Ffolkes,
Despite the heat, we stayed inside the camouflaged brush hut, peering out through the firing holes to observe the surrounding forest. A clearing opened to view, about 20 feet away to the east, at the edge of a thick copse of ironwood trees. Nothing moved, in the trees, or the clearing, though the cries and screeches of many birds and animals punctuated the air of the otherwise silent forest.

As I gazed out into the clearing, sweat rolled down my back and sides, but was insufficient to stifle my excitement. Soon, if we were lucky enough to have picked the right path to watch, I would have the honor and glory of bagging the very first trophy head, the very first time one of the world’s most elusive, vicious, and fearsome beasts would be brought down in their wild state. Nothing would keep me from bagging my very own…