Huntress Diana
I'm sure I speak for all hunters when I say that we all have those moments in life when we wonder what the hell we're actually doing. Maybe it's at three a.m. when you're yanking on your boots and trying to tie laces while still half asleep. Maybe it's when you're waiting for the kettle to boil so you can have your sanityrestoring cup of very black, very strong, coffee. Or, if you're like me, it might be in the middle of a mopane and duiker berry forest so thick you can barely see your tracker beside you, the sun straight overhead, beating down a glorious forty degrees of summer.
And then I remember exactly why I'm doing this. Somewhere, in the wilderness surrounding me, is a leopard that was eating at least five calves a week, and my entire purpose was to hunt it.
The cattle boy who found the latest killed calf was plowing through the brush with stony-faced skill while I trudged after him with my tracker Prosper, coughing and spluttering up mouthfuls of leaves and doing my best not to be a complete baby about the massive golden orb-web spiders hanging from every branch. I do not care what anyone says, just because you like being outside doesn't mean you have to be spider
