It’s a paradox that defines the modern-day safari industry in Texas, where wealthy hunters pay tens of thousands of dollars to shoot exotic species behind high fences.īut as the potential for profit has grown, so has the industry’s role as a conservation tool. Still, I have a better chance of seeing a scimitar oryx here than in the wilds of Africa, where the species is now extinct. “We’re talking about a mostly white 450-pound antelope, and one could be standing right over there, not 20 feet into the brush.” “It’s crazy how well these animals can hide when they want to,” Wallace says from behind the wheel. With the sun overhead, they’re just hiding in the thick stuff along with most of the other transplants. I won’t spot a scimitar-horned oryx or a dama gazelle until this evening, but Wallace assures me they’re around. Turning uphill and out of the grasslands, I peer into the brush on either side of the road. Hunting on high-fence ranches in Texas usually involves a rig like this one. Wallace drives the Jeep with two clients in search of game. A lone kudu bull peeks over the pond, but by the time I spot his horns, he spooks. Herds of wildebeest run in the open, galloping like wild horses. The springbok, impala, and other antelope we see are bedded under mesquite trees and small oaks. Wallace, who owns Alpha Outfitters and runs the operation here, tells me the ranch is home to roughly a thousand animals. Located 50 miles north of the Mexican border, the 3,600-acre, high-fenced property holds 45 species of exotic wildlife. The trio hops back in the Jeep, and away we go, driving along the dusty senderos of Salt Creek Ranch. To her right, her dad, Mike Bowen, whispers to shoot when she’s ready. Setting 9-year-old Landon up on the shooting sticks, Jason Wallace crouches over her left shoulder. The buck stands broadside, maybe 130 yards away, as the Jeep rolls to a stop.
“Broken horn, three o’clock,” I say quietly as four sets of binoculars turn to the right. We’ve been looking for a broken-horned blackbuck for about an hour when I see one in a clearing with a group of Thomson’s gazelles. IT’S A MUGGY SPRING DAY, and I’m riding on a bench mounted over the bed of an old Jeep-a typical rig in this part of the world.
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