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Peter Hathaway Capstick - Death in a Lonely Land: More Hunting, Fishing, and Shooting on Five Continents

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Peter Hathaway Capstick Death in a Lonely Land: More Hunting, Fishing, and Shooting on Five Continents
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Death in a Lonely Land: More Hunting, Fishing, and Shooting on Five Continents: summary, description and annotation

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From the author of Last Horizons, Peter Hathaway Capstick now presents Death in a Lonely Land, a second volume of his hunting, fishing, and shooting adventures on five continentsstories collected from such magazines as Outdoor Life, NRAs American Hunter, Guns & Ammo, and Petersens Hunting.
The stockbroker-turned-outdoorsman recalls his days as an African pro hunter in The Killer Baboons of Vlackfontein. Four Fangs in a Treetop records a foray into British Honduras for the jaguar, a gold-dappled teardrop of motion. Capstick narrowly escapes the Yellow Beard, Central Americas deadly tree-climbing snake, and cows The Black Death (Cape buffalo) in the kind of article that makes this author the guru of American hunting fans (New York Newsday). On Brazils forsaken Marajo Island, he bags the pugnacious red buffalo, which has the temperament of a constipated Sumo wrestler and the tenacity of an IRS man.
The author discusses 12- and 20-gauge shotgun loads; recalls the pleasures of biltong (African beef jerky); describes the irresistible homemade lures of snook fishing expert John Gorbatch; and kills a genteel take of Atlantic salmon with the brilliantly simple tube fly.
Featuring more than thirty gorgeous drawings by famous wildlife artist Dino Paravano, Death in a Lonely Landis another collectors item by a writer who keeps the tradition of great safari adventure alive in each of his books (African Expedition Gazette).

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Table of Contents Death in the Long Grass Death in the Silent Places - photo 1
Table of Contents

Death in the Long Grass
Death in the Silent Places
Death in the Dark Continent
Safari: The Last Adventure
Peter Capsticks Africa: A Return to the Long Grass
The Last Ivory Hunter: The Saga of Wally Johnson Maneaters
Last Horizons: Hunting, Fishing, and Shooting on Five Continents
GUNS & AMMOMARCH 1980
The Crosman Model 760XL.
AUTHORS INTRODUCTION It is my personal belief that if a man forsakes the - photo 2

AUTHORS INTRODUCTION
It is my personal belief that if a man forsakes the great days and toys that brought him a wonderful childhood, he would be foolish to start taking himself seriously and forget those same things that brought him the joy of youth as he grows a bit longer in the fangs. Of course, we have to contend with the Bible, which suggests that a man must do away with childish things, but I really dont think BB guns were part of the message. The joy of shooting and teaching the shooting arts must be eternal. After all, who taught David to use his sling?
Ill not bother to give the source of the idea that the only difference between men and boys is the cost of their toys. But if you show me a man who takes himself seriously, you will usually find that hes missing a great deal of his own heritage.
So many times now, I have said that shooting is a state of mind, whether with a $50,000 Holland & Holland Royal grade double rifle or the Daisy or the Crosman. To sneer and be above such juvenile pleasures comes right off the limit of your moral credit card. What, after all, is the shooting life all about? I believe it is to have fun. So, go on. Take a couple of shots. Ill bet you remember things gladly that were long forgotten .

I t was just the other day, a bright, clear Southwest Florida morning replete with dueling mockingbirds, soft, rising sea breezes and loafing, poison-green chameleons in the hybiscus when my wife wearily asked me what I wanted to be whenand ifI grew up. Possibly the fact that I had just spilled half a pack of BBs with improved cylinder distribution over the kitchen vinyl had something to do with her query, but then you never really know about womens motives.
She gave me one of those sideways looks (probably searching for an artery near the surface) and held the dustpan, all the while observing that she has three children: her son, daughter, and me. I wasnt really listening, struck by the curious fact that neither Daisy Super Accurate Precision Ground Bullseye BBs nor Crosman Perfectly Round Micrometer Tested Super BBs tend to make the apparently simple transition between broom and dustpan edge without slickly rolling at right angles to pour back under the dishwasher. The other dishwasher, that is. I am applying the empirical processes to this phenomenon, possibly a matter of sectional density or, conceivably, an aberrant ballistic coefficient. Then, it could be that my broom handle needs one-quarter inch more drop at the heel or that the dustpan has a poor wood-to-metal fit and should be glass-bedded.
Despite being six foot eight and having a sense of humor like Irving R. Levine, my wife is really a good woman at heart. She never beats me where it shows in public, sees to my nourishment with astounding zeal, and has seen to it that I am never guilty of Ring Around the Collar. Yet she is a woman and, by genetic selection and sexual definition, suspicious as a low-water brown trout anytime she catches me edging out the back door with a BB gun, muttering and woe-is-me-ing under my breath that I am not really going out to have a crashing good time playing Rover Boys but am, in fact, a serious firearms journalist on a bona fide research project. I flash my press card at her and stand firm. At least reasonably firm. I am working. Employed. Assaying the dizzy heights of semi-solvency.I dont wander around all morning plinking at things and shooting up the new phone book for penetration tests because I like it. God forbid! Its dirty, dangerous work. I would infinitely prefer cleaning out the garage or playing human fly washing the upstairs windows for the party next Friday. But, A Man Sees What Must Be Done and Does It. Like all gun writers, I have a very deep-seated sense of professional responsibility. I am also completely bananas over BB guns of any description, the affliction being known, dependent upon your choice of clinical nomenclature, as either the Red Ryder Syndrome or Crosmans Disease.
Like most of you Faithful, my first frontal assault on the world of shooting was with a Daisy. If Id gotten a nickel an hour for the time spent stalking mastodons and king cobras down by the frog pond and wandering the nomadic, after-school woods aglow with the sense of satisfaction that only the dry rattle of a full BB reservoir can bring, Id likely now be living off a stable of municipal bonds on my private Greek island.
There have been a lot of vodka martinis over my inlays since that first lever-action Daisy, yet I can still remember every nick in its authentic hardwood stock, including the magnificent hand work I did engraving my initials in bas-relief with a Christmas-new X-acto woodcarving knife kit. When I was finished, halfway through the crossbar on the H, they were able to wire up the tendon of my left thumb quite neatly, although it played hell for years with my flipper reflex on the pinball machines. That rifle, after spitting what must have been a half-ton of BBs, somehow got laid aside and is undoubtedly resting, fossil-like, somewhere in the primeval plasto-metallic sludge spawned by the debris of the culture of Montville, New Jersey. Helluva shame. If you can find it, Ill trade you even for a new Holland & Holland Royal.
When I was nine, I graduated to the Daisy pump gun, a real magnum after the old lever action. But I never liked it that much because all the trajectories and Kentucky windage wired into my circuits were negated by its greater power. It was also trickier to load and didnt have the vast magazine capacity of the lever gun. I went back to the saddle gun with its loop of gen-u-wine rawhide knotted about the ring on the side of thereceiver, the purpose of which accoutrement I never did fathom, except that Red Ryder and Little Beaver both thought highly of it. Later, about the time I was paroled from reform school for conspiring to overthrow the School Board by force, I got one of the fancy hammer versions, the Buffalo Bill Scout. Zowie! I still shoot it in fits of beloved melancholy.
Actually, the use of a BB gun on a regular basis is one of the best possible ways to keep sharp the hand-eye coordination necessary when hunting with either a rifle or a shotgun. Just as snow skiing transfers to water skiing, so does the BB gun transfer many talents to firearms use. Want to teach your son or daughter the elements of lead for wing shooting? Have them spend a few hours popping away at dragonflies or firing at chips of wood in a fast-flowing stream. Even the U.S. Army has found the little guns a valuable training aid for the instinctual act of combat firing, teaching recruits to hit thrown lead washers and smaller items in the air with BB guns that have had the front and rear sights removed.
BB guns have come a long way, baby, since the early push-pull, click-click models of my wasted youth, let alone since their introduction by Daisy back in the 1880s. Recently, I got stuck into the subject again after combing through the sleek new offerings in the rear sections of the Guns & Ammo Annual, and decided to pick an example of the newer developments in the field for evaluation. Completely disregarding the ultra-sophisticated grouping of match and high-performance pellet guns, I settled almost arbitrarily on a new air gun by Crosman, the multi-stroke Model 760XL. Oops! I do beg your collective pardon, Messrs. Crosman; I meant the Model 760XL Deluxe Powermaster with Deluxe Styling! and even Deluxe Features, no less.
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