bordering the M'Kunga or some other riverbed and there would invariably be waterbuck, impala, or a warthog sow scurrying along with quick little steps and tail carried erect, her piglets stutter-stepping in trail. Then again we would occasionally surprise a family of these warthogs, a female with young, when topping a hill deep in the thickest Chewore bush. It was neither common nor unusual. But we saw a big, old heavy-tusked boar hog like that which I desired as a trophy but once.
mopani branches, rendering him invisible when motionless and me not knowing exactly where to look to begin with. I knew if there had been even a little communication—warthog sixty-five meters out, John, standing in that thick brush just to the left of the fallen tree—a hint of coordination, I would have had a good chance to get off a reasonable shot. As it was, that would be the last, the only shootable warthog boar we saw on the entire safari.
stacked, protruding growth rings formed sequentially along their length giving way to smooth, shining dark horn a few inches from the tips. The animal's hair was long and dense and rough and mottled gray, unlike the short, fine tan coats of the bushbuck, duiker, and impala. This bull's bulk, color, and coarse texture of his hide added to his rugged appearance. He was beautiful.