Photo by Vic Schendel

It’s every hunter’s nightmare: A bear is crashing toward you through the brush. What should you do?

You are hunkered in a small, high-mountain clearing, calling for early season elk. Suddenly there is a crashing noise and a grizzly bursts from the brush, running straight for you. Do you rise and shout at the bear, or do you stand your ground? If the bear knocks you down, do you play dead or fight back?

Or: You see a sow with cubs approaching, about 150 yards away. She hasn’t noticed you, yet. Looking around, you see a very climbable tree a few feet away. But you’ve read the basic bear safety advice, which advises against climbing a tree in a griz situation. You’ve also read that grizzlies will go up trees to pull a person down for a mauling. You have a rifle for self-defense, and there is no inconspicuous way to leave the area. The sow and cubs are still heading your way. Should you climb the tree?

Or: You come around a bend in the trail and there’s a grizzly sixty feet ahead. It sees you and charges. You have your rifle at port arms, and there’s bear spray in a hip holster. Should you shoot the bear or try to spray it?

Or: A large griz, probably a dominant male, is fifty yards away, walking straight toward you. You aren’t sure if it has seen you or not, but it keeps coming. Should you stand your ground or back away? Should you yell and wave your arms?

Or: A bear comes into camp. Do you shout at it and act aggressive, or do you stand still and talk to the animal in a calm voice?

Or: You and your partner are charged by a bear. It knocks your partner down and begins mauling him or her. Should you try to shoot the bear with your rifle or handgun? Would it be better to blast the animal with pepper spray?

None of these scenarios are fanciful. All of them are based on one or more actual case histories or personal experiences. If you truly know the finer details of grizzly protocol, you should have a clear sense of how to deal with each of these situations. Unfortunately, most basic bear-safety info is contradictory, often ambiguous, and far too generalized.

A blatant example, which I hate to even quote because I don’t want to put it into anyone’s head, is the advice given by some state agencies for those encountering a bear: “If it’s black, fight back; if it’s brown, lie down.” The meaning is that one should “play dead” if attacked by a grizzly, and fight back if attacked by a black bear. But the maxim is both misleading and dangerous. First of all, there are black grizzlies and brown black bears. Color is not a distinguishing criterion. Second, there are times when you should definitely not play dead with a grizzly. Third, when to play dead with an appropriate bear is hugely important. Too soon, and you can encourage an attack that might otherwise not have happened; too late, and you can get more severely injured than might have been necessary. (You want to drop into a protective position just before the bear makes actual contact.) So the basic advice of playing dead in certain situations is OK, but as with so much other bear-safety lore, we have to go beyond the basics to reach a level of understanding that’s actually effective in griz country.

Good bear-safety advice is less about absolute or simplistic rules and more about playing to probabilities. If you shout and violently wave your arms at a suddenly met, close-in sow with cubs, the probability of getting charged or even attacked goes way up. If you do everything right (stand still, don’t lock eyes with the bear, talk to it calmly if there’s time while getting your spray or weapon ready for deployment), the probability of getting mauled lowers, even if the bear does elevate your heartbeat with a bluff charge.

Dealing with a Charge

And what if a grizzly does charge? This is probably the scenario we read or hear about most in the media–a hunter surprises a griz at close range and the bear “attacks.” (I use

quotation marks because, with grizzlies, a charge

is not an attack unless the bear actually hits you.) A charge can be a fearful and addling event. It can happen so fast and unexpectedly that, unless you’ve rehearsed, planned, and trained for it–and sometimes even if you have–the shock is unnerving and brain-numbing. It can make normally stolid individuals do very unadvisable things, like take off running in panic. Importantly, however, not all charges are the same.

“There are two kinds of aggressive charges,” the late biologist Charles Jonkel told me years ago in a taped interview. “There’s the bluff behavior. Sub-adults and some other individual bears will come at you with their feet wide apart, their fur fluffed up, and they come at you stiff-legged. They make a lot of noise, huffing. They come straight at you, and the head and ears will be up. They’re putting on a hell of an act. But they won’t come all the way. It’s a bluff.”

What Chuck suggested next is way beyond the basics: “In this case you face them down; do the same thing back to them. Raise your arms and huff right back at them. A person can look pretty formidable, especially when wearing a big coat. You can open the coat out to look bigger. There are times when you want to back them down. Look as big as you can, get a very firm voice, even a growling-type yell.”

Another top biologist believes it’s probably safer (for non-experts) to take a firm, but less assertive approach with bluff-charging bears. “Stand your ground, look them straight in the eye. Don’t back away; that only encourages an advancing bear. Don’t wave your arms violently. Don’t play dead. And never turn your back to the bear.”

While doing any of this, you should also have your bear spray or weapon out, ready to use, just in case.

As for the second kind of charge, Jonkel said: “When a bear’s really coming for you, it’s different. If it has its head down and ears laid back, it’s probably going to keep coming.”

One question for a hunter with a gun is: How do I know when to shoot a charging bear in self-defense, or if I should shoot?

The great advantage of bear spray is that you have much less of a dilemma. If the grizzly, whether bluff-charging or coming in hard for an attack, gets within thirty feet, you press the trigger and blast a strong cloud of pepper spray into its face. That usually (but not always) ends the confrontation. The bear takes off, uninjured. With gun-defense only, the stakes are higher. If you shoot too soon (which is common), you wound or kill a grizzly that probably didn’t need to be shot. If you wait too long, you put yourself in greater danger. Watch the head and ear position and the directness of the charge. If the head and ears are up, and the bear is hesitating, bouncing, or stiff-legging, hold fire; if the head is low and the ears are back, and the bear is coming straight-on fast, maybe uttering a deep rumbling growl, you will probably have to shoot to defend yourself when the animal is forty feet away or closer. This is an unhappy choice, because sometimes even this kind of bear will break off the attack, stop or veer to one side when it’s only a few yards or feet away. But it would be unrealistic and unsafe to expect a hunter to hold fire to such an extreme last moment.

Bear at a Distance

A very different type of encounter that seldom gets much attention is when you see a griz at a distance and must figure out what to do to avoid trouble. Taking one of my scenario examples, a large bear, probably a dominant male, is fifty yards away, heading straight toward you, walking steadily. You aren’t sure if the bear has seen you or not, but it keeps coming. What do you do?

Hopefully you won’t make the very common mistake of yelling, “Hey bear!” while waving your arms over your head–“to alert the bear that you’re human,” as some agency guidelines advise. To me, that’s asking for trouble, and there are manycase histories where the yelling/arm-waving approach triggered an instant charge, even from bears 100 yards away or more. The better procedure (assuming there is no available safe exit), is to prepare your deterrent or weapon, stand so that you are clearly visible, and talk toward the bear in a calm, but not overloud, voice. There is no need for arm-waving; when the bear sees (and hears) you it will know you’re human. (Grizzly vision is better than formerly believed–nearly as good as human vision.) Odds are a bear in this situation will not attack or charge, especially a male or lone female. (A sow with cubs might be more prone to a defensive charge.) If the bear stands on its hind legs, that’s a sign of curiosity, not aggression. It’s getting a higher-angle look at you while sampling the air current for scent. If it keeps coming, stand your ground. Don’t back away unless the bear stops its forward movement. If backing away encourages the bear forward, stop and stand your ground. Talk to the animal in a normal voice.

“Say something reasonable to the bear,” Jonkel advised, “because that creates body language. I tell people to say exactly what you want the bear to do, and your body will act out the message.”

If the bear doesn’t get the message, or disagrees with it and suddenly makes a run at you, the previous advice on handling a charge applies.

In my second griz-in-the-distance scenario, there’s a sow with cubs 150 yards off, heading your way. She hasn’t seen you yet, and with the wind direction she isn’t going to catch your scent until she’s very close. Because of the terrain, there’s no feasible way to make a retreat or wide evasive move without being detected, but there is a very climbable nearby tree. Should you climb it?

I experienced this exact situation while elk hunting in the Cabinet Mountains of northwest Montana. I had a rifle and bear spray, but my thinking was: Why risk a shootout, or spray-out, with a mother griz when I can get up this tree and maybe avoid any violent conflict, or even a nervous face-off?

I was twenty feet up and solidly perched (rifle and spray at the ready, just in case) when I heard, then saw, the bears moving near. I stayed still and quiet as the animals came closer, the cubs bobbing, tussling, and gamboling around the mother bear, who had her nose working. Fifteen feet away she looked up, clearly saw me, regarded me briefly as if to say, “I know you’re there,” but showed no stress or agitation. I was a mute statue with a slightly averted gaze. (Locking eyes with a bear is a signal of aggression or dominance, and can potentially trigger a defensive grizzly like this sow into a charge or attack.) She and the cubs moved on by. I stayed in the tree for twenty minutes, then quietly worked my way back down and got on with the hunt–my senses much sharpened and heightened.

Later I mentioned this incident to one of my bear mentors, an experienced biologist who often makes a point of telling people not to climb trees to escape from grizzlies. He admitted to doing the same thing himself on several occasions. He said: “If you’re up in a tree before the bear sees you, and then she comes along and does see you up there, you’re probably fine. It’s very unlikely the bear will come after you. The thing you don’t want to do is run for or try to scramble up a tree after a bear has seen you. More often than not that will trigger a chase response and a possible attack.”

Biologist Steve Herrero adds the cautionary tale of a man in Alberta who climbed a tree to avoid a sow and cubs that were 100 yards away, but who then made the mistake of shouting at the bear, hoping to haze her off the trail. The sow charged instantly, tore fifteen feet up the tree and pulled the man down for a brief, injurious (but fortunately not fatal) mauling.

It’s rarely wise to intimidate a defensive bear, which is one that feels threatened in any way by your presence, or is protective of its young.

One of the most dangerous scenarios is encountering a female grizzly with cubs. It’s crucial not to act aggressively toward the bear in this situation. Photo by Vic Schendel

Bears on the Offensive

An offensive (or “non-defensive”) grizzly is a different matter. This is a bear that is seeking you out on purpose. It might be mistaking you for a prey animal (as when you’re calling game and perhaps wearing camo and masking scent); it might be moving in to scavenge an easy meal while you’re field-dressing game; it might come into camp looking for edibles, or it might (in rare instances) be tent-invading or hunting you as human prey.

In one of my scenarios a bear comes crashing into the clearing where you are using a game call for early season elk. This is an offensive bear, one seeking you out, probably because it has mistaken you for whatever your call represents (calf, cow, even a bugling bull elk). With this kind of bear your response should be very different from what it would be with a defensive sow-and-cub or carcass-defender. Ideally, you would stand (if there’s time), shout loudly, and blast the animal in the face with a full load of pepper spray. In some actual cases, just standing and shouting was enough to cause a startled bear to skid to a halt and reverse directions. (The bear was expecting a prey animal, not a large, aggressive human.) In other instances the grizzly was so locked in with predator intensity it kept coming and needed either a blast of spray or, less fortunately, a bullet, to startle it out of predator mode and into retreat (or death).

Whether or not there is time to deploy a weapon, a hunter attacked in this situation should not play dead, but should do whatever is possible to fight off the bear. (Using gun, knife, binocular, rock, kicks to the head, jabs to the eyes, etc.)

In most cases like this, when a bear realizes it’s tangling with a human and not a prey animal, it usually quits the attack and runs off, leaving the hunter wounded but alive.

Another offensive-grizzly scenario is a bear coming into camp. Do you yell at it, wave arms and act aggressively, or do you stand still and talk to the animal in a calming tone of voice?

Short answer: You yell at it, bang pans, throw things at it, maybe even try a warning shot in the air, or into the ground near the animal’s feet and face. Everyone in camp should group together to put up an intimidating, loud, startling front. If the bear is in range, you should hit it with spray, and all available firearms should be readied and aimed. If the bear comes at you or another person aggressively, and spray isn’t on hand or hasn’t worked, it’s lethal force time. This is more emphatically true with a night bear, especially one that is attempting to break into your tent (or has broken in). If you are ever attacked by a camp-invader or a night bear, never play dead; always fight back as hard as you can, with whatever you’ve got on hand.

Your Hunting Partner is Attacked

Final scenario: You and your partner are charged by a grizzly. It knocks your partner down and begins mauling him or her. Should you try to shoot the bear with your rifle or handgun? Or would it be better to blast the animal with pepper spray?

This has happened often over the years, and in more than a few cases, sad to say, the mauling victim has been killed not by the bear, but by the partner’s errant, well-intended bullet. However, in many instances a mauling bear has been driven off when a partner shot the animal in the face with pepper spray. So if spray is on hand, that should be the first weapon of choice. If a firearm must be used, it needs to be used up close. This is easy to say while sitting at a keyboard; not so easy in reality. A mauling grizzly is a furious creature, a terrifying one. I’ve never witnessed a human mauling (I have viewed several on video, which is awful enough), but I’ve seen adult bears fighting, and once saw a large boar maul and nearly kill a sub-adult. The power and violence and fury is shocking. So running up to a grizzly as it mauls your partner or family member is a sheer act of guts and courage.

With spray, you can shoot from ten to twelve feet (if you’re too close the spray doesn’t aerosolize as effectively), but with a firearm you need to get to point-blank range, where there’s little chance of accidentally hitting the mauled victim. With a gun you can try for whatever target is available–behind the upper foreleg (heart), the neck, skull, even the open mouth if the bear presents it. Often the shot need not be fatal to drive the bear away. Despite common belief, case histories show that far more often than not, a wounded grizzly will take off rather than continue or intensify an attack.

These last two scenarios show the inarguable value of hunting or hiking with a partner (or two) while in griz country. During any type of encounter, two humans present a more intimidating presence (from the bear’s perspective) than one. When game-calling or field-dressing a downed animal, one person can work the call or knife while the other stays alert, with spray or firearm at ready, scanning and listening for an approaching bear. In any instance where there is a serious charge, two weapons provide better odds of a successful hit. And as shown, in case of an actual attack, a partner can move in to stop the mauling and drive off the bear– and then provide aid and assistance for evacuation to medical help.

I can’t overemphasize the value of making a response plan for various types of encounters, such as those I’ve described, focusing on how you will react and what you will or won’t do in specific situations. As sports and military trainers often say, “If the mind has never been there before, the body will not know how to respond.”

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If you’re moving, and you have a taxidermy collection, the experts at Trophy Transport can help.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I relocated from southern California to northern Colorado. Long-distance moves are complex and expensive, especially if you’ve been in one place for many years, as we had. Arranging for movers to pick up our furniture was simple enough, but our taxidermy collection was another story. How on earth were we going to move some 20 shoulder mounts and an equivalent number of European mounts and racks without damaging them, and without breaking the bank?

The first option we considered was to have each head professionally crated by a taxidermist, and the crates placed on the moving truck. But with so many large heads (including a kudu, a gemsbok, and a 66-inch Alaska moose) the crating alone would have been incredibly expensive, not to mention the additional cost for the square footage the enormous crates would take up on the moving truck. And once we unpacked, we’d be stuck with enough crating material to build a fair-size cabin. We quickly abandoned this idea.

Fortunately, I discovered Trophy Transport, a moving company that specializes in moving taxidermy over long distances. Not only do they understand how to handle taxidermy without damaging it, they know exactly how to pack it so it won’t shift—no crates needed. Best of all, the price they quoted me to pick up our mounts in California, store them briefly at their headquarters while we moved in, and then bring them to us at our new place in Colorado, was far less than having them crated and shipped.

Skulls and racks were attached to padded bars in the truck with stretch wrap.

The big Trophy Transport rig pulled up to the curb in front of our California house in early February, and husband-and-wife team Dino and Janice went to work, expertly carrying our mounts to their truck and carefully securing them via super-strong stretch-wrap to metal load bars in the trailer. The larger shoulder mounts were placed on backing boards, which were then secured with titanium screws to the floor of the trailer or to plywood shelves on the metal bars. Soft packing materials protected the ears and noses of the more fragile mounts. Cleats on the floor of the trailer provided total stability for the carefully packed load. I was impressed with the job and how securely each head was attached. They had our collection loaded up within a couple of hours, leaving us free to finish our packing and hit the road without worrying about our mounts.

Trophy Transport could have delivered the load to our new place immediately, but we opted to wait until we were settled in. In early May, once we had our new home organized, the familiar big rig pulled up to our curb once again. The mounts were unloaded in no time and carefully placed in the rooms where we wanted them. I inspected them all and found they were in great shape, with barely a hair out of place. Now all the was left was to find places for all of them on the walls in our new house.

If you’re planning a move, don’t risk damaging your irreplaceable taxidermy. Contact Trophy Transport: 877/644-9757; trophytransport.com

The mounts arrive at our new place and are safely unloaded on a fine spring morning.

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True wilderness is getting harder to find on the Dark Continent.

Mentor, friend, and great hunter the late Jack Atcheson Sr. once said to me: “True wilderness is characterized by the absence of wildlife.” Atcheson was from Montana. As historical record, the Lewis and Clark expedition almost starved in what is now great elk country. Today, animal densities are much lower in wild places like the Bob Marshal Wilderness than in ranch lands. Perennial concentrations of wildlife are most likely to be found in areas where permanent water and year-around food can be found, which usually means the hand of man has been at work: Developed water sources and, often, agriculture.

This is an almost universal truth, and it certainly applies to Africa. If you want to see a lot of animals on a constant basis and rack up a big bag, then there are no places on Earth better than the well-manicured and often over-stocked game ranches of southern Africa. There is nothing at all wrong with these places or this approach, but don’t delude yourself that this is wild Africa or that, having savored the amazing bounty, you have experienced wild Africa.

A typical scene at a waterhole in Etosha National Park, Namibia. If you want to see a lot of African wildlife—and you should—visit the great African Parks and enjoy, but don’t assume that typical hunting areas will hold such an abundance of wildlife.

Certainly, across the unimaginable vastness of Africa there are unusual areas that, by accidents of habitat, naturally host concentrations of wildlife. Many of these special areas have been preserved as National Parks, famous places such as Etosha, Kruger, Masai Mara, Ngorongoro, Serengeti. By long-established law and tradition, these are not hunting areas, no more than Yellowstone and Denali. There are parallels: If you want to view concentrations of North American wildlife in beautiful natural settings, visit our National Parks. Likewise, if you wish to view African wildlife in ideal habitat, visit the great Parks.

Naturally, many non-hunters don’t know the difference, and anti-hunters don’t want to know the difference. However, most hunting areas in wild Africa are marginal lands, often arid or swamp, unsuited for pasture and agriculture, and lacking the natural beauty and species diversity to be preserved as Parks supported by ecotourism. We crazy hunters are willing to visit such places because we’re willing to work harder for fewer encounters, savoring the wildness.

Obviously, “wilderness” is derivative of “wild.” In North America, large areas of more or less pristine wilderness have been set aside, with intrusion restricted, including use of mechanical devices, including vehicles and chainsaws. To be honest, true African wilderness is elusive. With Africa’s burgeoning human population, there are few areas (if any) that have noindigenous population. Human encroachment is forbidden in most National Parks (that are not hunted) and many game reserves (that are hunted), and even some hunting areas. For example, human habitation is forbidden in Zimbabwe’s Designated Safari Areas, set aside primarily for hunting.

Regardless of regulation and intent, almost universally there are roads, camps, and, business being business, there is almost always natural resource exploitation, such as logging, mining, and poaching. Absent some form of development, none of these things could exist—nor could lawful and well-managed hunting, or, for that matter, ecotourism. Thus, true, untouched African wilderness may not still exist. For sure I have never seen it. If it did exist, I probably couldn’t survive, pampered child of the West that I am. However, some areas are wilder than others!

Trying to be realistic in our twenty-first century, when I think of “wild Africa” I’m thinking of places where there are no fences, no major human development, and a minimal human population with inevitable agriculture and livestock. In such areas, wildlife can roam free as it must. Such areas exist all across Africa, and in fact are the norm in the majority of Africa’s twenty countries that currently offer regulated sport hunting. What I call the “roll call” of these African hunting countries is less than half of the nearly fifty sovereign nations that comprise Africa—and occupy less than a third of her land mass. Most African countries have National Parks vying for tourism. However, it is sad fact that wildlife has disappeared from vast tracts of Africa beyond these protected enclaves. The hunting countries are exceptions, with lands beyond sacrosanct Parks and reserves where wildlife still flourishes naturally because wildlife has value, generating revenues for both governments and local populations, brought in by sport hunting regulated as a sustainable harvest.

This is the reality of “wild Africa” today. Across Robert Ruark’s “MMBA” (Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa) situations vary widely, but animal densities are lower and conditions are more challenging than on intensively-managed private lands. That’s okay because we hunters don’t mind working for the experience.

An amazing bongo from the Congo forest. This was the only animal taken on a two-week safari, and one of only a half-dozen actually seen. In the forest, this is normal, and it was a very successful safari!

I suppose the “wildest” part of Africa I’ve spent time in is the forest zone, where heat and thick vegetation combine to offer difficult hunting conditions. There’s actually a lot of wildlife in the forest—but you don’t see it! I know hunters who have encountered bongos on forest roads, but I haven’t! Last year, in Congo, driving hundreds of miles looking for tracks, I saw one bay duiker, brief glimpses of a couple of scampering Bates pygmy antelopes and a female sitatunga. That’s it! Hunting hard and specifically, my hunting partner and I each took a bongo, and we called the safari a resounding success.

The forest is a special case; one goes there with limited and specific objectives, hopefully understanding you won’t seea lot of game, and you’ll sweat buckets for every encounter. Much of today’s “wild Africa” hosts wildlife in significant density and variety—but that depends on wise stewardship. Today there are great hunting areas in Ethiopia, Mozambique, Tanzania, Uganda, Zambia, and Zimbabwe, to name just a few. However, these countries also have depleted areas, where effective anti-poaching has not been conducted, or where game quotas have been too liberal, or where human encroachment has not been managed.

In the past I have considered the presence of lions an essential element of wild Africa, so much that I used the phrase “where lions roar” as a book title. I haven’t exactly re-thought this, but hearing lions roar cannot be a part of every excellent safari experience. Lions aren’t creatures of the forest, and wild lions will not be encountered on the game ranches of southern Africa. Sadly, across Africa lions have vanished from much historic range. However, a wonderful part of the African experience is to lie in your tent and hear lions roaring. You are in wild Africa. The days are over when this sound might be heard across wild Africa, but I’ve had recent experiences that give me hope.

Coastal Mozambique has become one of my favorite African areas. Following Mozambique’s long civil war little wildlife remained. In the last quarter-century the outfitters operating the big Coutadas surrounding the Marromeu Reserve have brought it back! These areas are supported only by hunting revenue, and they have wrought a miracle: From 1,200 remnant buffaloes in 1992 to 30,000 today, along with thousands of waterbucks, sables, nyalas, and so much more. In the 1960s, lions were plentiful in the area. Although none have been hunted in years, the lions never made a comeback. Occasional wandering males came through, probably from Gorongosa National Park seventy miles inland—but there was no breeding population. Area operators agreed lions were needed to make the area complete. In summer 2018, just a year ago, twenty-four wild lions were brought in. Widely publicized, this was the largest international transfer of wild lions, engineered and funded by Mary Cabela and son, Dan, of the Cabela Family Foundation. Habituated in enclosures and then released on the edge of a game-rich floodplain, the lions almost immediately formed small prides and began making natural kills.

“Mary’s Lions,” snacking on a reedbuck just a few days after being released into the wild in Mozambique’s Coutada 11. For unknown reasons the area was lacking in lions, so the Cabela Foundation introduced two dozen lions. After just a year they have doubled!

I was there shortly after the release and watched a lioness snag a reedbuck. My cameraman, Bill Owens, had the amazing fortune to be there when one of those elusive Mozambican males claimed three lionesses. Now it’s a year later and I’m back in Coutada 11, site of the release, with Zambeze Delta Safaris. In just a year the initial two-dozen have doubled. So far “Mary’s Lions” are subsisting primarily on reedbuck, warthogs, and bushpigs, but before long it’s almost certain we’ll have to share the buffalo with the lions, and that’s just fine!

I’ve spent a lot of time in Namibia, a beautiful country offering a vast amount of game. Most of it is private land, and except for the Zambezi Region in the far north, not much of it is lion country or “wild Africa.” But an area I hadn’t seen until recently is Kaokoland in the northwest.

I was there in June with Jamy Traut and saw a side of Namibia I didn’t know existed. His Kaokoland concession encompasses two tribal conservancies, 1.6 million acres: No fences, a few small villages and a scattering of nomadic herdsmen, and a surprising amount of wildlife for such arid country: Lots of mountain zebra, plentiful springbok and giraffe, good kudu. Plus bonuses: Kaokoland is too arid to be buffalo habitat, but has a permanent population of several hundred wandering elephants, and a breeding population of black rhinos…very possibly the last completely free-roaming black rhinos on the African continent. And, yes, it’s lion country! The estimate is about a hundred and fifty lions in several prides, with individuals coming and going from Etosha to the east. We saw their tracks; they stole our leopard baits—and we lay in our tents and heard them roaring. By any and all definition, this remote corner of Namibia is wild Africa.

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How to prepare for the upcoming hunting season.

Here in North America, most hunting seasons are geared around autumn. We American hunters are accustomed to short autumn seasons that we look forward to and plan around. Many European hunters, on the other hand, enjoy a six-month roebuck season spanning spring, summer, and fall. Some African countries have set seasons and others do not, but ideal times generally trend toward either cooler months or the dry season. But here in the U.S., our long-awaited hunting seasons are almost upon us, and we want to be ready!

GET IN SHAPE. Keeping in condition is probably the most time-consuming item on my list. And, as I’m unfortunately learning, the older I get the more constant effort is required. “In shape” is a flexible term, depending heavily on your age and overall health, and just as heavily on the kind of hunting you want to be ready for. Hunting whitetails from stands is probably the most common American hunting situation. You don’t need to be an Olympic athlete, but you need to be able to get to and from your stand and be limber enough to get in and out safely (if not gracefully).

Mountain hunting on foot is a different order of magnitude, and most everything else is somewhere in between. I’m neither a marathon runner nor a personal trainer (and for sure I’ve never had a personal trainer!), but I can offer a few thoughts. First, being in shape for hunting season is not an exam you can cram for. How long it takes depends on your starting point and the level of condition you wish to reach, but we’re talking regular exercise for weeks, perhaps months and even years. Therefore, it’s best to establish some sort of regimen and stick with it, although you can certainly step up your program as a particularly challenging hunt nears.

Second, always see your doctor before starting a new exercise program, and listen to your body. Muscle soreness is normal, but no matter what you’re doing, work up slowly and don’t overdo it: If you hurt yourself, you’re defeating your purpose and delaying your goal.

Distances, difficulty of terrain, and required load varies widely, but most hunting requires at least some walking, at least a light pack, and usually does not require sprinting or long-distance running. Therefore, I am convinced that walking is the best preparation for most hunting. We walk the dog regularly, and pound some of hiking trails near home in the coastal mountains with packs and hiking poles. These days, I strap on knee braces! In between, I go to the gym, focusing on primarily cardio and lifting light weights. Unfortunately, I travel a lot, and travel plays havoc with any fitness schedule. If I can’t do anything better, I jog wherever I am. This year I ran almost daily while in camp in Cameroon, again in Namibia. You need a safe place, but little space and equipment. Walking is as good and maybe better, but takes longer!

I don’t recommend taking up jogging, certainly not without a doctor’s clearance. However, you have to figure out what works for you. I’m too uncoordinated for team sports, I don’t play golf, and traveling with a bike is awkward. Long-term running is hard on the body but, thanks to the Marines, I’ve run all my life. So, when I’m short on time, I strap on my knee braces. These days, I can’t justify my Forrest Gump shuffle as “running”–but, for the purpose, it’s more a matter of time and distance than speed. Again, find exercise you like to do (and thus can make yourself do regularly). Start early and stick with it.

The shooting bench, with the rifle safe and muzzle pointed downrange, is a perfect place to do a careful inspection. Start by making sure all screws are tight, and finish with a thorough function check.

CHECK RIFLE AND AMMO. This shouldn’t take very long, but it can’t be left to the last minute because: What if there’s a problem? Mechanical problems can happen at any time but, typically, they don’t pop up overnight. So, whether Old Betsy has been in storage since last season, or is an old friend that goes to the range often, this final grace period before hunting season is a good time to do a careful butt-to-muzzle inspection. Make sure all screws are tight: Action, scope mounts, and rings.

Obviously, you want to do this in complete safety, so I follow an important member of the “Ten Commandments of Gun Safety” and treat guns as if they’re loaded when I take them out of the safe and make sure they’re cleared and empty. One of my pet peeves is screw-in sling swivel studs that become loose. The problem with loose studs is they tend to keep working looser. If they pop out when the rifle is slung (and they can), then your rifle is likely to take a hard fall. Screw-in studs can usually be re-secured with Loc-Tite or epoxy.

Visual inspection and this kind of trouble-shooting can be done on your workbench. Much of the rest I do on the range because, unless you’re a handloader and have created dummy rounds, you need to work cartridges through the magazine and into and out of the chamber to do proper function-checking. Made sure that the basic functions of feeding, extraction, and ejection are smooth and trouble-free. Since we’re at the range, actual firing will also be checked.

It’s unusual for something bad to suddenly develop, but it can happen. Extractors, ejectors, and springs can become worn. When this happens either a trip to a gunsmith–or time to locate parts–is in order, which is why this stuff shouldn’t wait until the last minute. Sometimes, however, a good cleaning can fix the problem. Rust can develop in storage, and excess lubricant can collect gunk and inhibit functions.

Boddington does most of his gun cleaning at the range, making sure he includes cleaning gear with his range kit. The only advantage to doing it at the range: After cleaning you can fire fouling shots, and then your rifle is ready to go hunting.

I wouldn’t wish to admit this in front of my old Drill Instructor, but I don’t necessarily clean my rifles every time I fire them. It depends on the conditions, and how many shots down the barrel since the last cleaning. Instead, here’s what I do: I take my cleaning gear to the range for the last practice or zero session before I take a rifle on a hunt. Then, when I’m just about done and I’m happy with the zero and the load, I clean thoroughly on the range. Most rifles put the first couple of shots from a freshly-cleaned barrel to a different point of impact than after the barrel is slightly fouled (which, with my rifles, is a more natural state!). The difference is often slight, but can be a couple of inches. So, after cleaning and when I’m all done, I fire two or three “fouling shots.” Then I’m really done, so I’m ready to pack up.

Except for one more thing. Toward the tail end of that last range session before a hunt, it’s wise to run all the cartridges you’re taking with you through the magazine and into and out of the chamber. Just recently I was in camp with a gent who had a gorgeous rifle. Half his ammo was somebody else’s handloads—and they wouldn’t chamber in his rifle. Yeah, I know how silly this sounds, but obviously it happens. I don’t shoot other people’s handloads, and I don’t loan mine to anyone else. Problems with factory loads are rare, but once in a while you run into a dented case, bad case mouth, etc. It’s wise to visually check all ammo for a hunt, first to make sure everything matches, and then to make sure all cartridges feed and chamber in your rifle.

PRACTICE SHOOTING. Shooting practice really should be ongoing and continuous. As with conditioning, no one can say how much is enough, but nobody can spend too much time practicing. The only caveat to that is don’t overdo it: If you beat yourself up and acquire a flinch it’s gonna take a lot of work to undo it. So, practice smart. With hard-kicking rifles, limit your exposure per range session. Half a dozen or ten shots may be plenty, and twenty is probably too much. Intersperse with a good old .22 or a mild-recoiling varmint rifle.

Much effective practice shooting can be done with a .22, minimizing recoil and cost, and reducing barrel-cooling time on summer days. Everything you need to know about shooting over sticks can be learned with a .22.

A solid benchrest is essential for checking zero and evaluating loads, but in my view shooting off the bench isn’t practice for hunting. Get away from the bench and do as much shooting as you possibly can from positions you might actually use in the field: Shooting sticks, bipods, impromptu rests, and the good old basic NRA shooting positions of prone, kneeling, sitting, and standing. Whatever your hunting rifle happens to be, you need to shoot it enough to be completely familiar and comfortable, but a lot of this practice shooting can be done effectively with a good old .22, with no recoil and little cost.

I love long summer days, when you can start shooting early and stay late if you wish. However, summer heat changes the game. Barrels heat up quickly, and the pencil-thin barrels common on light sporters today heat up very quickly. Accuracy can deteriorate fast, so it’s important to be patient and plan on spending a lot of time waiting for barrels to cool. How long, and after how many shots depends on ambient temperature, bullet velocity, and barrel thickness, but you can’t learn anything shooting a hot barrel. Take your time, and spend more time shooting your .22.

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A new study provides some practical insights on how to talk to non-hunters about the importance of hunting.

Almost every hunter has been asked the question at some point: Why do you hunt? Sometimes it’s framed more negatively: How can you kill an animal?

When you’re asked such a question, don’t get defensive. Answering thoughtfully presents a great opportunity to communicate the benefits of hunting to someone who probably doesn’t know much about it and doesn’t (yet) have an opinion about it.

Recently, the Colorado Wildlife Council (the entity behind the state’s “Hug a Hunter” pro-hunting ad campaign) commissioned in-depth exploratory research aimed at providing guidance to the Council on how best to continue to reach out to non-hunters to increase support of hunting and fishing. The research, conducted by Benenson Strategy Group, a global research firm, Is some of the most in-depth research ever done in terms of delving into how non-hunters feel about what we do, and it provided some fascinating insights that any of us can use any time we talk to a non-hunter about hunting.

The researchers conducted the study in three phases, surveying 969 registered Colorado voters in early February. The study focused on voters aged 18 to 35 who neither strongly support nor oppose hunting. First, online journals helped the researchers get an idea of the mindset and core beliefs that shaped non-hunters’ views. Second, in-person focus groups explored arguments for and against hunting and tested their effectiveness. Third, the researchers combined the results from the first two phases and quantitatively tested the best support and opposition messages and explored why they did or did not succeed.

One of the most important findings was that non-hunters typically don’t feel strongly about hunting one way or another, so they are receptive to hearing arguments on both sides. That presents an opportunity for hunters—and also for anti-hunters—to sway them. Interestingly, some 80 percent of the people in the survey said they know someone who hunts. That means hunters have the opportunity to reach out to a large percentage of non-hunters with a positive message.

The non-hunters in the study had, overall, a surprisingly live-and-let-live attitude. They professed respect for individual liberties and the rights of others. Asked whether hunting was something people should have a right to do, regardless of how they personally felt about it, 87 percent either strongly or somewhat agreed.

Researchers found, however, that most non-hunters did not think that hunting affected them personally in any way, so it was important to make clear that hunting has direct benefits to them. The most effective arguments for hunting involved the fact that license fees from hunting are major sources of funding for forests, rivers, and places they hike. It’s crucial to tie hunting’s benefits back to the things people personally enjoy. This includes the fact that most non-hunters appreciate seeing wildlife, and revenue from hunting is the most crucial source of funding for protecting, improving, and managing wildlife populations.

They also found it was effective to humanize the economic benefits—letting them know that individual taxpayers would have to pay more if hunting were restricted, and highlighting the many small-business owners, manufacturers, and people in the tourism industry who would be hurt by hunting restrictions.

In addition, the researchers found that almost all of the non-hunters in the survey had deep concerns about animal welfare, and little knowledge of hunting laws or how hunters utilize their animals. There is a prevalent “trophy hunting” myth that makes many people think hunters simply take the heads or antlers and leave the meat in the field. Learning that it was illegal to waste the meat of animals hunted was both eye-opening to many of the people in the survey, and a very persuasive fact for the pro-hunting side. Hunters often do not realize how little non-hunters know about hunting regulations. When people learn the simple fact that hunters are required by law to take the meat of animals they harvest, and utilize the hides of furbearers, and that they can be punished with fines and criminal charges if they don’t, it can make a big difference in how they feel about hunting.

The researchers also tested several arguments that did not prove particularly effective in swaying non-hunters’ opinions. One was the argument that hunting is an important part of human culture and heritage. This is something that is very important to hunters, but proved of little interest to the non-hunting public.

Overall, the findings boiled down to four main points that any of us can easily use when talking to a non-hunter. Start by building a connection with the person via our shared respect for individual liberty: Even though not everyone hunts, we can all respect the rights of others to do so, just as we respect people’s rights to engage in many other activities. Second, make clear that hunting benefits them personally: License fees protect and provide access to the land you use for hiking, and helps manage and improve populations of wildlife you enjoy watching. Third, confront their animal-welfare concerns: Hunters make every effort to kill quickly, cleanly, and ethically; the meat is required to be utilized; and there are many hunting regulations in place. Last, talk about the economic benefits using specific numbers, and then put them in human terms: Hunting supports 27,000 jobs in our state and contributes $3 billion to the state economy, and further restrictions on hunting would have dire consequences for small business owners, tourism providers, and individual taxpayers.

This research will help guide the Colorado Wildlife Council in crafting future messaging to reach out to the all-important “70 percent in the middle” who will have a direct effect on our hunting in years to come. It can also help you and me to do our part to talk to people we know and help them understand that even if they don’t hunt, hunting is important to all of us, with direct benefits to our public lands, our wildlife, and our economy.

Learn more about how to spread a positive message about hunting by contacting the Nimrod Society via www.nimrodsociety.org. The Nimrod Society’s mission is to educate the public about the important contributions hunters and anglers make to society and conservation.

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Read more here: https://www.perc.org/2019/09/06/conservationists-should-support-trophy-hunting/

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For the fourth year in a row, Sports Afield was selected as one of License! Global magazine’s Top 150 Global Licensors. License! Global magazine is the leading publication in the brand-name industry. The editors compile a list of the top 150 global brands each year.  We again made the cut in 2019, and we cannot not tell you how proud we are.  To be ranked among Coca Cola, NASCAR, Stanley, National Geographic, and Lamborghini is a thrill. Thank you to the network of Sports Afield Trophy Properties brokers, the Sports Afield Consumer Product company out of Kansas City,  and to Team SA and SATP here in Huntington Beach, as well as our team members in Idaho and Colorado.

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Is the capybara South America’s most interesting animal?

Among other regrettable traits, I have a terrible addiction to taxidermy. I’m trying to curb it, but I have some pretty cool stuff in my house. Visitors don’t exactly ignore the big cats, the African antelopes, or the sheep and goats, but there’s one animal that, consistently, almost everyone asks about. It’s a life-size capybara, perfectly mounted by the folks at The Wildlife Gallery in Michigan, and it looks like a giant-size guinea pig. Which, in fact, it is!

The capybara, locally called carpincho, is by some margin the largest rodent in the world, potentially weighing over 150 pounds. The orderRodentia, with outsized front teeth for gnawing, is large and diverse. Like the familiar guinea pig and hamster, the capybara has a very short tail and completely oversize head. Size-wise, no other rodent approaches it. Next in size is the paca, also a South American animal, but the paca isn’t even a quarter the size of the capybara. Semi-aquatic, the capybara lives along waterways, lakes, and estuaries from northern Argentina up through the Amazon Basin. It does not extend up into the isthmus of Central America and is not found north of the Panama Canal. Surprisingly, its smaller cousin, the paca, extends into southern Mexico, so is technically both a South American and North American animal. Ground-burrowing and very nocturnal, I hunted paca in Mexico’s Yucatan. It’s an interesting animal (and also very tasty), but not nearly as cool as the capybara.

Hunting always depends on time and place. (Ideally, through planning, you put yourself in the right place at the right time.) However, luck is always a factor, so difficult animals can come easy, and common animals can come hard. The old saying, “never look a gift horse in the mouth” is totally true, but when success comes easy the overall experience suffers, and so does knowledge. So it was with capybara.

Boddington shot this medium-sized capybara in Argentina’s Santa Fe Province in 2008 and had it mounted.

Back in 2008 I was hunting in Argentina’s northern Santa Fe Province with Marcelo Sodiro. Of course, I wanted a capybara. The area didn’t have large numbers of them, but they were certainly present. Early in the morning we hunted along waterways with hounds, hoping to catch capybaras out in the brush. This was fast-paced hunting: When the dogs lit up, the capybaras would head for water, so the game was to race ahead of the chase and catch them before they reached their sanctuary. I shot two that way, one with a buckshot-loaded shotgun and another with my 7×57. Both were good-sized capybaras, and it’s the larger of the two that I have mounted. I agree with my occasional visitors: It’s one of my favorite mounts! However, those two were the only capybaras I actually saw, so that chapter closed with me knowing almost nothing about them.

Most shops in Argentina will have an assortment of carpincho leather products, from handbags and wallets to packs, footwear, and jackets. The distinctive pebble-grained leather is nearly waterproof, usually showing marks from fighting. Capybaras for leather are generally farmed for the purpose, not hunted in the wild.

Well, not exactly nothing. I knew of their affinity for water, I knew their meat is highly prized and tasty, and that their hides make awesome leather that is pebble-grained and essentially waterproof. Carpinchos are widely farmed for both meat and leather, and throughout Argentina (and elsewhere in South America) you can find footwear, handbags, jackets, and more made from their attractive and distinctive leather. Rarely are the skins perfect. Capybaras fight viciously with those razor-sharp teeth. The leather shows distinctive scars, and when we were hunting with hounds I was urged to shoot quickly and decisively to avoid risk to the dogs.

In March 2019 I was again hunting with Marcelo Sodiro’s South American Adventure Safaris, a complex trip that started in the north with some dorado fishing and bird-shooting, and finished down in Patagonia where the red stags were roaring. The second stop was at Malalcue Lodge in the northern Corrientes Province, where my hunting partners and I hunted free-ranging axis deer and blackbuck. Area manager Sergio Wizensky, who I’d hunted with before, let slip that the ranch we’d be hunting was overrun with capybaras.

Most hunting in Argentina is for introduced species, but, subject to seasons, a few native species are still huntable, including brocket deer, peccaries, and capybara. Sergio told me that, if we had time, we could hunt capybaras and perhaps find a really big male. Regrettably, native game can no longer be exported, but I was still intrigued. I wouldn’t have another one mounted anyway—and I wanted to learn more about this strange animal.

It was a sweltering midday and we were fruitlessly stalking blackbuck in tall grass. Rains had been generous and the low spots had formed into small lakes or lagoons. So, sweating and searching for small antelopes swallowed up by the grass, I glassed along the shore of a lagoon and saw the first of a dozen capybaras slipping along the edge. As the day went on we would see more, near almost every pond or stream. The place really was overrun with them! Later that day we got really lucky and shot a very fine axis deer, so the capybara hunt was on.

Capybaras gather in family groups or packs. I count fourteen in this photo, but there were actually over thirty in this pack.

Capybaras typically form into herds or packs; a dozen to twenty is common, but along one swampy area we counted more than thirty in one group. Having never seen them in the wild, I was struck by how rodentlike they really are in appearance: At a distance they reminded me a lot of prairie dogs. Water, however, is constant. They will never be far from it, spending much of their time partially submerged. When alarmed, they will immediately head for deeper water, splashing in much like a pod of hippos.

This was fascinating but, remember, our mission was to find a big male—and that’s where my real education began. When looking at a group it’s pretty easy to tell which ones are larger than most of the others. It’s also easy to see which ones are alone, and which are obviously mothers with young. However, as with many rodents, the females are often larger than the males. Obviously, there are no horns or antlers, and in grass or water, evidence of sex is always completely hidden. Typically, the dominant male will be at the edge of a pack, often a few yards away. However, the only surefire tell-tale sign is tricky: The males have a raised oval bump on the snout just in front of the eyes that the females do not have. With age, this bump becomes more prominent and almost hairless. Marcelo and Sergio have lived with capybaras their entire lives; with binoculars they could instantly pick out a male at two hundred yards. I could not!

On this ranch they are hunted little and were quite calm, and eyesight appears not be their strong suit. Combining these factors, we were able to closely approach several groups. Sergio and Marcelo painstakingly pointed out males, always off to the side, but I had to look carefully at several before I “got it.” The bump is definitely there, but you need a side profile or frontal view to see it, and even then it’s subtle, but once you see it you get the idea.

In this unusual place, finding capybaras was not an issue, so we made a number of approaches, turning down a number of males that were judged too young or not big enough. Fortunately, I wasn’t doing the judging. After a few trial runs I could see the bump, but I needed my local experts to tell me when we found the right one.

We got within a hundred yards and then I stood on sticks for an eternity, waiting for him to turn and offer a shot. He finally did, and he was indeed a very big one. The gauchos were happy: Carpincho is a real delicacy!

A big male capybara, taken in Corrientes Province in northern Argentina. Like bears and boars, the capybara is a dense animal, heavy for its size. I think this one probably weighed about 140 pounds. The nose bump is very obvious on this animal.

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High-altitude hunting and a unique cultural experience make for an unforgettable ibex hunt in Tajikistan.

The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Pamir Mountains, leaving them bathed in a pink glow. The evening chill descended instantly on our rock-strewn spike camp, and I scrambled to the small tent to retrieve my down jacket, fleece hat, and gloves. My friend and hunting partner, Kirstie Pike, was right behind me, and we bundled up quickly. At 14,000 feet, even a relatively mild fall evening carries a sharp chill that drives right to the bone.

As we emerged from our tent, layered in high-tech warmth, the young assistant ranger, Latifa, was waiting for us. “Come quickly,” she urged us. “You must see this!”

Figuring she and her fellow rangers had spotted some ibex on one of the many mountainsides surrounding the camp, Kirstie and I grabbed our binoculars and followed Latifa to an outcropping where our hunting team had gathered, everyone training their optics on the backlit ridge to the west. The young Tajik spoke surprisingly good English, but it was still a struggle for her to explain to us where, exactly, to look. But once I was focused on the right spot, I gasped.

“It’s a snow leopard!” Kirstie exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”

The big cat, perfectly silhouetted on the spine of the ridge across the valley from us, strolled casually into a small saddle, its big body and long tail clearly visible through my 10X binocular. Then it stopped and sat, upright, turning its head from side to side. Soon it moved on, walking along the ridge again, then stopped and scratched at the dirt. It continued to prowl the ridgeline, slowly, as the light began to fade. Then it moved behind a small pinnacle and emerged again on the other side, hunkering down slightly.

“There are female ibexes below,” Latifa murmured. I had been so glued to the cat I had not noticed what it was stalking. The cat remained unmoving on the dizzying height above its prey, apparently not intending to make its move until nightfall. Eventually, darkness descended and we could no longer watch the drama, so we headed back into the ring of tents to warm up with some hot tea and talk excitedly about what we had just seen. Visiting Americans and native Tajiks alike, we all knew we had just witnessed something incredibly rare and special.

We had known there was at least one snow leopard in the area. Several days before, shortly after arriving at this high camp from which our hunt for mid-Asian ibex was based, the rangers had spotted its calling card in the form of a mostly eaten ibex carcass far across the valley. On our daily forays after ibex, they had pointed out several places where a snow leopard had left scratchings in the meager soil. But to actually catch a glimpse of the apex predator of the Asian mountains was more than I had dreamed of.

Spike Camp

After hunting ibex in Kazakhstan several years before, I had fallen in love with the pursuit of these long-bearded Asian goats and their rugged habitat. The first hunt, while challenging, had been conducted at relatively low elevations, with the peaks of the truly high mountains looming tantalizingly in the distance. Despite taking a magnificent ibex on that hunt, I felt I needed to go back to central Asia. I wanted to experience a hunt in the Pamir Mountains, to see if I could handle a sojourn on the “roof of the world.” When the opportunity came, in 2018, to travel to a high-mountain village in Tajikistan and hunt ibex in a community conservancy, hosted and guided by the people who lived there, I jumped at the chance. I invited Kirstie, founder of Prois Hunting Gear and a fellow mountain-hunting junkie, to join me.

The hunt had been a full-on adventure right from the start, and it kept getting better—and tougher. We arrived at our hunting area in eastern Tajikistan, the Parcham Conservancy, via a long drive from the capital, Dushanbe, on the spine-jarring Pamir Highway, which follows the Panj River along the border with Afghanistan. From there, a four-wheel-drive trek up a winding mountain road only a few years removed from its origins as a donkey path deposited us–dusty, jet-lagged, and exhausted–in the village of Ravmed. This scattering of square houses built of earth and rock is nestled in a narrow, stunning mountain valley at 10,000 feet. It was late September; a few small, tiered grainfields were in the process of being harvested, and women were digging enormous carrots from vegetable gardens sandwiched between the carefully tended homes. Several thin donkeys, goats, and a few cattle were tethered wherever sparse grass grew.

Inside a typical Pamiri home.

The residents of Ravmed welcomed us with open arms. We were ushered to our guesthouse—actually the home of one of the wealthier families in the village, who had temporarily vacated their living quarters to make room for two visiting American hunters. The inside of the traditional Asian home was clean and well-tended, its dirt floor sprinkled daily with water to keep the dust down, pretty carpets covering the seating areas and walls. The only running water came from a diverted creek nearby, and the outhouses were traditional squat style. The residents plied us with hearty food, all of it grown or raised in the village, and gallons of hot tea.

A view of the village.

The house had electricity from the village’s small hydroelectric facility, which powered a generator. This, as well as the recently upgraded road, a community-owned four-wheel-drive vehicle, and educational opportunities for young people like Latifa, were among the improvements that had come to this hardscrabble subsistence village through the money paid by visiting ibex hunters like Kirstie and me. There was a reason the villagers made us feel so welcome: We were.

But there was little time to relax and soak up this unique cultural experience. It was time to go hunting. We were instructed to pare down our gear to the bare minimum needed for a few days of camping on the mountaintop. Unsure how long we’d be up there or what we’d actually need, Kirstie and I loaded our daypacks with cameras, ammo, energy bars, a satellite phone, Diamox, and extra socks. We packed our sleeping bags and an extra layer or two of clothing into my waterproof duffel bag, which one of the Tajiks would haul up the mountain for us, along with a lightweight tent.

At 2:00 in the morning we were awakened and dressed ourselves in light, wicking layers for what we knew would be a tough climb—ascending some 4,000 vertical feet above the 10,000-foot village. A full moon lit our path, so we didn’t even need headlamps as we followed the head ranger, Gulbek, on a faint, switchbacking trail that climbed nearly straight up from the village. The guides on Tajikistan’s conservancy hunts are known as rangers. They’re local residents who know the surrounding mountains, and the habits of its wildlife, better than anyone. Many of them are former poachers who have, since the advent of paying hunts, become staunch conservationists and protectors of wildlife because of its benefits to their communities.

To our relief, Gulbek set a slow, steady pace, and Kirstie and I managed to keep up with him for most of the five-hour climb, with a line of other rangers and packers strung out behind us on the mountain. Every moment of the hiking and fitness routine I’d followed all summer paid off as I labored up the steep, rock-strewn mountainside. Some three hours into the hike, I stopped and leaned hard on my hiking staff, a wave of altitude-induced nausea washing over me. Kirstie, a veteran of high-altitude hiking, urged me to eat a Clif bar and drink some water. I did, and my stomach settled down and, blessedly, stayed that way.

It was a relief, around 7 a.m., to arrive at the mouth of a broad high-altitude basin. At its base was a series of rock ridges strewn with jumbled boulders. Throwing down our daypacks, Kirstie and I collapsed on the rocks, as did the packers who were hauling the tents and sleeping bags. Gulbek and another ranger, Rakhim, climbed a pile of boulders, staying low, binoculars in hand. Returning to us, they reported a group of six male ibex in the basin. In a few minutes we had recovered enough from our hike to crawl up and take a look. The goats, unfortunately, were on a wide-open slope well above us, and with the morning sun now fully up, the wind was funneling uphill.

There was nothing easy about this high-altitude hunt.

The fact that we couldn’t do much until the ibex moved into a better position was actually, from our perspective after a grueling five-hour hike at altitude, good news. Our position on a small bench beneath the basin, screened from it by the rock ridges, gave us good cover and no fear of spooking the ibex. Latifa, who was Gulbek’s daughter, and Anisa, another young female ranger-in-training, seemed unfazed by the tough hike. After glassing the ibex with us, they fired up a small camp stove, boiled water for tea, and dispensed bread, cheese, and fruit. I spent the morning and part of the afternoon alternately napping in the warm sun and staring at the stunning vista of tremendous peaks that surrounded our position like jagged fangs.

That afternoon we ventured out into the basin, hiking and climbing over endless rocks to a spot where we could get a better look at the ibex herd. There were six males, four of them quite impressive specimens, and two younger billies. The wind was still not in our favor, so around dusk we hiked back to our rocky retreat. Small tents had been set up, and Kirstie and I unpacked our sleeping bags and prepared for our first night in our high-altitude spike camp as the sun dropped behind the peaks, leaving a frigid darkness behind. We were in great spirits, thrilled to be in ibex country.

Tajik Tough

After a frigid start to the morning that made slithering out of our sleeping bags an excruciating ordeal, the sun’s rays hit the high camp and turned the day bright and beautiful. After a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, cheese, a meat-filled turnover, and coffee, Kirstie and I and two rangers embarked on a long day of stalking the ibex herd in the high basin. We crossed the rock ridges that screened us from the basin, then skirted the eastern edge of the hanging valley, sticking to the steep, rocky mountainside, which climbed gradually but relentlessly. We had eyes on the ibex most of the day, or at least our guides did—most of the time my eyes were focused on negotiating a steep ravine or slippery scree slope.

The view from spike camp.

We worked our way clear up to the head of the basin, more than a thousand feet above camp, crawling over fields of sharp rocks that shredded our gloves, and worming our way up the crests of steep rises in the terrain. The weather was fine and sunny most of the day until we got to the highest point, when a brief snow squall blew in and obscured our view for a few minutes, but it quickly passed. We refilled our nearly empty water bottles from a small seep in the rock, and, spurred by friendly reminders from Kirstie, I continually recharged myself with Clif shots and energy bars, even though I didn’t feel at all hungry.

Eventually we crossed to the other side of the basin and began working our way along a steep mountain wall on the other side. There were small ridges to move up and peek over, and we thought the ibex herd was behind one of them, but we didn’t know which one. At some point, however, they winded us and gave us the slip. Then followed a dispirited, three-hour slog back to camp. By this time my legs had nearly given out and I was doing frequent face-plants in the rocks. We arrived long after dark, dead on our feet. With the extreme elevation and the difficulty of the terrain, it had been the most difficult hunting day I’d ever experienced. Crawling into the tent, however, we congratulated each other—challenging as it was, we now knew we could do it, and surely we were bound to kill an ibex sooner or later.

Diana Rupp and hunting partner Kirstie Pike on a high ridge in the Pamirs.

As the next day dawned, we were relieved to find the ibex herd was still in sight, but high on the ridge above us where we could not stalk them without risking blowing them out of the area entirely. We rested in camp, drinking tea and water in preparation for our next attempt. Latifa and Anisa took on the arduous task of water duty. The nearest source of water was nearly halfway back down to the village. The two young women made several treks down, climbing back up with heavy packs filled with loaded water bottles. We were also tremendously impressed by our male guides. Lean and wiry with not an ounce of fat, they carried heavy packs, insisted on toting our rifles, and literally ran up and down mountainsides that took us hours of gasping and panting to traverse. They seemed to subsist only on a few nibbles of bread and cheese, and smoked thin cigarettes from tobacco grown in the village, which they hand-rolled in bits of old newspapers. We hadn’t seen them drink a drop of water, eschewing it in favor of tea.

“I’m going to coin a saying for those fitness junkies back home,” said Kirstie. “You think you’re tough? I guarantee you’re not Tajik tough!”

Assistant rangers Anisa and Latifa prepare the local version of ramen noodles at spike camp.

That evening, as we sat watching the snow leopard stalk his prey on the ridge across from camp as described at the beginning of this story, I knew that whatever happened next, my experience in the high Pamirs had already been one of the highlights of my hunting life.

Up and Down

The next morning, the ibex herd was far up the basin again, and early on, the guides watched them top the ridge on the west side. Now we could go after them. Kirstie and I, with Gulbek and Rakhim, set out to scale the ridge. Kirstie and I were gaining confidence in our abilities and we made a strong climb, topping out at what we later determined to be 5,000 meters—16,404 feet. We felt pretty good about ourselves.

Once over the ridgeline, though, there was a steep, loose scree field to cross. I lost my footing and slid a few feet at one point, which scared me, and a few minutes later, Kirstie’s water bottle came untethered from her pack and went rolling down an avalanche chute—we watched helplessly as it leaped and bounced far out of reach. I gave her my spare bottle, but by now, both were nearly empty, and the slope we were on was nothing but dirt and shale. We rested on a finger of rock with a yawning chasm below us until we had somewhat recovered our sense of humor, which had pretty much abandoned us.

Glassing for ibex.

After a time we continued on, following the rangers. We came unexpectedly back into view of the ibex and spent more than an hour pinned down, lying on a flat rock in odd, skewed positions, afraid to move as the animals gazed alertly in our direction. Eventually, the herd moved over a rise, and we were able to make our move across some more loose rock and up to a little ridgeline. Though we couldn’t see the ibex, the guides gestured that they were just on the other side. It was very late in the afternoon, and the sun was about to set. It was now or never.

We shoved our packs up on the ridgeline and the guides placed our rifles on top of them. As I crawled up and pressed my cheek to the stock, it was immediately apparent that the situation was not good. The six ibex had spotted us and were getting out of Dodge—not running, but moving at a good clip. We were going to have to shoot simultaneously, something I don’t like to do. We tried for a few moments to coordinate our shots as the ibex moved farther away, but whenever I had a clear shot, Kirstie did not, and vice versa. Finally, with the herd at more than 400 yards and still moving, we had to act. Kirstie counted to three and took her shot. A split-second later, I picked a trotting ibex at random, placed the cross hairs just in front of it, and touched off a rushed shot. Both animals flinched, but they kept running with herd, vanishing over a high saddle into the next basin. A moment later, dusk dropped on us like the curtain on a stage play with an anticlimactic ending.

Silence descended on the high, lonely ridge. The rangers found a flat spot to make camp; two more rangers arrived after dark with tents and sleeping bags. We sat around the sputtering camp stove glumly waiting for water to boil for tea, and I kept replaying the scenario in my head, wishing I had not taken such a risky shot. Using hand signals, Gulbek explained he and Rakhim would go after our ibex at first light, and I reassured Kirstie it was a sure thing they would find hers—it had obviously been hit hard, and we had both seen it lagging behind the others as they ran. I knew my own shot had been a poor one, however, and I was worried my ibex might not be recovered. We crawled into the tent and I tossed and turned despite my exhaustion.

Gulbek and Rakhim headed out early the next morning, giving us reassuring smiles. As much as we wanted to go with them, we knew we would only be a liability—who knew how far they might have to track the ibex, or through what kind of terrain? We were already at 16,000 feet, and the ibex had been headed up into a saddle when we had last seen them. Breakfast was a sparse meal of cheese and stale bread; we had now been on the mountain for five days, and food was running low. I found a last remaining energy bar at the bottom of my pack. The rangers who had joined us helped us pack up the tents, and we slung our packs and began the steep, four-hour trek down the mountain, back to the village.

It was midday when we came in sight of Ravmed, which now took on the aspect of a luxury spa. The women of the village welcomed us back in the best possible way, heating water in buckets over a fire and filling a tank atop a shower house. Kirstie and I took turns standing under a trickling faucet, washing off the dust and grime. It felt heavenly. We were further restored after a hearty meal of goat stew and fresh vegetables, and we spent the afternoon taking short walks around the village and hovering anxiously around the guesthouse, waiting for word from the rangers.

To our joy and relief, Gulbek and Rakhim returned in triumph late in the afternoon, bearing the capes, horns, and some of the meat from both ibex, and sending another group of rangers back up the mountain to recover the rest of the meat before a snow leopard could eat it. They had found the two animals not far apart. Kirstie had shot a beautiful nine-year-old ibex with impressive horns curving over 41 inches. My ibex turned out to be one of the younger males in the group—my own fault for not staying calm and focused enough to make a trophy judgment, but somewhat understandable, I guess, considering the difficulty of the shooting situation.

We thanked Gulbek and the rest of the rangers repeatedly for their dedication and hard work in recovering our animals. Our hunt was a success thanks largely to their resourcefulness and signature Tajik toughness.

Rupp and Pike with their ibex, back at Ravmed village.

The entire village turned out for the photo session, with everyone, from kids to grandmothers, eager to pose with the ibex. Not a single scrap of either animal went to waste. The meat was divided and distributed throughout the village. The organs–lungs, heart, kidneys, liver, stomach, and all–were chopped up and boiled into a paste-type dish the Tajiks devoured. The cheeks, or facial muscles, were the most sought-after delicacy.

Ibex backstrap accompanied by traditional Pamiri side dishes. Delicious!

The next night we had a huge dinner in the guesthouse, featuring traditional Pamiri dishes along with ibex meat. Locating an electric skillet, we Americans introduced the Tajiks to sliced backstrap grilled medium-rare. We thought it was delicious, but the Tajiks were taken aback at the idea of eating meat with pink in it. With no refrigeration in the village, they would boil the remaining meat and can it without delay.

Later that evening, two musicians with an accordion and a hand drum played traditional Tajik tunes on the patio of the guesthouse, and all the villagers turned out to dance. The music filled the mountain air with upbeat yet haunting melodies as the dancers moved with skillful steps, turning and clapping. As the festivities wound down and our hosts said good night, the overwhelming quiet of the mountains returned. I stood for a while in the door of the guesthouse, gazing past the small collection of homes and dusty fields at the jagged peaks faintly visible in the starlight. It had been an incredible experience, and I felt both blessed and humbled to have experienced the raw and mighty beauty of the Pamir Mountains in the company of the tough, resourceful people who live in their embrace.

Conservancies and Conservation

The Association of Hunters of Tajikistan (ANCOT), formerly H&CAT, is acoalition of eleven communal conservancies in various regions of Tajikistan, formed to train and empower the residents of poor, high-mountain villages to conserve and protect their wildlife and serve as year-round rangers and hunting guides. Visiting hunters live and hunt alongside locals who know these mountains better than anyone. It was unlike any hunt I have ever experienced because of the involvement and interest of everyone in the community. On most hunts you stay in a separate camp and interact only with your guides. On this hunt, we were immersed in village life and made to feel a part of it.

One of the women of Ravmed village making bread in a stone oven.

Other than the government license fee, every cent of the money paid for these hunts goes directly to the local people in the conservancy—there is no outfitter or middleman. The villages have used this money to upgrade their standard of living dramatically. The program has had phenomenal success in bolstering the country’s populations of ibex, Marco Polo sheep, markhor, and snow leopards. It has turned local villagers into front-line champions and protectors of Tajikistan’s mountain wildlife. The members of the Parcham Conservancy, where I hunted, are going to great lengths to protect their wildlife for visiting hunters. They have even made certain areas around their village off-limits to their own grazing animals in order to improve habitat for the ibex.

For information and prices, go to BookYourHunt.com and type “Tajikistan” in the search box. Depending on what you decide to hunt, you’ll experience an extraordinary hunt for ibex, Marco Polo sheep, or markhor. But even more important, by participating in a conservancy hunt, you will be supporting what is arguably one of the finest hunter-funded conservation projects in the world.—D.R.

Tajik Trailblazers

Among the crew on my ibex hunt were two impressive young women who are rangers-in-training. As part of its work to involve all locals in the conservation of wildlife, the Association of Hunters of Tajikistan is training a group of enthusiastic Tajik and Pamiri women to guide tourists and hunters—a move that makes sense with the increasing number of adventurous female hunters and trekkers heading to the magnificent mountains of central Asia. As you can imagine, this is not a traditional career path for women in this country, and these women are pioneering this new ground with incredible enthusiasm. I can attest that they’re tireless hikers and climbers, tough as nails, and are always upbeat and encouraging no matter how steep the mountain.—D.R.

Watch a video of scenes from this hunt at this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OyB1-cLBiZE

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The Hartmann mountain zebra is plentiful in Namibia and parts of South Africa, and is a challenging game animal with excellent meat.

The first Hartmann mountain zebra I ever saw stood alone on a rocky ridge leading up into the heights of Central Namibia’s Erongo Mountains. I can still see the dry wind whipping its mane, and in my mind’s it’s a stallion, defying us before turning to join his hidden herd. But maybe it was a lone mare–with a quick glimpse at a couple hundred yards, it’s hard to be certain!

That was forty years ago and it didn’t matter; a mountain zebra wasn’t a goal the first time I hunted Namibia and wasn’t in the budget anyway. I had taken plains zebras elsewhere, and a zebra is a zebra, right? That’s a typical assessment for folks hunting Namibia for the first time, especially if they’ve previously hunted in other African countries. Although normal and understandable, I think it’s a huge mistake to write off Hartmann mountain zebra as “just another zebra.”

The Hartmann’s zebra is larger, with a distinctive striping pattern that, to me, is more beautiful than the plains or “common” zebra. Facial stripes are usually brown, darkening with maturity, but body stripes are stark black and white, without the gray “shadow stripes” of Burchell’s zebra, southernmost race of plains zebras. Older individuals, especially males, tend to have a pronounced dewlap, and all mountain zebras have a distinctive and attractive triangular pattern of stripes above the tail called the “Christmas tree.”

The triangular “Christmas tree” rump marking is distinctive of the mountain zebra. This big stallion was taken in the Erongo Mountains in central Namibia.

The two mountain zebras (Hartmann and the smaller Cape mountain zebra) are a separate species (Equus zebra) from the several races of plains zebra (E. quagga). In Southern Africa game ranching has moved animals around for decades, so the mountain and Burchell zebras frequently bump together. One could theorize that this also happened naturally, with Burchell zebras in the valleys and mountain zebras up in the rocks. The two are not known to interbreed.

Just a couple weeks ago I was in Kaokoland in northwest Namibia, big, rugged country. It was ideal mountain zebra habitat, and they were plentiful. We were headed back to camp after a morning hunt, still hoping for a zebra for leopard bait, when we spotted a small group resting in shade along a rocky canyon. Outfitter Jamy Traut took Dan Baker on a quick uphill stalk. A few minutes later we saw the zebras as they spooked over a ridge. The hunters soon came back shaking their heads. They were Burchell zebras, not usually present in the area, and not on quota.

In good light the common zebra’s shadow stripes are apparent, but there’s another tell-tale sign, and the fastest way to tell the two apart: On mountain zebras the vertical body stripes come to a point and stop and the belly is pure white; on plains zebras the body stripes come all the way around the belly.

All zebras are beautiful and wary and difficult to stalk, with keen senses. I think the mountain zebra’s black-and-white skin is more attractive than the Burchell zebra with its prominent shadow stripes. However, farther north there are other races of common zebra with stark black-and-white striping that are equally gorgeous.

What sets the mountain zebra apart is the fact that it really does prefer mountains, and offers an entirely different hunt. Sure, you may find plains zebras quite far up in hills and you can catch mountain zebras crossing valleys. In their native habitat of tall, rocky ridges the mountain zebra offers a genuine mountain hunt, a matter of diligent glassing and careful stalking—and, often, a lot of hard work!

Glassing for mountain zebras in typical habitat in Namibia. In natural habitat like this Hartmann zebra offers a true mountain hunt, a wonderful experience.

The second time I hunted in Namibia I remembered that lone zebra I’d seen, and I put a mountain zebra at the top of my wish list. In those days Namibia’s safari and game ranching industries were in their infancy and all species were less plentiful and more localized than today. Mountain zebras were scarce and pretty much restricted to high, remote areas. Getting one was a tough and difficult hunt that I have never forgotten. Today mountain zebras are plentiful and have expanded (both naturally and through introduction) across most of Namibia, except that from Etosha and on northward and eastward, the plains zebra dominates.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve hunted elsewhere and already have a zebra rug. The mountain zebra is different enough, and offers a different enough experience, that I strongly recommend hunting one when you’re in their domain—especially if it’s native habitat. The spine of the Erongo range is still superb mountain zebra country, but there are other great places. A few years ago, Donna and I hunted southwest of Windhoek, where the high escarpment drops into the Namib Desert, creating a moonscape of boulder-strewn ridges and deep canyons. Mountain zebras were plentiful, great country for glassing and stalking. Just now we found much the same conditions in Kaokoland. Excepting big herds of springboks in the valleys (and excepting that out-of-place herd of Burchell’s zebras), mountain zebras were the most plentiful large animal. Hunting them offered a great experience but, in the midst of what might be a hundred-year drought in Namibia how they manage to thrive is a mystery. In one area we knew of nosurface water nearby. Dan Baker shot a huge stallion, the largest-bodied zebra I’ve ever seen. Its stomach was full of water, so obviously the animals knew the area better than we did!

Hartmann mountain zebra occurred naturally from arid southwestern Angola all the way south through Namibia, discontinuously following mountain chains and tipping over into South Africa’s Northern Cape. From there it probably extended into the Western Cape and eventually morphed into the once-endangered Cape mountain zebra. Although definitely smaller, the Cape mountain zebra is visually indistinguishable from the Hartmann mountain zebra, same markings, same habits and preferred habitat. Thanks to intensive efforts, the Cape mountain zebra has recovered and can be hunted, but it cannot be imported into the United States.

Mike Birch and Boddington with Boddington’s first South African Hartmann zebra, taken near Kimberley.

The original range of Hartmann zebra in South Africa isn’t precisely known, nor, after the excesses of the pioneering era and the ravages of the Boer War and its long aftermath, is it known exactly where Hartmann left off and the Cape mountain zebra picked up, with recent DNA research showing little difference between the two. In the past I’ve considered the Hartmann mountain zebra a Namibia specialty, and thus hunting them in South Africa a bit of a travesty. Well, you don’t know what you don’t know. On the way back from Namibia I spent a few days with outfitter Mike Birch near Kimberley, a part of South Africa I hadn’t seen in decades. The tall, rocky hills were ideal mountain zebra habitat, and I have never seen such a concentration of Hartmann mountain zebra.

The first morning I climbed a tall hill to glass without realizing Hartmann’s zebra were present. I quickly picked up a small group on the next ridge, saw the stripes, and realized what I was looking at. There was another group down in the valley and more to the right and left. Without changing location, I lost count at forty.

A couple of days later, after a long and difficult stalk with Mike’s excellent tracker, Albert, I shot one, but it took a step as I fired and I knew the hit was a few inches back. Any wounded zebra is bad news, and this one took us across the valley and up the next ridge. The spoor suggested entry and exit and showed lung blood. I was sure we would find it quickly and we did, precisely on the top of the next mountain! We called for help, rolled the zebra into a tarp with handles, and carried it whole a half-mile down through the rocks. The guys suggested that, next time, I should shoot my zebra in the valley, not on the top! My aching back agreed, but one way or another, a zebra is always recovered. The skin is priceless and the meat is quite good. For those who care, mountain zebra flesh is leaner and tastier than plains zebra. We all keep learning, and now I realize it doesn’t much matter whether they’re hunted in Namibia or South Africa. The Hartmann mountain zebra is still my favorite.

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