Having decided that no pigs would come in during the afternoon or evening, I set-off into burned country in a round-about route to get back to the Toyota. Descending a rise, I bespied donkey movement off to my left about two-hundred metres away. I crouched low, and quietly sought slightly lower altitude and better cover, and made some progress toward them, only to discover their unease as the wind swirled its dirty, gentle tricks. They knew something was up, but weren't sure where. They kept feeding along at an angle to me, coming slightly closer. I scanned all that I could see clearly out of the mob of about twelve, and eventually selected a jack. By this stage, I was motionless in the shade on the rocky bank of the rise, rifle readied and steadied on my knees, with safety catch on. I practiced aiming as the jennies gradually fed over the next rise and out of view, waiting for the jacks at the rear to make a move to follow, as they were still obscured by thin brush. Finally, the jack I was after came into the clear, and I suppose the shot distance was perhaps a-hundred-and-twenty metres, or thereabouts. A few quick Woodleigh 400 grain RNSNs were delivered, and the jack was killed. I had immensely enjoyed the walk and the hunt, and although I was happy with my success, I was also saddened to have taken the life of such a magnificent wild animal that survives in such a harsh area and climate. I have a great deal of admiration and respect for our humble feral donkeys, and my big game hunting experience has taken many lessons from time spent stalking and observing them.