ruger No. 1s for fifty years, so these are not dramatic constraints, but it is a matter of training. You must know where that all-important first cartridge is, and how you’re going to load it on a moment’s notice.

On that Mozambique/Zambia safari, the .450/.400 single-shot was used exactly once, for a Zambezi Delta buffalo, and only one shot was fired. So, let’s talk about the single-shot for dangerous game. Several single-shots are available in appropriate chamberings, so that’s not a limitation. The real question is: How limiting is that “one-shot-only” capability?

Extensive experience with lions is hard to come by today. I have some, but I have never hunted a lion with a single-shot, and I’d just as soon not. As a visiting hunter, I’m not hunting dangerous game alone. However, I prefer cleaning up my own messes. If things get nasty, I have no issues with my PH chiming in, but I’d just as soon he didn’t. In my experience, “pure” one-shot kills on lions are rare; it’s just not the nature of the beast. Also, since you rarely know what the first shot accomplished until it’s all over, is it wise for your PH to dither while you fumble the reload? I think not!

I have much more experience with elephants, but I have also never hunted elephant with a single-shot. My thinking is much the same; things happen fast after the first shot. If it isn’t perfect, or if your experienced PH thinks it isn’t perfect, something must be done–fast! I have no ego-driven issue with backup, and I have flubbed the first shot on elephants. With a double or bolt-action, I’ve always been able to correct my error. With a single-shot, nobody is fast enough.

The leopard is a different deal. Most times, there’s only one shot. I’ve hunted leopards with single-shots and would again, especially over bait. You sit there as long as it takes, rifle loaded and ready. The chance for a second shot is very unlikely; you simply must make the first shot count. A single-shot actually helps, because you know you have just one shot.

Buffalo, the most plentiful and available dangerous game, are worthy of discussion. The first buffalo I took with a single-shot was in 1995, using a Dakota M10 in .375 Dakota. Hunting in Zambia with Russ Broom, we’d tracked him to his bed. When he got up, I think my shot was good, but the buffalo was still up, and Russ backed me up. Did he need to? We will never know, because I was still reloading and he had a split-second judgment call to make. Russ is not a trigger-happy PH. I agreed with his call to shoot rather than to wait and see what happened next. That is the dilemma to hunting buffalo with a single-shot: You want to do it all by yourself, but second shots matter, and nobody is fast enough on the reload to reliably get a second shot off every time.

In the last quarter-century I’ve taken numerous buffalo with single-shot rifles. Some have been pure one-shot kills. However, when that happens it usually isn’t a matter of first-shot perfection, but simply that the buffalo is down or masked before a second shot can be fired. Sometimes there’s time to reload. In Mozambique in 2018, using a Ruger No. 1 in .450 3¼-inch, I found myself shooting and reloading on the run; the bull was still up, and I had no idea what that first shot had done.

There is a point to be made regarding the Ruger No. 1 as opposed to most other single-shots. Older British rifles were invariably extractor guns. To this day, most single-shot rifles extract but do not eject. This means that the fired case must be manually plucked from the chamber. With his No. 1, Bill Ruger engineered a powerful and reliable ejector!

Does this mean the Ruger No. 1 is the only single-shot suitable for dangerous game? Hardly; Fred Selous would dispute that vehemently. However, because it both extracts and ejects, the Ruger No. 1 is probably the fastest single-shot to reload, and reloading time is critical on dangerous game. Mostly, it comes down to practice: Training and familiarity. Americans are especially bad about “admiring the shot,” firing one shot and waiting to see what happens next. Unfortunately, the single-shot promotes this mind-set, and it’s dangerous. Place that first shot with care, but practice fast reloading!

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After years of decline, hunting participation took an encouraging jump this year.

Photo above: Rupp with her DIY cow elk taken in western Colorado.

The past year has been a tough one all around. Everyone has experienced the challenges of the pandemic in their own way. The hardships have been worse for some than others, but it’s safe to say we’ve all been affected. One thing that has happily remained constant through it all is the great outdoors, and the solace and renewal it brings to those who seek it out.

Like most of us, I didn’t travel this year; I hunted close to home. It proved fun and rewarding. I discovered some excellent dove and goose hunting less than thirty minutes from my house. I also killed my first DIY elk, a cow, in mid-October. As my husband and I packed the boned quarters out of the woods, we were intensely grateful for the fact that we would have a freezer full of excellent meat during a time of uncertainty.

We were hardly alone in this. People all across the country found themselves with more free time or work flexibility, fewer distractions, and an increased appreciation of the importance of self-reliance. As a result, a lot of them tried hunting for the first time–or returned to it after a hiatus. Hunting participation numbers, which have been on a long, slow decline for years, took a sudden jump.

The National Shooting Sports Foundation estimates that hunting license sales increased more than 12 percent in 2020 over the year before. That means there were as many as a million more hunters in the woods this past year. A large proportion of those hunters, according to preliminary stats coming out of several states, were first-timers, and many of those were women and young people.

We don’t know what will happen in 2021, as the world (hopefully) starts to return to normal. For the sake of wildlife agency budgets and wildlife conservation work, which are heavily dependent on hunting license sales, we hope that these new hunters stick with it and continue to increase their hunting skills and enjoy being out in the field.

If you’re one of those new hunters, welcome to the fold. If you’re an experienced hunter, please invite a newbie to go shooting with you, or share your duck blind. You’ll find it’s as fun for you as for them. Other than that DIY elk, the most rewarding hunt I did this year was a goose hunt where I invited a new hunter along and had the pleasure of seeing her shoot (and later skin, cook, and eat) her first goose.

There are lots of other ways to help new hunters. Share some of your extra gear (you know you have some). Treat them to a membership in a reputable organization so they can learn more about the conservation benefits hunting provides. Above all, make them feel welcome. Today’s new hunters are the ones who will carry on a timeless and precious tradition.

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A nostalgic look at America’s classic bolt-action hunting rifle.

Photo above: Barsness’s Springfield Sporter was built by Frank Pachmayr in the 1930s. Originally a .35 Whelen, it was later rechambered to .358 Norma Magnum. 

At the beginning of the twentieth century, the U.S. Army decided it needed a more modern bolt-action rifle. Since 1892, the Army had been using variations of the Krag-Jorgenson rifle, which was chambered for the .30 U.S round commonly known as the .30-40 Krag. Despite America winning the 1898 Spanish-American War in Cuba, it did not go unnoticed that the 1895 Mauser rifles used by Spain could be reloaded far quicker than Krags, which had a rather clumsy, hinge-topped magazine on the side of the action. The 1895s used disposable “stripper-clips” that could be inserted quickly into the top of the action, instantly loading five rounds.

The Army designed a new action, which used stripper clips so similar to the Mauser’s that the U.S. Government had to pay royalties to the Mauser company. The action itself was a combination of Mauser and Krag features, and in 1903 was accepted as the new service rifle.

The U.S. also “designed” a new cartridge for the 1903 rifle, strongly resembling the first smokeless German military round, today known in the U.S. as the 8×57 Mauser. The 8×57 had a rimless case, formed by cutting an extractor groove around the case-head, resulting in a rim the same diameter as the cartridge body.

The 1903 Springfield’s cartridge was also rimless, and in another not-so-astonishing coincidence, featured the same 12mm (.472 inch) rim diameter as the 8×57. The overall case was slightly longer, and used the same 220-grain roundnose bullet as the .30-40 Krag, at a muzzle velocity of 2,300 fps. 

Soon afterward, however, Germany dropped the 8×57’s heavy round-nose bullet, switching to a 154-grain spitzer (pointed) bullet at a muzzle velocity around 2,800 fps. The faster, sleeker bullet extended the 8×57’s range considerably, and the U.S. again followed the German lead by switching to a 150-grain spitzer at 2,700 fps. Officially termed the “cartridge, ball, caliber .30, Model of 1906,” it soon became known as the .30-06. 

Hunters started using the new rifle and round, which resulted in a major secondary industry, converting 1903 Springfield military rifles into sporters. The first and most famous 1903 was ordered from Springfield Armory by President Theodore Roosevelt in 1904. The Armory fitted a custom-made sporter stock, partly fashioned after one of Roosevelt’s Winchester rifles, with a short fore-end, cheekpiece, and commercial buttplate, and replaced the military open sights with Lyman sporting sights.

Even for America’s commander-in-chief, this work wasn’t free. Roosevelt paid $42.13 for the job, equivalent to around $1,200 today, and in 1905 he took a Colorado black bear with the rifle, using the military 220-grain load. It was also one of three rifles he took on his long, post-presidential East African safari in 1909-10, along with an 1895 Winchester lever-action in .405 WCF and a Holland & Holland .500/.450 double. He used the newer 150-grain spitzer .30-06 ammo; the pointed bullet tended to tumble when hitting game, killing quickly. 

Roosevelt’s book about the safari, African Game Trails, alerted plenty of hunters to the 1903 Springfield’s potential, including Roosevelt’s friend, the well-known author Stewart Edward White, who in 1910 commissioned gunsmith Louis Wundhammer to build five Springfield sporters—one for him, and four for friends.

Wundhammer was born in Bavaria but by 1910 lived in Los Angeles, a hotbed of custom sporting rifles during much of the twentieth century. White’s rifle was apparently the first commercially made Springfield sporter, and of course he also published a book about his 1912 safari.

From then on a 1903 Springfield sporter became the rifle for cutting-edge American sportsmen. The list of well-known Springfield fans includes Ernest Hemingway (who ordered his from Griffin & Howe), and Army officer and author Townsend Whelen, who owned several Springfield sporters made by various gunsmiths.

Eventually even Springfield Armory produced a sporting version, which could be purchased by members of the National Rifle Association. Several thousand were sold from 1924 to 1933. They resembled a plainer version of Roosevelt’s rifle, but had a Lyman receiver sight, the Model 48, developed specifically for the 1903 rifle.

Custom 1903 Springfields attracted such lofty customers partly because most American “authorities” (including Whelen) considered the 1903 a better action than the 1898 Mauser used by many gunsmiths and European firearms companies—not necessarily mechanically, but in manufacturing quality. Military 98 Mausers were made all over the world in vast numbers, sometimes by factories not so concerned about fit and finish, and even some gunsmiths in Germany made Springfield sporters. 

I started slowly falling under the spell of the Springfield after beginning to hunt big game in the 1960s, when the Civilian Marksmanship Program sold a bunch of “war surplus” 1903 Springfields to retail companies. Many local hunters bought surplus Springfields, some using the rifles as-is, especially the less expensive 1903A3 version produced by Remington and the L.C. Smith & Corona Typewriter Company during World War II, which had an aperture sight better for field use than the open sights of the original 1903. 

The 1960s were the last gasp of converting original 1903 Springfields to sporting rifles; by the 1970s, original military rifles started becoming too valuable to convert. I bought my first Springfield sporter in the 1970s, a typical 1960s “garage” job converted for scope use, with a semi-inletted walnut stock and a Canjar custom trigger. I spiffed up the stock a little, and hunted with the rifle for several years.

A quarter-century later I started lusting after one of the classic custom Springfields made before World War II, in large part due my friend Tim Crawford giving me a brand-new book in 2005, Custom Gunmakers of the 20^th Century, written by Michael Petrov, a rifle loony from Anchorage, Alaska. Petrov had published a series of articles about custom Springfields for the now-defunct Precision Shooter magazine, which they eventually collected in book form. 

Reading Petrov taught me a lot more about Springfield sporters, and a year later I ran across The One, on the late Ike Ellis’s table at a local gun show. Ike was a fine custom stockmaker who owned a big sporting goods store in Idaho Falls, so he knew his stuff. This particular Springfield had a classic, highly-figured black walnut stock, finely and extensively checkered in a fleur-de-lis pattern, with the requisite Lyman 48 receiver sight and Lyman Alaskan scope in a detachable Griffin & Howe side-mount. 

But it also had white-line spacers between the ebony fore-end tip and grip cap, and a ventilated Pachmayr white-line recoil pad. This seemed odd for a custom rifle typical of the pre-World War II era—until I picked it up and saw “Frank Pachmayr” engraved on the barrel. 

Frank and his father, Gus, were among the very top custom gunsmiths of the pre-World War II era. Like Wundhammer, they were based in Los Angeles, so had plenty of great stock wood from California walnut groves. Frank came up with the concept of white-line spacers before the war, even making some from elephant ivory.

The barrel was engraved “.35 Whelen,” but the tag read “.358 Norma Magnum,” one of the many .30-06-length belted magnums that appeared in the two decades after the war. No doubt the rifle got converted then, when the Whelen was still a wildcat and the Norma a new factory round. The rifle seemed like such a perfect illustration of Springfield sporter history that of course, I succumbed.

Eileen and I ended up in Alaska a couple years later, on our way to open ptarmigan season with our outfitter friends Phil Shoemaker, his wife, Rocky Harrison, and their kids Tia and Taj. Of course Phil knew Mike Petrov, and told him we’d be overnighting at an Anchorage motel. Mike invited us to dinner, and we had a great evening with him and his wife, Janet, much of it among his collection of fine rifles. Mike and I kept in touch, and in 2013 he sent me a copy of Volume Two of Custom Gunmakers of the 20^th Century, an even more impressive collection of new and updated information.

Unfortunately, Mike passed away a year later, but through the books his knowledge of Springfield sporters lives on—though they now sell for far more than the original $16.95. For hunters who’d like to learn almost everything about classic Springfield sporters, they’re worth the price. 

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The Early Life of W.B. Carson by Robert M. Anderson

W. Burch Carson is known and remembered for his important work in conducting a thorough, on-the-ground census of the scant remaining population of native Texas desert bighorns in the Texas Trans-Pecos region in the 1940s. His work was invaluable to subsequent restoration efforts for Texas bighorns. But Burch was a fascinating personality in his own right, a consummate outdoorsman and loner who knew the Sierra Diablo, Baylor, and Beach mountain ranges better than anyone else has, before or since, and he was a student of their mysteries—the lost mines, the caves, the cliffs, the ghosts and legends. While Carson left Texas after World War II and became a successful rancher in Arkansas, his early life roaming the hills of West Texas is what shaped his life and outlook.

Robert M. Anderson, who has authored a shelf full of books about North American mountain hunting as well as numerous biographies, was a friend of Carson’s for some thirty-four years. His fascination with Carson’s early life in the Trans-Pecos and his groundbreaking studies of the declining desert bighorn population inspired him to write this book about Carson’s early life in the Texas wilderness. The book, lavishly illustrated with photos of Carson and his adventures, covers much more than his work with bighorn sheep. Anderson recounts Carson’s successful career as a taxidermist, his spelunking adventures, his ongoing search for gold and lost mines in the region, and his research into little-known incidents in the region’s history. It’s a fascinating glimpse not just of a one-of-a-kind, pioneering outdoorsman, but of a remarkable, mysterious, and still little-known region of the American Southwest.

Available from Safari Press.

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Tips for judging African plains game.

Judging animals is more art than science. It takes experience, and that means, in unfamiliar circumstances, none of us can be particularly accurate. Ease or difficulty depends largely on the animal. Lacking horns, antlers, or tusks, all predators are tough to judge, and calls are based on body and head shape, even attitude. Sheep aren’t so bad, offering curl and mass. Goats are tougher, especially the varieties with straighter horns. Antlered animals are the easiest; we can count points and estimate spread and mass. African plains game, myriad antelopes of various sizes and horn shapes, is probably the most difficult of all: Simple, unadorned horns offer the least for comparison and, in the early stages of one’s African experience, all are bewilderingly unfamiliar.

Wildebeest are easy: like buffalo, they offer us spread, shape, and mass. Hartebeest aren’t as tough as they appear; you look at mass and horn length between the turns. More importantly, however, look for long and preferably parallel tips behind the last turn. All spiral horns are trickier than at first glance, because so much depends on width and depth of the turns. These, plus shape, are important and, depending on species, length and direction of tips above the last turn often reveal maturity. Gazelles and springboks aren’t easy, but their horns have shape and, on all smaller varieties, we have ear and facial lengths for comparison.

Most difficult of all are straight-horned antelopes without shape, curve, or feature. These include the many pygmy antelopes and, at the larger end, the oryxes. In a good example of “less is more,” the smallest antelopes are fairly easy because horns can be judged against ear length. The bigger they are, the more difficult: steenbok and vaal rhebok are harder to judge than duikers, grysbok, and dik-diks, but the several oryxes are the devil: both sexes have horns, and differences in horn mass between males and females are subtle. At first, they all look long. If you can find me a PH who claims to have never made a mistake on an oryx, I’m gonna call BS.

Then there’s a large group of antelopes with distinctively curved horns. Straighter horns are taller and appear longer, but a lot of invisible length is hidden in the curve, harder to see and harder to judge. Some of these animals are closely related, such as the kobs, lechwes, reedbucks, and waterbucks. Others, such as impalas, sables, and roans, are of different genera, but judging the curve is critical to the decision.

In a few hundred words I don’t pretend I can offer proficiency (nor do I claim to possess same). This is your PH’s job; he sees these animals every day, making and verifying judgments and, always, getting better with experience. It’s useful to study pictures and film, and the various records books. Mind you, I am not record-book-centric; the idea is to take mature animals. The best advice I can offer on any safari is: “Listen to your PH.” However, it’s useful to know what he’s looking for. And why he so quickly discounts an animal that looks just wonderful to you. In the field, looking at live animals, you’ll be surprised how quickly you catch on.

Impalas: With its lyre-shaped horns, the impala is probably Africa’s most recognizable antelope. The impala’s horns grow out, curve back, and then turn upward. The curve is important and width matters greatly, but what your PH is really looking for is tips that are straight, upright, and parallel, and as long as possible. No indicators are consistent, but parallel tips are usually a mark of maturity, while inward-pointing tips suggest an animal that can grow a bit more.

Kobs: The several kobs range from Zambia (puku or Vardon’s kob) discontinuously north to the Uganda kob (largest), and then progressively smaller all the way to West Africa. At first glance, a kob looks like an overgrown impala, larger in body with thicker horns of similar shape. Often, they replace the impala as the most common medium antelope, but prefer wetter, grassier habitat. With kobs, length is truly “all in the curve.” You want the initial curve to be outside the ears. Like impala, the tips rise upward from a second turn but with kob the tips conclude with a forward flip, and this final curve is often what separates good from great.

Lechwes: Although more aquatic in habitat, the lechwe is essentially an overgrown kob. Three races of kob occur naturally from Namibia’s Caprivi up through Zambia, with the fourth (Nile lechwe) far to the north in the Great Sud swamps of Sudan. The lechwe is a robust animal with thick bases and longer horns than the kobs produce. Horn configuration is similar, but the curves are subtler, and the forward flip of the horn-tips is essential for both maturity and length.

Reedbucks: As the name implies, the reedbucks are creatures of well-watered grassy plains and pockets. Smallest are the mountain reedbucks, then the several bohor reedbucks, with the common reedbuck the largest with the longest horns. All reedbucks have a bulbous horn base that is incipient horn, hard to see and useless to judge because it will be boiled away in trophy preparation. Mountain and bohor reedbucks have short horns that curve up and back, then tip forward. The mountain and bohor reedbucks are much easier to judge, because the horns can be easily judged against the ears. 

Common reedbucks are twice as large, with twice the horn length, but have wider horns that often grow outward at nearly a 45-degree angle. This is deceptive. For best length you want the tips to curve forward. Again, it’s all in the curve. Blunt, worn tips are an indicator of maturity, but, as with many antelopes, as they age, tip wear often exceeds growth so, regrettably, the oldest reedbucks are often not those with the longest horns.

Sables and roans: These animals are closely related, with thick (gorgeous) horns that rise up and immediately curve back into sharp tips that these animals know how to use. The roan is larger in body with shorter, thicker horns: Roan antelopes are “shootable” in the mid-twenty-inch class; sables about ten inches more. Thirty inches is the Holy Grail for a fantastic roan; forty inches is the magic number for sable. Judging this length is the hard part. It’s all in the curve, and the curve varies tremendously. In both species, some animals have a very pronounced “C” configuration, with the horn tips curving down toward the back. Other individuals have horn tips that grow back, almost parallel with the spine, and some horns tip out, offering a bit of bonus in the curve.

Greater length usually comes from horns that sweep back, but these animals are difficult to judge because it also depends on the angle of the initial curve: How high the horns rise before they start to curve back. Unlike all other antelopes discussed so far, the sable-roan group is made more difficult because both males and females have similar horns. Female horns are thinner and usually shorter, but a herd looks like a forest of similar horns. Thickness is subtle, but a dominant bull will stand out in body size, and will typically be slightly apart from the group.

Waterbucks: The common waterbuck has the distinctive rump ring; the several regional Defassa waterbucks do not. Only males have horns, and although the races differ somewhat in body size, horns are indistinguishable: Long, heavily ringed, curving up, slightly back, and (preferably) slightly forward. The waterbuck is an attractive and important prize, and one or another race is found in all just about all African hunting countries.

Perhaps because of extreme length with little feature, I find waterbucks the most difficult of this entire group to “guesstimate.” Maybe not as difficult as a gemsbok, but close! Waterbucks become impressive long before they reach maximum horn growth. With almost any game animal, going away is a terrible angle: Everything looks bigger! Full frontal is better, but with waterbucks, almost equally misleading. It’s essential to study waterbucks from the side, because they are perhaps the best example that it’s “all in the curve.”

Only from the side can you really see how much the horns slant back, and then gently curve forward to sharp tips. A wide, straight-horned waterbuck can be very impressive and may appear longer, but in order to reach that magical figure of around thirty inches, you almost always need quite a bit of curve.

Making such judgments is your PH’s job. Even the very best won’t get it exactly right every time, but their ability to come close (and certainly determine mature from too young) is art they have studied, and it’s part of why you have hired them. It’s fun to study and learn alongside them but also wise to keep quiet: Final “shoot or don’t shoot” judgment is one of those times when you should listen to your PH.

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Face to face with black bear on the West Coast’s largest island.

When we first spotted the huge black bear, it was lumbering down the slope onto a high plateau that had been clear-cut years before. The cut was regenerating with a mixture of high brush and small trees, and the bear had moved out of the heavy, dark timber on the hillside and was walking across the opening in the cool of the morning. It was moving with a purposeful, rolling gait like a fat man on his way to a bar, and even at more than half a mile away, the bear looked big.

Kim Cyr, my guide, studied the bear through his binocular and seemed to get more excited as the minutes passed. “That’s a four-ear bear,” he finally said in a low, awed tone. “Twenty inches, plus.”

Kim had spent the past couple of days coaching me on how to judge a big bear since I’d told him that, frankly, every bear looked huge to me. Kim explained that one of the tricks to judging a particular bear’s skull size was to look at it as it was facing you and figure out how many imaginary ears you could place between the bear’s actual ears. The more ears, the wider the skull and (presumably), the older and larger the bear. Three ears was a shooter. Three and a half was huge. Four . . . we hadn’t even discussed four. Four would be a monster.

I stared, but the bear was moving through the brush and I had trouble getting a good look at its head. I fixed its direction of travel in my mind and lowered the binocular. A grassy, brush-lined, grown over logging road snaked along the edge of the clear-cut. The bear was angling toward it.

“We could sneak up that road and maybe get a shot,” I suggested.

Kim was already getting to his feet. “We’ll take it slow, and try to stay out of sight,” he said. “The bear’s probably heading for the road to feed on some of that grass, so he’ll be there for a while.”

As we catfooted our way up the old road, the breeze blew directly in our faces. The track curved just enough so that the brush along its side shielded us from the bear’s view. As the sun kissed the mountain peaks, the low booming of blue grouse provided an occasional background bass note. I couldn’t believe it: On the third day of my Vancouver Island black bear hunt, with one of my two bear tags already filled, I was stalking a Boone-and-Crockett-class bear under ideal conditions: easy, quiet walking, perfect wind, and good cover.

We took more than an hour to move three-quarters of a mile up the old read, exercising great caution with every step since we couldn’t see the bear’s exact location. I spent the last fifteen minutes on hyper-alert, expecting the bear to step onto the road in front of us at any moment. I’d cranked the scope on my .308 down to its lowest power. Suddenly I froze in place, staring at a tree limb as it moved unnaturally up and down, pulled by the feeding bear on the other side. We had closed the distance to less than twenty yards. The wind was still in our faces, and the bear couldn’t see us as it fed behind the screen of brush and trees. The problem was, I couldn’t see it either. Ever so slowly, I edged across the road, trying for a clear field of view.

Finally I could see the bear, but only its top half. It was intent on feeding, but I hated to shift position at such point-blank range. Even a nearsighted bear would spot my movement.

Kim whispered urgently from behind me: “Shoot!”

Through the scope, only the bear’s back and the upper part of its chest was visible. The rest of the bruin was hidden behind a round, white log. Fearing to shoot too high, I held the cross hairs as low on the chest as I could—just above the log—and touched off the shot.

Confusion reigned after the rifle’s report echoed across the plateau. I worked the bolt and tried in vain to get the bear in my scope again as it whirled and sped across the clear-cut astoundingly fast for an animal of its size, disappearing behind a rise. When it was gone, we looked hard for signs of a hit and found none. The day before, I had killed a much smaller bear at a hundred and eighty yards, so I couldn’t imagine how I could have missed the huge one at twenty.

“You didn’t shoot the log, did you?” Kim asked, at last.

With sinking heart, I walked over to the fallen log. I traced the deep groove cut through it by my bullet and visually followed the shot’s deflection into the soft ground.

I fumed at myself for not thinking. Naturally, at such close range, the path of the bullet would have been a couple of inches lower than my cross hairs indicated. The difference should have been obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to me before the shot. But then I had never expected spot-and-stalk bear hunting to be such a heart-pounding, close-range game.

“We’ll find another bear,” said Kim, encouragingly. Then he added wistfully, “But that one was really big.”

Black bears are found across the continent from Maine to Arizona, from Florida to Alaska. The Boone and Crockett record book lists almost as many huge bears coming from southern California as from northern Pennsylvania, and from many places between and beyond: Minnesota, Alaska, Utah, Newfoundland. I’ve watched bears tearing up rotten logs on the Allegheny Plateau, gnawing on deer carcasses in Canada, and munching spring flowers in Montana meadows.

Many of the places bears live, especially in the East, are heavily forested, and that makes them tough to hunt. You have to hunt over bait, use dogs, organize a drive, or wander around the woods and hope you happen to see one. That’s why I like hunting bears out West, where they emerge from the heavy timber into meadows and clear-cuts and you can spot them and stalk them in some of the most scenic surroundings imaginable.

I’d done that before, but never on Vancouver Island, where “scenic” is taken to the extreme. V.I. is covered with thick forests of tall firs carpeting five-thousand-foot mountain peaks that soar straight up from sea level. In late May, those peaks are still snowcapped, with skinny fingers of waterfalls pouring off the cliffs and crashing into snowfields below. The dark forests are checkered with huge clear-cuts that are in turn crisscrossed by old logging roads. The clear-cuts make it possible to spot and stalk the many bears on the island. We saw several bears every day, moving along the creek bottoms, feeding in clear-cuts, and moving up hillsides to bed down in the heavy timber.

And it’s not just that bears are numerous on V.I. They also get big there. There’s no shortage of food in this ursine Utopia, and bears take full advantage of all of it. After their craving for spring grass wears off and summer moves toward fall, they’ll move on to gorging on berries in the slashings, gulping steelhead and salmon in the streams, and even munching crabs on the beaches.

The area I was hunting provided plenty of ground to cover, too. Outfitter Darren DeLuca is the son-in-law of legendary V.I. outfitter Wayne Wiebe, the man who originally put the island on the map as a major bear-hunting destination. DeLuca, an experienced guide-outfitter in his own right, has some two thousand square miles of forests, mountains, and clear-cuts for his hunters to explore, stretching from Herbert Inlet on the northwestern side of the island to Alberni Inlet near the town of Port Alberni on the southeast.

Typically, bear hunters drive the logging roads, glassing, spotting bears, and stalking to within a couple hundred yards for the shot. But many of the roads have been closed to vehicles and seeded, and hunters can also sneak along these tracks watching for bears. That’s what Kim and I had been doing, often encountering bears at less than fifty yards as they foraged in the new grass along the old roads.

Black bears may be ubiquitous, but that doesn’t make them less deserving of respect. It’s true they’re rarely aggressive, but as soon as a bear feels threatened or cornered, it’s capable of wiping that smile off your face in a hurry. So if you’re still-hunting where bears tend to appear in front of you at point-blank range, it pays to stay alert and keep a shell in the chamber.

As the remaining days of my hunt ticked down, Kim and I continued to hunt hard. I saw the waterfalls getting wider, pitching down from the sheer peaks as the spring melt really got underway, and black-tailed deer fed on the new growth along the edges of the clear-cuts. Teal bobbed in small mountain ponds, and hummingbirds zipped around newly grown wildflowers. Spring in the coastal mountains of British Columbia is exhilarating, and for a bear hunter, each new day holds particular promise.

The last evening of the last day of a memorable hunt always seems bittersweet, especially if you’ve still got a tag to fill. I was hoping for another bear, but I also wanted to burn into my memory the look of the jagged peaks and the tall firs, and the way the air smelled like a combination of sea air and pine forest.

Kim and I left the truck at the base of another old logging road, one that snaked up a narrow ravine cut by a raging, ice-cold stream. We’d hunted this same road several times and had seen bears attracted to the green grass that carpeted the long-unused track. At one point we’d even crossed the roaring creek on wet, lichen-covered rocks to look for bear farther up the mountain. This evening, though, we decided to still-hunt along the twisting road as the sun slid toward the west and the end of my stay on Vancouver Island.

The road climbed through an area that hadn’t been cut, and the big firs loomed close on either side of the road. Clusters of alder brush, devil’s club, and yellow broom grew along the sides of the grassy track. Now and then Kim pointed silently to a bent-over, broken-off alder sapling, and once we stopped to stare in astonishment at a particularly large one that had obviously been torn and gnawed by an enormous bear. Piles of huge, fresh scat littered the road. I settled my boot down carefully with every step, trying to keep the noise of my footfalls to a minimum.

As we eased around a sharp bend, we spotted a big bear just ahead, working its way in our direction through the trees just above the road. It hadn’t seen us, so we dropped down quickly behind an enormous log that lay beside the old road. With my earlier failure fresh in my mind, a solid rest and an unobstructed shot were my immediate priorities. I knelt behind the log, settled the .308 across it, and watched the bear. It was big-bodied and beautifully furred, and as it turned to glance in our direction I saw that there was room for at least three imaginary ears across its skull.

The bear picked its way through the trees, then started down the bank onto the road, heading for our side. Determined to take no risks with the shot, I waited for a broadside angle. My single 180-grain Core-Lokt Ultra round center-punched the bear’s shoulder at 45 yards. The effect was immediate: The bruin simply sank to the ground and rolled onto its back, paws up.

It was a fantastic bear, a massive old bruin with a beautifully furred hide that squared 6 feet, 6 inches, and a skull that was later officially measured at 18¼ inches. After skinning and quartering, Kim lashed the hide and most of the meat to his packframe. I slid the remaining hindquarter into my pack, secured the rest of my gear on top of it, and hoisted the load onto my back. Heavily laden but happy, we hiked back down the old road in the gathering dusk. The tall peaks of Vancouver Island glowed like church spires against the setting sun, appropriate monuments to honor a magnificent animal.

Contact Darren DeLuca, Vancouver Island Guide Outfitters: 250-724-1533, [email protected]; or visit HuntWild.com.

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