If you haven't hunted leopard before, you have no idea of the feeling of relief that washes over you when you execute a good shot.

Jamy Traut had said, "4:20," the time he expected the leopard to come onto the bait. I didn't believe him for a moment. Maybe that's what he thought, but he had never before encountered the "Boddington Leopard Luck."--or lack thereof. However, it's bad for morale when the general tells his troops they're going to lose the battle, so I went along with the gag. "Five o'clock," I said. I didn't believe that either, but that was my number.

Four-twenty came and went, and as the sun dropped low its rays came under overhanging limbs and bathed the bait branch. On several of the thousands of times I glanced through the scope I saw the red, white and black of the German flag bird, the carmine breasted shrike, picking at the now-untidy zebra quarter the leopard had hoisted up onto the thick limb. Over the years I had watched perhaps a hundred such baits. Few leopards had made appearances, and none in good enough light to see a small bird. Since I didn't really expect to see a leopard, there was no tension and no excitement, just the sheer boredom of interminable minutes passing one by one.

I checked my watch more frequently than my scope, willing this one more fruitless vigil to end. Except willing it doesn't make it go more quickly. I was checking my watch frequently enough to know that, within a few seconds of five o'clock, I saw something. Grass and weeds grew thick between blind and tree, so while I had a clear view of the low bait branch, I could see nothing at ground level. But I saw something wave above the grass. Or did I? My gut told me I had just seen the tail of a leopard at the base of the tree. My mind was still trying to process the information when the leopard appeared on the branch.

He didn't so much jump or climb; he flowed up the tree and into the sunlight, standing like the photograph I wish I'd taken. The camouflaged tent that served as our blind had a western-facing vent, and that same sunlight was streaming in. It was undoubtedly bathing our faces, because the leopard wasn't looking at the zebra that was now his--he was looking straight at us.

Suddenly the afternoon wasn't boring at all. The previous hour had taken several eternities to pass, but these few seconds were passing too quickly--even though what I wanted most was to get this over with. At the cat's appearance, a leaden cloak descended on my shoulders, and unseen hands closed around my throat. What I wanted to do was lean forward and take the shot--now! This is what I could not do, because this is the moment when the biggest mistakes are made; either the wrong shot or the wrong cat.

Everybody makes bad shots once in a while, and every professional hunter who pursues leopards will miscall a cat once in a while. If we decided to take the shot, I'd do my best--but if either of the big mistakes were made it couldn't be because I'd lost it and jumped the gun. So I had to sit still and take it, feeling the overpressure crushing the life out of me while icy fingers of panic clawed deep in my chest.