My true outdoor stories out of Africa....

[W.Lynn]

Some 'primitive' on the spot running repairs on a finger cut out there with a piece of 'white gold' [toilet paper] and camo duct tape carried on my custom ferro rod....like with ALL your tools/kit--think multi-purpose ! ��

[ATTACH=CONFIG]8480[/ATTACH]

I see that you practice what some here call "ditch medicine" - the simple decision to do what you can, with what you have.

[Observe]

As a fan of the smaller fixed blade and collector of a couple--the hype around the Mora Eldris in 'survival/bushcraft' media caught my attention. After getting hold of one and using it during a recent camp/hunt,my opinion is that I am NOT impressed with its too short 2' blade at all.......
In my humble opinion a low profile, quality 3 " lockblade folder will be a better "survival" knife in any situation that I will be in, than this 2" shorty, though in an emergency it will probably [have to] do... ,
As always knives are horses for courses and it may fit the bill for you.! [IMG][IMG]
(Just wish it had a 3" blade !)

[redman2006]

Mora makes cheap knives to throw in a pack and forget, but I am with you. Generally speaking, a folder will be better than that. I do have a few of the light my fire versions in bags for the vehicles and such.

Part of the pleasure in using a knife for me is the solid feel of a well made knife. Mora just does not have it. There are several very expensive knives I handled that were the same way. Falkniven is one.

That combined with the scandi grind, they just are not my cup of tea.

[Observe]

[Observe]

You don’t need strength to be a hero.

One of the most unusual hunting stories that I have ever heard involved a lion, an old man and a little boy.

I think it took place in Angola. This was during the time when a lot of Afrikaner pioneers chose to rather live in a Portuguese colony than under the British flag in their own home country.

In those days, the legendary ivory hunters were the undisputed princes of the land. They were the social giants of their time. Among them was a man named Frans Robbertse, or “Franie” as he was popularly known.

The old man had a little boy, who was the son of his brother, and whom he was raising as his own. His name was also Frans. The old man was deeply affectionate towards the child, and the boy, in turn, was exceedingly devoted to him.

When the boy was still so little that he could hardly handle a rifle, the old man had bought him a flintlock rifle. The gun was of a small calibre, which was thought to be adequate in order that the boy might learn to shoot early in life. This was commonly done in the pioneering days, when boys had to learn to be men from as young as possible.

One day a lion began bothering Franie Robbertse’s company. It was accordingly decided that he, along with the rest of his men, would set out to dispose of the marauding beast. Trailing behind the safari in order to join in the excitement and hopefully see the lion was the little boy with his flintlock rifle. He was now about 9 years old.

After they had followed the spoor for a goodly while, the men finally caught up with the lion. Unfortunately, things went wrong right from the beginning. Old Franie was the first to take a shot, but his shot was badly placed and only wounded the lion.

Enraged, the lion charged at him with dust and sand flying. Unfortunately, the charge was too quick for old Franie to get a second shot, and before he knew it, the furious beast struck him down from behind like a freight train.

Hooking his claws into the old man’s arms and the calves of his legs, the lion pinned him face down to the ground. Spread-eagled beneath the heavy beast, the old man was completely helpless.

In the meantime the other hunters had been so startled by the unexpected ferocity of the attack that they had all taken to their heels and vanished into the bush.

The only person left by the old man was the little boy who stood riveted to one spot, with the small gun shaking in his hands.

Ignoring the boy completely, the lion now took his time to lower his mouth and start stripping the flesh from the writhing old man’s back. He ripped his backstrap muscles out for as far down as he could reach between his front paws. And then he bit the corners of the old man’s shoulder blades off and spat out the splintered remnants of both his scapulae.

During all this time, the little boy was weeping desperately and crying, “oh my daddy! Oh my daddy!”

Yet, still the lion ignored him.

Seeing that no help would come and that the lion would kill his beloved old father-figure before his eyes, the petrified little boy had no option but to master all his courage. Shivering with fear, he shuffled closer to the savage animal, lifted his tiny gun and held it to the lion’s ear. And then he pressed the trigger.

The flint struck steel, the sparks ignited the powder in the pan, and the powder burnt through into the barrel where the charge exploded. The bullet was a tiny one, but it went straight through the lion’s brain and killed him instantly, so that he collapsed upon the mangled old man.

When the other hunters returned, they discovered much to their astonishment that the old man was still alive, although in an exceedingly bad condition. They picked up the torn up shreds of the old man’s back and the bones that the lion had spat out, and carried the wounded hunter back to camp in agony.

They waited for him to die, but men were tough in those days. The old man surprised everyone by slowly coming back to life and recovering from his dreadful wounds.

Old Franie Robbertse lived to very ripe old age, even though after his lion encounter he was left crippled and bent for life. But he must have always thanked the little boy who loved him so much that he overcame every instinct to save himself.

When he died, many years later, a tin was placed upon his coffin to be buried with him. Inside was about a pound of his own flesh – the remains of his own back that the lion had torn out very long ago.

I sometimes think about this story when times are hard and when flight or inaction seems to be the safest choice. And then I think of little Fanie Robbertse, and remember that you can be old and weak, or young and feeble – but still have every capacity to be a hero.

Life’s moments of true heroism do not always involve lions and savage animals. Sometimes it merely means standing up for a friend against a bully at school. You might be a housewife or a resident at a nursing facility, or a trustee on the committee of a homeowner’s committee who risks ridicule by speaking up to defeat injustice against another.

Sometimes it means being the only person in a board meeting that stands up to do the right thing, even at the threat of dire consequences. You may be a politician that insists on following a course that is moral, even when your career might be at stake. Or you might be a soldier who refuses to obey an inhumane order, even though it could lead to being court-martialled.

Running from responsibility is so easy that anyone can do it. But fighting dragons is another matter. Being a hero is never easy. Yet even so, being a hero does not mean that you have to be strong or powerful.

In fact, being a hero mostly involves mastery of fear when you are in a weak position. It can happen in a thousand different ways. If a little boy of 9 years old could be a hero, then so could anyone.

And if we do not find it within ourselves to master our fear, perhaps it is because the greatest power in the universe is not within us – and that is the power of love.

If you have love, you can be a hero - you can be stronger than a lion - even if you are just a little boy.

(The story has, as far as I know, never been told in English so that the world can share it. This is how it was told to J. Von Molkte by Willem Martins Opperman, popularly known as “Willie Meester”, who was born in 1866, and who was a contemporary of the old Boer hunters of that era. Veldsmanne, 2005, p. 69-71.)

[Observe]

My first warthog with a spear
This spear is an original specimen given to me as a gift by a grateful Bushmen tracker in the Kalahari-Ghansi district in Botswana where, after a real nail biting leopard follow-up, I've shot and killed the leopard mere mille-seconds before it could jump on the tracker. [Now that is another story,,,]
After seeing the pictures of my uncle hunting with his big cold steel boar spear, and not to be outdone, I've thus decided to also try my hand at hunting a warthog with my own spear.
I've took refuge in an old feeding trough [krip] where the warthogs frequently came to drink water.
Some good ones came in, but they were just too far away for an accurate throw.
After a considerable time, just when I contemplated to leave, three young warthogs came in and start drinking about 10 m from where I sat concealed in waiting!
My heart started racing and I could not believe my luck!

On the spot I decided to take this opportunity, and after some planning and concentration of how to quickly stand up and my arm movement at the same time, I burst into action and let fly at the nearest warthog.
The spear hit the warthog broadside on but a little high, just above the heart, and it frantically rushed away into the bush. After the adrenalin rush and when I’ve calmed down some, I went to retrieved my spear.
I next put my two excited hunting dog/trackers on its spoor. Though small in size, these Jack Russell / Daschund crossbreeds more than make up for size with their brave attitude and superb hunting instinct. Like lightning they were off on the spoor and before long after about 50 m in the bush, they were in a huge fight with this by now very aggressive wounded young warthog boar many, many times their own size and weight!
[Boy, how I wish I could show you all what real bravery is all about.....]
I waited for the right moment in the melee and dust, and then let fly with my spear again.
When the spear blade hit the warthog behind the ear, it dropped like a stone.
Actually I've aimed for just behind the shoulder, sure that at such a short distance there is no way that I could miss such a big target! [lol]
Well, it’s definitely not one of my biggest warthogs that I’ve hunted so far, but surely one of my most exciting warthog hunts up to date!
Now, this young warthog is going to make a very tasty meal roasted over the campfire!
Just look at that proud small dog with the heart of a lion!
Well done, young Nimrod!

[airdrop]

great adventure , thanks for the story

[roach2654]

Great to have a hunting partner!

[Observe]

An unusual hunting story

You don’t need strength to be a hero.

One of the most unusual true hunting stories that I have ever heard of in my part of the world ,involved a lion, an old man and a little boy.
I think it took place in Angola.
This was during the time when a lot of the Afrikaner pioneers chose to rather live in a Portuguese colony than under the despised British flag of the day in their own home country.

In those days, the legendary ivory hunters were the undisputed princes of the land.
They were the social giants of their time.
Among them was a man named Frans Robbertse, or “Franie” as he was popularly known.

The old man had a little boy, who was the son of his brother, and whom he was raising as his own. His name was also Frans. The old man was deeply affectionate towards the child, and the boy, in turn, was exceedingly devoted to him.
When the boy was still so little that he could hardly handle a rifle, the old man had bought him a flintlock rifle. The gun was of a small calibre, which was thought to be adequate in order that the boy might learn to shoot early in life.
This was commonly done in the old pioneering days, when boys had to learn to be men from as young as possible.

One day a lion began bothering Franie Robbertse’s company. It was accordingly decided that he, along with the rest of his men, would set out to dispose of the marauding beast. Trailing behind the safari in order to join in the excitement and hopefully see the lion was the little boy with his flintlock rifle. He was now about 9 years old.
After they had followed the spoor for a goodly while, the men finally caught up with the lion. Unfortunately, things went wrong right from the beginning.
Old Franie was the first to take a shot, but his shot was badly placed and only wounded the lion.

Enraged, the lion charged at him with dust and sand flying. Unfortunately, the charge was too quick for old Franie to get a second shot, and before he knew it, the furious beast struck him down from behind like a freight train.
Hooking his claws into the old man’s arms and the calves of his legs, the lion pinned him face down to the ground. Spread-eagled beneath the heavy beast, the old man was completely helpless.
In the meantime the other hunters had been so startled by the unexpected ferocity of the attack that they had all taken to their heels and vanished into the bush.

The only person left by the old man was the little boy who stood riveted to one spot, with the small gun shaking in his hands.

Ignoring the boy completely, the lion now took his time to lower his mouth and start stripping the flesh from the writhing old man’s back. He ripped his backstrap muscles out for as far down as he could reach between his front paws. And then he bit the corners of the old man’s shoulder blades off and spat out the splintered remnants of both his scapulae.
During all this time, the little boy was weeping desperately and crying, “oh my daddy! Oh my daddy!”
Yet, still the lion ignored him.

Seeing that no help would come and that the lion would kill his beloved old father-figure before his eyes, the petrified little boy had no option but to master all his courage. Shivering with fear, he shuffled closer to the savage animal, lifted his tiny gun and held it to the lion’s ear. And then he pressed the trigger.
The flint struck steel, the sparks ignited the powder in the pan, and the powder burnt through into the barrel where the charge exploded. The bullet was a tiny one, but it went straight through the lion’s brain and killed him instantly, so that he collapsed upon the mangled old man.

When the other hunters returned, they discovered much to their astonishment that the old man was still alive, although in an exceedingly bad condition. They picked up the torn up shreds of the old man’s back and the bones that the lion had spat out, and carried the wounded hunter back to camp in agony.
They waited for him to die, but men were tough in those days. The old man surprised everyone by slowly coming back to life and recovering from his dreadful wounds.

Old Franie Robbertse lived to very ripe old age, even though after his lion encounter he was left crippled and bent for life. But he must have always thanked the little boy who loved him so much that he overcame every instinct to save himself.
When he died, many years later, a tin was placed upon his coffin to be buried with him. Inside was about a pound of his own flesh – the remains of his own back that the lion had torn out very long ago.

I sometimes think about this story when times are hard and when flight or inaction seems to be the safest choice. And then I think of little Fanie Robbertse, and remember that you can be old and weak, or young and feeble – but still have every capacity to be a hero.

Life’s moments of true heroism do not always involve lions and savage animals. Sometimes it merely means standing up for a friend against a bully at school. You might be a housewife or a resident at a nursing facility, or a trustee on the committee of a homeowner’s committee who risks ridicule by speaking up to defeat injustice against another.
Sometimes it means being the only person in a board meeting that stands up to do the right thing, even at the threat of dire consequences. You may be a politician that insists on following a course that is moral, even when your career might be at stake. Or you might be a soldier who refuses to obey an inhumane order, even though it could lead to being court-martialled.

Running from responsibility is so easy that anyone can do it. But fighting dragons is another matter. Being a hero is never easy. Yet even so, being a hero does not mean that you have to be strong or powerful.
In fact, being a hero mostly involves mastery of fear when you are in a weak position. It can happen in a thousand different ways. If a little boy of 9 years old could be a hero, then so could anyone.

And if we do not find it within ourselves to master our fear, perhaps it is because the greatest power in the universe is not within us – and that is the power of love.

If you have love, you can be a hero - you can be stronger than a lion - even if you are just a little boy.

(The story has, as far as I know, never been told in English so that the world can share it.]

This is how it was told to J. Von Molkte by Willem Martins Opperman, popularly known as “Willie Meester”, who was born in 1866, and who was a contemporary of the old Boer hunters of that era. Veldsmanne, 2005, p. 69-71.)

[Mods-- this story somehow got deleted on my pc , and I submit it again---hope you'all enjoyed it!]

[kickstand]

I love reading the stories that you post. Thanks!

[Observe]

Bird observations while short range ambush hunting

Just some reflections on a hunt.....




If you do still- or ambush hunting with hunting tools other than a powerful and long-range rifle, it is imperative that you are able to keep still for long periods of time. I hunt mainly warthogs with my primitive bow custom made by a friend in the know, and as always I have my trusty .357 magnum on my person as a back-up just for ‘in case’. Well, I don’t ‘need’ to hunt this way, but after many years of rifle hunting, this type of ‘back to basics’ hunts with my short range primitive bow just appeal more and more to me these last 10 years or so.



For this hunt, I had an isolated seasonal watering hole with some patches of mud at its banks deep in the thorn-bushveld of Limpopo at my disposal to hunt some warthogs. As it was late in the dry winter season, the water had receded some distance from the normal surrounding tree and grass line.



I wanted to attempt another warthog hunt with my primitive Gemsbok horn bow that weekend, but it transpired when I reached the spot that the situation on the ground was not ideal for short range primitive bow hunting, what with the fairly large[about 15-20 m] bare ground surrounding the water’s edge before any decent cover for me.
Nevertheless, I decided to still give it a try. After ‘reading’ the terrain, and left with limited options, I’ve chosen a particular spot as close to the water’s edge as possible, and settled in with my bow near an active game trail for the patient ‘waiting-game’.
Twice during the day, warthogs came in to drink, but only on the far side of the water, leaving me with a racing heart but no opportunity at all.
Near sundown, I left my make-shift blind empty-handed and walked back to our camp in the bush.
I must confess that I also sometimes, after yet another ‘unsuccessful’ hunting day , start to ponder if there were not maybe a bit of truth in my good hunting companions good-natured teasing around the campfires .He always tease that my way was yet another bit of wasted about 8-hours of prime rifle- hunting time…



As I sat there hypnotized by the campfire, with the coffee water starting to boil in the ‘seroot’ that night, I thought back on something that had happened during the day while I sat there quietly and camouflaged. observing the hustle and bustle of nature around me. I had noticed and experienced a small drama in nature that I would never have noticed if I were just passing through, however skillfully or carefully, on a walk-and stalk hunt.
The memorable event that came to mind and that had kept me occupied for about an hour and a half to nearly two hours, were the behavior and antics of a flock of guinea fowl.



Their subtle ‘chic-chic’ sounds were not fully registrating in my mind at first, until I suddenly took notice of it after a while. As I idly sat there, listening to their faint sounds off to my right, I realized that they wanted to come in to drink some water. I am convinced that these spotted birds have exceptional eyesight, and can not only recognize color, but shape as well! They have busted me a couple of times in the past when I sat so perfectly still and camouflaged that not even a herd of impala were aware of me; however these guinea fowl spotted me whitin of a very short time when they came in to the water.

I decided to observe them from my hiding place and see how long it would take them to spot me this time. I realized that my primitive bow hunt on a warthog was now finally and totally out of the question while this flock of guinea fowl is still in the surroundings.
First they just ‘chic-chic’ chat with each other just out of sight in the grass for nearly 15-20 minutes. Then suddenly about 6 younger ‘Askri’s’ ran out of the grass to the water’s edge where they proceeded to noisily mock chase each other and scratch on the ground.



I deduct that these were the young ‘braves’ that must draw out any predator while the main flock of about 50-70 birds suddenly became dead quiet in the grass observing the fate of the ‘cannon fodder’. They ran up and down the water’s edge where the flock wanted to drink, and two of them came quite close to where I was sitting on the ground. They were still youngsters by their body size and were taking this mock chasing game so seriously that they did not even notice me. Typical over exuberant teenagers that still have a lot to learn! After about another 15 minutes or so of this ‘horseplay’, the main flock came out of the grass. Small groups went to the water to quench their thirst while the majority proceeded to scratch in the dirt and just have a good chat.



It was during this time that a big old warthog boar suddenly came out of the grass on the far side of the water, fell to his knees in the mud and had a long drink.

Wily old rascal, I thought by myself! It was wonderful to observe these close-knit and interlinking seemingly unrelated events in the daily life or death survival symbioses in nature.
As I put another log on the fire, I thought that, although I again didn’t even have a chance with my short range bow at a warthog that day, the experience of observing these largely unnoticed, daily events in the bush, more than made up for it.



It was with a song in my heart that I went to sleep when most of the ‘hardekool’ logs were nearly burned to ashes.
Tomorrow is another day and I have an appointment with that big and sly old warthog boar…
Over breakfast the next morning we discussed our hunting strategy for the day, and it was decided that my hunting companion would continue his hunt for Kudu or Impala with his trusted special 280 mm. I only have warthogs on my mind, and having thought about the practical ‘tactical’ situation at the watering hole, I came to the conclusion that it was totally unsuitable and impractical to try and hunt a warthog with my short range bow on this spot. I had not even brought my rifle on this hunt. That left me with my only other option -my .357 magnum with hand loaded, flat nosed 158 gr semi wad cutters, with new opportunities and a bit of a different hunting tactic.
Having wished each other good luck, we set off in opposite directions for the remainder of the day. I decide that as I now have a little bit more of a ‘reach’ with my handgun, I will conceal myself a different way on the opposite side of the waterhole. I would now be at the same side of the water where the warthogs came in the previous day.
This time, I laid down flat on my stomach at the edge of the grass next to a small thorn bush shrub. I used my camouflage net to cover me. The idea was to show as little as possible silhouette, while having a decent arch of sight in front of me and this small see -through thorn bush covering my right side. The wind direction was luckily not a factor at my chosen ambush spot. I settled in for the long waiting game with my revolver resting on an old brown army net scarf in front of me, thus protecting it from the dirt on the ground and even any possible sun glare.
I observed many small birds drinking water and even a pair of ‘Sand Patryse’ Sand- grouse. The doves still amaze me as they seem to see a thread everywhere and would just suddenly fly off for no apparent reason.



At around 11;30, I suddenly saw a ‘Kwe-voel’, a Southern African Grey Go-away-bird (Corythaixoides concolor), flying up and sat down in a tree very near to me. Now this could be good or bad news, I thought to myself. Good news in the sense that it usually indicates that some animal is approaching the waterhole from my blind spot, but also maybe bad news in that any movement of mine will immediately be spotted by this weary bird up in the tree, and then it will give its alarm call to warn off any animal to avoid the water.



As I lied there quietly observing this Go-Away-Bird very near to me, I could distinctly hear it giving a soft single deep ‘kwe’-call that he/she repeated every now and again. This was a strange and new sound to me, and I paid closer attention. After about 5 minutes of this soft calling, suddenly a group of about 5 other Go-Away-Birds flew up and joined the first one in the tree. They then proceeded to ‘chat’ with each other in a third low ‘korrr-korrr’ noise while jumping from branch to branch. I have never heard them making these two social noises, as all I have ever heard from them was the familiar sharp and loud ‘kwe-kwe’ that regular hunters know so well.
After some time they just up and left for another tree quite a distance away. Suddenly, I heard the cattle wire that surrounded the watering hole vibrating behind me with a ‘twang’, and I just knew--, this was ‘my’ warthog that I had waited two days for! Carefully I gripped my revolver’s handle and waited in anticipation for it to suddenly appear from behind somewhere to the left or right in the corner of my eye.
This big boar probably felt that all was safe since the Go-Away-Birds had not set off the alarm, or maybe he just didn’t even notice them. Anyway, he came straight to the water’s edge on my right, where he stood for a moment testing the air with an upraised head before kneeling down and proceeding to noisily drink some water about 18 to 20 m away from me.
The angle was not ideal for a shot and I waited for him to finish and turn broadside to me. Meanwhile, I noticed the thick blunt pointed tusks near the water, and knew that he was an old guy, probably past his prime. This guy has given his genes to a lot of strong and healthy offspring.
He finished and stood up from his knees while presenting me with the ideal opportunity. At the shot, he just keeled over while his hind legs gave a couple of kicks, and then he laid still. I warily stood up with a surprisingly lot of aching and creaking joints [I wonder why…lol] and walked the short distance over to where he laid.



In the distance, a Go-Away-Bird gave the familiar loud and sharp ‘kwe-kwe’ alarm call and I marveled at the new knowledge I had gained that day about the three different sounds these birds made [Probably more?]. I have never before heard a single Go-Away-Bird very close to me making all three these sounds out in the wild.
It just again confirmed it to me that this ‘new’ short range hunting road that I had ventured on was a much more rewarding type of hunting, as it’s all about the experience of the hunt and not so much about the kill.

Back at the rustic camp my hunting companion had also shot his Impala. As we sat around our small campfire that night swapping stories and philosophizing how to solve all the world’s problems, I couldn’t help but to wonder how detached we had become to nature in our modern electronic world, and how many other unseen, unknown and ‘insignificant’ to us little life and death dramas are being played out in the bush near me right at that very moment?

[kickstand]

Observe, I'm curious. Are there species-specific hunting seasons there? Do you need to purchase hunting licenses?
Here in southern New Mexico, game animals are fairly scarce, although we do have some pretty good dove hunting. Pretty much any & all of the bigger games animals ( deer, elk, bear, cougar, pronghorn antelope, Barbary sheep, bighorn sheep, javelina, oryx and ibex) require a hunting license, and their hunting season is very restricted. *Note: To my knowledge , the only species within 100 miles of me is javalina, oryx and ibex.* Many/ most of the big game animal hunting licenses are on a "lottery-draw" system, which requires the hunter to pay application fees up front, and his/her name is put into a drawing, with only a certain number of applicants being drawn to actually be able to purchase a license. Theoretically , the money raised by these license and other fees is used for game management & conservation, though sometimes I wonder .
Is there any of this type of bureaucratic regulations there?

Edit: Dove and quail require a license too, and their hunting season is very limited.

[Observe]

Yes we have a very good , different and workable hunting system here.
Wild animals are on private land and privately owned.
The owner of the land take care of the different species according to the type of habitat [grass/leaves etc] and the number of animals a certain area can 'carry'
For example--if 20 Impala and 6 kudu are all the ranch can sustain,then the excess due to breeding are sold to hunters privately to hunt the next season
.
Sustainable hunting ensure the survival of species.
When bambis get emotionally involved in something they don't practically understand, then we get the destruction of species--see what is going on in the environment in Botswana when they ban Elephant hunting![Same thing are happening with rhinos]
The elephant numbers got out of control as the excess due to breeding were not controlled.
Elephants now destroy the entire ecosystem in order to get food[pushing over trees and trampling grass etc,]
Now numerous other smaller species that lived and were dependant on that tree is dying out[birds,reptiles,insects etc]--the eco system is not in balance anymore.
If an area can sustain for example 80 elephants together with the other biodiversity of animals,but due to mismanagement there are now 300 elephants after 3-5 years, the smaller animals and plants die and the land becomes a desert.

Our system ensure private ownership of the land and animals on it.
Studies are made each year on each ranch to see how many newborn per species there were each season[depending on a 'good' rainy season or a 'dry' season with less offspring]

The landowner then manage the hunting quota per species for the next season by then letting paying hunters hunt say 5 impala and 2 kudu for the next season to ensure the balance.
The money is then going back in maintaining the ranch and animals etc.

Bigger areas have more animals and different species.

Hunters must register as hunters and do monthly compulsory shooting under supervision on a shooting range to ensure the rifle is sighted in and the shooter is competent to not wound an animal during the hunting season.

On the ranch, you pay per shot at your species-let's say you pay for hunting a kudu[it will be more expensive than an impala]
Whether you kill,wound or miss the shot,you pay for it!
This deter cowboys from unethical shooting or taking chances on a not clear shot .
It is a win-win situation for the animals and the owner of the animals

Only excess animals are taken off and an area are not shot 'dry'

That is why there are now more animals per species than 100 years before.
The wildlife industry and animals are just going from strength to strength as it is well regulated from the hunter, to the animal owner to the animal to the support staff etc

You hunt only on land with excess animal species that season,and according what you can afford.
Lots of hidden costs [work creation] as well--lodge bed and breakfast,cooks,laundry,booking,vet,trackers,skinn ers.butchery,hunting clothes, gun shops etc,etc.

The meat that you are not using can be sold at the local butchery, or the local ranch owner buy it back for his labourers at an agreed upon price per kg, --that can imply a lesser price you pay for your animal or your stay on the property etc..

[Observe]

From my experience,and in my humble opinion..
For the normal beginner or novice starting out in bushcraft/ camping/survival tasks or activities, you can begin with something like this cheap and versatile Mora knife.
[This model shown has a ferro rod in the handle]
Later on when your skills picked up and you understand the pros and cons of your blade, you can move up to a more expensive/bigger blade and shape if need be that will suit your particular needs and venue.
There is NO magical one knife does it all perfectly [luckily!]
In the final instance it depends on your intended use-
A military or tactical knife on the other hand is NOT a good bushcraft knife as it was build with a different purpose in mind, though it can be USED as one in a pitch,but that is a different topic....
I differ from those that advise novices/beginners to purchase a tactical or big knife for mainly normal bushcraft/camping chores.

[Observe]

MEALY PAP! [PORRIDGE/MEAL] IN A CAST IRON POT OVER THE CAMPFIRE....
Now this is a hungry man's meal out in the bush with tons of energy and 'staying power' in my part of the world!
'For some of our overseas followers who may not know what Grits are, they are called Sadza , Posho, Mealie-Meal among other things in Africa. Simply, they are finely ground white corn meal. In the southern part of the USA they are usually a breakfast side dish seasoned with salt, pepper, and butter. In the Northern US, there is the blasphemous act of putting sugar on them...an abomination to say the least! Almost forgot another true delight...cheese grits! It was always what accompanied fried fish at dinner time when I was a boy-' R.RUARK