Word: hunters
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...controversial author Germaine Greer would be on the podium this week delivering her acceptance speech. Steve Irwin's body was barely out of the water before the U.K.'s Guardian newspaper published the expatriate Australian's opinion that the animal world "has finally taken its revenge" on the Crocodile Hunter...
...lively commentary for the cameras of his multimillion-dollar documentary operation. Scratched, bitten and bruised, he would display his wounds like trophies, casually using gaffer tape to bind up a severe bite from a large saltwater crocodile that he had been wrestling in a mangrove swamp. And the Crocodile Hunter understood how his risk-taking made him a cult hero to millions in the 130 countries where his films aired: his fans aped his trademark cry of "Crikey, he nearly got me!" and flocked to his Australia Zoo in Queensland on Australia's east coast...
...summer evening 15 years ago Len Evans grabbed a good bottle of burgundy and led me out to his veranda for the would-be son-in-law conversation. As the sun fell behind the Hunter Valley's Brokenback range, we got to the part where he gauged my prospects. I was struggling with some banal career decision: one path boring but financially secure, the other much more interesting but relatively poorly paid. Seeking approval, I ventured that the sensible thing might be to go dull and safe. Len thought for a moment, turned to me and asked: "How many lives...
...anything can temper the sorrow after his tired heart finally packed in last week, it is the certainty that Len could not have extracted any more fun from his life. As we drove up to the Hunter last Thursday, my daughters in the back seat heard a brief tribute on the radio. Nine-year-old Emily asked, "Do you think Grandpapa had done everything he wanted to?" "He never got to Barcelona," I said-the beleaguered heart had several times frustrated his desire to see Gaud?'s architecture- "but I can't think of anything else...
...Little grunts and moans of pleasure would emerge from the kitchen, where he was devouring a sausage sandwich, tomato sauce dripping down his shirt. He would drive me into Cessnock to the pie shop and home through the vineyards, every paddock and building inspiring a pastry-flecked lesson in Hunter history. With silent precision we'd stop at his gate to inspect each other's clothes for telltale crumbs. We were never caught...