Daejeon

From Seoul we took a short bus ride to Daejeon...

This is the back entrance to Gyeryongsan. The hike up the hill into the park seemed tolerable. I quickly learned that if there is level ground in Korea they farm it or build a city on it. The rest of the country is either uphill or downhill. 

The mountain forests are as lush as the hills are steep.

3.2 klicks didn't look as far on the map.

The Nammaetap pagodas at our destination.

Korea has no shortage of scenic vistas.

There are attendants who live at the shrine. Don't blame them; the commute is strenuous.

The leaves were just beginning to turn...

Buddhist temples are lavishly detailed.

At Nammaetap we sat next to the temple with an older Korean gentlemen with whom we discussed the perennial natural of the world's religions, Darwinism, and Richard Dawkins' "selfish gene." He is a molecular biochemist who does health research at a government lab. He shared the last of his coffee with me.

Then the descent, down a 1.1 km long pile of boulders some map maker decided was a trail. Cassie had no trouble on the descent, but my knees are shot and steep downhills over broken ground is hard on my hinges. Back to the hotel for ice and ibuprofen!

There is a monastery at the base of the mountain. It has pavement and level ground. Only a kilometer back to the taxi stand.

Seoul

Some details of my visit with my daughter Cassandra in South Korea...

Sunday we took a tour to the DMZ, where we were only a couple kilometers from North Korea. Some exhibits on the border express an abiding interest in reconciliation if not reunification.

We visited the site of a recently discovered North Korean tunnel. Here propaganda is the name of the game.

Monday we explored the city on foot. There are ancient palaces preserved within the confines of an ultra-modern city. This one is called Deoksugung and was used by various monarchs from 1392 to 1919.

Portions of the past and its artifacts are well preserved at Deoksugung.

The main palace at Gyeongbokgung even has its own lake. A person can imagine they're not in the middle of one of largest cities in the world if you choose the right direction to gaze.

A restored stream runs through the center of the Jung-gu district. In it a heron plied its trade, seemingly indifferent to onlookers.

What If Justin Brierly Wrote A Book

And some of his favorite non-believers wrote a response...

Justin Brierly, host of Unbelievable, has just written a book titled
Unbelievable?: Why after ten years of talking with atheists, I'm still a Christian. It's quite good, though it contains little we haven't heard on the radio program (or the podcast).  So of course me and some of the other non-believers who hang out at the Unbelievable forum are having a crack at a "Justin Response Book" in a manner inverse to the Christian response to Bart Ehrmann's How Jesus Became God: Exaltation of a Jewish Preacher From Galilee. First, I had to read the book. Now comes the writing...

I've Got A Movie For You

If you're into understated science fiction, that is...

Watch the film Coherence (2014) cold. Don't Google it, or read up on it, or look it up, except to order it. I'm glad I didn't miss this clever and effective film. If you like metaphysics-flavored sc-fi you might enjoy it too. About as much fun as I've had watching a small, low budget film since The Man From Earth, or Pi, or Upstream Color, or Primer.

Is it Really Me You Miss

Or just your long lost youth?



As I've mentioned before, Don Henley has written the soundtrack of my life, for better and worse. Sometimes much worse...

So last night I dreamt of an old friend who I loved once, more than I knew at the time perhaps. In the dream, which did not last near long enough, she had no reason to give me the time of day, let alone forgive me, but she was as gentle and kind and funny as she always was...

Queue Don Henley's "That Old Flame"

Got a message in my mailbox
From an old friend I hardly see
All it said was you were trying
To get in touch with me

And I stared down at your number
And I felt passion and I felt fear
And I wondered what the hell you wanted
After all these years

'Cause there is danger in the embers
And you have only yourself to blame
If you get burned when you try to rekindle
That old flame

Well I know we ended badly
And I was angry for a long long time
But I've grown some and I wanted you to know that I'm doing just fine

And I'm not asking for a replay
I got no delusions, got no designs
Can I borrow just a little cup of kindness
For Auld Lang Syne

'Cause there is danger in the embers
And you have only yourself to blame
If you get burned when you try to rekindle
That old flame

Speak to me plain
Tell me the truth
Is it really me you miss
Or just your long lost youth?

Yeah there is danger in the embers
And you know nothing, nothing stays the same
Yeah you can get burned when you try to rekindle
That old flame
Yeah you can get burned when you try to rekindle
That old flame

The song doesn't quite apply, but these lyrics toward the end haunt me in my middle age:

Speak to me plain
Tell me the truth
Is it really me you miss
Or just your long lost youth?

And this I just remembered. She and I attended an Eagles concert at the Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota, the summer of 1978. It rained but I brought a sheet of plastic with room for two. It was one of the best dates ever...

More Books

For the "To Read" list...

I took my daughter Cassandra to Peregrine Book Company to choose a going away present. She's a fan of Mary Roach so she rounded out her collection with a copy of Spook.

Of course being in a book store meant I couldn't leave without a handful myself, so I added three volumes to my collection as well...

Pagans: The End of Traditional Religion and the Rise of Christianity by James O'Donnell

Seveneves by Neal Stephenson

The World Until Yesterday by Jared Diamond

So many books, so little time.

Whence Orthodoxy?

An Unbelievable episode got a little unbelievable...

Two nice young Christian fellas were debating whether or not the God of the Christian bible (or Hebrew scriptures) is a God of Wrath (which is apparently pronounced wroth in the UK). Never mind that bible contains the following passages on the topic:

Psalms 7:11 - God judgeth the righteous, and God is angry [with the wicked] every day.

Ezekiel 25:17 - And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I [am] the LORD, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.

Nahum 1:2-6 - God [is] jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and [is] furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth [WRATH] for his enemies

Romans 1:18 - For the WRATH of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness;

Matthew 10:28 - And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. 

Luke 12:5 - But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear him, which after he hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, Fear him. 

John 15:6 - If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast [them] into the fire, and they are burned.

John 3:36 - He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the WRATH of God abideth on him.

Revelation 20:15 - And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.

Hebrews 9:22 - And almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission. 

Thank you KJV Online!  Emphasis ADDED   

So, according to the Christian's own bible (the KJV, no less) God has wrath, exhibits wrath and anger, and appears also to be big on casting into fire, wreaking vengeance, taking revenge, rebuking furiously, being jealous, shedding blood, and destroying bodies and souls in hell.  

Seems the bible can mean whatever you want it to mean and even not mean what it clearly says...Hmmm.

So I wrote the following post for under the show notes:

Whence Orthodoxy? 

No wonder Christianity has some 30,000 denominations, sects, cults, and spin-offs! Every last one of you sit at your very own private mixing board fitted with dozens, if not hundreds, of sliders with which to match what you choose to believe. From Zero to Ten (and sometimes Eleven) you dial in your feelings, surmises, and conjectures about the following topics (and others) to arrive at your sure and certain faith: 

Epistomology

Revelation

Orthodoxy

Orthopraxy

Number of gods

The attributes of God

The nature of Creation

Predestination to open theism

God as the author of Evil

The nature (and failure) of Omniscience

The power of Satan

Angelology

Definition of Sin

The effects of The Fall

Total depravity to blank slate

Details of the Incarnation

Attributes of the Christ

Virgin birth

Immaculate conception

Humanity of Jesus

Deity of Jesus

The death of God

The significance of The Cross

Adoptionism to Docetism

Theories of the Atonement

Meaning of the Resurrection

The power of the Holy Spirit

Efficacy of prayer

Importance of the Sacraments

Baptism

Nature of the Eucharist

Transubstantiation

Consumption of alcohol

Nature of The Trinity

The existence of Hell

The duration of Divine punishment

The nature of Heaven

The means of Salvation

How many paths to God?

Veneration of Mary

Praying to the Saints

Eschatology

Details of the Rapture

Millennialism

Inerrancy

Inspiration

Infallibility

Idolatry

Election

Justification

Perseverance of faith

Apostasy

Bible: Curated collection to God Breathed Master Plan

Creationism vs Science

Slavery

The role of women

Intimate partner violence

Corporal punishment to the death penalty

From color blind to anti-miscegenation

The impact of LGBTQ issues on The Church

Certitude

If your version of the bible says it you can quote it, harmonize it, or insist on a metaphorical interpretation. If your bible doesn't say it you can infer it, assemble a cumulative case, or please ignorance as needed. You pick, choose, listen, follow, agree, disagree, harmonize, conflate, and confabulate from five millennia of folk wisdom, traditions, the text of your holy book, and the writings of your favorite apologists to arrive at your very own custom version of Christianity, certain in your bones of your correctness and some of you quite comfortable calling those in the congregation across the street heretics. Rather than steering you toward the One True Faith The Church, the Good Book, and The Holy Spirit are offering a self-serve à la carte smorgasbord...

It's No B&B

But my man cave will now sleep seven adults...

On my way home from work today I took a detour to follow a trail of signs promising an extraordinary yard sale. The placards led me to the million dollar homes part of my neighborhood, which I didn't know existed until today. The sale was as promised.

I made two purchases, and after some rearranging of bookshelves and the recliner, my little log home will now sleep three couples and another full-sized person. There are now two queen beds (one in the bedroom, the other in the front room), a twin futon in the den, and a single day bed in the loft. 

Not bad for $120 and an afternoon's labor.

PS Still only one bath...

If I Die I'm Going To Be So Pissed At You!

This is a must see...

Wish I Were Here is gentle and kind and forgiving and funny and sad and heartfelt.  Treat yourself to it.

Made Some Changes

To make a spare shotgun a little more useful...

When Erik was in middle school I awarded him a Remington 870 Express Lightweight Youth Model 20 gauge for turning a "D" in maths into an "A."  I had replaced the truck tire that Remington calls a recoil pad with a Pachmayr Decelerator Sporting Clays and the front bead was removed on the advice of a wing -shooting instructor.  All good.  Erik promptly outgrew it.  I bought him the adult sized 870 Express Lightweight Synthetic 20 gauge.  It comes with Remington's marvelous R3 recoil pad on the full length stock.  The little shotgun went into the safe for decade.  A thread at Scoutrifle.org got me thinking setting it up as a handy little general purpose shotgun, equally suited to the use of bird shot, buck shot, and slugs.

The youth model's short (12 inch) LOP absorbs that extra inch of barrel, making it no longer overall that the 20 inch 12 bores I used to work with, so I'm not going to replace the 21 inch vent rib barrel.  Still it needs sights for my purposes so I've ordered XS Express Night Sight Set Benelli, Remington Vent Rib Steel Matte Standard Dot Tritium Front, White Line Rear.  Found a local smith to install them (at a price; seems dovetails are spendy here in Prescott).  These sights won't be as precise as a ghost ring rear and and a square post front but it might still let a fella pot a quail without too much distraction. I aspire to seeing how far out I can reliably present a hazard to navigation using the Brenneke one ounce slugs (1392 or 1476 fps; my shoulder gets to choose).  Once installed, all I have to do is determine which buckshot load it likes best with which choke tube and select which of the three rear sights in the XS kit lands Brennekes where I want them. 

I attached a Weaver base to the wood fore end with brass screws to serve as a flashlight mount.  I've got a spare Weaver top mount ring in the parts box somewhere.  I've got a spare Surefire for a light.  Presto, I have a weapon mounted light.

Onboard ammo storage means a fella can select different sorts of cartridges so a four-shot TacStar side saddle was ordered.  Andy Langlois made me a four shot leather ammo holder that I screwed to the wood stock. Screws work so well I may never use the lace-up variety again.  Might add another screw or two.

I replaced the plastic factory follower with an aluminum aftermarket unit from Ultimate Arms Gear.  The factory safety was swapped for jumbo button from S&J Hardware; buh bye, J-lock!  Finally, Uncle Mike's set me up with some sling swivel studs.  The rear swivel is mounted at the bottom of the pistol grip to keep the sling  out of the way while reaching for the ammo cuff underhand and it allows a higher carry position when slung in African style.

The original forend design overhangs the receiver, which can cause a variety of problems when a fella is in a hurry.  From time to time I have somehow (I'm clumsy) managed to pinch prodigious quantities of my left hand between the long wood and receiver of similarly set up slide action shotguns when operating them wrong quickly. In the process of raising blood blisters and shedding blood I've come to hate pinch points and strive to extirpate them at every opportunity.  I used a needle nose pliers to unscrew the forend retainer. If I were going to do this more than once I'd definitely buy the purpose built tool.  

Finally the factory hardwood forend and buttstock got a dose of Rustoleum brand truck bed liner.  Simple, sturdy and simple to touch up.

I'm shopping for a wall-mounted security lock so I can keep this handy little gun close at hand yet protected from the untrained and the unauthorized.

Regardless the challenge encountered - day or night, at arms length or at the 50 yard line - four rounds of buck in the magazine, four slugs in the saddle, and four rounds of shot in the cuff ought to suffice.

I Try Not To Cheat On My Diet Very Often

But when I give in to temptation I usually make a beeline for Rosa's...

 There are many great restaurants in Prescott, but Rosa's Pizzeria is my favorite!  These days my preferred meal there is the Antipasto Salad.  Every pasta dish I've ever had at Rosa's was great.  The pizza is awesome, no, beyond awesome!  All that said, I've never met anyone who was disappointed with the dish they chose.  The service - host or hostess, servers, and bartenders - is excellent.  It's noisy and routinely crowded, but that has to be part of the high energy fun. There are quieter restaurants if you plan to have a conversation but there is no place in Prescott with better food.

Got Some Planting Done

Many hands - or even just two more - make light work...

From the before picture. An unhappy pine and some sort of gnarled shrub predominated.  Behind them plastic webbing reduced the glare from cars at the four way stop.

Through staging the plants.  The ugly shrub is gone.

To mission accomplished! I regret the pine had to go, but I have a couple dozen of them elsewhere throughout the yard. The bright yellow and green leafed Gold Spot Euonymus will grow as tall as ten feet. The purple leafed "Pipa's Red" Red Chinese Fringe Flower will attain a height of about five feet. Still musing on what to plant in the foreground.



We also planted "Madame Galen" Trumpet Vines every eight feet along the fence that faces the street. I like having a fence, I just don't like looking at the fence.

I expanded the drip irrigation system to accommodate the new shrubs.  The previous owner had planted rose bushes in roughly the same spot but didn't prep the holes at all and then installed 1/2 gallon per hour drippers (which the renter who lived there before I bought the place didn't run in any case) so it's no wonder they failed to thrive.  The sandy soils in my neighborhood call for amendment and 2-4 gph drippers.  The vines will get two gph.  The new shrubs will be treated to four.

We ate well too, at The Raven Cafe, The Waffle Iron, Rosa's Pizzeria, and Prescott Brewing Company,  

Erik even got to sleep in Sunday.

It was a nice weekend.

The Purple Cat

Used books stores are such fun...

There's a new used book store at the Willow Crossroads in Prescott, Arizona.

I finally visited The Purple Cat used book store this afternoon. Owned and operated by Shari Graham, this tidy little shop has small but growing Sci Fi, Fantasy, and Horror sections in the back left corner. Ms. Graham has a deep supply of military SF by the likes of David Weber. The titles are varied and the aisles are well lit. I went in looking for a copy of The Keep, by F. Paul Wilson. Didn't find it, but I left with six other volumes instead; that's how used book stores work.  Give The Purple Cat a visit next time you come to Prescott.

The Purple Cat
3180 Willow Creek Rd. #A4
Prescott, AZ 86301
928-776-0116
thepurplecataz.com

Before and After

When nature gives you broken trees you make firewood...

We had quite a bit of snow over winter break.  It was the heavy, sticky kind that bends over tree tops, in my case until some of them snapped off.

Rental chainsaws have been added to my list of Hallmarks of Civilization, along with paved roads, bottled beer, sliced bread, safe drinking water, and antibiotics.

Son Erik is learning that my offer of "free room and board" may not mean precisely the same thing he was thinking.

He piled the wood and then he left on a work assignment for three days.

But I had some spare time Friday so I chopped and piled my new firewood.  I expect it will be dry enough to burn later this year.  My father gave me a splitting maul as a housewarming gift.  How cool is that?!!

Life is good here high in the Prescott National Forest.

It Takes A Village

Or at least an iPhone full of contacts...

Many of the improvements to my sturdy little homestead in the Ponderosa pines south of Prescott were performed by some excellent local contractors, each of whom I am pleased to highly recommend.

Certified Lock

Peter at Certified Lock rekeyed the place shortly after I moved in. Peter knows his stuff.

Prescott In-Floor Heating and Plumbing, LLC

Vincent Bruno identified a rather expensive water leak that was earning me frantic calls from the water company, removed a strange spare sink from the second bedroom, and installed a new hose bib in a few short hours. Vince is personable and professional.

Lowe's - Prescott

John Bruce coordinated the replacement of my single pane, aluminum frame, summer place windows with double pane, insulated vinyl frame, year round home windows. He has also given me some good ideas for the roof I plan to have replaced Summer 2016.

Zink Door & Trim Inc

Dave Zink installed the new windows he could and showed me how to install those I had to do myself. It took less than a day. Dave is fun to speak with while he works.

Mile High Tree Service 

Justin Kaoni safely removed a lightning struck Ponderosa from my yard for much less than others offered to. Justin's customer service is second to none. I hope no more of my Ponderosas die but if they do Mile High Tree Service will remove them.

Rocky's Landscaping

Rocky Annecchini and his crew prepped, delivered, and spread mixed river rock to match the front and installed decomposed granite in back. He also selected and delivered a couple strategically placed boulders to increase the safety of my driveway. Good guy, fair prices.

I Didn't Know You Could Cry Over A Liquor Ad

A heartfelt short film masquerading as a commercial...



German film students Dorian Lebherz and Daniel Titz created, on spec, a commercial for Johnnie Walker that tells the story of two brothers (played by Mathew Lewis Carter and Robin Guiver) visiting their childhood home in rural Scotland. It may be the sweetest and saddest 90 seconds I've ever seen on film. The voiceover is read by poet, Johnny “B.A.N.G.” Reilly:

"Walking the roads of our youth

Through the land of our childhood, our home, and our truth

Be near me, guide me, always stay beside me

So I can be free

Free

Let’s roam this place, familiar and vast

Our playground of green frames our past

We were wanderers

Never lost

Always home

When every place was fence-less

And time was endless

Our ways were always the same

Cool my demons and walk with me, my brother

Until our roads lead us away from each other

And if your heart’s full of sorrow, keep walking

Don’t rest

And promise me from heart to chest to never let your memories die

Never

I will always be alive and by your side

In your mind

I’m free.”

When you cry, don't blame me, thank die Herren Lebherz and Titz.

Take A Picture Of This

Don Henley still delivers...

Henley's latest collection Cass County is clearly a country album.  Nothing at all wrong with that.  More than a few early Eagles tunes have been successfully covered by country bands.  Over the years many of Henley's ballads could easily have been crossover hits.  

If my adult life were a movie, Don Henley's songs could be used for pretty much the whole sound track.  Cass County expands on the narrative choices.  Along with That Old Flame, Words Can Break your Heart, Train in the Distance, and Where I Am Now, Take a Picture of This resonates exquisitely...

A long long time ago

When we were young and pretty

We ruled the world, we stopped the time, we knew it all, we owned this city

Running with the crowd, carefree and proud, I heard somebody say

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

The years went rushing by, in the twinkling of an eye, we rolled with the changes

The life we knew was gone

Our friends had all moved on, time rearranges

But on our wedding day, they all came back to say, congratulations

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

Then we raised a family of our own

We were so happy baby

But now those kids have grown and gone

I gave it everything I had, through the good times and the bad

But now I’m down here on the floor, cause I don’t know you anymore

Yeah, that’s a suitcase; yeah, that’s a ticket for a plane

There’s no one here to talk to, no reason to remain

When you spend all your time living in the past

With all those pictures that you took

Here’s one more for the book

Take a picture of this, this is me leaving

Take a picture of this, this is me walking away

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

Take a picture of this

The Zebra Stallion

My trophy is finally on display...

Haven't had anywhere appropriate to hang my zebra in all the years since I brought it home from the 1997 hunt in South Africa. Must say it fits right in on the largest wall of my cozy little log home man cave high the Prescott National Forest. Putting it up was a two man job. Erik and I celebrated the completion of this task with adult beverages. Seems as good a time as any for a reprint of an older post.

The Zebra Stallion

This little memoir was published in the Journal of the Thompson/Center Collector's Association...

Our original plan had been to drive to the mountain and spend the afternoon glassing for game. Then, shortly before sundown, we’d stake out a fence line where Marius Moolman, my professional hunter, had seen Kudu and Gemsbok spoor earlier in the day. We were three days into our ten day hunt with Bush Africa Safaris in the Republic of South Africa. Somewhere between the main house and the mountain the plan had changed. Jason, one of our guides, drove the Isuzu for about an hour as Marius; Philamon—our tracker; and I—their first handgun hunting client, looked for spoor. We saw Impala several times, but I had taken a nice ram on the first day and we saw none large enough to warrant bagging another.

Philamon signaled “halt” to Jason and spoke with Marius. “Philamon says there are some Blue Wildebeest just over there,” Marius translated. He pointed to a dense thicket to our left, about 20 yards off the road. We got out quietly and quickly and crept into the brush. After a few minutes of sneaking around Marius turned to me, “Zebra,” he whispered through a smile. He showed me their horse-like hoof prints in the soft, red earth. The hunt was on. We tiptoed after them slowly and quietly, but after a few minutes we heard them run off.

We went back to the truck and drove a bit further. Philamon got out to track the herd. Jason drove ahead a kilometer or so to a spot where we could watch them cross a road. Then we would pick up their trail and track them on foot. After a wait Philamon came to the road before the herd, or so it seemed. Philamon told Marius the zebra had crossed the road before we had even arrived.

Philamon, Marius, and I took up their trail. We crept at times, then walked easily, then slowed to a stop while Philamon pointed and signaled that he heard something. We moved on slowly, trying not to make any noise, trying to avoid the thorns—especially the wicked, little ones shaped like cat’s claws. All the while I was hoping it wouldn’t be a noise I made that would screw up the stalk. Of course I was only person making any noise. I had doffed the chest holster in which I had carried my Thompson/Center Contender hunting pistol the first few days of the hunt. It was fast enough and very comfortable, but it was the noisiest piece of leather I’ve ever owned. When I had told Marius at lunch that was giving up the holster he nodded and said, “Good idea.” As I was the last man in our group I carried my .44 Magnum single-shot with its ten inch barrel pointing backwards, grasping the barrel and fore end in my left hand. The sound of the thundering hooves told me, without need for translation, that the herd had moved away again. We continued after them.

The nearest town of any size in this part of the Northern Province—until recently referred to as the Northern Transvaal—is Ellisras. Bush Africa Safaris is located about an hour’s drive southeast of town. It is owned and operated by Schalk van Heerden and his lovely wife Terina. They hunt on his farm, his Uncle’s adjacent property, and at Schalk’s father’s place nearby. Schalk has arrangements to hunt at other properties in the Ellisras area, and south of Johannesburg, as well as a concession in Tanzania. The accommodations at Bush Africa Safaris are modern yet distinctly African. The meals are prepared by Terina and served family style. Anyone who has hunted with a friend at a family ranch would feel right at home. While there are wilder places to hunt in Africa, there is a lot to be said for a first time safari that offers electric lights and hot water showers.

Philamon hears the striped horses when I can hear nothing. Marius would tell me later that Philamon could hear their footsteps; I was not missing their unmistakable vocalizations. They run off again after making a racket. This time we run and quick march after them. Marius tells me, “Philamon knows a clearing they’ve likely made off to.”

We come round a thorn bush and there, finally, I can see zebra! Several of them are milling about, a hundred yards off or so. Philamon sets up the “sticks.” Shooting sticks are a tool I had not tried until hunting in Africa. They come in very handy when hunting on foot in the thornbush, as tall grass prevents shooting from prone, sitting, and frequently even kneeling positions, and most of the tree branches one might use as an improvised rest are routinely thick with thorns. I try sighting on the largest animal, but they’re standing in a cluster. I can’t make out a single target—and I suddenly understand that the zebra is as well camouflaged as any game animal in Africa—and even if I could pick one out I wouldn’t shoot as there is likely another animal behind it. “No shot!” I whisper. Marius agrees, “Don’t shoot.” The herd moves off and we creep after it. There’s a large zebra standing in an opening in the thick brush; the rest of the herd can be seen moving about nervously in a clearing behind it. Philamon sets the sticks again. I take the sticks in my left hand and rest the pistol. It’s still too far.

The herd moves again with the big one trailing behind; we move even closer this time. Philamon sets the sticks in the thigh high grass. I move behind the sticks and everything in the world disappears but the big zebra, my Contender pistol, and me. It is standing broadside, with its head turned toward me, straining to determine who we are and what we are up to. I cock the hammer and put my sights on the zebra’s left shoulder. There is nothing standing behind it. “Shoot it,” Marius says to me from somewhere else. He later estimated the range at about 90 yards. The sights are dancing as my chest heaves. Excitement? Exertion? Both. “Shoot it,” Marius urges “Now!” The sights are dancing, but they remain centered on the chest and shoulder of my target. I continue to press the trigger...BLAM! That was loud. Hit? “I heard the shot,” I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have heard the shot if I was concentrating enough.” It’s hit! It staggers a few steps, but it does not fall down. One of its front legs is obviously broken. Which one? Why? “Please don’t let me have screwed up the shot!” I wish silently to myself.

“Shoot it again!” Marius orders as the rest of the world returns. He raises his rifle as he steps up beside me. “No, let me finish this!” I remember thinking; I do not remember if I spoke the words aloud. Philamon is running. I follow him at a sprint as I break the pistol’s action to reload. The zebra is trying to run, staggering, stopping, struggling to stand. We’re leaping through thornbrush that tears at my clothing and my skin as I pass, jumping over aardvark holes, all the while hoping not to loose sight of the badly wounded zebra. I put the empty cartridge case in my pocket. I swear I did. I still have it. That’s what a handloader’s concern for recovering cartridge cases at the range will do to you. Let your cases drop to the ground when you practice. I insert another round and snap the action shut. We close in on the zebra. “Shoot it again!” Marius yells from behind us. I stop, cock the pistol, and put my sights on the wounded animal. It’s quartering away, at a distance Marius later estimated was about 40 yards. It pauses, looking at me over its right shoulder. I aim for the left shoulder—it will have to pass through the paunch to get there—and press...Blam! A red spot appears on its belly. The zebra staggers, steps forward, and crashes heavily to the ground. I reload as I trot closer. I put the empty in my pocket again. No telling how long it will take to deprogram this nasty habit. The zebra butts the ground with its head, as though challenging me to come close enough for it to take one last crack at me. I warily approach the fallen beast and come too close. It struggles to its feet for a few more steps. It stumbles and falls. It’s all over, but I want it done, right now. I put my sights on its chest and press the trigger at a range of 20 yards...Blam. It shudders as another scarlet spot blossoms on its hide; this one just behind the shoulder. Then it slowly slumps over and finally expires.

There are backslaps and handshakes all around. The zebra was male, the herd stallion. I had not known that until now, and I am glad to hear it. He is in prime condition, a fine enough trophy for a rifle hunter, but all the more special for a handgun hunter. The hunt has lasted over an hour and a half and covered over two kilometers since we last left the truck. What a great day!

Philamon set off on foot to find Jason and the truck. They return, along with one of my hunting partners, Greg Clemmer, an hour or so later. Greg hands me a lukewarm Castle Lager. I’ve never had a better beer in my life. The electric winch is on the Land Cruiser, not the Isuzu, so it takes all five of us to wrestle my trophy into the bed of the pickup. Back at camp the stallion is cleaned up and Marius, and Philamon, and I pose for pictures. I look at the photographs now thinking “Was I really that tired? Was I really that happy?” Ice cold Castles are passed all round. We watch closely as Jason, Philamon, Waynand—another guide, and Jan—the camp skinner, dress my zebra. We confirm that the first of the three 320 grain hard lead bullets struck a fatal blow, entering through the left shoulder without hitting bones, punching through the ribs coming and going, striking the front lobes of the lungs, lacerating the heart, then shattering the humerus in the right shoulder. The stallion would have died, but maybe not quickly, and certainly not painlessly. The second shot also found its mark, penetrating the paunch, coursing through the length of the left lung, punching out of the rib cage, and lodging in the left shoulder. The last shot penetrated the ribs coming and going as it pulped a path through both lungs. Any one of the shots would have killed my trophy, but it took all three to make him lie down and give up.

I experienced that special sort of mixed emotions hunters sometimes feel when the gravity of taking another life for sport—for the sake of the hunt—sets in. I’ve felt compassion for other game, starting with that indestructible little Gadwall that was my first waterfowl kill so many years ago; and for most of the game I’ve taken since then. This Zebra stallion was different somehow. It evokes memories of visits to the zoo, the black and white plastic animal in the toy chest, and the last page of my alphabet primer. I think about not using the pistol any more this trip. It was a close thing out there—using an iron-sighted, single-shot pistol on a Zebra—though Marius and Schalk emphasize that hits from .300’s and .375’s have not always done better.

Marius and I had talked about hunting while we waited for the truck that evening, as the sun set and the stars came out. We agreed it was important to ask ourselves “Why do we hunt?” We agreed the answer is probably as simple as the notion that hunting is not just something we do, “Hunter” is something we are.