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Executive Summary of the Podcast EpisodeThe Guardian’s latest podcast follows hunters who argue that shooting big game can help preserve Africa’s wildlife, sparking a nuanced discussion on conservation strategies.Episode Focus and How to Access ItListen or read: Read the text version hereSupport the Guardian: theguardian.com/longreadpodRelated Publication Highlighted in the EpisodeThe episode references Adapted from The Savage Landscape: How We Made the Wilderness by Cal Flyn, published by William Collins on 7 May. The book can be ordered via guardianbookshop.com.Visual Context ProvidedPhotograph: ReutersWhy This Conversation MattersThe podcast adds to ongoing debates about the role of regulated hunting in wildlife management, offering perspectives from those directly involved in the practice.Looking AheadFuture episodes and related reporting are expected to continue exploring the complex balance between hunting, conservation funding, and ecosystem health across Africa.

The Lead Cal Flyn's book, The Savage Landscape, is a wondrous personal journey to locate and understand wilderness. It's a work of extraordinary physical and narrative movement that takes us from the depths of the ocean to volcanoes and icebergs, but is also a journey into our own psyches, and the stories we tell ourselves about “wild” landscapes. Exploring the Human Connection to Wilderness Off the coast of California, two miles down, there exist geothermal nurseries: gatherings of tens of thousands of small violet octopuses, each the size of a grapefruit. Known as pearl octopuses (Muusoctopus robustus), they congregate around hydrothermal springs which warm their eggs, allowing them to hatch in less than two years (in cold water it can take 10 years). When I want to calm my mind, I think of these gatherings, this factory of octopuses powered by the Earth’s energy that exists quietly away from our gaze, and might easily never have been discovered. How many more such worlds exist? The Fiction of Untouched Wilderness The notion of untouched wilderness is a fiction, and Flyn continually pulls the rug from under our assumptions about purity, wildness and isolation. At the Monastery of Saint Paul the Anchorite, in Egypt’s eastern desert, she talks with a coptic monk who has dedicated himself to a life of isolation and prayer, and yet continually checks his smartphone. Aboard a cruise ship in the Southern Ocean, Flyn admires icebergs crashing down, “a silent display of staggering sublimity”, only to reflect on the clutter left behind by tourists and scientific researchers on the Antarctic landmass; according to one group of researchers, only 31% of Antarctica can now be considered “inviolate”. The Impact of Human Activity on Wilderness In Transylvania, home to the largest population of brown bears in Europe, she explores painful stories of people and wildlife in conflict. Bears and wolves fared well in Europe until the destruction of their habitat in the middle ages brought them into direct contact with local populations. These creatures can be savage, and Flyn spares little detail in her evocation of the damage they can wreak to human flesh, but the most terrifying creature in the chapter is not ursine or lupine: it is a local’s sheepdog, a domesticated animal whose snarl is “a white noise of pure violence”. The Future of Wilderness and Conservation Flyn sees in the Bon a kind of inspiration: “Sacred landscapes of the kind found in Dolpo,” she writes, “effectively comprise the world’s oldest conservation projects, and there is a lot that we can learn from their longevity.” I don’t know how the beliefs and practices of the Dolpo might be applied at the bottom of the sea, but surely Flyn is right: if we are to escape the course of ecological destruction, we will need more stories, like hers, that can reignite a sense of awe and respect for the worlds we know, and others yet undiscovered.