By Safari Pike | June 22, 2026
“Think like a cat.”
Ryan, our professional hunter, returned to those words throughout the safari. I arrived in Zimbabwe knowing that a leopard would test my patience. What I did not know was how often I would hear his advice in my head, or how much would happen before I finally saw a big tom through my scope.
My pursuit of the Big Five had brought me to the Kariba wilderness, with leopard at the top of my list. The thought of hunting such an elusive animal had occupied my mind long before we reached camp. I expected long days of baiting and waiting. I was ready for a challenge. Zimbabwe gave us one almost immediately.
Our first task was to secure bait, and a hippo was available on quota. We hoped one bull would provide enough meat for six to eight bait sites. For the first two days, though, every promising stalk seemed to end the same way: the bull slipped into deeper water before an ethical shot presented itself. The heat wore on us, and so did the feeling that he always knew we were coming.
On the third day, an old bull we had nicknamed Fuzzy Ear was bobbing near shore in the sun. We could not afford to spend many more days chasing bait. After a half hour stalk, we were within 30 yards, with my father carrying his .416.
His first shot struck the bull’s head, but it did not kill him. The hippo submerged, resurfaced, then disappeared again. When he came up the next time, he was only about 10 yards from where we stood.
Then he charged.
He splashed through the shallows and drove up the swampy embankment toward us. Two follow up shots to the brain stopped him, and he fell in the shallow muck. He was an impressive old bull with beautiful ivory, and the encounter had given us an abrupt reminder of how quickly a dangerous game hunt can change. Once the skinning and quartering were finished, we loaded the cruiser and turned our attention to leopard.
The days that followed settled into a demanding routine. We drove dusty roads in the heat, looking for suitable trees and hanging baits. On the first day, we managed two sites roughly 15 miles apart. One overlooked a sandy bed about a mile from camp. The other hung in a massive sausage tree above a dry riverbed.
Over the next three days, we worked until we had seven baits out. Occasionally, plains game bounded across the road and broke the monotony. Otherwise, there were hours in the cruiser, more dust, and another tree to check.
Only one leopard, a young male at the bait nearest camp, was feeding. By the eighth day, the lack of activity was beginning to puzzle even Ryan. We understood that the area had not been hunted in nearly 18 years, which made the quiet bait sites all the more surprising. Still, we kept working. We were looking for a mature tom, ideally six or seven years old, and patience was as much a part of the hunt as anything we carried.
On the ninth day, the cameras finally gave us something to study: two mature toms, each at a different bait.
The sausage tree cat wore his years plainly. A torn ear, a broken tail, and a collection of scars hinted at the life he had survived. He was a beautiful old leopard. The second tom had appeared at a bait we had hung quickly, simply to get more meat out. We judged him about a year younger, but he was heavier in the body, with torn ears and more swagger than spots.
We chose the sausage tree cat. Age mattered most to us; size came second.
That afternoon, we prepared the blind and settled in about two and a half hours before dusk. Every rustle held our attention. A gust of wind moved the leaves, a baboon or antelope cracked a stick, and we strained to see whether a leopard had arrived.
After roughly two hours, with the light fading, Ryan spoke.
“He knows we’re here.”
I trusted his judgment. Throughout the safari, I had watched him study the baits and camera images, always trying to anticipate what a cat would do next. His advice to think like a cat came from years of experience, and I had every confidence in him.
Back at camp, we reconsidered our plan. We suspected the older tom would now be especially alert to our scent and movement around the bait. With time running short, we decided to focus on the second leopard.
The following day, we returned to his bait to check the camera and assess the site. As we walked around the gully beneath the overhanging tree, something moved in thick brush about 15 yards away. A flock of guineafowl burst into the air.
The trackers murmured among themselves. Ryan believed we had disturbed the leopard. The camera showed that he had been at the bait only minutes before our arrival. Knowing he had been so close sharpened everyone’s attention and settled our decision. This was the cat we would sit for.
Most of his recorded visits had been outside daylight hours. Our concession permitted daylight hunting only, so we would need him to arrive while there was still enough light. With just a few days remaining, there was little room for missed opportunities.
At noon the next day, we built a blind overlooking the bait, about 50 yards from the tree. We ate lunch at the site and planned our entry. Once we were settled, the trackers would make some noise around the truck and drive away. We hoped the leopard would hear them leave and believe the site was empty.
As the cruiser disappeared, the waiting began.
The barrel of my .308 and Ryan’s binoculars extended through the front of the blind. Our attention stayed fixed on the bait tree. With every passing minute, I became more aware of what this moment meant to me.
What if I made a poor shot? What if he never stood broadside? What if he never came at all?
It was the third to last day of the hunt. The possibility of going home without a leopard had become very real, and I could feel those thoughts crowding out everything else.
Then a hand rested on my shoulder.
“He’s here.”
I looked through my scope. There, on the bait, was the most beautiful leopard I had ever seen.
He lay feeding, unaware of us. My hands began to shake. I drew back from the scope and took several deep breaths, trying to settle myself. I had spent days hoping for this moment, and now my dream species was only 50 yards away.
Every so often, he glanced toward the blind. Watching him, I caught myself smiling. Beneath the nerves was a feeling of gratitude that I could hardly put into words. How lucky was I to be here, with this opportunity in front of me?
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty. Still he lay on the bait. I remembered Ryan’s instructions: wait until he stood straight, settle behind the shoulder, and find a rosette to aim at.
Finally, he rose.
I settled into the rifle, found my rosette, and squeezed the trigger. At the shot, he sprang from the tree, tried to land, and fell to the ground.
“Good shot,” Ryan said.
The tears came before I could stop them. After all the heat, the empty bait checks, and the uncertainty, I had taken my first leopard.
We waited 15 minutes before approaching. My adrenaline had barely eased. He lay about 10 yards from where he had been hit, and seeing him up close was something I will never forget. The spots I had watched through my scope were now beneath my hand. I stroked his face and quietly thanked him for his sacrifice.
Then I turned to the people who had brought me to that moment. I hugged the trackers and shook their hands. Their work had been part of every mile, every bait, and every decision that led us here.
I had come to Zimbabwe in pursuit of a leopard. Walking up to him, I felt the weight of everything that pursuit had required, and how much of it I owed to others. Ryan, the trackers, the skinners, the camp staff, and the landowners had all helped make this hunt possible.
When I remember my first leopard, I will remember Ryan’s hand on my shoulder and the sight of that cat in the tree. I'll remember the people standing beside me when it was over, and how grateful I was to share that moment with them.
