March 1909. I’d had enough of Washington. Taft would be fine, probably better off without me around. So Kermit and I set off for the opposite of Washington, a place unworn of man, where we could wake beneath the splendor of new stars: Mombasa, Kenya. The morning after making camp, we came upon four water buffalo, the largest standing just outside the others. I fired a shot through his tough hide, going through the lungs. That bull ran for a quarter of a mile before finally falling. It was clear he was tough of hide and tough of heart. That toughness was what we encountered in that vast silence, a silence that was the opposite of Washington, a silence I needed.

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