When I started reading Horn of the Hunter, I balked. After the first 100 pages, it struck me as wordy and dry, and there were still 300 pages remaining. But I pushed through, and I’m glad I did.
Robert Ruark’s safari in the early 1950s was simultaneously unique and timeless, kind of like a classic piece of fiction. It was anachronistic in the sense that he was one of the last to venture into the eastern Africa region with such an open range mentality.
At first, I was skeptical of Ruark; I came across mentions of him in contemporary magazines that hark back to the good old days of African trophy hunts, but often do so in a hyper-masculinized way. Combined with my upbringing during a post-Ruark reorganization of the African continent, this post-colonial period corresponded to the preservation of big game animals. The Bambi-fication of big game in Africa was fully legitimized with The Lion King; a majority of my cohorts and I winced at the thought of “hunting Africa.”
Yet as I read Ruark, an unfurling of a hunter’s mentality appeared, like a mid-summer day lily that’s exploding by 2PM. Horn of the Hunter preserves the sentiments of modern hunters the world over. And though the colonial and exploitative conditions Ruark encountered and benefited from are gone, I now realize his appeal as an author.
One of my kick-in-the-pants motivations for reading Ruark was Richard Mann, whose Substack
features some of Mann’s recent trips to Africa. Mann is an excellent writer and hunter whom I admire, so after reading some of his trip reports, I remained intrigued and dove into the world of Ruark.British East Africa (today’s Kenya & Tanzania)
Ruark was a writer and fulfilled his desire to hunt Africa with a multi-month trip to British East Africa under the guidance of the famed Harry Selby. Early in the book, Ruark captures the essence of hunting much in the same manner a fire embodies heat:
The hunter’s horn sounds early for some, I thought, later for others. For some unfortunates, prisoned by city sidewalks and sentenced to a cement jungle more horrifying than anything to be found in Tanganyika, the horn of the hunter never winds at all. But deep in the guts of most men is buried the involuntary response to the hunter’s horn, a prickle of the nape hairs, an acceleration of the pulse, an atavistic memory of their fathers who killed first with stone, and then with club, and then with spear, and then with bow, and then with gun, and finally with formulae. How meek the man is of no importance; somewhere in the pigeon chest of the clerk is still the vestigial remnant of the hunter’s heart, somewhere in his nostrils the half-forgotten smell of blood. There is no man with such impoverishment of imagination that at some time he has not wondered how he would handle himself if a lion broke loose from a zoo and he were forced to face him without the protection of bars or handy, climbable trees. (p.23)
Once I read this, I knew Ruark’s hunting experience impacted him in a foundational manner, and this kept me reading. I also appreciated that although Ruark and I shared an understanding of “the hunt,” he was operating in a different time. Driving around the plains, sneaking out of the passenger side of the Land Rover, and then shooting a lion or looking for a shot at a rhinoceros, they followed all game laws, but the laws themselves were wild-Westy by today’s standards. And I wouldn’t consider shooting either of those species today. Nevertheless, lions are a prominent feature of Ruark’s world, and we learn about their ability to stalk, namely the female’s tendency to use wind direction to push prey in the direction of a lazy male upwind.
But the challenge, while it certainly is appreciated by Ruark, finds a broader meaning: “You get the lion or the lion gets you” (p.24); a truism of lion hunting that echoes for pretty much everything else on this planet, including our own demons.
Similar to Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, Ruark was lucky to visit a place on Earth that would soon after change irrevocably. And both authors’ presence hastened, and to a degree, cannibalized the places they wrote about by making them destinations for other trailblazers, not unlike a present-day Rick Steves, who, in touting the benefits of European travel, contributes to the demise of the places he promotes.
Ruark knew this:
“...in a very short time there will be little big stuff left to practice on. It is thought by most of the smart ones that the next three or four years will see the last of safari in the old sense, when a man went out to kill a lion, a leopard, an elephant, and the more elusive big antelopes with some feeling of certainty.” (p.78)
Today, it’s possible to hunt in Africa, though I haven’t researched what’s legal, ethical, or sustainable. I’m pretty sure rhinos and elephants are likely on the no-no list. Yet, as it is today amongst ethical hunters, nobility of the hunt was paramount, as Selby explained to Ruark:
“You are not shooting an elephant,” Selby told me. “You are shooting the symbol of his tusks. You are not shooting to kill. You are shooting to make immortal the thing you shoot. To kill just anything is a sin. To kill something that will be dead soon but is so fine as to give you pleasure for years is wonderful. Everything dies. You only hasten the process. When you shoot a lion, you are actually shooting its mane something that will make you proud. You are shooting for yourself, not shooting just to kill!” (p.90)
The passion and logic of a hunter is as varied as a snowflake, but the fundamental form remains: “You are shooting to make immortal the thing you shoot.” And in this sense, you honor it. Wanton killing and waste were as frowned upon then as they are today (poaching and waste of harvested animals continue anywhere game laws exist).
Ruark employed a crew to support him and his wife: guides, skinners, drivers, and an assembly of staff to do all the shit work; it was the fruits of colonialism realized in full force. If I could hunt Africa (sans colonialism) and not further the extinction of a delicate species, I would. And doing it Ruark-style sounds appealing, albeit drastically different from the DIY style of hunting I do. Ruark and his guide would spend a morning driving to look for game and return to camp for a lunch of gazelle chops and “warm martinis.” Honestly, this sounds like a splendid way to hunt; a pristine country with beautiful flora and fauna, abundant game to hunt, staff to process it, and a chef prepared lunch with gin-heavy cocktails. I suppose one could argue that this isn’t so different from road hunting New England logging roads while drinking Bud Light; this doesn’t appeal to me, but the way Ruark did it, does.
Whether we spend the morning chasing a frosty Vermont ridge runner or getting tipsy while glassing for kudu in Kenya, there’s a hunter’s tendency that leans toward obsession; Ruark encountered it with kudu; apparently, it was not uncommon to become obsessed by the pursuit of this specific species.
“The kudu is just under your hand, and yet he always manages to escape you. Sometimes he escapes you even if you kill him.” (p.351).
This passage was towards the end of Horn of Hunter, and I suspect Ruark put it there because it took him months to cognitively process what he chased. (Ruark did shoot a spectacular kudu, which he was happy with until he noticed it only had one curl in the horn, not two— an indication the animal was younger than he thought). He left Africa with his trophies, but continued to pursue something, likely an element of himself he may have never found. Sound familiar? That’s the beauty of a lot of Ruark’s writing: honest relatability, written beautifully.
There’s always that next thing, the monster buck or new toy, but like Ruark’s kudu or a crafty whitetail, without the realization that it’s the chase that is the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill will be fleeting like a hole that’s filled with dirt from a neighboring freshly excavated hole, that itself must be refilled. Some hunters are simply never satisfied. And this, ironically, is what drives them over the next ridge and onto the next season.
Keep Exploring the Hunt
I haven’t read any of Ruark’s Africa writing, but The Old Man and the Boy is phenomenal.
This is good incentive to add even more to the reading list!
If you haven't read “Green Hills of Africa” by Hemingway, you need to. You not only get to glimpse the way safaris were conducted, but the sheer volume of wildlife to be hunted. Also there is one edition that also contains his journal notes where you see the truth behind many of his short stories.