Poachers Quotes

People disappoint you so often. I hardly knew how to react when they surpassed all your hopes.

the thing i found offensive, the thing i hated about mohican-mountain-makers, gill-netters, poachers, whalehunters, strip-miners, herbicide-spewers, dam-erectors, nuclear-reactor-builders or anyone who lusted after flesh, meat, mineral, tree, pelt and dollar - including, first and foremost, myself - was the smug ingratitude, the attitude that assumed the world and its creatures owed us everything we could catch, shoot, tear out, alter, plunder, devour...and we owed the world nothing in return.

I liked the idea of bouncy, open-air Jeeps and I liked the outfits with all the pockets, only I didn't really want to live in Africa and be shot by poachers/get malaria/get stabbed to death.

Adult gorillas will fight to the death defending their families. This is why poachers who may be seeking only one infant for the zoo trade must often kill all the adults in the family to capture the baby.

Let us get of these indoor narrow modern days, whose twelve hours somehow have become shortened, into the sunlight and the pure wind. A something that the ancients thought divine can be found and felt there still.

Trans women are juvenile elephants. We are much stronger and more powerful than we understand. We are fifteen thousand pounds of muscle and bone forged from rage and trauma, armed with ivory spears and faces unique in nature, living in grasslands where any of the ubiquitous humans may or may not be a poacher. With our strength, we can destroy each other with ease. But we are a lost generation. We have no elders, no stable groups, no one to teach us to countenance pain. No matriarchs to tell the young girls to knock it off or show off their own long lives lived happily and well.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'Tis no sport for peasants.

Read it out loud, dear,” Grace ordered, as Angela opened the card tied to the yellow-ribboned box. To the bride-to-be in the kitchen stuck, An asparagus cooker and lots of luck. from Cookie Barfspringer “Thank you,” Angela said, wondering which one was the Barfspringer. The next gift was an egg poacher. The box in pink ribbons contained another asparagus cooker. “I sure hope Doctor Deere likes asparagus,” someone remarked.

Nature will forgive humankind just about anything, and what it won’t forgive I hope never to witness.

Outlaws or poachers, makes no matter. Dead men make poor company.

The poacher lives in the forest, the smuggler lives in the mountains or on the sea. The cities make ferocious men because they make corrupt men. The mountain, the sea, the forest, make savage men; they develop the fierce side, but often without destroying the humane side.

The poacher works in the woods, and the smuggler in the mountains or on the sea. The towns make men ferocious because it makes them corrupt. Mountains, sea, and forest make men reckless. They stir the wildness of men's nature, but do not necessarily destroy what is human

When poachers target the matriarchs or older females—as they often do, because older elephants usually have larger tusks—they also destroy that lifetime of learning and knowledge. For an elephant family, the death of a matriarch must feel like losing an encyclopedia, or an entire library—and for us, the loss makes stopping the poaching even more urgent, if only to protect the experienced matriarchs, who keep their families out of harm’s way.

Loving people are becoming extinct due to these poachers of humanity.

Any piddling poacher can lie in wait for a stag and shoot it unawares; the true sportsman brings it to bay.

It is not your fault. You’ve protected us from the slavers and poachers thus far, and we cannot blame you for that. No one faults the walls when a town is sieged, you know.

Puritans, like poachers, shoot to kill your inner bonobo

the poachers must have camps of their own. They appear to be stationed around the island in perfect intervals. It tells me they’re organized. Methodical.

am looking for signs of life, although I know I won’t find them. I’m not sure how the poachers took this herd down. They use guns and spears, sometimes arrows poisoned with acokanthera. I’ve

It was inevitable that the poacher and the counterfeiter would bond, sharing as they did a blanket contempt for government, taxes, homosexuals, immigrants, minorities, gun laws, assertive women and honest work.

When Gabriel was about Ivo's age," the duchess remarked almost dreamily, staring out at the plum-colored sky, "he found a pair of orphaned fox cubs in the woods, at a country manor we'd leased in Hampshire. Has he told you about that?" Pandora shook her head, her eyes wide. A reminiscent smile curved the duchess's full lips. "It was a pair of females, with big ears, and eyes like shiny black buttons. They made chirping sounds, like small birds. Their mother had been killed in a poacher's trap, so Gabriel wrapped the poor th-things in his coat and brought them home. They were too young to survive on their own. Naturally, he begged to be allowed to keep them. His father agreed to let him raise them under the gamekeeper's supervision, until they were old enough to return the f-forest. Gabriel spent weeks spoon-feeding them with a mixture of meat paste and milk. Later on, he taught them to stalk and catch prey in an outside pen." "How?" Pandora asked, fascinated. The older woman glanced at her with an unexpectedly mischievous grin. "He dragged dead mice through their pen on a string." "That's horrid," Pandora exclaimed, laughing. "It was," the duchess agreed with a chuckle. "Gabriel pretended not to mind, of course, but it was qu-quite disgusting. Still, the cubs had to learn." The duchess paused before continuing more thoughtfully. "I think for Gabriel, the most difficult part of raising them was having to keep his distance, no matter how he loved them. No p-petting or cuddling, or even giving them names. They couldn't lose their fear of humans, or they wouldn't survive. As the gamekeeper told him, he might as well murder them if he made them tame. It tortured Gabriel, he wanted to hold them so badly." "Poor boy." "Yes. But when Gabriel finally let them go, they scampered away and were able to live freely and hunt for themselves. It was a good lesson for him to learn." "What was the lesson?" Pandora asked soberly. "Not to love something he knew he would lose?" The duchess shook her head, her gaze warm and encouraging. "No, Pandora. He learned how to love them without changing them. To let them be what they were meant to be.

792. Thief.-- N. thief, robber, homo trium literarum, pilferer, rifler, filcher, plagiarist. spoiler, depredator, pillager, marauder; harpy, shark, land-shark, falcon, moss-trooper, bushranger, Bedouin, brigand, freebooter, bandit, thug, dacoit, pirate, corsair, viking, Paul Jones; buccan-eer, -ier; piqu-, pick-eerer; rover, ranger, privateer, filibuster; rapparee, wrecker, picaroon; smuggler, poacher, plunderer, racketeer. highwayman, Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, Macheath, knight of the road, foodpad, sturdy beggar; abductor, kidnapper. cut-, pick-purse; pick-pocket, light-fingered gentry; sharper; card-, skittle-sharper; crook; thimble-rigger; rook, Greek, blackleg, leg, welsher, defaulter; Autolycus, Cacus, Barabbas, Jeremy Diddler, Robert Macaire, artful dodger, trickster; swell mob, chevalier d'industrie; shop-lifter. swindler, peculator; forger, coiner, counterfeiter, shoful; fence, receiver of stolen goods, duffer; smasher. burglar, housebreaker; cracks-, mags-man; Bill Sikes, Jack Sheppard, Jonathan Wild, Raffles, cat burglar. [Roget's Thesaurus, 1941 Revision]

In his dark story collection Poachers, Tom Franklin, who once worked in a grit factory, offers the sad and sorry lives of people stuck in the back-waters of the Alabama River, who tend to subsist on a steady diet of moon-shine and stale crackers.

But I found signs of their trespass: a burned patch planted with a fistful of grain, a tree felled or stripped of fruit, a deer strung up in a snare. I never saw a poacher. They were too cunning, and for cause: the foresters would take a man's hands and eyes and leave him to the mercy of the wolves for such an offense. It was bad enough to steal the king's game, but snares were an abomnination. The gods abhor weapons that leave the hand, coward' weapons such as javelins, bows and arrows, slings. No man or beast should die by such means.

She did love Stan, but it was different. A different kind of love. Trusting, sedate. It went with pet fish, in fishbowls – not that they had one of those – and with cats, perhaps. And with eggs for breakfast, poached, snuggled inside their individual poachers. And with babies. Once

Gaia giveth even as she taketh away. The warming of the global climate over the past century had melted permafrost and glaciers, shifted rainfall patterns, altered animal migratory routes, disrupted agriculture, drowned cities, and similarly necessitated a thousand thousand adjustments, recalibrations and hasty retreats. But humanity's unintentional experiment with the biosphere had also brought some benefits. Now we could grow oysters in New England. Six hundred years ago, oysters flourished as far north as the Hudson. Native Americans had accumulated vast middens of shells on the shores of what would become Manhattan. Then, prior to the industrial age, there was a small climate shift, and oysters vanished from those waters. Now, however, the tasty bivalves were back, their range extending almost to Maine. The commercial beds of the Cape Cod Archipelago produced shellfish as good as any from the heyday of Chesapeake Bay. Several large wikis maintained, regulated and harvested these beds, constituting a large share of the local economy. But as anyone might have predicted, wherever a natural resource existed, sprawling and hard of defense, poachers would be found.

He buys Playboy magazines and looks through them once, then gives them to me. That’s what it’s like to be rich. Here’s what it’s like to be poor. Your wife leaves you because you can’t find a job because there aren’t any jobs to find. You empty the jar of pennies on the mantel to buy cigarettes. You hate to answer the phone; it can’t possibly be good news. When your friends invite you out, you don’t go. After a while, they stop inviting. You owe them money, and sometimes they ask for it. You tell them you’ll see what you can scrape up. Which is this: nothing.

Tramping, begging, thieving, working sometimes when I could - though that warn't as often as you may think, till you put the question whether you would ha' been over-ready to give me work yourselves - a bit of a poacher, a bit of a labourer, a bit of a waggoner, a bit of a haymaker, a bit of a hawker, a bit of most things that don't pay and lead to trouble, I got to be a man.

I knew a free black there who had a room, and he took her in. She said when the Guard stopped searching for her, she’d go back to the Grimkés and throw herself on their mercy.” He’d been pacing, but now he sat down next to me and finished up the truth quick as he could. “One night she went out to the privy in Radcliff Alley and there was a white man there, a slave poacher named Robert Martin. He was waiting for her.

Because neither corn nor wheat grew well in the Adirondacks, the favored crop was potatoes ("Our food was mostly fish and potatoes then for a change we would have potatoes and fish," recalled one early inhabitant), occasionally supplemented by peas, rye, buckwheat, or oats.

The attitude of the Bodrugans to his idea of letting a poacher off with a warning was, he knew, the attitude all society would adopt, though they might dress it in politer phrases. Even Cornish society, which looked with such tolerance on the smuggler. The smuggler was a clever fellow who knew how to cheat the government of its revenues and bring them brandy at half price. The poacher not only trespassed literally upon someone’s land, he trespassed metaphorically upon all the inalienable rights of personal property. He was an outlaw and a felon. Hanging was barely good enough.

Often, when an elephant has just died, other elephants will back up to touch its carcass gently with their hind feet, then cover the body with dirt and sticks, and stand guard. (Intriguingly, elephants have done the same to the bodies of people that they either find dead or have killed. One young orphaned elephant in a South African sanctuary shrieked and moaned when it discovered the buried remains of its daily companion, a rhinoceros, that poachers had killed for its horn.) Chimpanzees, gorillas, some corvids, and dolphins also spend time with their dead, but overall, most species do not.*

One of Palau’s biggest draws for tourist divers is its shark population. When I asked for Remengesau’s reaction to the hundreds of shark fins found in the hold of the Shin Jyi, he immediately launched into an explanation of the economic impact of killing sharks. Alive, an individual shark is worth over $170,000 annually in tourism dollars, or nearly $2 million over its lifetime, he said. Dead, each sells for $100, and usually that money goes to a foreign poacher. Even if his numbers seemed a bit overstated, there was no doubting the financial consequences of killing the sharks. More than a dozen countries, including Palau and Taiwan, had banned shark finning. But demand for the fins, especially in Asia, remained high. Served at Chinese weddings and other official banquets, shark-fin soup, which can sell for over $100 per bowl, has for centuries signified wealth.

Archer was wild. “Will she be all right?” “Most certainly,” the healer said curtly, “if you will get out of my way and let me stop the flow of blood. My lord.” Archer let out a ragged breath and kissed Fire’s forehead. He untangled himself from her body and crouched on his heels, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he turned to peer at the poacher held by his guards, and Fire thought warningly, Archer, for she knew that with his anxieties unsoothed, Archer was transitioning now to fury. “A nice man who must nonetheless be seized,” he hissed at the poacher, standing. “I can see that the arrow in her arm came from your quiver. Who are you and who sent you?” The poacher barely noticed Archer. He stared down at Fire, boggle-eyed. “She’s beautiful again,” he said. “I’m a dead man.” “He won’t kill you,” Fire told him soothingly. “He doesn’t kill poachers, and anyway, you saved me.” “If you shot her I’ll kill you with pleasure,” Archer said.

Ames, having explained the condition of juvenile elephants, drew this metaphor: Trans women are juvenile elephants. We are much stronger and more powerful than we understand. We are fifteen thousand pounds of muscle and bone forged from rage and trauma, armed with ivory spears and faces unique in nature, living in grasslands where any of the ubiquitous humans may or may not be a poacher. With our strength, we can destroy each other with ease. But we are a lost generation. We have no elders, no stable groups, no one to teach us to countenance pain. No matriarchs to tell the young girls to knock it off or show off their own long lives lived happily and well. Those older generations of trans women died of HIV, poverty, suicide, repression, or disappeared to pathologized medicalization and stealth lives - and that's if they were lucky enough to be white. They left behind only scattered exhausted voices to tell the angry lost young when and how the pain might end - to tell us what will be lost when we lash out with our considerable strength, or use the fragile shards of what remain of our social networks to ostracize, punish, and retaliate against those who behave in a traumatized manner. "And so we become what we have seen. How could we know not to? Have you seen many orphaned juvenile elephants behaving otherwise?

But when he crested the hill, the sight that greeted him made him pause. At the bottom of the hill stood Celia in a riding habit, her gun pointed in his direction. He halted just as she spotted him. After emptying the gun by firing it in the opposite direction, she set it on the ground facing away from them, picked up her skirts, and came up the hill with fire in her eyes. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she cried. Only then did he notice the target that was set into the hill below him. So this was where she did her shooting practice. He should have known she’d have a secret spot for it. “Pardon me for interrupting,” he said dryly as she approached. “When I heard shots, I thought it was poachers.” “And you were going to confront them alone?” She planted her hands on her hips. “What if there were several, armed and ready to shoot?” The very idea made him roll his eyes. “In my experience, poachers run when they see someone coming. They don’t brandish guns.” He couldn’t resist taunting her. “You’re the only person who does that, my lady.” At his use of her title, she stiffened. “Well, you could have been hurt all the same. You really mustn’t sneak up on people like that. And what are you doing up so early, anyway?” Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t be going to London-you’re heading in the wrong direction.” “I’m off to High Wycombe. Apparently your old nurse lives there, so I’m going to question her about the events on the morning of your parents’ deaths. That way I can confirm if your dream is just a dream or something more.” Her face lit up. “Let me go with you.” Hell and blazes. This is what he got for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

I was in a copse of pine trees, and the pine was overpowering my scent. The pheromones of the big cat mingled with the pine and I spun around. I was smelling and looking for the flash of white, but I couldn’t see it. I grew angry and I pawed at the earth. The aroma of the soil cleansed my nose as I leaned down and sniffed deeply. I slowly closed and opened my eyes. As I looked ahead I saw something. There, further on, I had another glimpse of the large white cat. She was stopped and her hindquarters were in the air. I stared, trying to figure out what she was doing. Her forepaws and head were on the ground, but her hind was wiggling. She was next to a tree, marking it, so I slowly paced in a zigzag pattern as I walked close to her. I was being cautious because poachers had been known to employ shifters to entice real animals in the wild. She turned her head and growled at me. I took it as an invite to come closer. I ran up to her and started circling. She was an albino panther as I thought. I paced closer, breathing deep. I was in the middle of Ohio, outside of a lost cougar and a few bobcats there were no big cats here, at least not counting lycanthropes, and this creature didn’t smell like one of those. Her rump almost wagged in anticipation, and I felt my tiger body respond. I circled her, taking a swipe in her direction to see if she was going to respond negatively to me. The pink eyes followed me and she growled. I walked up to her, sniffed her face and neckline. I didn’t smell any other male on her, and I walked to her raised rump. Burying my nose in her groin I smelled deeper, and she shifted her body. I felt it before I could see it. She was shifting, changing from albino panther to human. I sat on my hindquarters as I watched. Her white fur seemed to melt from her, sliding upwards, starting with her back legs. The flesh and fur on her feet slid forward, leaving human feet and calves. It was fully fleshed, unlike some lycanthrope changes when they’re younger. The calves of her legs appeared, and slowly slid up. The panther flesh was sliding forward, slowly and methodically. Across her ass and groin, now lower back and stomach. The pheromones I smelled earlier were coming from her, the human form. I stood and started pacing behind her, and her panther head shook in a very human gesture. I stopped, fighting the desire to lean forward and lick her wetness with my large tongue. The flesh was sliding forward and as her teats turned into breasts, I growled in need. Next were her shoulders and arms, then her head and hands. As the transformation ended, there was a pile of fur and flesh lying in front of her. Her human form was beautiful; a full figured woman with long white hair, that was perfectly natural. She looked to be in her early forties, but didn’t have a line on her face that she didn’t want. In the corners of her eyes were small, but beautiful, crow’s feet, laugh lines surrounded her mouth. She laid out with her former form under her, laying on it, propped up by her elbows. She smiled with the confidence of someone who was used to being in charge. Her long hair flowed around her shoulders, framing her body. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who.

In the divorce my ex got everything. Even kept her composure.

Positive thoughts (expectations) can change perspective, transform behaviors, and attract good fortune.

A Russian poacher named Vladimir Markov shot and wounded a tiger but wasn’t able to track it down. Deciding that he didn’t want to walk away from the hunt empty-handed, the poacher stole part of the animal the tiger had killed and was in the process of eating when it ran away. This is where you’d expect the tiger to come bounding back into the clearing and kill the poacher. But this tiger’s brain was built more like that of Jason Voorhees. According to NPR, “The injured tiger hunted Markov down in a way that appears to be chillingly premeditated. The tiger staked out Markov’s cabin, systematically destroyed anything that had Markov’s scent on it, and then waited by the front door for Markov to come home.” Between twelve and forty-eight hours after he wounded the tiger, Markov returned home and was devoured by it,

I realized how lucky I was to have been raised here in these southern woods among poachers and storytellers.

Although they often kill out of season or at night, they usually eat what they kill. I admire them, and so I feel a flicker of distaste for this outsider.

coming back like this to hunt for details for my stories feels a bit like poaching on land that used to be mine. But I’ve never lost the need to tell of my Alabama, to reveal it, lush and green and full of death. So I return, knowing what I’ve learned.

I poach for stories. I poach because I want to recover the paths while there’s still time, before the last logging trucks rumble through and the old, dark ways are at last forever hewn.

the south where these stories take place—is lower Alabama, lush and green and full of death, the wooded counties between the Alabama and Tombigbee Rivers.

At dusk in the Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica, Melissa Overton barely heard the constant sound of crickets chirping all around them. Prowling through the dense, tropical rainforest as a jaguar, she listened for the human voices that would clue her in that her prey was nearby. Waves crashed onto the sandy beaches in the distance as she made her way quietly, like a phantom predator, through the tangle of vines and broad, leafy foliage, searching for any sign of the poachers. Humans wouldn't have a clue as to what she and her kind were when they saw her - apparently nothing other than an ordinary jaguar. And she and her fellow jaguar shifters planned to keep it that way. Her partner on this mission, JAG agent Huntley Anderson, was nearby, just as wary and observant. The JAG Special Forces Branch, also known as the Golden Claws, was only open to jaguar shifters and served to protect both their shifter kind and their jaguar cousins....

The poacher's murderer was a man after Archer's own heart, for Archer also didn't like men to hurt Fire or make her acquaintance.

The man jumped and stared at the two little girls. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "We live here, in the caretaker's cabin," Rosetta answered. "Do you need help?" "Do I need help?" he roared. "What do you think, you little snippet?" "What's a snippet?" asked Bianca innocently.

At least, there are no such things as unicorns anymore. They were hunted to extinction by groups of hard-hearted but virginal poachers about a thousand years ago,” Jake added off Ruby’s questioning look. “It’s actually a really sad story. Makes The Last Unicorn look like a feel-good romp.

Despite the hour, customers already flooded the market, men, women, and children of every color and race looking for the magic cure to their problems. They were what allowed the poachers to exist. They’d stop poaching if people stopped buying.

It’s Cletus. I’ve got a good one for you.” “Hey Cletus. You shoot another poacher?” “Nope. Didn’t shoot anyone,” Cletus assured her. “Yet.

As we started our long drive back to the zoo, we stopped at what could be called a general store. There was a pub attached to the establishment, and the store itself sold a wide variety of goods, groceries, cooking utensils, swags, clothing, shoes, even toys. As we picked up supplies in the shop, we passed the open doorway to the pub. A few of the patrons recognized Steve from television. We could hear them talking about him. The comments weren’t exactly positive. Steve didn’t look happy. “Let’s just get out of here,” I whispered. “Right-o,” he said. One of the pub patrons was louder than the others. “I’m a crocodile hunter too,” he bragged. “Only I’m the real crocodile hunter. The real one, you hear me, mate?” The braggart made his living at the stuffy trade, he informed his audience. A stuffy is a baby crocodile mounted by a taxidermist to be sold as a souvenir. To preserve their skins, hunters killed stuffys in much the same way that the bear poachers in Oregon stabbed their prey. “We drive screwdrivers right through their eyes,” Mister Stuffy boasted, eyeing Steve through the doorway of the pub. “Right through the bloody eye sockets!” He was feeling his beer. We gathered up our purchases and headed out to the Ute. Okay, I said to myself, we’re going to make it. Just two or three more steps… Steve turned around and headed back toward the pub. I’d never seen him like that before. My husband changed into somebody I didn’t know. His eyes glared, his face flushed, and his lower lip trembled. I followed him to the threshold of the pub. “Why don’t you blokes come outside and tell me all about stuffys in the car park here?” he said. I couldn’t see very well in the darkness of the pub interior, but I knew there were six or eight drinkers with Mister Stuffy. I thought, What is going to happen here? There didn’t seem any possible good outcomes. The pub drinkers stood up and filed out to face Steve. A half dozen against one. Steve chose the biggest one, who Mister Stuffy seemed to be hiding behind. “Bring it on, mate,” Steve said. “Or are you only tough enough to take on baby crocs, you son of a bitch?” Then Steve seemed to grow. I can’t explain it. His fury made him tower over a guy who actually had a few inches of height on him and outweighed him with a whole beer gut’s worth of weight. I couldn’t imagine how he appeared to the pub drinkers, but he was scaring me. They backed down. All six of them. Not one wanted to muck with Steve, who was clearly out of his mind with anger. All the world’s croc farms, all the cruelty and ignorance that made animals suffer the world over, came to a head in the car park of the pub that evening. Steve got into the truck. We drove off, and he didn’t say anything for a long time. “I don’t understand,” I finally said in the darkness of the front seat, as the bush landscape rolled by us. “What were they talking about? Were they killing crocs in the wild? Or were they croc farmers?” I heard a small exhalation from Steve’s side of the truck. I couldn’t see his face in the gloom. I realized he was crying. I was astounded. This was the man I had just seen turn into a furious monster. Five minutes earlier I’d been convinced I was about to see him take on a half-dozen blokes bare-fisted. Now he wept in the darkness. All at once, he sat up straight. With his jaw set, he wiped the tears from his face and composed himself. “I’ve known bastards like that all my life,” he said. “Some people don’t just do evil. Some people are evil.” He had told me before, but that night in the truck it hit home: Steve lived for wildlife and he would die for wildlife. He came by his convictions sincerely, from the bottom of his heart. He was more than just my husband that night. He was my hero.

The statistics, he says, show that Africa’s elephant population has crashed from 1.3 million in 1979 to around 400,000 today. In the last three years alone, around 100,000 elephants have been killed by poachers and more are now being shot than are being born.

There was plenty of wildlife to film: water pythons, venomous snakes, numerous beautiful birds, koalas, possums, and all kinds of lizards. But the big croc remained elusive. Finally we found him. But something was wrong. As we approached, he failed to submerge. We were horrified to discover that the poachers had beaten us--and shot him. It was likely that he had been killed some time ago. Crocs often take a long while to die. They have the astonishing ability to shut off blood supply to an injured part of their body. The big croc had shut down and gone to the bottom of the river, at last, to succumb to his wound. He was huge, some fifteen feet long, fat and in good shape. Steve was beside himself; he felt as if the croc’s death was a personal failure. We filmed the croc and talked about what had happened. But eventually, Steve simply had to walk away. When I went to him, there were tears in his eyes. Steve had a genuine love for crocodiles and appreciated each individual animal. This croc could have been fifty years old, with mates, a family, and a history as king of this river. His death wasn’t abstract to Steve. It was personal, as though he had lost a friend, and it fueled his anger toward the poacher who had killed such a magnificent animal. Steve knew there was another croc in the area that was also in potential danger. “Maybe if we save that one,” Steve said, with resolve, “we can salvage something out of this trip.” He didn’t give up. That night we cruised Cattle Creek again to film the trap sites. It seemed that wherever we went, Steve had an uncanny ability as a wildlife magnet.

Steve got up before me and left to check the trap. The fire was already going when I crawled out of my swag. I relived the events of the night before over my cup of tea. I heard the boat motor and saw that Steve was coming back, so I got up and ran down to the riverbank to meet him. “We got one,” he said, breathless. “A croc went in that trap after all, mate.” “I guess maybe my splashing around attracted it,” I said with a grin. He laughed. Then he turned and yelled up to the guys, “Cooee!” The whole camp erupted into action. The film crew grabbed their gear, and we went to rescue the crocodile before a poacher’s bullet could claim it. I didn’t know what to expect. I had heard stories of Steve catching crocodiles. I’d seen photographs and some of his video footage. Steve took me into the crocodile enclosures at the zoo. But this was something I’d never experienced. This was in the wild.

In spite of the death of the big croc, I felt that our time at Cattle Creek had been superb. Even before we got back to the zoo and saw the footage, there was a hint in the air that something special had been accomplished. We were elated at saving one crocodile and bitterly disappointed at the one that had been shot. Perhaps Steve felt the failure to save the Cattle Creek croc from poachers more strongly than I did. He was normally an action man, focused on his next project. I wasn’t used to him being gloomy or fixated on mortality. But he kept asking me to promise him that I’d keep the zoo going if something happened to him. “Promise me,” he said, wanting me to say it out loud. I solemnly promised him that I would keep the zoo going. “But nothing’s going to happen,” I said lightly, “because the secret to being a great conservationist is living a long time.” On the drive back to the zoo, we had talked for a long time, a marathon conversation. We didn’t know whether our Cattle Creek documentary would make a huge difference or not. But we agreed that through our zoo and our shared life together, we would try to change the world. I told him about my days at the vet hospital in Oregon, and the times I’d sit on the floor and weep, I’d be so overwhelmed by the pain and suffering visited upon innocent animals. But that burden seemed much easier to bear now, because I had someone to share it with. Steve truly understood how I felt. And I was someone who could sympathize with the depth of his dedication to wildlife. There was a big wide world out there. We were just a small wildlife park in Australia. It was absurd to think the two of us could change the world. But our love seemed to make the impossible appear not only possible, but inevitable. I look back on the talk we had during the ride to the zoo from Cattle Creek as helping to create the basis of our marriage. No matter what problems came along, we were determined to stay together, because side by side we could face anything.

As a wildlife warrior, Steve fought against age-old practices that were destroying entire species. He felt it was time to focus on the nonconsumptive use of wildlife. Poachers were still hunting tigers for their bones, and bears for their gallbladders, all for traditional medicines that have been far surpassed by modern pharmaceuticals. It should be simple. We should be able to take an aspirin instead of powdered rhino horn, make whaling something that we read about in history books, and end our appetite for shark-fin soup, which is causing one of the world’s most ancient and important species to vanish from the oceans. Until the day comes when the senseless killing ends, we will all have to fight like wildlife warriors to protect our precious planet. Steve came back from his Antarctica trip with renewed determination. In his last documentary, Steve showed how penguins actually play. He tried to demystify the fierce reputation of the leopard seal. He talked about how humpback whales have a family structure similar to ours, that they are mammals, they love their children, and they communicate.

When a poacher kills an elephant, he doesn’t just kill the elephant who dies. The family may lose the crucial memory of their elder matriarch, who knew where to travel during the very toughest years of drought to reach the food and water that would allow them to continue living. Thus one bullet may, years later, bring more deaths.

The things that humans do. To follow the imagination, wishful thinking, or the rules and teachings? To follow and trust the institutions? The religions? The Market, the stocks, - the almighty dollar? The paid experts, the head hunters, pundits, poachers, fanatics, deceivers and egomaniacs.... ?? One can get way off track believing in fairy tales and second hand wizdum and self-appointed gurus. Like the craziness and irrationality of commerce, economics and backroom deals, the esoteric landscape sometimes can look like a surreal postcard from some star, and it is advisable to check the other-worldly theories with some real world reasoning (and get references!).

Jake glanced up at the curtained windows. A boy slept inside one of those rooms. Could be me, he thought. Could be me with the garden and the swing, and a pad with all the games on it, and a mobile, and the Santa Cruz; and him out here, dead parents, scrounging other people’s clothes, on the run. There was the skateboard, leaned up against the porch, like it was the simplest thing in the world to own it. He took a few steps towards it. –Don’t. Poacher’s voice was a whisper.

If you want to think about why humans are so dangerous to other species, you can picture a poacher in Africa carrying an AK-47 or a logger in the Amazon gripping an ax, or, better still, you can picture yourself, holding a book in your lap.

Damn poachers! And damn lawyers! Everybody wants something for nothing. But nothing worth having is free. Not water. Not mangoes. Not nothing. I’ve worked for everything I’ve got, Lassiter.” He fingered his earring with one hand and held the gun with the other.

his poacher’s coat were heavy with three fat ducks, a brace of quail, and a cock pheasant which had virtually walked into his trap as he’d lain in wait in the long grass. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing the old man

The Young Tradition (1966) and its successor, So Cheerfully Round (1967), both released on Transatlantic, are rustic tapestries of ballads, carols and street cries from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; a parade of serving-maids, poachers, fishermen, cunning foxes, bold dragoons, pretty ploughboys and hungry children.

some piece-of-shit poachers snuck into a sanctuary and carved off the tusks of the last elephants,

The thing I found offensive, the thing I hated about Mohican-mountain-makers, gill-netters, poachers, whalehunters, strip-miners, herbicide-spewers, dam-erectors, nuclear-reactor-builders, or anyone who lusted after flesh, meat, mineral, tree, pelt, and dollar—including, first and foremost, myself—was the smug ingratitude, the attitude that assumed the world and its creatures owed us everything we could catch, shoot, tear out, alter, plunder, devour… and we owed the world nothing in return.

The people he met in the field were mostly hunters, fishermen, ranchers, poachers, environmentalists, and others Joe lumped into a category he called “outdoorsmen”—but his home was filled with four blond, green-eyed females. Females who were verbal. Females who were emotional. He often smiled and thought of this place as a “House of Feelings.” If the expression of feelings produced a physical by-product, Joe could imagine his house filled with hundreds of gallons of an emotional goo that sometimes spilled out of the windows and doors and seeped from the vents. But his family was everything to him; this place was his refuge, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

after they stitch up your leg, I’m taking you to jail.” “No, you’re not,” said Kathy in her hardest

We have poachers here sometimes, but usually they're not dangerous to people,

Clovis then asked what had happened to the head of the man who was strangling a snake and Sir Aubrey said that Dudley had blasted it with a shotgun. “He was after some poachers,” he said, and fell silent, looking very sad. “Splendid chap, Dudley. Ask anyone.” Clovis said that he had heard from his father how strong Dudley was, and tried to think if he had heard anything nice about Dudley, but he hadn’t. Fortunately, since Sir Aubrey was looking very upset, the butler announced Mrs. Smith and her three older daughters. The youngest daughter, Prudence, was still in nappies and did not go out to dinner. Again Clovis had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Smith as the Basher, and her daughters as the ones who were no use to Sir Aubrey because they were the wrong sex. “How do you do, Aunt Joan,” said Clovis, smiling winningly and hoping that the Basher had settled down since her marriage. “Well, you led us quite a dance,” brayed Joan, and introduced her daughters.

lions were

In The Practice of Everyday Life, French sociologist Michel DeCerteau pioneered the notion of consumers as “textual poachers,” whose consumption of mass culture subtly undermines the uses for which its creators intended it

Her train came, and she wrestled her burden through the doors, trying not to think too much about what was in it, or the magnificent life that had been ended somewhere in Africa, though probably not recently. These tusks were massive, and Karou happened to know that elephant tusks rarely grew so big anymore—poachers had seen to that. By killing all the biggest bulls, they’d altered the elephant gene pool.

poverty and desperation are fueling much of the environmental crime in Amazon. Twelve million wild birds and animals are poached in Brazil every year, according to IBAMA. Middlemen—like Moysés Israel, “Big Carlos,” and “the Captain”—may have grown fat on the trade. But the desperadoes raiding the nests and felling the timber, like the Kanamari of Queimada or the two-bit poachers nabbed by Queirós, are driven by more basic imperatives, like the need to put food on the table. We

Archer stared at the floor, tapping the end of his bow against the hard wood. Thinking. “I’m going to Queen Roen’s fortress,” he said. Fire glanced at him sharply. “Why?” “I need to beg more soldiers of her, and I want the information of her spies. She might have thoughts about whether these strangers have anything to do with Mydogg or Gentian. I want to know what’s going on in my forest, Fire, and I want this archer.” “I’m going with you,” Fire said. “No,” Archer said flatly. “I am.” “No. You can’t defend yourself. You can’t even ride.” “It’s only a day’s journey. Wait a week. Let me rest, and then I’ll go with you.” Archer held up a hand and turned away from her. “You’re wasting your breath. Why would I ever allow such a thing?” Because Roen is always unaccountably kind to me when I visit her northern fortress, Fire wanted to say. Because Roen knew my mother. Because Roen is a strong-minded woman, and there’s something consoling in the regard of a woman. Roen never desires me, or if she ever does, it’s not the same. “Because,” she said out loud, “Roen and her spies will have questions for me about what happened when the poacher shot me, and what little I managed to sense from his mind. And because,” she added, as Archer moved to object, “you are neither my husband nor my father; I am a woman of seventeen, I have my own horses and my own money, and I decide for myself where I go and when. This is not yours to forbid.

A fellow would think you were hoping to be shot by a hunter.” More accurately, a poacher, since Archer forbade hunting in these woods at this time of day, just so that Fire could pass through here dressed this way.

ARCHER BROUGHT DOWN a raptor monster as Fire and the poacher stumbled out of the trees. A beautiful, long shot from the upper terrace that Fire was in no state to admire, but that caused the poacher to murmur something under his breath about the appropriateness of the young lord’s nickname.

The Pikkians were the boat people from the land above the Dells, and it was true that they crossed the border sometimes to steal timber and even laborers from the Dellian north. But the men of Pikkia, though not all alike, tended to be big, and lighter-skinned than their Dellian neighbors—at any rate, not small and dark like the blue-eyed poacher had been. And Pikkians spoke with a distinctive throaty accent.

The arrest of Fergus Braid struck the village like a bombshell. Lesley, opening the newspaper the next day, found a photograph of him on the front page and a different story on the inside. highland bobby attacked by armed poachers screamed the headline. There was a photograph of Priscilla

bowl

As the scientific forester may dream of a perfectly legible forest planted with same-aged, single-species, uniform trees growing in straight lines in a rectangular flat space cleared of all underbrush and poachers,85 so the exacting state official may aspire to a perfectly legible population with registered, unique names and addresses keyed to grid settlements; who pursue single, identifiable occupations; and all of whose transactions are documented according to the designated formula and in the official language. This caricature of society as a military parade ground is overdrawn, but the grain of truth that it embodies may help us understand the grandiose plans we will examine later.86 The aspiration to such uniformity and order alerts us to the fact that modern statecraft is largely a project of internal colonization, often glossed, as it is in imperial rhetoric, as a “civilizing mission.” The builders of the modern nation-state do not merely describe, observe, and map; they strive to shape a people and landscape that will fit their techniques of observation.

If you want to think about why humans are so dangerous to other species, you can picture a poacher in Africa carrying an AK-47 or a logger in the Amazon gripping an ax, or, better still, you can picture yourself, holding a book on your lap.

Why not start butchering and eating primates, too? Once accepted, the logic of the factory farm knows no limits. Indeed, every argument we have heard in defense of other cruelties is just as easily applied here. This will help us to conserve" primates, to keep up the stock. We need an "incentive" to keep primates alive, a little bonus for all our good works. Primates, too, must "pay their own way." Throughout Africa, chimpanzees, orangutans, and even gorillas are picked off anyway by poachers and hunters - who illegally ship at least a thousand tons of primate meat every year to Britain alone. Why not make the whole thing more orderly, systematic, and profitable with primate farms?

Those only know a country who are acquainted with its footpaths. By the roads, indeed, the outside may be seen; but the footpaths go through the heart of the land. There are routes by which mile after mile may be travelled without leaving the sward. So you may pass from village to village; now crossing green meadows, now cornfields, over brooks, past woods, through farmyard and rick "barken". But such tracks are not mapped, and a stranger misses them altogether unless under the guidance of and old inhabitant.

Let us always be out of doors among trees and grass, and rain and wind and sun. There the breeze comes and strikes the cheek and sets it aglow: the gale increases and the trees creak and roar, but it is only a ruder music. A calm follows, the sun shines in the sky, and it is the time to sit under an oak, leaning against the bark, while the birds sing and the air is soft and sweet. By night the stars shine, and there is no fathoming the dark spaces between these brilliant points, nor the thoughts that come as it were between the fixed stars and landmarks of the mind. Or it is morning on the hills, when hope is as wide as the world; or it is the evening on the shore. A red sun sinks, and the foam-tipped waves are crested with crimson; the booming surge breaks, and the spray flies afar, sprinkling the face watching under the pale cliffs. Let us get out of these indoor narrow modern days, whose twelve hours somehow have become shortened, into the sunlight and the pure wind. A something that the ancients call divine can be found and felt there still.

Is there something I can do to make things better?

Did she want to be a bride of Maracoor? To learn to submit to the authority of routine? To bully her own feet into bleeding, to give up choice, to take up a mission in which she couldn't yet believe? Even put that way, Rain wasn't sure. Perhaps she did. Perhaps this was what she had been seeking. Passivity. Regularity. A dulling of other pains. Distraction. A further shedding of her identity, even deeper than amnesia had yet achieved. The animal unblinking stillness of a hare in a trap, as the poacher draws near. The paralysis before the inevitable. Choosing death before death chooses you.

These days I'm always relieved to see broken tusks, making these elephants less attractive to the sport-hunters and poachers.

Mormont stood before the altar, the rainbow shining on his broad bald head. “You came to us outlaws,” he began, “poachers, rapers, debtors, killers, and thieves. You came to us children. You came to us alone, in chains, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some of you bear the names of proud houses. Others have only bastards’ names, or no names at all. It makes no matter. All that is past now. On the Wall, we are all one house.

Poachers.

You can think about Robin Hood as a classic poacher, who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. And, essentially, what I see taking place in fandom is that process, where we steal the cultural resources that belong to the networks and we remake them, to speak to what we as fans want them to be, be they concerns as women, or racial concerns, sexual politics questions or whatever. That‘s what I think happens most of the time, when people are engaged in fan writing, in one way or another.

Yes, I suppose so,” said Lord Pomfret. “Though I admit I did not kiss old women in cottages, or young women either. In fact no one till I met you, Sally. I don’t count Rosina.” “And who on earth is Rosina?” said his countess, curious but quite unmoved by his confession. “One of my best friends,” said Lord Pomfret. “She was cook and everything else in the house my father had in Italy and she looked after it when he was in England. She was rather kind to me when I was a boy. I think she was sorry for me not having a mother. She married the inn-keeper’s son and has twelve children. I believe I’m godfather to one of them, but I couldn’t get out to the christening, so the Sindaco, a sort of Mayor, took my place. I rather think he was the baby’s father.” “Gillie! you never told me that before,” said his wife indignantly. “Did they call the baby Gillie? Or I suppose it would be Giglio.” “Certainly not,” said Lord Pomfret. “They called it Antonio after the local poacher. I daresay he was its father too. You never know.

went to Kruger National Park, a vast stretch of dry, barren land the size of Israel. In the war on poachers, Kruger was the absolute front line. Its rhino populations, both black and white, were plummeting, due to armies of poachers being incentivized by Chinese and Vietnamese crime syndicates. One rhino horn fetched enormous sums, so for every poacher arrested, five more were ready to take their place.

boom rolls over the terrain but stops sharply in a close-ended way, as if jerked back. A hit is blunt and solid like an airborne grunt. When the sound is heard and identified, it isn’t easily forgotten. When Wyoming Game Warden Joe Pickett heard the sound, he was building a seven-foot elk fence on the perimeter of a rancher’s haystack. He paused, his fencing pliers frozen in midtwirl. Then he stepped back, lowered his head, and listened. He slipped the pliers into the back pocket of his jeans and took off his straw cowboy hat to wipe his forehead with a bandanna. His red uniform shirt stuck to his chest, and he felt a single, warm trickle of sweat crawl down his spine into his Wranglers. He waited. He had learned over the years that it was easy to be fooled by sounds of any kind outside, away from town. A single, sharp crack heard at a distance could be a rifle shot, yes, but it could also be a tree falling, a branch snapping, a cow breaking through a sheet of ice in the winter, or the backfire of a motor. “Don’t confirm the first gunshot until you hear the second” was a basic tenet of the outdoors. Good poachers knew that, too. It tended to improve their aim. In a way, Joe hoped he wouldn’t hear a second shot. The fence wasn’t done, and if someone was shooting, it was his duty to investigate.

The tiger knew there were poachers in the forest; men that were dangerous because of their rifles. They shot the elephants, but the tiger didn’t do anything because elephants slumber around and rarely bother speaking with tigers. And then, the poachers shot the wolves. Maybe the tiger could have done something, but he really didn’t care about the wolves. They were competition on the hunt. When the poachers returned, they shot the buffalo. Again, the tiger did nothing because it was a beautiful sunny day and he didn’t want to leave his warm ledge on the rocks. Then one day, the tiger returned home to find that his mate had been shot by the poachers. He was infuriated and tried to round up the forest creatures to help him rid the world of the poachers. But by now, there was nobody except him left to fight. He knew he couldn’t take the poachers by himself so he slunk away never to be heard from again.

Most all of them are wearing smiles, blissfully unaware that there is a war going on. That beyond some of their trees and state parks, there is a group of men fighting on their behalf so that the local economy can thrive, so the poachers don’t get the best of them.

Herds of townspeople glide along the endless rows of vendor tents. Most all of them are wearing smiles, blissfully unaware that there is a war going on. That beyond some of their trees and state parks, there is a group of men fighting on their behalf so that the local economy can thrive, so the poachers don’t get the best of them.—Cecelia, Exodus

So one night last week I ran into Paul at a liquor store. He was drinking again.

A convicted deer poacher in Missouri has been sentenced to watch Disney movie Bambi once a month for the entirety of his year-long sentence.

The bell rapped the glass hard, harder even than when the poacher came in. I gave serious consideration to ripping the thing off the door and punting it outside,