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One of the best hunts I ever had was for my blue wildebeest in 2007. With PH Izak Kirsten, we spent the morning hunting for kudu with no luck, then stopping for lunch and we cooked some eland liver that he had packed, prepped with onions and buttered rolls, along with some boerwurs over a fire of mopane wood at what had been a lodge that was then closed, having being lost to land claims. We were some of the last people to hunt that property. Sitting on the remains of an old ox wagon, Izak and Benton told me stories about their family's histories and about the Voortrekkers. Then we slept on the green grass in the shade of some lemon trees.

When we woke in the afternoon, we walked out of camp, past a waterhole and then uphill, a gradual slope that must have went on for about five miles. We encountered a small group of bulls and cows, and then proceeded to chase them for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Of course, they ran uphill all the way, and by the time I shot an old bull, we were several miles from the road. We sat on that hillside while Michael our Zulu tracker ran back for the truck, with the sun going down and the good tired feeling that comes at a time like that, cool and relaxed with our boots off and the first stars showing through the still light but quickly darkening sky. We had hunted hard and fair, we had been frustrated by the light and the wind, foiled by spooking unseen zebras and steenbok, and were tired, dusty, and sweaty, but happy at having persevered and ultimately succeeding.

With the rocks and the rough hillside, Michael could only get the truck within about 400 yards of where we were, so Izak, knowing that I wanted a european mount and a rug, instructed Michael to slit him all the way up and remove as much weight as possible, because the three of us were going to have to spit him to carry him out, which we did. When we we got to the truck, a Windhoek never tasted so good, and I knew that I had burned every calorie from my lunch and then some.

When we finally got back to the lodge it was late, and so I helped unload at the skinning shed, then watched as Michael and Izak tagged him with my name and instructions.

The next day, you can imaging my disgust upon discovering that the camp skinners had cut him in half as if for a shoulder mount, DESPITE the tags and the fact that he had been slit all the way up to his chin, rendering the skin unusable for a shoulder mount, and now cut in half again, it was completely useless.

The South African outfitter blamed the PH and his tracker, and told me he would replace my skin with another "from somewhere."

I refused the offer.