Guardian: The sun is up, first rays streaming through the canopy, and the two hunters pause to inspect tracks – big, dusty imprints with five toes – on the forest floor. They move on, boots crunching twigs as they climb a ridge. “What you reckon the chances we’ll get one?” asks Josh Brones, a muscular 37-year-old, adjusting his backpack. Dan Tichenor, 65, tall and rangy, scans the northern California landscape. “More than even.”
We troop on, single file, in silence. The only sound apart from our footsteps…

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