North Cove Outfitters: Connecticut’s Leading Resource for The Shooting Sports

Another Adventure With My Old Friend

It was O’dark thirty as I sat on the cot; mosquito netting pushed back, and pulled on my boots. Standing, I reached over and picked up the sweet tea that Caravan had left for me. I downed the dregs and reached for the Filson Travel Vest hanging from the center pole of the canvas tent. I lay the cover cloth vest on top of the sheets and did an inventory. The top left zip pocket held six .416 Rigby rounds in a leather case, to keep them from rattling, and four loose rounds; two that would be plunked into the tubes of the old side by and two to be held between the fingers of my left hand, when the time came. The eleven inside pockets held my passport, wallet, compass, whistle, maps, small first aid kit, journal, pen, matches, small camera and sunscreen. I picked up my Camelbak water bottle that the tracker had filled for me, and stuffed it into the left outside bellows pocket. The remainder of the twenty pockets of my old friend would be left empty, waiting for items picked up as we tracked the old dugga boys.
I snickered to myself as I recalled putting the live scorpion in the left zipper pocket while in South Africa last year and the look on Caravans face as I pulled it out and handed it to him at the fire that evening.
I slid the vest on and zipped it up. As an afterthought I cinched up the waist cord to keep the ticks at bay and popped up the padded collar. While walking through the dark camp on my way to the kitchen tent I thought of all of the places that vest had been with me; Africa, Canada, Mexico, Oregon, Washington, Wyoming and Colorado, Belize, Cat Island the Everglades and places that I now couldn’t recall. It had carried everything from camera equipment to, well, scorpions, and although the green color was faded it was still in one piece. It had always been there when I needed it and I was constantly amazed at what I could shove into the pockets. It would be there today when we caught up to M’Bogo.
The sun was high as I knelt in the hot sand behind the termite mound and reached into the pocket of my sweat soaked travel vest. I pulled out the two loose cartridges and slid them between the damp knuckles of my left hand and put the ivory bead on the muddy black shoulder of the Cape buffalo bull. The time had come.