Against a background of readings about wildlife research and conservation in East Africa, an account of Hemingway blasting his way through the phylogenetic tree should sit uneasily with me. But as is apparent in other accounts, the impetus for conservation has often come from, not despite of, wildlife hunters. Hemingway's description of the landscape around Lake Manyara in Tanzania is as good as it gets, and he has a hunter's eye for describing the animals around him, and the relationship between the people and the land. Nevertheless, Hemmingway is an unregenerate killer, "..everything has to die sometime." he says, and takes it upon himself to hasten the day for several unfortunate creatures. Not the weak and the lame as might be taken by their natural predators, but the best and the largest for the impression their severed heads might make upon his guests at home. But inside the story, and Hemingway is enough of a reflective story-teller to tell it, is another tale. One of a successful man who has no dominion, who trembles on the edge of un-success, who only just manages to persuade himself that his bloody trail through Africa constituted some kind of affirmation of manhood.