After my PH Eric Sorour and skinner Alfred had successfully helped me “stage” my zebra for a few shots it was time to head back to camp. With night falling and an hour long drive ahead of us it was a good idea to get loaded and get back ASAP (because even if Africa, that beer don’t drink itself). Yet once again, the zebra failed to cooperate. This time it wasn’t the weight; it was the girth.
It was the perfect shot, right where the stripes converge in a triangle pattern atop the forward haunch.
The Remington .375 H & H Mag. pierced the skin and mushroomed through both lungs, causing the old zebra stallion to swirl forth in an explosion of dust and kicked up earth. Bucking from shock and the pain the old patriarch disappeared in his created storm only to reappear some twenty five yards away in a tangle of thick scrub where upon he finally succumbed and lay down. But while congratulations from my PH Eric Sorour and skinner Alfred whirled about me all I could think was, “Stupid horse fell in the worst possible place for a photo.”