As the sun was coming up the next morning, we were hiking in a different part of the conservancy, up a mountain valley flanked by lush, forested hills covered in a tangle of wild olive trees and vines. We were looking for eland, the largest species of antelope in the world. The bulls can reach 2,200 pounds, outclassing even American bison in size.
We glassed the steep slopes and spotted a bachelor group of five bulls about a mile off and moved quickly on foot to catch up to the animals, which can cover a surprising amount of ground in a short time despite their size.
There were two good bulls in the group. One was a young stud with long, sleek horns, who was clearly in his prime, but the bull that caught my eye was an older male, his spiral horns worn smooth and tipped with ivory, and his coat a ghostly shade of gray.
We got within a quarter mile of the eland before they became aware of us. This started a game of stop-and-go: We would freeze when their eyes turned our way, moving a step or two once their heads dipped to feed. Tyson and I slowly closed the distance to the bulls by crawling, shredding our hands and knees on the thorns that littered the ground. We eventually made it to a spot that opened up enough to allow for a good shot about 250 yards away from the bulls, where I settled in the shade of a crooked tree. I leaned back against the trunk, set up on my shooting sticks, and waited.
The old bull finally limped clear of the trees where he was feeding, his sagging dewlap swaying as he stepped. I put the bullet just behind the bone in his front leg. That little 6.5 smashed through a rib, cut across the chest--tearing up both lungs and the heart--broke a rib on the offside, and came to rest in the meat of the off shoulder. The bull walked about 30 feet, fell, and rolled for nearly 100 yards down the steep mountainside--a one-ton avalanche smashing trees and dislodging rocks--before he came to rest.