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- Jan 28, 2003
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Some of you guys may have heard of me speaking of one of the major hunting influences in my life. In fact I'll call him a mentor.
Bob Ward was friend a mentor and a great hunter. He may well have been one of the most serious focused hunters who lived in our times. He was definitely in the top 100 of all of the men I can think of in the last century. He was a modern day version of a John Taylor or a Peter Capstick only he wasn't a famous writer though he was a published author and wrote numerous magazine articles for Safari magazine and others, he didn't have the financial wherewithal to continue his passion later in life not to mention his health started to leave him at a fairly early age. Bob was a serious drinker and a chain smoker most of his adult life.
By the time I'd met bob he had already accomplished a grand slam on sheep and was working on another. He'd taken most of what North America had to offer minus a Polar Bear, Musk Ox and Shiras Moose. He was in his early 40's.
Bob had been on multiple African hunts and was so stricken with Africa that he had moved to Rhodesia and was working on becoming a full time PH. He had meet and almost married a Rhodesian girl and rumor has it that he'd spent some time helping fight for his new found country. With the fall of Rhodesia went the the dreams of a hopeless romantic hunter living in a time that had left people like him without a place, history had passed him by. He returned home to start his gun store and outfitting business in Santa Fe NM.
This is where I meet Bob as a wide eyed impressionable youth. I would spend hours in his store staring with starry eyes at the various trophy heads from all over the world. I would ask about each and every animal on that wall wanting a full description of what it was, where it lived, and of course demanding as only a child can to know every detail down to the last bit of it including caliber range and bullet used on each and every mount on the wall. And believe me there were plenty of them. And unlike most sporting good stores the proprietor of this one had taken each and every one of those critters himself.
About the time I got my drivers license Bob got sick of me hanging around and put me to work as the store gofer/ salesmen/ janitor. Latter I was invited to go on hunting trips with Bob and his clients and was always allowed to help with the guiding and in many cases allowed to hunt if there was an extra tag to be had.
It was those formative years that I learned how to hunt. Bob was a tenacious hunter, tracker and outdoorsmen. I learned what it took to stick with it to the last day and the last hour and the last second of legal light. I learned that hard work is most often rewarded with a shot and there are many times when that shot comes at the last second of legal light on the last day. Never say never hard work equals strong returns. I learned woodcraft, field shooting and rifle care. I learned how to take care of a carcass, how to prepare a trophy, how to field judge, how to handle a difficult client, how to enjoy myself no matter the situation as long as it be outdoors and hunting related it was all good.
During those years I developed fond memories and a strong desire to one day hunt the largest most dangerous animals on the planet. Sitting around the camp fire with Bob regaling stories of the hunt. Charging lions, stalking to spitting distance of a sleeping bull elephant in the equatorial heat and thick jesse. How to place a side brain shot and kill an elephant in it's tracks, where to shoot a charging bull with a frontal brain shot. What it was like to follow up a wounded buffalo bull in thick cover with a nervous client at your side. His description of a leopard coming to bait or a lion roaring at sundown never failed to get my mind tumbling with excitement and a desire to experience these things for myself.
Often Bob would graphically illustrate a picture in my mind of what it must have been like to climb high into the Ak Range to stalk sheep or sneak around in thick alder after a coastal brownie. The last year I was in high school Bob went on his last Safari and tracked and killed without the aid of a PH a Bongo, a Forrest elephant, and a nice Forrest buffalo. His PH had come down Ill and while they were trying to locate another PH to complete the hunt Bob took a tracker with him and hunted on his own. Much to the surprise and consternation of the new PH when he showed up several days later!
He also shot on this hunt a big male hyena which he had made into a flat rug and is one of the trophies that I find irresistible to this day. Nothing says Africa to me like a warthog or a spotted hyena.
It was after this hunt that my life took me away from Bob. I went off to college, flight school and life in general. And I am sure with Bob's influences in my life I found myself becoming a bit of a hunting bum. After college I wound up in Alaska flying bush and hunting every chance I could. I have always dabbled in the hunting business being a guide and working odd outdoor hunting jobs from time to time. Not to mention being stricken by the hunting bug to this day and hunting every chance I get.
I would speak with Bob from time to time and it always seemed to me that his life had started a downward slide about the time I'd left New Mexico. He lost his gun shop then failed at business after business. Years later I found myself back in New Mexico and I also found Bob. By this time he'd become nearly completely destitute and was selling used refurbished furniture from a storage unit in Santa Fe.
I was able to repay Bob in some small way near the end of his life. He called me asking me if I could somehow arrange to take his youngest son up in an airplane as the boy's dream was to someday fly. I was able to do so and took young Robert up for several hours on a crisp autumn day several years ago.
Last year Bob called me and told me he wanted to give me something. I drove down to NM and met him at his new home. A 20 foot travel trailer behind a rundown barn where he was living on the charity of a drinking buddy and a $700 dollar a month social security check. He had lost everything but his thirst for hard liquor and cigarettes.
That morning he had that hollow bone weary look that only a serious last stage alcoholic or cancer patient can have. His eyes were sunken and he was bone thin and narled. He told me how his family had abandoned him and even his boys wouldn't speak to him anymore. Alcohol had finally won it's battle with Bob. We sat that day in the bright NM sun and we spoke of hunting, we spoke of old times of the adventures we'd shared and campfires and the weary miles in quest of some critter or another. I was able to speak first hand now of my numerous hunts on the dark continent and what it felt like to stand a charge and to track that buff as nervous client through the thick stuff. We spoke of Mopane smoke, tetse flys, great trackers and the joy of hearing lions roar at sundown.
Suddenly Bob gazed into the far horizon and tear came to his bloodshot bleary eyes. And in a soft voice said, do have any idea how badly I want to go up on that mesa and just keep walking? How I want to feel the cool steel of a rifle in my hands just once more, how I want to smell the scent of fresh elephant dung at sunrise just one more time. He wiped his tears on his sleeve and mumbled, I can't it's over for me. He reached around behind him and grasped his beloved .270 Weatherby in a bony painful clutch and handed it to me. Nothing needed to be said it was the end. When a hunter gives away his best and most beloved rifle it's all over we both knew it. I never saw or spoke to Bob again.
Bob Ward was a great hunter. In life Bob had a severe failing that being a love of hard liquor. In the end it was what killed him prematurely, broke and alone. But I'll say it again Bob Ward was great hunter. I'll never forget the lessons learned the times spent together and the foundations he laid for me.
Wherever you are Bob, good hunting ole boy you deserve it. May the wind be in your face and the sun at your back.
Bob Ward was friend a mentor and a great hunter. He may well have been one of the most serious focused hunters who lived in our times. He was definitely in the top 100 of all of the men I can think of in the last century. He was a modern day version of a John Taylor or a Peter Capstick only he wasn't a famous writer though he was a published author and wrote numerous magazine articles for Safari magazine and others, he didn't have the financial wherewithal to continue his passion later in life not to mention his health started to leave him at a fairly early age. Bob was a serious drinker and a chain smoker most of his adult life.
By the time I'd met bob he had already accomplished a grand slam on sheep and was working on another. He'd taken most of what North America had to offer minus a Polar Bear, Musk Ox and Shiras Moose. He was in his early 40's.
Bob had been on multiple African hunts and was so stricken with Africa that he had moved to Rhodesia and was working on becoming a full time PH. He had meet and almost married a Rhodesian girl and rumor has it that he'd spent some time helping fight for his new found country. With the fall of Rhodesia went the the dreams of a hopeless romantic hunter living in a time that had left people like him without a place, history had passed him by. He returned home to start his gun store and outfitting business in Santa Fe NM.
This is where I meet Bob as a wide eyed impressionable youth. I would spend hours in his store staring with starry eyes at the various trophy heads from all over the world. I would ask about each and every animal on that wall wanting a full description of what it was, where it lived, and of course demanding as only a child can to know every detail down to the last bit of it including caliber range and bullet used on each and every mount on the wall. And believe me there were plenty of them. And unlike most sporting good stores the proprietor of this one had taken each and every one of those critters himself.
About the time I got my drivers license Bob got sick of me hanging around and put me to work as the store gofer/ salesmen/ janitor. Latter I was invited to go on hunting trips with Bob and his clients and was always allowed to help with the guiding and in many cases allowed to hunt if there was an extra tag to be had.
It was those formative years that I learned how to hunt. Bob was a tenacious hunter, tracker and outdoorsmen. I learned what it took to stick with it to the last day and the last hour and the last second of legal light. I learned that hard work is most often rewarded with a shot and there are many times when that shot comes at the last second of legal light on the last day. Never say never hard work equals strong returns. I learned woodcraft, field shooting and rifle care. I learned how to take care of a carcass, how to prepare a trophy, how to field judge, how to handle a difficult client, how to enjoy myself no matter the situation as long as it be outdoors and hunting related it was all good.
During those years I developed fond memories and a strong desire to one day hunt the largest most dangerous animals on the planet. Sitting around the camp fire with Bob regaling stories of the hunt. Charging lions, stalking to spitting distance of a sleeping bull elephant in the equatorial heat and thick jesse. How to place a side brain shot and kill an elephant in it's tracks, where to shoot a charging bull with a frontal brain shot. What it was like to follow up a wounded buffalo bull in thick cover with a nervous client at your side. His description of a leopard coming to bait or a lion roaring at sundown never failed to get my mind tumbling with excitement and a desire to experience these things for myself.
Often Bob would graphically illustrate a picture in my mind of what it must have been like to climb high into the Ak Range to stalk sheep or sneak around in thick alder after a coastal brownie. The last year I was in high school Bob went on his last Safari and tracked and killed without the aid of a PH a Bongo, a Forrest elephant, and a nice Forrest buffalo. His PH had come down Ill and while they were trying to locate another PH to complete the hunt Bob took a tracker with him and hunted on his own. Much to the surprise and consternation of the new PH when he showed up several days later!
He also shot on this hunt a big male hyena which he had made into a flat rug and is one of the trophies that I find irresistible to this day. Nothing says Africa to me like a warthog or a spotted hyena.
It was after this hunt that my life took me away from Bob. I went off to college, flight school and life in general. And I am sure with Bob's influences in my life I found myself becoming a bit of a hunting bum. After college I wound up in Alaska flying bush and hunting every chance I could. I have always dabbled in the hunting business being a guide and working odd outdoor hunting jobs from time to time. Not to mention being stricken by the hunting bug to this day and hunting every chance I get.
I would speak with Bob from time to time and it always seemed to me that his life had started a downward slide about the time I'd left New Mexico. He lost his gun shop then failed at business after business. Years later I found myself back in New Mexico and I also found Bob. By this time he'd become nearly completely destitute and was selling used refurbished furniture from a storage unit in Santa Fe.
I was able to repay Bob in some small way near the end of his life. He called me asking me if I could somehow arrange to take his youngest son up in an airplane as the boy's dream was to someday fly. I was able to do so and took young Robert up for several hours on a crisp autumn day several years ago.
Last year Bob called me and told me he wanted to give me something. I drove down to NM and met him at his new home. A 20 foot travel trailer behind a rundown barn where he was living on the charity of a drinking buddy and a $700 dollar a month social security check. He had lost everything but his thirst for hard liquor and cigarettes.
That morning he had that hollow bone weary look that only a serious last stage alcoholic or cancer patient can have. His eyes were sunken and he was bone thin and narled. He told me how his family had abandoned him and even his boys wouldn't speak to him anymore. Alcohol had finally won it's battle with Bob. We sat that day in the bright NM sun and we spoke of hunting, we spoke of old times of the adventures we'd shared and campfires and the weary miles in quest of some critter or another. I was able to speak first hand now of my numerous hunts on the dark continent and what it felt like to stand a charge and to track that buff as nervous client through the thick stuff. We spoke of Mopane smoke, tetse flys, great trackers and the joy of hearing lions roar at sundown.
Suddenly Bob gazed into the far horizon and tear came to his bloodshot bleary eyes. And in a soft voice said, do have any idea how badly I want to go up on that mesa and just keep walking? How I want to feel the cool steel of a rifle in my hands just once more, how I want to smell the scent of fresh elephant dung at sunrise just one more time. He wiped his tears on his sleeve and mumbled, I can't it's over for me. He reached around behind him and grasped his beloved .270 Weatherby in a bony painful clutch and handed it to me. Nothing needed to be said it was the end. When a hunter gives away his best and most beloved rifle it's all over we both knew it. I never saw or spoke to Bob again.
Bob Ward was a great hunter. In life Bob had a severe failing that being a love of hard liquor. In the end it was what killed him prematurely, broke and alone. But I'll say it again Bob Ward was great hunter. I'll never forget the lessons learned the times spent together and the foundations he laid for me.
Wherever you are Bob, good hunting ole boy you deserve it. May the wind be in your face and the sun at your back.
