More hunting adventure stories
Argentina dove hunting is the ultimate wingshooting experience.
By John M. Taylor
As the rising sun balanced on the horizon, they came in waves . . . in torrents; doves hurtling toward the millions of sunflowers looking for breakfast. Thumbing shells into the already hot Beretta semiauto, I soon gave up loading the magazine and shoved in only single rounds as frantically as one of Custer’s cavalrymen.
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Under Wyoming Skies
A hunt on the high plains with the person who jump-started my love of hunting.
Story and photos by Diana Rupp
I thought I’d had enough hunting experience not to come down with buck fever, but I was a wreck as we waited for the mule deer buck to emerge from the brushy draw. My mind raced through endless scenarios. What if the shot was too long? What if we didn’t get a chance at this buck at all? What if we didn’t see another one? I stared expectantly through my binoculars and tried to force myself to relax. After all, this wasn’t even going to be my shot.
“How do you feel, Dad?” I whispered.
“Fine,” he replied, without a trace of the concern I was feeling. “Look, there are three does moving into the top of the draw.”
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One last chance for a trophy Dall sheep on a lonely peak in Canada's Yukon.
by Diana Rupp
I had taken only a half-dozen cautious steps down the ravine when I realized it was a lot steeper than it looked. The loose rocks were the real problem; they rolled under my feet with each step. I also had to balance the new weight in my pack. The fresh, boned-out meat felt warm against the small of my back, and adrenaline still coursed through my bloodstream.
READ MOREA hunt in the unspoiled British Columbia wilderness.
by Ron Spomer
A moose wallow will fool you, first time. It looks something like a whitetail scrape, just a muddy patch stinking of urine, sometimes with a track in it, more often smoothed by rolling shoulders. We found plenty of them in wet meadows and willow sloughs on the mountain flanks above camp. That first afternoon the British Columbia sun beamed happily, if uncharacteristically, on October woods, the willows already naked, the dwarf birches barely clinging to their last rusty leaves, the sedges yellow. It was late fall at this latitude, but the temperature suggested summer. It wouldn’t last.
“Lots of sign. Let’s try a call,” Dustin whispered. The twenty-two-year-old carried himself like a seasoned wilderness guide, but he looked like he should be dating someone’s teenage daughter.
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An unforgettable safari in Tanzania's Rungwa region.
by Diana Rupp
Professional hunter Peter Barnard looked through his binocular with the intensity of a mariner spotting land after a months-long voyage. “Do you see him, Diana? Do you see the bull I’m talking about?”
“Can’t miss him,” I replied as calmly as I could. The Cape buffalo stood on the end of a long line of buffalo in an open area of long yellow grass, and it was like no buffalo I’d yet seen. Its horns swept far out beyond its ears, dipped down in sweeping curls, and curved back up again, ending in gleaming black points. Its bosses, though not large, were broad and solid all the way across. It was a mature bull, beyond a doubt.
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