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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 2 0 7 could contemplate no morality in the necessity of death to support her life. "Aldo Leopold, in his Sand County Almanac, mused about the necessity for ruffed grouse in the New England woods, how they were an essential part of the whole, and how, without a grouse, the essence would be lost. "Despite her impassively deadly mien, if there were no leopard on the mountain, this would not be Africa. It would be something else. Something shallower. Something less." A lthough we continued to hunt the big kudu, we never got him. It wasn't because I didn't have the chance. Theuns found him for me, crossing the road in heavy cover. The rut was on, and the huge bull was following a group of cows. He never noticed us as we jumped from the Cruiser. Instead of doing the intelligent thing and finding a rest, I hurried and took the shot offhand. The shot was long, but makeable. It looked good. Felt good. But it wasn't good. No hair, no blood, no excuses. I just blew it. Four days later I got another chance, at a very respectable 55-incher with beautiful, polished ivory tips. He saw us as we rounded a bend in the steep, rocky trail and quickly ducked back into the hookthorn. By the time we dismounted and sent the Cruiser on around the next bend, his curiosity got the best of him and he took a single step into the open. The end of this little story was almost anticlimactic, if any kudu kill can be called anticlimactic. It was pure instinct. Swing and squeeze. The bullet took him at the base of the neck, and he crashed to earth like a quail fairly centered in a cloud of eights. The thing is, it's not the kudu that I remember late at night when I go alone to the place in my mind where the real me lives. It's the leopard . . . the leopard that never leaves me. The leopard that I will remember forever. IF YOU WANT TO GO For more information call High Adventure Company at (800) 847-0834 or visit www. highadventurecompany.com past the rocky hills, over the plains, and on to the shimmering blue mountains on the far horizon. The morning air was cool in the open Cruiser as we followed a sandy track that parallels the ridge for a few miles and then climbs the plateau. Not hunting, mind you, just taking in the morning as it only happens in Africa. We'd only gone a couple of miles when something caught my eye on the steep slope. Up in the rocks, something just didn't fit. I had no idea what it was, but it nagged at me the way it sometimes does with old hunters. It was part visual, part instinctive. Perhaps part voodoo, but I knew something was there. When the hair on the back of my neck began to bristle, I couldn't stand it any more and motioned for the driver to stop. Out came the glasses, and we began searching the ridge, inch by inch. Then I noticed a peculiar lump on a long flat rock just down from the ridge-top. Soon the lump became the head of a leopard. Watching. Watching us. Once we knew where she lived, we began to look for her as we came and went from Rock Lodge. We found that she had cubs and regularly hunted the ridge. Once, when we were high along the crest, I saw her hunting below, ghosting among the rocks, sliding like morning fog through a mountain pass. At the time, I was sending regular dispatches to the Sporting Classics Daily web site, and I don't think I can describe the impression she made on me any better than when I wrote . . . "The leopard on the mountain is grocery shopping for herself and her two cubs. I know that, but it unnerves me because she watches us in our comings and goings as if we were on the menu." And more: "In the morning light, her rosettes shimmered as they caught the slanting sun and made her appear more of a mirage than a reality. And while it seems strange to use the words malevolent and dispassionate to describe the same eyes, both fit. They were matter-of-factly murderous, as if they Leopard Continued from page 159