A hunt for tiger in Korea goes awry

The cat stopped in the middle of the road and turned, eyes flashing red in the light of the jeep’s headlamps.

The dust kicked up when Kim slammed on the brakes descended like a luminous halo around the animal, a specter transfixed in the white glare, so close they could hear it breathing. It stood but a moment, then it was gone.

Major Don Dorsey rose, craning his long neck and peering into the dark woods after the tiger disappeared. “Good God, Fenwick,” he said, “Did you ever see the like of that? And, me with only a shotgun!”

Fenwick, the other American, squirmed nervously in his seat, tapped the Korean driver on the shoulder and said, “Come on, Kim, get this machine moving before he has us going after that beast.”

Nodding, Kim put the jeep in gear and it jolted forward, dumping the major back in his seat.

Fenwick gave a sigh of relief as the jeep started down the road again. Tigers were the last thing on his mind that early spring evening as they headed back to the major’s compound after a good day of pheasant shooting up near the Demilitarized Zone.

“Sonofagun,” Dorsey went on, “I never knew they had tigers in Korea. Sonofagun, we gotta have a go at him, old sport.”

Fenwick squirmed again, not quite so keen on the idea himself. Still, the major continued to enthuse and insist his friend not be so negative about the chance of a lifetime. And, this worried Fenwick because he knew Dorsey had a knack for getting people to do things they didn’t want to do.

They were an unlikely pair, and it was hunting had brought them together. They’d met while Fenwick was writing a story on Christmas on the DMZ. Career Army, Dorsey had hunted over much of the world. Fenwick’s experience was more limited, but he talked a good game.

Through the winter, they hunted every species of game available in the area, and there was plenty to choose from. In addition to some of the finest ringneck shooting in the world, the little peninsula was home to several kinds of deer, wild pig, geese and other waterfowl.

Neither man had ever hunted tiger, though, and now on the way back to the compound they decided – or, rather, Dorsey did – that they would.

There was nothing to prevent their making plans for the next weekend. Dorsey would be free unless the Army decided to pull an alert maneuver. A freelance journalist was not tied to a time-clock and Fenwick’s prayers for an alert would go unheeded.

Kim, a Korean attached for duty with the U.S. Army, told them there once had been many tigers in Korea. But: “Now cat, him go away. Too many people. DMZ have no people. Maybe cat him liking.”

They agreed Kim might be right. Over the years since the war the three-mile-wide corridor of No Man’s Land separating North and South Korea had grown up with brush thick as any jungle. Save for the small village of Changpo-ri and the tiny groups of guards patrolling the line, there weren’t many people in the area.

Fenwick braved the discomfort of Korean buses (Kimchi buses, the GIs called them) and once risked his neck in a Kamikaze taxi for several trips from Seoul up to the major’s camp to discuss plans for the hunt. Fenwick never failed to grumble about the dirty, uncomfortable twenty mile journey on other occasions and Dorsey knew he had him hooked when he came this often and shrugged off the inconvenience.

“I checked to see what special permits we might need, and there’s no problem,” Dorsey told him on the first visit.

“No problem?” Fenwick asked, less enthusiastically. Planning a tiger hunt was one thing but the actual event was another.

“None,” Dorsey said, smiling as though he’d just learned he held the big ticket in the Irish Sweepstakes. “Korean government considers the tiger extinct.”

“But, if they think they’re extinct…”

“We don’t need their permission to hunt.”

“I don’t know. Sounds unsporting to me.”

“Whadya mean?”

“Well, if they’re that rare…”

“Ah, come on, Fenwick. There are probably lots of them. The Koreans are too worried about their cousins up north and the economy to care about animals. We can’t pass up this opportunity.”

Finding suitable weapons did pose a problem, though.

Special services always has a few guns on hand on every military compound where hunting is available. Dorsey suggested they inquire at the local branch and Fenwick kept his fingers crossed. No luck was what he wanted.

“This is bird territory, sir,” the NCO in charge told the major. “All we have are shotguns and a couple twenty-twos.”

“Well, I guess that blows it,” Fenwick said, struggling to conceal his glee.

“Whadya mean?” Dorsey sputtered. “This isn’t the only SS in the division. I’ll search every compound. If I have to, I’ll go to Japan. Nothing is going to stop me from having a go at that cat. I’ll find us rifles if I have to swim back to the states to get them.”

True to his word, Dorsey had two .30/06 rifles the next time Fenwick visited.

“They’re not new, don’t offer much in the way of looks and could have been kept in better condition,” Dorsey said. “But, they’re serviceable.”

With a trembling hand, Fenwick accepted a whiskey and soda, gulped it down and stared at the two rifles laid out on Dorsey’s bunk.

“I scrounged some ammo and sighted them in,” the major went on. “Yours shoots a little high, so you want to remember that and compensate. If you stay the night, we’ll go out to the range early and you can try it yourself.”

“Do you think they have enough punch for tiger?” Fenwick asked, hefting one of the rifles and staring through its peep sight at a Playboy calendar on the opposite wall.

“Sure. You could kill an elephant with one of these babies if you hit him in the right spot.”

Fenwick shot him a cold look, laid down the rifle and poured another drink.

“I’ve been reading up on tigers at the post library,” Dorsey continued. “Did you know the Siberian is larger but less ferocious than his Bengal cousin?”

“That’s a comforting thought,” Fenwick said, downing his whiskey and lighting a cigarette.

“Average adult male weighs in the neighborhood of 500 pounds and goes nine and a half feet in length. Do you think our boy’s that big?”

“He’s big enough.”

Dorsey paced the room, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the ceiling, reciting more information.

“Like the Bengal, a Siberian is strictly carnivorous. According to the books, he’s a shy, retiring fellow and prone to run from an unarmed man.”

Unconvinced, Fenwick reached again for the whiskey.

“But, the most interesting thing I learned is that though the Siberian ranges far and wide in cold weather he stays in a comparatively small area, usually near water, when its warm. Do you know what that means?”

Fenwick didn’t have to ponder long. It was March, but the weather had been unusually warm for several weeks. “You think he’ll still be in the area where we saw him?”

“Right. Since we won’t have beaters like they use in India, we’ll have to stalk this cat. We’ll go back where we saw him, find his pug marks and track him to his lair.”

Automatically, Fenwick reached for the whiskey.

                                                                           …

That Saturday they rose early, loaded their gear on the jeep and, with Kim driving, took off toward the DMZ and their tiger.

There’s something infectious in the idea of a hunt, a primeval twitching that somehow overcomes more cautious instincts. Despite his earlier misgivings, Fenwick had fed on Dorsey’s confidence, built some of his own sighting in the rifle and now actually found himself looking forward to the adventure.

A warm breeze swept in from the northeast on this cloudy morning, melting dirty patches of snow that remained in the fields along the road as they climbed into higher elevations toward the DMZ.

The trip became more difficult as they went on, but not because of the terrain.

Kim, who’d not been asked before, took advantage of this opportunity to voice his opinion on the hunt. He wasn’t happy about the idea, though not because he was afraid. Rather, he thought it would be immoral to kill the cat.

Most Koreans profess to be either Christian, Buddhist or Confucian. In fact, they retain a strong strain of animism in their culture. According to legend, their ancestors were a female bear and a male tiger and many Koreans believe they have inherited the characteristics of the two beasts.

So, to Kim, killing the tiger would be like slaying a relative.

His talking about it was bad – bad because Koreans have a nasty habit of looking a person in the eye while talking and it took a lot of doing to keep Kim on the road while he lectured them. The silence between bouts of talking was worse – worse because it gave the Americans opportunity to consider what he said and have it weigh upon their consciences.

At the tiger crossing, they left Kim to guard the jeep. Dorsey moved north while Fenwick headed south, both scouting along the road for fresh tracks.

It wasn’t long till the major hailed his friend with a soft whistle. He pointed out fresh pug marks in a muddy patch. Kim might have dampened their enthusiasm earlier but, now, looking at those tracks, the men experienced an adrenalin boost, broke out in smiles, checked their rifles and set off following the sign.

The tracks led away from the road into a thicket of pine, arborvitae and rhododendron. They moved slowly, one watching the spoor while the other scouted ahead and around them. Now and again they stopped and Dorsey made like the Great White Hunter, tossing tufts of dried grass or leaves in the air to check wind direction.

The wind was with them.

It soon became obvious they were in a den area and not a hunting ground. The forest was deathly silent and the game – deer, rabbit, birds – which normally would have fled before them was conspicuously absent here.

The major pushed on, confident they soon would find the cat. Fenwick followed, his throat parched and his palms sweaty as he gripped his rifle.

Less than a mile farther, they found the den.

Couched under the roots of a fallen evergreen and with a small space of open ground to one side in the midst of straggling thicket, the tiger waited.

They were close, but the wind was still with them.

Fenwick stared at the great beast stretched out before them, and his legs quivered. A sour stench floated on the still air and a sound like the hum of an engine emanated from deep in the cat’s throat. Fenwick tightened his grip on the rifle and glanced over at the major.

Dorsey stood spellbound, rifle half raised, eyes fixed on the animal. Licking his lips, he eased off the rifle’s safety as he shivered and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Then, the cat was aware of them. Raising its head lazily, it coughed. A beam of light reflected malevolently in one eye as the shaggy head turned. The tiger twitched its tail.

Raising their rifles together, the hunters fired.

And, both missed.

The bullets pocked harmlessly against a rock in front of the cat and whined off in a twin ricochet through the trees.

With an ear-splitting bellow, the cat leapt to its feet in one fluid movement.

Fenwick froze. Dorsey worked the bolt and jammed another shell into the chamber of his rifle, anticipating the cat’s charge.

Instead, the tiger bolted. They heard it crashing through the brush, back toward the road.

Fenwick giggled. The major coughed, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

Neither spoke.

After a moment to calm their nerves, they took off in pursuit of the cat. Somehow, they got separated.

Fenwick broke out of the brush onto the road just in time to see the tiger barreling toward Kim who leaned against the jeep, smoking a cigarette.

“Kim, look out!”

Alerted by Fenwick’s cry, the Korean spotted the cat and flung himself under the jeep. The tiger sailed over the vehicle and bounded down the road.

Fenwick fired but was too rattled to hit the proverbial broadside.

Dorsey came out of the brush below them. He threw up his rifle and sighted.

Then, as the cat bore down upon him, a strange thing happened. Major Dorsey suddenly found himself unable to move.

The major was no coward. He had faced battle and wore medals testifying to his bravery. He did not have time to analyze the situation but now, facing the cat he had so ardently sought, he felt his bones turn to marrow, his stomach muscles tighten and his legs quake beneath him.

Fenwick watched, waiting for the shot that never came. Then, just as it seemed the cat would bowl over his friend, he sprinted forward, shouting, “Hey, scat!”

At the shout, the tiger veered and vaulted into the brush on the opposite side of the road. They heard the crackling of twigs and branches a little longer, then it was silent.

Dorsey lowered his rifle, took a deep breath and came up to Fenwick. “If you ever tell anybody about this…”

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Fenwick asked.

Dorsey grinned foolishly. “I couldn’t. He was so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful – or so frightening.” He grinned again, sheepishly. “Besides, I got to thinking about what Kim said before, and about how few of them are left.”

“Yeah,” Fenwick said, handing him a lit cigarette. “Let’s get out of here.”

They walked back and got in the jeep in silence. Kim started the motor and turned to face the major with a big smile. “Too muchee happy you no killing tiger,” he said.

“Yeah. Me, too,” Dorsey told him.

Fenwick laughed.

The major turned on him, scowling. “Well, you wouldn’t want me to shoot his cousin, would you?”

“Of course not,” Fenwick said, grinning.

“Fenwick.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Forget it. Whadya say we head down to Changpo-ri and see if we can get a drink?”

“Excellent idea,” the major said, grinning himself and throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “We’ll have a drink and plan our next hunt – for pheasant.”

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