Horns and Stripes

Nov 30, 2017 | Hunting News, News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Horns and Stripes
By Jeremy Cotton

This day finds me running at top speed down a two-track road in the middle of northern Namibia with no idea why. My legs fly to keep up with my PH and tracker. All of the commentary to this point has been in whispered Afrikaans, and, not knowing that language, I am in the dark. A couple of hundred metres pass and we careen to the right into the thick bush, still cruising at top speed. I have little experience with this hunting technique and find it unique to say the least. The thorn bushes tear at my arms and legs as I whizz past. Those cuts are going to sting in the shower tonight. Then we stop dead. The soft grey form of a kudu cow appears…

Maybe I should rewind this a little and explain a few things?

I am on my first African safari with my parents, Gary and Sandee Cotton, and my wife Cathy. So far we have been having the time of our lives, and several animals have been taken by my parents, including a super 94cm gemsbok and old warthog. Cathy has been trying to get a zebra, but so far they have eluded her. Most of my time has been spent trying to entice a leopard to my baits, but that is another story. I did manage an old 96cm gemsbok on Day 3, and a Damara dik-dik on Day Five. So, I have not been out of the game entirely. However, we are not cutting into my trophy fee budget very quickly and it is now Day Seven.

We are hunting at Westfalen Hunting Safaris in northern Namibia near the town of Outjo. John and Juliana Van der Westhuizen run the operation with their children, Hain, Juretha, three dachshunds and an undetermined number of cats. The camp is called Elephant Camp and is situated in an area where the desert elephant roams, hence the name. Camp, if you can call it that, is comfortable, and well-appointed with hot showers, and great accommodations. You become part of the family immediately, and want for nothing. A truly exceptional operation.

Since I have opted to try for leopard, my PH is Anton Esterhuizen, a long-time Namibian big-game PH. He guides the leopard hunters when one is in the Westfalen camp. If you get the chance to hunt with him, you’ll not be disappointed. He is very knowledgeable, and just fun to be around.

After six days of hard hunting, my parents have declared a day of rest. Since they are staying in for the morning, it frees up John to check the leopard baits then take my folks to see a local Himba village this afternoon. Since Cathy has not yet connected on her primary animal, Hain will take her out after the crafty zebra. They have dubbed themselves “team zebra”.
This gives me a day to concentrate on plains game. Specifically, we will try to find a kudu. Of course, you never know what a day may bring.

The day begins: After a great breakfast of eggs and bacon, Anton and I head north to an area where my folks had seen two big kudu bulls the previous day. Dad and Hain had stalked one, and got to within 30 metres, but the thick brush prevented a shot. We were hoping for a similar encounter with a different ending.

An hour later, we had picked up our tracker July, and Anton and I were still hunting through a hilly area looking for kudu and hartebeest. We are angling toward a large kopje to climb and glass the surrounding area. From the top we see a small band of kudu cows getting a bite to eat, but there are no bulls in sight. We move on, and after a couple hours of moving and glassing, we end up at a waterhole. A quick radio call, and July comes to pick us up.

We drive further into the mountains, and basically repeat the same walk. This time we come up with a klipspringer ewe and two giraffe. By now it is lunch time, so we head to a large waterhole nearby to eat lunch and see what visits.

On our drive to the waterhole, a good steenbok bolts from cover in front of the truck. I hastily snatch up my 9.3X64 Brenneke Mauser and bail out of the truck, circling around the back to get on the steenbok’s side of the road. Anton follows me then takes the lead as we sneak toward the last position of the steenbok ram. He pops his head up 30 metres in front of us under a large thorn bush, but otherwise remains still. The sticks appear in front of me and I snick off the safety as the Mauser is deployed onto them. A second later I squeeze off the shot and the steenbok ram evaporates in a cloud of dust. We advance and find blood, but no ram.

July joins us and takes the lead in finding my ram. As the search begins, we hear rustling behind us. I turn to see that the ram is up and trying to get moving. The rifle swings and fires as if on its own, finishing the tiny antelope. My first shot was a little low. The second passed through end to end. Luckily, the 250gr Nosler Accubonds didn’t do much damage to the cape and a full mount will be possible. Big calibers are hard on these little creatures. Steenbok are a delightful little antelope. Though their horns are simple, they are quite striking up close, with soft, long rust-brown fur and subtle facial markings. As fine a trophy as anyone could want.

After the photos are taken we pack up and continue on to the waterhole. The layout is a large earth berm running east to west parallel to a dry riverbed. The berm finally tapers, and the river enters the pan where the waterhole is. The waterhole extends along the other side of the earth berm from the riverbed. This is an area that holds water most of the year, so there is a lot of vegetation, and some fairly large trees line the river.

We drive up the riverbed to the earth berm, grab our lunches, my rifle, and make our way to the top of the berm. At the top, two chairs greet us behind a thorn bush blind under a large shady tree. In front of us is a pan of maybe 20 acres. There are 10 acres of water in the pan surrounded by dry mud bank that gives way to scrub mopane and thorn bush. A large group of gemsbok and springbok are in residence on the other side of the water.

I’m busy trying to get a good photo of the gemsbok when I hear July start to drive off, taking the steenbok ram to the skinner while we enjoy lunch. A second or two later, the vehicle abruptly stops with the engine off. Odd. A moment later, the heavy footfalls of someone running grow in our ears. July appears at the bottom of the berm and has a short frantic conversation with Anton. Anton turns to me. “Bring your rifle.” I have no clue what they have discussed as it was all in Afrikaans.

I follow them to the truck at a fast jog. Once at the truck, more conversation in Afrikaans ensues as they come up with a plan. I load the rifle, still unsure what has sparked this tense moment. Now we get serious and bolt down the road at a run. I unsling my rifle to turn it around to point behind us. Running with a loaded rifle doesn’t seem like a good idea to me.

And so I am running at top speed down a two-track road in the middle of northern Namibia with no idea why.
A further 150 metres, and we cut to the left into the brush for 50 metres more. Finally July freezes. I can just see a kudu cow off to our left about 75 metres away in a small opening. She is oblivious to our presence and keeps walking. More kudu file past the opening, but they are all cows and calves. I count 13 of them.

We back out slowly and cut back toward the road. Slightly further, and we get back up to speed. The scenario is finally starting to sink into my brain. When July started to leave he ran smack into the kudu herd as they were coming in to water. They bolted, but apparently not too far. Anton and July figure that the kudu aren’t spooked and we are trying get in front of them. Trouble is, they walk fast. Much faster than I walk, and if we don’t run to outpace them we’ll never cut them off.

We swing wide and scurry another 300 metres before slowing to a walk and turning left again toward where the kudu should be. Then 20 metres further, and July halts. Anton throws up the sticks.
“Shoot quick,” he whispers. I do as I am bid and throw the rifle to my shoulder and onto the sticks. A bull kudu fills the scope quartering hard away, head twisted looking back at us. My crosshair passes the shoulder, settles at the back of the ribs, and I send a 250gr Nosler Accubond on its way. The impact is audible, and the bull lunges forward vanishing into the bush. We bolt forward at a dead run to where he once stood.

We find him standing under a big mopane tree. The sticks are up and I have the rifle trained on him, though he is clearly done for. A second later, he topples. He is still, and I feel the nerves finally catching up with me. We stand there for several minutes catching our breath and staring at the kudu bull. No words are spoken, no handshakes. Just silence and calm for probably a good minute. Anton finally breaks the peace and asks me if I understand what I have just taken. It takes me a second to comprehend his question.

Anton is referring to Namibia undergoing several rabies outbreaks in the last 10 years. Those outbreaks seem to be particularly hard on the old bulls. No one knows why, but those seem to be the animals most often found dead from an outbreak. My bull is quite old and we judge him at 10 years. That means he has survived at least two outbreaks. Quite a feat when nature can be a cruel host. To take a bull this old, given the history, is something a bit more special.

His long horns are thick and worn from time. The tips have been polished to the color of fine ivory. The curl is wide, and he just makes two turns. The horns are covered in mud and I peel it off to get a better look at their astonishing beauty. Both of my hands won’t go all the way around the horn bases. The ridges up the horns are well defined, and have chips in them from years of fighting for the right to breed.

I feel a small sense of sadness that I had slain such and old warrior; a fighter that survived the worst. I also feel the elation of success. For a few minutes, I try to soak in every detail of the face, ears, hooves, tail, and stripes. I count seven stripes on one side, eight on the other. I am surprised at how short the hair is, and how sparse it is. His neck is still swollen from the rut. It is simply massive, as are the ears.

I’ll only get one first kudu. So, I take my time and hope that maybe future years will not dull the memory. Maybe I can make the memory last in sharp detail forever.

Photos are taken, and we load him up for the journey to the skinner. July has picked up our lunch from where we left it at the waterhole. It is now about 2.30 p.m. and time to head to the main house to drop off my kudu and steenbok. And finally eat some lunch.

After lunch, it is about mid-afternoon. Time to get in one more hunt before night time settles and ruins our fun. We head to a flat plains area where there are a lot of springbok and hartebeest. On the way we glimpse a cheetah in the tall grass. Very neat. However, that also means that the springbok will be scattered and not in their usual haunts. Cheetah are hard on the springbok. Some warthog appear under a tree. A good boar has love on his mind with a smallish sow. We are intruding on their plans, and they scurry off into the grass. We try to make a stalk, but the long grass shelters them from our sight. Back to the truck, and we are off.

A short drive further on we pull up to the base of a large kopje. We climb to an outcrop on the side to glass the flats beyond. Small groups of hartebeest cows and two groups of springbok are grazing. Then a single hartebeest steps out in front of us. He is something special. We admire him for several minutes, but can’t come up with a good way to stalk him. No matter, he isn’t that far out. We judge it at 250 metres and I am confident at that range. July bails off the rocks to retrieve my rifle. I really like that guy!

Rested on my hat over a rock, I take my time to ensure a clean kill. The bull is slightly quartering away and feeding to the right. I aim at the top third of his body, just behind the shoulder. Anton whispers, “Wait for him to raise his head. It would be a shame to put a bullet through his horn.” The bull turns a little more broadside, and I have my opportunity. The shot rings in our ears, and a fraction of a second later we hear the impact. It is solid. The bull takes two unsteady steps forward, and tips over. His tail is the only thing that moves, then he is still. A later check with my rangefinder puts the range at 239 metres.

He is a magnificent bull. Old and heavy. The bases are polished smooth from his many years. The tips sweep back parallel to each other and are very long. I wanted a hartebeest, but had put him lower on my priority list. I now see that was a mistake. He has a beauty that is made more unique by his ungainly appearance. The long face blends into the horn bases. And the body color is like no other animal that I have seen. A truly magnificent trophy, and I can already see him as a pedestal mount in my living room. I make a note to see if my wife agrees with that idea.

We drop off my hartebeest with the skinner and head back to Elephant Camp.

Cathy is waiting for us along the drive. She holds up a spent cartridge from her 7X57 Mauser, and parades it back and forth in front of our vehicle. She had connected with her zebra. She recounts the tale, and I can see that she had a wonderful hunt. She is very excited.

I hold out my hand to give her something and drop three spent cartridges into her hand.

“You got your kudu?”
“Yes.”
She looks puzzled. “It took three shots?”
“No.”
“You got three animals?” she asks, this time with an edge of excitement.
“Yes.”

But we really had four animals, my three, and Cathy’s zebra – apart from those of the previous days. We may not have a day blessed with such success again. A day ripe with hope that ended in triumph and above all, memories. And one that turned out to be quite an expensive day!

Jeremy Cotton was born and raised in Montana, USA and is 37 years of age. His family has held up the tradition of hunting for several generations and passed it to him at a young age. Jeremy has hunted much of the USA from eastern turkey to western elk and deer. He currently resides in Indiana and works as an engineer in the steel industry. His wife Cathy graciously allows him to maintain his hunting habit and occasionally comes along to oversee the activities. This trip was their first to Africa, and will not be their last. The friendships made will be renewed in the future.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12697,12698,12699,12700,12701,12702″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Double or Nothing Elephant

Nov 23, 2017 | Hunting News, News

Double or Nothing Elephant

By Bill Head, Byron Hart, Rob Blake

River view of two Botswana bulls, in Namibia!

We were motionless, adrenalin running, hearts pounding, standing by our elephants after all that excitement and shooting, trying to take in what had just happened, not wanting the experience to go away. The years of preparation and planning had resulted in a chaotic but incredible 12-second sequence. How did I get myself into this danger, when all I wanted was to participate in an international conservation event?

I hoped the memory would not fade. Well, it did, and surprisingly each of us remember that day very differently. Because I am a campfire cowboy where it’s sometimes compulsory to exaggerate, I offer my version last, after the African and the former Californian.

The facts according to the PH: I was asked to guide a safari with Jamy Traut, October 2013. Jamy’s two hunting clients had booked a double elephant hunt in the Zambezi Region (formerly Caprivi) of Namibia. Texans, Rob and Bill, lifelong friends and hunting buddies, having hunted most places together, decided to come to Africa to hunt their first elephant.

Jamy’s Kasika concession is directly across the river from Kasane in Botswana, a popular tourist destination for Victoria Falls where folks like us are incorrectly considered poachers. The confluence of the Zambezi and Chobe rivers, with lots of surface water, back waters, channels and swamps, is an area known as the Eastern Floodplains.

The two hunters alternated every day, one hunting party cruising the rivers and channels by boat, the other driving around looking for the big grey pachyderms. We walked among and between them in the tall reeds. The idea on those first days was to accustom hunters to being near elephants and “practice” shot placement at every opportunity. It became apparent that there was a primary group of 18 elephant bulls that preferred the riverside tourist area by day (directly in full view of the numerous tourist safari lodges on the Botswana side), and only moved to the game-management area by night. There were two interesting bulls in this group, always close to each other. We could only approach this group to about 100 yards by truck, but to within about 15 yards by boat, along with many tourist-laden boats. We drifted the boat past them repeatedly, scoping out two nice bulls. Rob and I were quietly discussing shot placement on the various angles of all the bulls standing there, while keeping rifles and hunting paraphernalia out of sight; not an easy task in a tiny five-seater boat towered over by double-decker ferries.

Glassing buffalo among the elephants from behind the only tree for miles.

One evening, we saw the group of bulls moving back towards the hunting area, but the two biggest bulls were not there. Eventually they appeared about 200 yards behind the rest, but we could only just see them through the reeds. It was going to be tight – light was fading, the boundary still a few hundred yards off, the other 16 bulls in between us, no cover… Eventually Martha, Rob’s wife, called a halt saying she was not comfortable with the situation, meaning walking up on elephants near dark in tall grass was a poor idea to her.

Discussing with Jamy’s group, a plan was formulated: 04.00 up; 04.20 coffee; 04.45 depart camp for the Chobe River and the boat. We docked the boat on the edge of the two zones as day was breaking, climbed up the bank and saw the group about a mile away, slowly heading back to the river. We walked in together, hunters, PHs, trackers, game scouts and Jamy’s PH apprentice Kabousie. Again there were only 16 bulls – the two biggest could not be seen. Closer yet at 200 yards, suddenly we saw them both, sleeping on the ground with only a grey mass and one tusk protruding above the grass. The morning sun was on the horizon. The two stood up to follow the group when we were only 25 yards from them. Rob, having drawn the longest straw was first, and he and I moved in to about 18 yards when his bull saw us and turned face-on. Rob’s .458 Lott barked; the bull dropped on the spot with a perfect frontal brain shot, landing on his haunches in an upright position. We’d discussed about immediately reloading and putting a second one into the chest of the elephant as back-up. But this was not going to work, because from our position we could only see a giant head immediately in front of us followed by a massive grey body protruding out behind. Thankfully so – had we done this, Bill’s elephant would have been long gone.

While this whole five-second episode took place, Jamy and Bill moved about 20 yards to the right, catching the attention of their bull who was alerted by the shot. It took a few steps towards them. The other 16 younger bulls moving 40 yards off to the right were in full flight. Only Bill’s bull remained and confronted the hunters. The .470 NE spoke, the shot just missing the brain. The bull shook his head, spun round and headed towards his fallen comrade. Jamy’s double jammed on its second shot, so he put in some insurance. The bull held up just behind the other, turning back to face the hunters. Bill pulled the second barrel, and the elephant went down, right behind the first. It could not have worked out better! We all stood in silence, absorbing what had just happened, then as the adrenalin drained, joy, and absolute excitement followed for hours on end. One cannot begin to describe that moment.

It just so happened that the bull that Rob hunted, had shorter, thicker tusks that had been favored by Bill. The longer-tusked elephant had been favored by Martha and was supposed to be Rob’s. It didn’t really matter who shot whichever bull – two lifelong friends had hunted their first elephant together, and had hunted two elephant friends. A special moment.

“I wanted that one!”

He shot my bull? The plan changed with the first shot.

Rob visualizes the “Poli Poli Bulls”

“Stand up and confront your bull!” my PH whispers at dawn on the Caprivi flood plain, after a knee-shredding 300 yard crawl. We are downwind of 18 elephant bulls. Bill and his PH lie just eastward hoping for a chance at an old askari bull.

My vision narrows with each step forward. At 15 yards the old bull senses me, shuffles to face me with raised head, outstretched trunk, and flared ears. We look into each other’s eyes… “Take him!” I don’t hear the shot. Instead, the ground rumbles as my bull drops straight down and the herd stampedes toward the Chobe River.

“Are you reloaded? Don’t shoot! Lie down!” The askari bull now faces us to check on his fallen companion, instead of stampeding with the rest of the herd. My hunting partner runs forward and takes a shot. His bull whirls to rejoin his fallen companion, and is now focused on us. “When he comes, WE WILL SHOOT!” My PH is agitated, his rifle shouldered. We exhale as Bill’s next shot drops the bull. The African sun brings a bittersweet morning as we sit with the two bulls, sharing their last sunrise.

Often I think about sharing that sunrise with our two bulls. I also remember the following morning when our Game Guard, took my hand and gave heartfelt thanks for the meat which fed his village. I then asked him what elephant tasted like. With a puzzled look he replied, “Like elephant.” At which point Jamy burst into laughter – after all what answer should I have expected! Martha still has her heart set on some long, symmetrical ivory.

Rob’s view at the shots, a bit close.

“Cowboy. Practice Counts!”

I was not looking for elephant when we booked at the DSC Annual meeting, but Rob was. When Jamy mentioned the cost of a conservation bull, my wife immediately signed me up. Acquiring a single trigger .470 NE double cost me my Jeep Wrangler. I practiced shooting weekly. I walked to the back of my place, threw up sticks, and took two shots over open sights, scaring the heck out of my neighbours. I ended up not having time for sticks.

Stalking the same herd, Rob preferred one elephant, but Martha another. The elephants decided for us. The PH’s plan worked, as the elephants were close to a mile from the river. Important to the hunt, both elephants and lodges were concealed by morning river fog. We marched single file for a while, when Jamy turned and asked, “Can you crawl?” The crawl turned into a belly scoot. The sword grass was wet and brutal.

Farm raider the day before. Note the red Coke can [filled with rocks] used to make noise and “scare” the elephant.

As we crawled among the herd, the two large bulls were lying down while younger bulls around us were watching, but not alarmed. However, I was! A day earlier we had come upon a dead croc in these same weeds wearing a deep elephant foot print in the middle of its back. The younger bulls began moving, some heading towards the river. The big boys rose. We had to act, or would have nothing if they made it to that exclusion zone.

I rationalized that Rob would shoot, the rest would take off and I would spend more days to get an elephant. Those days turned into seconds. Rob and Byron stood up at the same instant as Jamy and I. Time stood still. Rob shot, no sticks. His bull was hot-breath-close, facing him with that “Who are you?” look. The bull dropped from the Lott, hindquarters down, front following like Boddington’s DVD. There were elephants 360, making unbelievable noise.

The second older bull objected and came right at Jamy and me. Ears flared, trumpeting, head up, then low. I was so focused on facing him that I shot just as he raised his head again, maybe 15 yards. The Hornaday solid penetrated that top fold of the trunk, passing millimetres above his brain. I held to shoot again, the Euro double failed. That was not in the DVD. I recocked. Nothing! Reloading, thinking at least I have a single shot, I pulled again as the huge elephant passed oh so closely by me, turning away from us, swinging his head. The second hit him behind his left ear, travelled across that massive skull and bedded above his right eye. The rifle clicked to the second barrel. Jamy shot simultaneously to the starboard of me. Now I am deaf. I thought Jamy was shooting at one of the other bulls near us. The perturbed bull went around the downed elephant, and paused. He looked down then at Rob and Byron, who were in motion with their rifles, and stared red-eyed at me. I shot as he stepped around the body, ears back, no trumpeting. The 500-grain bullet took him in the left side brain. He fell sideways on top of his companion, then rolled down next to him.

Reloading, I jumped on top of “my” elephant, jamming barrels into his ear. Jamy was yelling at me, “Don’t shoot, he’s dead.” We stopped everything, frozen. Me on top of #2, Rob and Byron guns pointed three yards towards the business end of either. Jamy had positioned us in the exit path of the herd. His shot was not at the others, but into the hip of my bull to change its thinking about retreat to the river. I had expected we would take two eventually, but not at once within seconds! This was a hunt like no other – double or nothing.

We took conservation bulls that had “escaped” Botswana national parks. Elephants have become a problem raiding local farmers and fishermen in Namibia. Food is limited in the parks, causing hundreds of animals to cross the croc-infested Chobe to avoid starvation. The Namibian CITES permit allowed us to take the ivory. Rob returned to the Caprivi last year for his second elephant on permit.

Me, I can still see those 12 seconds with my eyes open.

Jamy, Bill, Rob, Byron, and Kabousie – the picture about 10 minutes after we started breathing again. Note the weed on top of Rob’s elephant, left there by the falling companion.

BIO:

Rob and I have been hunting actively over 35 years, as committed conservationists, scientists, and rancher/farmers. I started as a teenager with a 22. and my second rifle was a .270. Years ago we decided to take the money spent on a deer lease in the Frio Canyon and tr

Milking Xanda, the Cash Lion

Nov 17, 2017 | Hunting News, News

By Zig Mackintosh

An interesting article was recently posted on the Kenyan-based African Wildlife Foundation’s (AWF) website entitled: “Trophy hunting not an option to finance conservation in Africa.” The article makes reference to the recent, legal safari hunting of a male lion in Zimbabwe in the Ngamo-Sikumi State Forestry block. This hunting concession borders the Hwange National Park, is 420 000 acres in extent and gets one lion on quota a year. Briefly here’s what happened on the hunt, according to the Zimbabwean Professional Hunters Association’s press release:

• 14 kilometres outside of Hwange National Park, tracks of a big male lion were picked up and followed by the professional hunter and client.
• After tracking for seven kilometres the lion was spotted and the hunters were able to get a good look at it before it disappeared into the long grass. They noted that it had a GPS collar.
• The park researchers were contacted. They told the hunters that they knew of the lion and that its age was around 6½ years, well within the legal hunting age.
• The lion had been ousted from its pride by a coalition, and was now extensively traveling outside the park. It had no dependent cubs. The hunters were told that it was the correct lion to harvest. It is not illegal to shoot a collared lion in Zimbabwe as the collaring of a lion is for research alone and not protection, as is the case for elephant.
• After the lion had been shot the collar was returned to the researchers along with mane hair and blood and tissue samples.

So no news here, nothing controversial, except that the lion was “Xanda” who we all (now) know is “Cecil the Lion’s” son. The Cecil saga was a fantastic money-spinner for the animal rights groups, so never to let a crisis go to waste, time to cash in again.

In the AWF article, Kaddu Sebunya, AWF President trots out the usual anti’s drivel about banning sport-hunting and any trade in wildlife products and that other non-consumptive means be put in place to replace the revenue earned from hunting. He contends that Africa must not rely on the killing of “rare” species to finance conservation, and calls on the conservation community, institutions, and governments to increase investment in alternative financing to support programs such as relocation, eco-tourism development, and securing space for these species to thrive.

But then he contradicts himself in saying that the presence of lions signifies a healthy ecosystem with prey species and symbolizes conservation success. This is a pretty good description of Hwange National Park and surrounds where the lion population is just about at carrying capacity. In closing he goes on to say that as an Africa-based organization (whose headquarters are in Washington DC) they have a deep appreciation of the cultural and economic value that lions and other rare and iconic species play in a modern Africa. They expect that their interpretation of how to realize an economic value be taken as gospel, everyone else be damned.

The one thing that you can’t help but notice on the website is the donate button with a cute little heart sign. This is the only motive for the AWF’s concern for “Xanda”. Their Facebook following stands at around 1.2 million, a substantial pool in which to trawl for funding. In the comments section below the article’s posting there is the normal hate speech towards hunters, how trophy hunting is fueling poaching, how they would like to hunt down the hunters, etc. The name and address of the professional hunter is also publicized, resulting in his wife receiving death threats. Social media is notorious for its lack of decorum, it is easy to insult and threaten from behind a keyboard, but one would have thought that the AWF would insist on a level of decency on their Facebook page to maintain some level of professionalism. Could it be that it is much easier to raise money when your subjects are all frothing at the mouth?

Kaddu Sebunya’s call to ban safari hunting is reckless, and he probably knows it. He also knows that donations alone could never support the wilderness areas that are presently supported through safari hunting. This is irrelevant to him and the AWF. Raising money for the foundation is the goal. The real problem is that this no longer shocks us. We have become impervious; no-one is holding the anti-hunters accountable for their dangerous shenanigans.

It is perhaps ironic that the AWF, formally know as the African Wildlife Leadership Foundation, was founded by hunters. One wonders what Russell Train, Nick Arundel, Kermit Roosevelt, James Bugg and Maurice Stans, all members of the Washington Safari Club, would have made of the Cecil and Xanda debacle.

Leica’s Flagship Magnus Riflescopes Now Available In Non-illuminated Verson

Nov 15, 2017 | Hunting News, News

Leica’s Flagship Magnus Riflescopes Now Available In Non-illuminated Verson

Leica has launched three non-illuminated versions of its highly successful range of Magnus riflescopes: Magnus 1.5–10×42, Magnus 1.8–12×50, and Magnus 2.4–16×56. This new line is priced at a lower entry point than the illuminated version, making it one of the best value European premium riflescopes on the market.

Magnus non-illuminated riflescopes boast proven optical and mechanical systems as well as innovative features, such as turret scale zeroing without tools. Excellent light transmission of approximately 92% and extraordinarily high contrast enables dependable sighting under even the most challenging light conditions. Magnus non-illuminated riflescopes are extremely reliable and versatile companions, and provide razor-sharp and crystal-clear resolution, thanks to their legendary Leica optical performance.

The Leica Magnus non-illuminated models join four illuminated models in the Magnus line, ranging from the safari-ready Magnus 1-6.3x24i to the powerful 2.4-16x56i.

For more information, visit www.leica-sportoptics.com