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A Zimbabwe Hunt
Copyright (C) 1991 by Monty C. Brandenberg
Permission to reproduce this work in its entirety for non-profit
purposes is granted provided this copyright notice is displayed.
All other rights reserved.
Warning: Over time, each country and region develops its own
rules of hunting etiquette. Americans, British, Germans,
Spaniards all have a different way of hunting their game. So,
when one goes to hunt in another country, "When in Rome" is the
appropriate attitude to take. If you are offended by the
presence of an open bottle of beer within a mile of a rifle or
of taking an animal without first crawling over jagged stone
on your stomache for hundreds of yards, then read no further:
what follows is probably criminal in your eyes.
--- oOo ---
It often starts with Capstick. You probably read some Kipling
or listened to Marlin Perkins narrate a hunt when you were younger
so the idea of hunting in Africa or India has always been there.
But it was one of Peter Hathaway Capstick's books that truly
struck home; that made it clear that people really do go on
safari and that with a little planning and not so little money,
you could too. In my case, it was 'Safari: The Last Great
Adventure' which led to several other of his books. From there,
I went on to writers of Africa past: Foran, Bell, Roosevelt,
von Blixen-Finicke, and a dozen others. But it was that first
book that made my desire for a safari a lasting hunger, that
gave me a first glimpse of the excitement of a stalk on an
Elephant or the tension of waiting in a leopard or lion blind.
Finally, I succumbed. On February of this year, I responded to
one of Tony da Costa's frequent ads for packaged hunts in southern
Africa. He offered a 10-day leopard hunt in Zimbabwe with a
generous number of plains animals (kudu, impala, warthog, wildebeest,
steenbuck) included for a very reasonable price. Other species
could be added to the hunt. It was obviously going to be a ranch
hunt due to the low price and relatively short stay for the animals
being hunted but it didn't appear to be one of the South African
'shooting gallery' hunts, either.
I thought this would be a good introduction to Africa so I sent
the deposit to Tony and started purchasing the needed equipment.
Using Capstick and some brochures from the Zimbabwe Tourist Agency
as a guide, I decided I would need a .375 or bigger rifle for the
leopard hunt. Being fond of Weatherby cartridges, I chose a
Weatherby Mark V in .378 Weatherby Magnum to join my Sako hunter
in .300 Weatherby Magnum and fitted with a Swarovski 3-9 variable
to take the beating. I mailed the CITES import permit application
for the leopard hide I hoped to bring back. And bought a pile of
green-colored (*not* khaki) clothing at, of all places, Banana
Republic. Probably the only time their clothing has actually been
carried on safari.
My safari reservation was for July 16th through the 25th and
as the hunt neared, the pieces began to fall in place. The
CITES permit arrived ahead of schedule and was duly copied. Airline
tickets for a three-leg flight (Frankfurt-Johannesburg-Bulawayo)
were purchased. Hotel and car reservations for the 16-hour layover
in Frankfurt were made. Taxidermist lined up. Checked to see that
my Safari Club membership is up to date so I can get all the
imagined record book trophies registered. Plenty of range practice
with the .300 and .378. Shots and Larium (a new malarial
prophylaxis) from the doctor. Registered my guns and camera
with Customs. And so on.
Finally, the day for the flight arrives and I haul everything to
Logan Airport. I take the rifles into the back offices at the
Lufthansa desk where they can be inspected and hand delivered to
the loading area. There is some discussion about my packaging
of the cartriges not meeting regulations (I shipped them in the
original boxes which *isn't* permitted on either domestic or
international flights) but they let me go this one time. Finally
I boarded and took off on an overnight flight to Frankfurt.
I arrived in Frankfurt early the next morning where I have a day
room to stay in until my flight to Johannesburg that evening. This
being my first time in Germany, I decide to make use of the Autobahn
and so I rented a decent car and, after a few transplanted Boston
driving maneuvers, headed south towards the Schwartzwald. Almost
as good as the hunting was driving at 210 kph on a good road in
a German road car without any fear of being ticketed. If there
is one invention indicative of true civilization it must be the
Autobahn. I returned to Frankfurt that afternoon and boarded my
overnight flight to Johannesburg. A short layover in Johannesburg
and then on to Bulawayo.
Bulawayo International Airport is little more than a regional
airport of the US. A few smallish buildings, the rare private
aircraft, and just enough runway to serve 737's. The customs
area was a large room with a few wooden tables and a good supply
of locals loitering around trying to appear helpful to earn a tip.
Stacked with the usual baggage were some two dozen rifle cases:
enough firepower that the hunters could sieze the airport without
working up a sweat. I then filled out the declaration and firearms
licenses in triplicate and tipped one of the loiterers two dollars
for being able to breathe air. At this point I meet Ian, the
Professional Hunter who works for Paul Jelonek, operator of Bundu
Safaris where I am to hunt. We are joined by another hunter, Tom,
who will be hunting separately from but simultaneously with me, and
his wife, Jan, and then we headed outside.
The airport is located far enough from the city that it is literally
in the bush. Surrounded by mopane and acacia trees, I expect a
herd of impala or kudu to walk out onto the tarmac at any moment.
Unlike the open plains of the Serengeti or other parts of East
Africa, Zimbabwe is mostly bush. Many mopane and acacia trees,
the rarer and rarer baobab tree, and various types of brush. On
level ground, it is rare to see more than two or three hundred yards
into the distance. The camp is some 250 km and three hours southwest
into this bush so the four of us, our luggage, and two week's
provisions pack into a small Renault hauling a small trailer
and we leave the airport. On the way to camp, Tom and I begin to
develop our game eyes. At first, we are able to spot the occasional
warthog family or impala herd running near the road. As we go
deeper into the bush and night comes on, we start to see herds of
kudu cows, a few lone bulls (one of which Ian estimated at 50 to
52 inches), a zebra or two, small herds of giraffe, and jackals.
Darkness settles and we see the animals moving across the road in
the car's headlights. Soon we turn in at the gates of Driehoeck
Ranch, a 33,000 acre cattle ranch near Mount Towla west of West
Nicholson where the safari camp is located. After two or three
miles, we come to the owner's compound: an area of a few acres
enclosed by a game fence inside of which is the main house and
garages, a few rondavals for the house staff, duck ponds, a garden,
and several dozen dogs. Nearby is the ranch workers' compound, a herd
of semi-tame impala who stay near the area, and the family's 'pet'
zebra who kicks out headlights for amusement. We're introduced
to the owner and his wife, Willie and Gretti Botha, and their family
and then continue on for a mile or so to the safari camp itself.
The camp sits on a small man-made lake. There are several tents
for the PH's and hunters protected from the sun by thatched shells
on a lawn that belongs on a golf course not out in the bush. Also,
a dinner tent, a small pavilion for sitting around during the day
or after hunting and a cinderblock-and-tarp kitchen. There is a
shower with running hot water provided by a barrel over an open fire
and a generator that is run in the mornings and evenings to provide
lighting. Comfortable but not too comfortable. It's winter at this
time of year so the nights are in the 30's and 40's while the days
run in the 70's. The insects haven't come out yet and the rains are
months away so it's just about the ideal time of year to hunt. Paul
hasn't returned from Kwe Kwe so we have a quick dinner and then to bed:
tomorrow is the first day of the hunt and it begins by 6 a.m.
The night was colder than I had expected so that by morning, my
head feels frozen and I'm awake long before sunrise. Then the light
bulb comes on in my tent and it's time to start the hunt. After
dressing in my "greens," I leave my tent to meet Paul who arrived
sometime during the night. In his 30's, Paul is much younger than
I imagined but, being ex-Rhodesian Army and a lifelong hunter as well
as having run safaris on his own and for his father-in-law, is a
more than competent PH.
Over a breakfast of toast and coffee prepared by Fabian, our Shona
cook, the four of us discuss how the hunt will be conducted. Paul
and I, together with two Metebele trackers, Robson and Davison,
will hunt from one of the Land Rovers while Tom and Ian will take
the other. Tom and I will be hunting separately as two independent
one-on-one hunts, seeing each other only at noon and evening meals.
Tom has come after a number of animals. He would like to get a
leopard, kudu, eland, impala, zebra, steenbuck, warthog, and maybe a
wildebeest. At first, I was only interested in a leopard, kudu, and
impala but after seeing some of the animals on the way in, I decide
to try for a zebra and warthog. Leopard being the most important
and difficult of the animals to hunt, we'll first concentrate on
getting a leopard baited or locating a natural kill. As I had the
first reservation, I will get first chance in the blind on a leopard.
The plan decided, we go up to the termite hill that doubles as the
backstop for sighting in rifles and Tom and I check our guns.
That done, we break up and head out in the Land Rovers.
Our first business is getting some bait for the leopards. I bring
along the .300 and we go out looking for impala. We drive out to
the eastern end of the ranch at the base of Mount Towla where
we spot a small herd. Not knowing that it would be acceptible to
shoot from the car, I kept my rifle unloaded expecting to start
hunting only after we'd left the car to start a stalk on foot.
So when Paul pointed at a medium-sized ram standing head on looking
at us and said "Take that one," I wasn't exactly prepared for action.
Surprised, I asked him "Shoot from the car?" and getting a nod in
response, I opened the breech and dumped a 180 grain Nosler into the
action and hoped I wouldn't need a quick followup shot. I quickly
put the scope hairs between his shoulders and, completely forgetting
any range discipline, yanked off my shot. He'd started to move just
about the time the shot went off but first timer's luck was with me.
The shot hit him square in the chest entering one lung and knocking
him back quite a distance. He got up and ran backwards but dropped
not 50 yards from where he was hit. Not yet dead, Robson quickly
put a knife into the base of his skull and I had my first African
kill. He wasn't a trophy animal; Paul had picked him for leopard
bait. But he looked bloody wonderful to me.
The trackers packed the ram into the Rover trying to keep as much
of the blood in as possible. Paul started driving to a tree where
he wanted to set the bait. This tree had already produced two large
toms within days of each other (contrary to the popular wisdom that
male leopards run in isolated ranges) and Paul thought it might be
good for a third as there were new tracks in the area. The tree
was covered with claw marks like a scratching post for a very large
house cat. Just the sort of thing you want to see on the first day
of your leopard hunt. Robson opened up the impala's stomach and
diced up the viscera a bit. He and Davison then dragged the carcass
along the leopard's tracks and up a trail to the base of the tree.
Using fencing wire, they strung the impala to the side of the tree
in a position that would force a cat to stand up on its haunches
to eat while keeping it away from the jackals and hyenas. It wasn't
perfect yet; leopards like their meat a bit high so in a few days
it should have brought something in to eat.
It was late morning by then. Time to go back to camp for brunch
and a nap before going out again around 2 or 3 o'clock. Fabian
made a breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, kudu steaks (from the
previous hunt), french toast, coffee, and a few other things. (A
safari is an experience just for the generous cooking nevermind
the success of the hunting itself.) Tom and Ian came in eventually
and joined us. They'd seen a few kudu cows and tracks of a huge eland
bull but didn't get a shot at anything for trophy or bait. After
eating, it was a nap until 2 o'clock and then back out in the Rover.
Shortly after starting out, we were stopped by one of the ranch hands.
He said that one of the pumphouse keepers had spotted drag marks on
the road along the northern property line of the ranch. We drove
down the road and soon Robson was saying "Ingewe." Leopard. There
were the marks of a large animal being dragged down the road and
into the trees. The tracks showed two leopards, a large cat that
looked like a big tom or a huge female and a smaller one that could
be a female or a largish cub. In the trees we found the mostly-
eaten body of a kudu cow. Not fresh but the cats had eaten the
previous night and a natural kill almost guarantees that a cat
will make an appearance.
Paul had Robson wire the kudu to the tree in a manner similar to
the bait impala. Meanwhile, Davison took the Rover back to camp
to fetch the equipment for the leopard blind. Half an hour later,
he was back. The blind itself is a small box tent with two small
windows in the front. This was pitched about 30 yards from the
kill and covered with grass for camouflage. The line of fire was
cleared of brush and branches. Then the 'special' equipment is
brought out. A hand-held spotlight with a red plastic filter over
the lens and a small amplifier with an industrial-grade microphone.
The microphone is hidden near the kill and the wires run to the
amplifier in the blind. The spot is used just before shooting.
Leopards can't see the red light and that if there is no sound when
the light goes on, the cat won't notice and will just continue about
its business. We hurry back to camp for a bite to eat and to get
supplies for the night in the blind.
By 4:30, Paul and I are in the blind with the trackers in the Rover
waiting a mile or two down the road. Their instructions are to
listen for shots and to wait for 20 minutes after the report before
driving to the kill. In the blind there is nothing to do but
stare at the ground and try not to make any noise. From time to
time, Paul turns up the volume on the amplifier to listen to the
background noises. Wind rustling the leaves, a bird foraging along
the ground, a warthog grunting and digging in the distance. As night
falls, my legs get cold and numb and I start to nod off. Suddenly,
a jackal starts to wail nearby sending a kick of adrenaline through
my body. 'Blood curdling' is the phrase often used to describe that
sound and it doesn't do justice to a first hearing. Now I'm wide
awake and my heart's pounding loudly enough that Paul can hear it.
I won't be nodding off again.
In a few minutes, the spots have stopped dancing and I can breathe
normally. I start to pay more attention to the sounds outside and
from the amplifier. Another half hour passes and I hear the leaves
start to rustle. Not like the wind or of a bird feeding but of
something large moving through the brush. Shortly, Paul gives me a
tap on the shoulder which is the signal that I should start to move
into shooting position. I slowly get up into kneeling position
barely breathing through my mouth wondering how is it the cat can't
hear my heart beating. As I move the Sako's stock up to my shoulder,
all my senses come into sharp focus. I see the tree and the shadow
of the kudu in the light of the quarter moon, feel the light, cool
breeze drifting into the rear of the tent, the ridges of the rifle's
safety biting into my thumb as I slowly slide it off. I'm moving
the rifle into final position when I tap the barrel against an
aluminum cross member in the blind letting off a metallic 'ching'
that probably woke the trackers. Paul quickly turns on the spot
and I try to spot something. Nothing on the bait, nothing on the
small rise to the left, nothing in the grass to the right. Paul
turns off the light and after a few minutes, we leave the blind
circling around the kill to the road, me at the rear listening very
carefully for an annoyed cat trying to get back at the people who
upset its dinner. We walk back to the Rover under a brilliant
African night sky made all the brighter by the excitement of my
first encounter with one of Africa's Big Five.
The next morning, we go out to the kill to try to piece together
what had happened. Both cats had come down from Towla along the
road. Whether together or separately wasn't certain but it appeared
that the smaller cat waited while the larger went in to eat. It
didn't go directly in but, rather, circled in checking the territory.
This brought it to within a few yards of the blind without noticing
or caring about what was inside. It then went to lie down near the
kill to watch it before finally going in to eat. It had then jumped
off the kill and into the grass to the right where it lay down,
eventually running off across the road. It looked as if it had
been in the grass just as the spot came on and I was searching for
the cat. I probably looked right at the cat without ever seeing
it. After running off, it hid across the road and later came back
across to finish eating after we had gone.
The kudu was little more than bone at this point so Paul wanted
to fill the larder with an impala. We soon found another herd
and I took a young ram for bait. The trackers tied it up along
with the kudu and we were to stay out of the blind that night to
let the leopards get comfortable with the new kill. The rest of
the day and tomorrow morning was to be spent hunting for the other
animals I was interested in.
We drove around the ranch without seeing much. The most excitement
occurred while on a hike into the bush later that morning. We
were walking single file through the bush, Paul in front followed
by the two trackers with myself at the rear. Suddenly, Robson grabs
Paul and takes off to the left and Davison puts his arm out and points
down at the ground off to my right. I'm still thinking about
leopards but what I see is a large black and yellow snake moving
off at an incredible speed. Black Mamba. A friendly fellow whose
bite is almost always fatal. Paul had had a run-in with one a few
weeks before so was well inclined to stay out of their way.
In late afternoon we were walking in the area of a dry river bed.
About 100 yards ahead, we spot a small herd of impala. Paul picked
a trophy animal out of the herd and using his shoulder for a rest,
I let off a shot that should have hit low in the lungs. The herd
took flight and we ran to where they had been feeding. Something
seemed to have gone wrong. Paul thought he had seen the ram run
directly off to the left but the blood spoor trailed first to the
right and then off to the left. The sun was already down but the
trackers got onto the spoor and we were after the ram. We tracked
for well over a mile before the light gave out completely. The
impala would sometimes lie down but would run on when he heard us
coming. There was still some blood at the end but the trackers were
mostly following hoof marks. With no light, we had to give up until
morning when we would continue to track.
The next morning, we got back out on the track and followed it for
another quarter mile or so when the tracks joined up with an impala
herd. This is where the trackers earn their pay. Robson and Davison
followed 12-hour old ram tracks though a herd of impala for a
distance of 50 or 75 yards where the track finally came out of the
herd and where, some 100 yards further on, we found the cold, stiff
body of the ram. The shot had entered low on the chest somehow
passing between lungs and heart without doing significant damage to
either. It was the intestinal damage that had actually finished
him after running something like a mile and a half. A good shot but
it wasn't the animal I had shot at; it was one standing behind it.
That beginner's luck again, I guess.
We packed the impala into the Rover and headed back to camp taking
a slight detour to look over some land we hadn't been on before.
On the way, we ran into a good sized warthog and Paul had me take
a shot at him. He was broadside on and already moving so I led
him a bit. Too much it seems as it angled through his front
shoulder shattering one foreleg. That won't anchor anything in
Africa so we were off in the bush after him. He led us for several
hundred yards before coming out in a small plain with relatively
short grass. We soon had him flushed and with one shot each from
Paul and myself he was down. Ugly as hell but an animal with real
character. In with the impala he went and then back to camp to wait
for evening when we would return to the blind for another try at
the leopard.
We're back in the blind around 4:00 or 4:30 but this time I'm not
falling asleep. The light fades and the usual sounds come out.
A few birds nearby. The jackals calling. A kudu grunts out in
the brush. Darkness all around and then I hear the leaves rustle
again. My leopard is back. This time, I don't need a tap on the
shoulder. I know when he's gone onto the bait and started eating.
I get up into shooting position and look through the scope and I
see him. Standing on his hind legs, forelegs anchored into the
impala and his back turned towards me. I sight in on a rosette
between his shoulders and I wait for the go/no-go from Paul. He
says "Take him," and as I begin to squeeze, the cat begins to drop
to the ground. I follow him down and before he's moved a foot, my
shot goes off and the flash blinds me. I quickly work the bolt and
get the rifle ready for another shot. By this time, the spot is
on, though I cannot say when Paul actually turned it on, and I'm
looking through the scope to see what's happened. At first I see
nothing and I think I've wounded the cat and created a "situation,"
especially after my less than textbook shooting on the impala and
warthog. Then I see a mass of black spots on the ground. He's
down! A second or two later, he begins to lift his head up so I
put another shot in his chest. There's no movement after that.
Now the usual thing to do at this point is to stay in the blind
for 15 minutes and wait for something to happen. But Paul just
hands me the spot and starts out for the cat, tossing the odd
stone or stick in its direction. I stifle an urge to let out
a growl (he does have his shotgun, afterall) and Paul soon
pronounces the cat dead. It turns out to be a very large, very
old female. At 6'8", it's one of the largest leopards, male or
female, they've taken. Robson and Davison heard the shots and
soon arrive with the Rover. Congratulations all around and we
load up the cat and head back to camp for a celebration.
It's only the fourth day of the hunt and I have my main trophy
animal so I feel a little more relaxed for the rest of the hunt.
I still want a good kudu and a zebra but these shouldn't be
difficult to get. We decide to walk though some of the areas
in the hope of coming across a bachelor herd of kudu or a zebra.
After a morning's walk without seeing anything, the trackers
spot a herd of kudu cows with a very large bull in among them.
It isn't the season for the bulls to be running with cows so he
must have wondered into them. They're two or three hundred yards
off on the side of a small hill so we stalk in on them. They
scent us and begin to move off. None too quickly yet so I locate
a break in the trees where they should pass and I get ready for a
quick shot when the big bull comes through. I watch and the cows
begin to pass. One, two, thee, on and on. I get a bit cramped
just watching them so I loosen my grip on the rifle to reseat
everything. Just as I relax, the bull passes through and on into
the trees. We try to track them but they're on to us and the bull
is long gone. Paul estimates that he ran to 50 or 51 inches.
C'est la vie.
That afternoon and the next morning we go out on foot but see
nothing that I'm after. We spot a good wildebeest less than
100 yards off but I'm not really interested in one. We also see
a troop of monkeys and another of baboons. The afternoon was also
a wash until we started driving back to camp. Paul decided to
drive around this one area known for kudu bulls. He tells me
to be ready as we start driving around. After awhile, my attention
begins to waver a bit when I see, framed against the sun, a pair
of cork-screw horns in a vee. Another "Take him," from Paul and
I put a shot in his shoulder. He wheels around but the shot has
done some damage and he can't move quickly. Paul gets a shot in
with his .375 H&H and then another and the bull is trying to go
in the opposite direction. I put one more shot in the chest and
he's down. We get up to the body and he's quite dead. The first
shot went through the shoulders breaking both; that explains why
he couldn't really get moving. Paul's silvertips did their bit and
my second Nosler finished the job. They are very beautiful animals.
Light brown body with darker brown markings on head and neck. A
white chevron on the face and several thin, white lines running down
the body. And of course the strong yet delicate corkscrew horns.
It's a big animal; the four of us had to strain to lift it into
the Rover.
The hunt's half over and I'm beginning to consider emigration.
There's not much left to do so I'm disinclined to work too hard.
We go out on foot in the morning to look for zebra. We haven't
seen anything and it's nearing noon when Paul motions for me
to crouch down. Pointing to some trees over on a hillside not
too far off he says, "There. Zebra. See them?" All I see are
a bunch of branches and I tell him so. But he keeps pointing and
I keep looking and eventually I see that these branches are the
stripes of several zebra who are standing very still. Instantly,
I can see the shapes of necks, shoulders, and rumps and I get
my rifle sighted on the base of the neck of one offering the best
shot. I squeeze off my shot and Robson says he heard it hit but
when we get there, there's no sign of blood. We tracked for
some distance but never found any blood spoor so Paul calls it
a clean miss.
There was one interesting find that morning. We later came across
a pangolin, an armadillo-like animal with scales instead of plates.
These are considered magical by the natives for their ability to
grant wealth to whoever possesses it or parts of it. Since they
are usually killed for their scales which are then sold, they are
now protected but are still very rare: Paul had never seen one
in the bush before. We brought it back to camp so everyone could
see it before returning it to the bush.
The afternoon was uneventful until we started back for camp and
dinner. The sun was down and in the last of the light we spotted
another warthog, this one with huge tusks. I get a shot off but
he didn't drop. One we're on the track it becomes obvious that
I gut shot him. I now swear off any and all shots at game at
twilight; they just don't work for me. We track for awhile and
he frequently lays down to rest but always manages to get up again.
The light dies and it becomes impossible to track so we return
to camp to resume tracking in the morning. At first light, we're
back on the trail but the jackals have been here before us. During
the night, they found the spoor and started tracking and driving
the warthog on. We keep at it for another mile or so without the
jackals letting up and as the outcome of the jackals' drive is more
or less certain, Paul calls off the trackers.
The only thing I really have left to hunt is a zebra so we use
the remainder of the day to walk through some land we haven't yet
hunted. At mid-afternoon, Robson spots a small herd on top of
a wide knoll. Armed with the .378 for the first time, Paul and
I start a stalk on the herd. One of the zebra keeps looking up
in our direction but he never gets a clear sign that he's being
hunted. We get within 80 or 90 yards and I get the crosshairs
on his shoulders. I let of the shot and he drops straight down
in his tracks, very different from the three-legged zebra stories
I had been hearing. I wait a moment and then run ahead of Paul to
get to the zebra. I'm about half way there when a few yards off
to my right, something starts moving in the grass and rockets
away from me. I look over there and I see the spots I now know
very well: it's a leopard who had been stalking the same zebra
herd as I. I couldn't say anything yet, I just pointed in the
general direction for Paul's benefit. He seemed to be a bit
surprised too.
The rest of my stay is pretty quiet. I take one more impala from
about 200 yards. A very nice ram, he should make it into the book.
The hunt over, I pack and give my goodbyes to Paul and Ian, the
Botha's, and the staff. A drive back to Bulawayo and then a three-
legged flight back to Boston. All in all, a very good first hunt
in Africa.
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Buffalo Days
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Copyright (C) 1991 by Michael Hohwy
Please feel free to use this story for non-profit reproduction
provided you display the original copyright statement. All other
rights reserved.
It was blissfully cool that morning as we walked over the
burnt off stubble of the village fields. In fact it was
so cool that young Adrian Swales, my PH, felt compelled to remark
"boy is it cool today - I am shivering". I grinned at him,
and told him to imagine a pre-dawn glacier walk at 9000 ft
altitude, heck, this was not cool, this was pure magic! I
looked at my watch, 0700 - 2 hours at most, then all recollections
of these pleasant minutes would be over. By 10 o'clock
I knew I would be looking for shade whenever we made a stop -
I'd better enjoy the temperature while I could!
September days in the Zambezi Valley get fairly hot. Not as
hot as they do in October just before the rains - the 'suicide
month' - nor as hot as they get once the summer rains are
in full flow in December or January. But then again, most sensible
people consider September the end of hunting season in
Northern Zimbabwe. Only the odd hardy soul braves the heat,
the impassable roads, the rains and the mosquitoes to see the
Zambezi Valley in all its rain drenched splendor. As a matter
of fact, most people in the know would probably have to elected
to turn up here during the winter months. Atleast that would
have ensured them of days some 10 degrees Centigrade cooler.
However, other plans had dictated that September was my time.
In spite of the 40 degrees Centigrade (104 degrees F) shade
temperatures we were to experience, September also has its
advantages. 6 months of drought ensure that few trees have any
leaves left, improving visibility by leaps and bounds. Scarcity
of water also increases the odds of finding game concentrating
around the remaining stale pools. Still the heat, the searing
heat, was taking its toll on this poor Northerner!
Walking was easy that morning, as we left the old Landrover
by the side of the road, and headed in towards the Mola
Range. First the paths leading to the village fields and
later the burns made progress fast and easy. I knew it would
not last forever. But I hoped the present state of affairs
would atleast allow me to shed the stiffness, that had made it
so hard to get out of bed and get going that the morning. I
wondered how many more days like yesterday - and the days
before - would still be necessary. Granted, yesterday had been
fairly tough, 9 hours on foot during the heat of the day
had been enough for me to stiffen up - fortunately I could
still joke about it. Still, this was what I had planned for
and dreamt about for more than 2 years - I was having the time
of my life!
The big gun still felt comfortable suspended across my back
by the sling. I knew from experience, it would not feel
quite so comfortable in a few hours. Maneuvering the
11 lbs beast through the thorn bushes had made me wish
a couple of times I'd gotten myself lighter gun. Maybe
even one which I did not care whether it ended totally
scratched up. However, my love of guns had not yet allowed
me to reach that state. Besides, the weight had
been one of factors that made me decide for the gun in
the first place. If not particularly pleasant to carry,
atleast I was able to shoot the big gun without
worrying about its recoil - an important factor for a
first big bore rifle. In fact while working up my handloads,
I had shot it from the bench countless times without particular
problems. Given the chance to shoot the beast, many people had
commented how pleasant it was to shoot ("kicks less than my
.300..").
I knew the big claw extractor would not let me down, and I
had confidence in the 400 Grs solids gleaming dully in my
magazine. The .416 Remington seemed a good choice, combining
the trajectory of the .375 H&H with the power of the 458. After
all, the .416 Rigby had achieved an enviable reputation on African
dangerous game with the exact same ballistics as my load
exhibited - and all that in a time when my farther had still
been a youngster. If I had wanted to, I would not have had
to hump the rifle around in the first place. The offer had
been made for one of the trackers to carry the gun - politely
not mentioning my slow progress through the bush or my sweaty
shirt. I thought that was below par for the course! If I could
not track or spot as well as these guys, atleast I could
carry my own gun!
There were four of us this 5'th morning of the hunt. Leading
our small party, as we left the burnt fields and headed into
the long grass, were Rogers and Mabonzo ("Bones"), the two trackers.
Adrian and myself followed. In fact it was Rogers who
had made the suggestion that we try and walk into these hills,
as we drove along the road in the early hours of the morning.
Rogers lives in the village we had just passed, and knows
the area like you only know the country where you grew up.
There was always water below those hills, and water this
time of year meant a chance to pick up spoor. Adrian had
agreed to this change of plans - he had flown over the area
several times and not once had he failed to see buffalo.
Buffalo were what we were looking for that morning, just
as we had been looking for them during the last 4 days.
Cape Buffalo (Syncerus Caffer) is by far the most common
of the African Big Five. As such it is possible to obtain
a buffalo license on a relatively short safari in the right
areas - making the buffalo the cheapest of the dangerous
game animals hunted in Africa. Still, easy availability
and low cost (relatively speaking) does not mean that
buffalo hunting is a push over. Nor does it mean that
it is without its moments of spine chilling excitement.
Buffalo hunting is a walking game. Some people are lucky
and shoot a good bull from the road on the first day of
their hunts, but that is hunting - all a question of luck.
By far most of the buffs have to be hunted hard on foot,
tracked down, approached gingerly towards the wind,
stalked through the impenetrable bush where visibility
is measured in single yards. If you are lucky and find
a shootable bull within range, you still may have to maneuver
for a clear shot, all the while scores of eyes are staring
at you. Mostly you spook the herd, and in a flash the game of
stealth becomes a running game. You tear through the
bushes trying to catch a glimpse of where the herd is heading.
Then it is onto the spoor, and the game can start all over
again. If you finally get into position for a shot, you had
better make damn sure the shot goes where you want it to
go. Otherwise you might just find yourself with a problem on
your hands. Unprovoked attacks from buffalo are relatively
rare, in particular from animals in a herd. Lone old
bulls on the other hand constitute a more dicey proposition. Often
they get hammered by the lions, and once wounded, a buffalo
does not ask questions about who caused all the pain in
the first place. Wounded buffalo are altogether unpleasant
customers, they have a nasty habit of doubling back on their
own tracks and waiting in ambush for their tormentors. Backed
into a bush in grass 2-3 meters high he will be waiting for
you. All you can hope for, is that your first shot managed
to slow him down enough for you to get a second chance.
I had had serious doubts of what my reaction would be,
if I ever got into position for my first shot at a bull. Would
I manage to keep my nerves under control and perform
all the tasks drilled into me on the range, align sights,
squeeze trigger? I knew the guys I was with had been through
this innumerable times before - they were true professionals
in the best meaning of the word. In spite of his young 26 years,
I knew that Adrian had hunted more than 25 elephants by the
time he had turned 22. It was *my* reaction I was
worried about. I knew I would most likely be affected
by the heat and the physical exertion. Would I be able
to keep my cool or would I soil my pants? Only one way
to find out, but it required finding the right bull first.
Actually we had found buffalo all the three previous days.
We had even turned down a more than excellent bull on
the second day of the hunt. We had walked into the bush
to check on a pool of water left in a dry riverbed under
an overhanging rock. It was a short walk in there, and
maybe we would pick up fresh spoor around the water.
We were not really that serious that morning, after all
it was only the second day, and we had already shot a kudu
bull the night before. But the walk was short and the morning
pleasantly cool, so in we went. As we were almost on top of
the waterhole, suddenly the mood changed. We had run smack
into a herd of 5 old bulls - dagga boys - coming down to
water. Old bulls are often expelled from the cow herds by
the younger bulls. To gain the protection offered by a herd,
they form small groups amongst themselves. These old bulls
are known by the name of "dagga boys", in a reference
to their habit of rolling in the mud and the local word
for mud - dagga. They are great to hunt - all mature bulls,
running in small herds so much easier to sneak up on than
the breeding herds, which sometimes count hundreds of
animals. Dagga boys also have a tendency not to range as wide
as cow herds do, possibly allowing you a second chance the next
day in the same general area.
The bulls had not seen us and moved out sight down to the water.
We were perched on some rocks above the water, undetected but
unable to see the bulls where they were. Afraid to spook them
by an attempted stalk we got ready where we were. Maybe an
opportunity would arise as they came out from the water. I
lay down on a rock for a semi-prone shot not liking my position
all that well, but I was too flustered to look for a better
rest just then. All of a sudden the bulls spooked on the
water and came thundering right up towards us. The 5 massive,
black animals were soon right below us and called a temporary
halt, snorting and moving about nervously. I was frantically
trying to figure out which of the bulls I had a clear shot
on, while Adrian busied himself with his binoculars to
size up the various heads. By now the buffalo were less
than 20 yards away from us and staring quite intently at us,
none of us dared move an eyelid. The second of the bulls
was very good, sporting maybe a spread of 41-42' - or so
Adrian told me afterwards. Yet it was only the second day
of the hunt, and we might just run out of things to shoot
if we kept going like this. When the buffalo spooked again
and ran another 50 yards away, we decided to give them
a miss - knowing full well that we would be hard pressed to find
such a bull again. Hunting should be many, many other things
than merely killing the biggest animal. We were looking
for the "quality of the hunt" as much as the trophy and
we figured patience was likely to add to that.
As we walked away from the bulls we kept looking nervously
back. One of the bulls was in a pretty bad shape, and a wounded
buffalo must be taken seriously. He had fallen prey to that
unfortunate African tradition: poaching. When we in the West
hear of African poaching we often think of rhinos and
elephants gunned senselessly gunned down by AK47's for their
horns or ivory. In fact meat poaching is if anything more
prevalent in Africa. It is exercised by almost all local
tribes and normally takes the form of snaring. During my
relatively short spell in the Southern Africa I was to cut down
countless snares and see some of the unfortunate victims.
One may ask if it is not unfair to deny the locals access
to the game animals - after all they have hunted for hundreds
of years - or whether hunting is only for the rich whites? However,
unrestricted hunting is not exactly beneficial
to conservation efforts, and the animals are in any event
subjected to ever increasing pressures due to habitat encroachment.
What is more, the local council sells a limited amount
of a renewable resource off every year to the safari operators,
thus generating much needed income to pay for schools and
clinics. Continued exploitation of a valuable resource requires
strict control of how many animals are taken. The poaching also
takes a very unfortunate form in the sense, that a poacher will
set maybe 20 snares. If he finds an animal in the 3'rd snare
the rest remain unchecked. Needless to say, this practice
causes limitless suffering as elephants with wounded trunks or
feet, buffalo with snares round their necks have no means
of freeing themselves, and eventually face painful death by
infection. Our buffalo this morning had a 2-3' wide festering
snare wound round his neck. Most likely the wound already
had maggots in it, and his chances of survival were slim.
Maybe we should have destroyed him that morning, but sometimes
the right decision does not come easily. When we found the
same herd of the dagga boys a few days later - having decided
for a second look at that 41' buffalo - the wounded buffalo
was no longer there. Most likely he had found it impossible
to keep up the pace of the herd and had found a bush to
hide in wait for the inevitable.
Spoor! Rogers and Mabonzo had located the spoor of 3 dagga
boys! We immediately dived onto it and settled into the now
well known routine. A motion of the hand would indicate
every sign as we passed it, even I could not help seeing
the broad buffalo spoor when on sandy ground. But tracking was
to prove less than ideal that morning. Soon the spoor would
disappear into the high grass where the ground was covered with
rolling stones. Apart from making for ankle breaking walking
conditions, the stones made tracking almost impossible. It is
a tribute to the skills of the trackers that we managed to follow
the spoor at all. Yet it was obvious from the start that we
were loosing time, as the spoor had to be cast for again and
again. The buffalo had most likely passed our way late last
night always heading downwind. The wind could prove a problem, if
we were ever to catch up with them, but for now our main problem
was staying on the spoor. As the sun rose in the sky, bringing
promises of yet another "stinker" of a hot day, we tracked up
slopes, down slopes, covering open ground as well as areas
of heavier bush. Always our progress was limited by the difficult
tracking conditions. Finally we saw what might be a good chance.
The spoor headed straight into a patch of thick jesse bush, a
favorite buffalo lie up. As we were upwind there was no way
we could just follow the spoor, so we left it to circle the
patch of jesse downwind. Maybe we would find the buff in the jesse
and get a chance of a stalk. Alas, as we came to the other
side of the jesse we found the spoor heading out the other side
and smack into that of another herd of buffalo. Soon we
had to admit defeat as we lost the spoor altogether. Dejected
we continued towards the distant hills.
As we were walking, I conjured up pictures of one day catching
buffalo in the open, blissfully unaware of my presence. Just
imagine being able to actually see your quarry and pick your
shot... Up until now we had not had many of those encounters.
We had seen buffalo every day for sure, sometimes even multiple
herds in a single day. But most of our encounters had been
under extremely difficult conditions. Take for instance the
herd we had found on day three. We had walked up a series of
hills that early morning. The opposite ridge would allow
us an opportunity to glass into the flats and the jesse,
where the buffalo like to hole up after their nightly feeding
excursions. I soon grew to detest those hills as walking
ground, rolling stones made extreme concentration at all
times mandatory, if a sprained ankle or worse was to be
avoided. But the view was good! As we walked up the hill
we jumped a big bull sable. He ran up the slope to
our left and finally stopped at the crest of the hill to
look back We could do nothing but admire his long sweeping
scimitar horns, his blocky coal black body and his regal facial
expression. Adrian estimated him at 41' - a fine trophy
anywhere. As we finally attained our lookout point on the
crest of the ridge, we had already had to skirt a single
elephant. Below us a herd of sable cows and young bulls
were grazing their way into the valley. In the distance
3 elephants were busy breaking down trees, not to speak
of the herd just behind and to the right of us on the ridge.
In the distance Lake Kariba could be seen in blue contrast
against the burnt off yellow of the bush. Best of all,
below us in the valley Mabonzo soon spotted a herd of
buffalo in the thick jesse. I have long since given up
speculating how they manage to spot the animals in such
conditions. Countless times I have been shown animals and seen...
loads of trees and bush. As a matter of fact, I could have
bagged countless trophy bushes up until now - but unfortunately
I had no license. But buffalo was what we had come for, so
down the face of the hill we stumbled and slid making our
way over countless dry watercourses - dongas. We carefully
avoided the sable herd, and always headed closer to the patch of
jesse that held the buffalo. Stalking in the jesse is
extremely challenging. You never know exactly when you
might run into the buff, and every step and movement has
to be executed with the greatest of care. As you know
you draw closer the excitement rises, and hands holding the
long since loaded gun grow damp - from the hot weather,
naturally. Suddenly Adrian or one of the trackers would
point up ahead, and you knew you had arrived. Mind you
the jesse still looked the same to you, as you squat for
muscle tearing minutes. Quiet, quiet they were just up
ahead, no false moves now. All of a sudden a swishing
tail made the form of huge dark animal spring into
view just over there, holy smoke there they were! Now if
we could only find out if a good bull was amongst them.
Slowly we stalked closer. They must have seen us, for all
of a sudden the bush was full of running animals, breaking
through the bush with the finesse of a steam engine.
After them! Then onto the spoor again, until we caught up
to them 45 minutes later in another patch of jesse. By
now they were already spooky and the result was the same
as it was before. We tried a third stalk and then the time
has come to give them up. They were headed back to
the jesse where we had just spooked them, besides the
herd bull was not that great after all. I was about ready
to quit anyway, it was almost noon and the heat was searing.
I'd drunk all my own water plus the lions part of the
salt solution Rogers carried - I know they saved it for me
and I can't help feeling embarrassed. At home in the
mountains I am normally the one who walk with water
discipline, but the here heat calls the shots. Fortunately
during the walk out we could choose our ground with more care
than when tracking, the welcome sight of the Land Rover
held promises of an ice cold Coke...
We had lost the spoor of the three dagga boys but soon we
picked up another spoor - three, four maybe even five
dagga boys this time. It was almost a repeat performance
of the last tracking exercise. Spirits rose as we picked
up the track, but soon we were back to casting for the
spoor over difficult ground. Eventually we lost this spoor
as well. Now what? Adrian points into the hills and said
he was sure the buffalo had holed up in there somewhere. I
don't doubt his words, but where? Still what else could we
do, so we decided to walk through a hanging valley looking
for buffalo. I was not particularly impressed with our progress
so far that morning. The sun was beating down on us, and I looked
for shade at every opportunity now. A small stream with stale
pools offered refreshment for the boys, but my fear of bilharzia
was still too great for me to indulge. Instead I tried to save
my scarce water reserves. It was 1130 by now, and nobody knew
how many hours we would still walk before we got to the car.
As we moved out again I shouldered the gun heavily
and headed into the bush that seemed to attack my unclad legs with
every step. The heat makes wearing shorts almost a necessity,
but you pay the price in the bush - all a question of habit
I suppose. Ten minutes later we had found the buffalo.
As a matter of fact we almost run straight into them. All of
a sudden Mabonzo tenses up in that characteristic pose: game!
Nyati! Buffalo! And there they are - in full view just 100
yards up ahead under those tall trees! Adrenalin pumping now,
Adrian and I run forward to the hiding shade of a mopane bush.
The situation is almost too good to be true, the wind is strong
and directly in our faces. The buffalo are blissfully unaware of
our presence, as they lie up in the thin shade of the tall trees.
Almost too good to be true, we can actually see them and size
them up. There are five dagga boys. So Adrian was right once
again, they were in those hills somewhere! Now if we could only get
a shot. Adrian looks them over while I plan a rest for my shot,
the mopane bush offering not only convenient shade and camouflage.
There are 4 bulls lying down and one old one with worn down
horns standing. Number two from the left looks good, he is larger
in body than the others, his spread is maybe 40', his bosses are
good and he has a good deep curl. This might just be our buff.
So the waiting game starts. We have discussed our strategy
intensely the previous days and shots at animals lying down
have been ruled out. The chance of not putting the bullet into
the vitals is just too large, it is always difficult to gauge
exactly how the animal lies. So we wait, minutes tick by and
feel like hours, as we never take the attention off our animal.
My rest is over a sturdy branch with my hat folded up between
the stock and the branch. Still I am afraid the recoil will
cause my head to hammer into a branch behind me, as I crouch
into an uncomfortable position. Still a rest is a rest, so we
wait. Attention, he is getting up! We can't believe our luck,
now for the shot. But all he ever presents us with is a rear
end shot, and I am not about to go for one of those, least of
all on a buffalo. Presently he moves to the right, out of sight
from my rest and I gladly shift to another stance. This time I
have to stand on my toes as opposed to crouch. Still with my
folded up hat in use again, this rest is much more confidence
inspiring than the previous. Now if he would only come out
from behind that bush. There he is, I see his left front
leg silhouetted clearly in the long eyerelief scope. My cross
hairs find his shoulder. "Don't shoot"! The command is unmistakable
from Adrian, the old bull with the worn down horns is right behind
our bull, a bit further up. Chances of hitting two animals are
too large, so I hold my shot, silently cursing under my breath.
Finally the other bull moves up the slope leaving our bull alone.
Now? But it is not to be, the bull chooses this very moment to
lie down for a nap again. So we wait.
This time the wait is almost interminable. At one stage we
seriously start discussing whether a lying shot may not be
the solution after all. We try and assess how he lies. If we
put the bullet just above his hind leg, that light gray
shadow there. No, still too dicey! We steel ourselves
with patience. Even Rogers thinks this gets a bit too much
and crawls up to us to suggest we try a shot at the lying
animal. I object to the extra noise, but Adrian tells me
off. He is right, these guys have been in this situation
plenty more times than I have. So we wait. Adrian says
"he is bleeding, he is wounded". And sure enough he does
seem to be bleeding from a wound on his left rear end.
Lion? Bullet?
Magic, he is getting up again. Might we get a shot in this
time? He presents a free shot, angled slightly away but I
can still see his broadside. As he hesitantly takes a few
steps in a direction that will present us with his backside
I make up my mind. Its now or never. The cross hairs settle behind
his shoulder,almost simultaneously the trigger breaks and the
recoil rocks me back and up. The ball has been opened. As I
come down, I am already busy chambering a new cartridge, moving
out from the tree in anticipation of an attempt to get in
a second shot at a running animal. The funny thing is, none of
the buffalo are running. They all got up at the sound of shot,
now they all stand there at full alert trying to establish where
the noise came from. Even our bull is still standing there. Adrian
calls me back to my previous stand, and instructs me to shoot
again. Only thing is, I don't have a clear shot at his vitals.
I can only see his neck, and I consider neck shots at buffalo at
best questionable. If you are not lucky and break his vertebra, a
neck shot is not going to slow a buff one bit. Besides he just
stands there, so maybe if we wait a bit. Adrian and Rogers discuss
whether he is hit, after all he just stands there. I tell them I
hit him - period. We notice how his head is hanging, not alert at
all like the others, and it becomes obvious that he is feeling very
sick.
Finally he moves forward ever so slightly, I can see the
front part of his body but not his shoulders. Carpe diem!
Now atleast I can shoot without worrying about wounding the
other bull. I put the cross hairs on the front of his chest
and touch off. At the shot it is obvious from his reaction
that he is hit hard this time. He stumbles, gets back up again and
moves heavily up the slope. This time the other bulls react
as well, they run off a few steps and face us. We run out from
our hide and I get ready to shoot again. This time I
decide to try a soft nose bullet. After all, with two solids in
him I should already have two good exit wounds - I would get
wiser - and a soft nose might be just the ticket to put him down
for good. One of the big Swift Remington factory loads is chambered,
and I prepare to shoot again. Adrian agrees with the shot but
pleads with me to watch out for hitting the horns. I have to admit
that my third shot is directed at the animal at large. I can't see
which way he is standing, but now we just need to get as much
lead into him as possible - even if it means shooting offhand.
At the shot he breaks down. I know he is mine.
The next few minutes are spent in cautious anticipation of
a possible charge by the other bulls. They stand there,
eyeing us gloomily. I look at the trees round me and try to decide
which one will be easy to climb. Luckily it never comes to that.
After a while they move up the hill and disappear over the crest.
We cautiously move up on the fallen buffalo. Prudence is the
name of the game now, countless accidents have happened with
"already dead" buffaloes. As we get behind him we see his tail
is still moving, and we hear him make a growling sound. Strangely
he will continue making this sound for hours after
he is dead, as air escapes from his stomach contents. We move
above him and Adrian instructs me to shoot him in his spine.
With a standing rest - just like on the range - I put the final
softpoint into his spine and it is all over. Cautiously we
approach, guns on the ready. Sticks are thrown and eventually
the ultimate test - a poke in the eye - assures us he is
dead. I have my buffalo!
He is a magnificent animal, huge body, well developed bosses
and a good spread. What a hunt, talk about quality. That he
is a good trophy is a bonus, but the quality of the hunt is
what is important. The walking is almost over now.
Much handshaking and backslapping later we start planning our
next move. I would dearly like some photos so I vote for
not caping him immediately and just carry out the cape and
the head. Heck, I've waited for this moment for a long time!
Getting the car to where we are is impossible, but we need
to get it a good deal closer. We also need a bunch of locals
to help us carry - there is meat enough for a pretty serious
party right there. The time is 1315 - an hour and a half
since we first spotted the buff - it is the hottest time
of the day. I decide not to try and be a hero, and vote to wait
by the buff while Rogers and Mabonzo walk out to get the car.
I can see it does not suit Adrian, but grudgingly he agrees.
As he does not want to let me wait alone he settles down as
well.
I always have a strange mixture of feelings after a kill.
On one hand I am happy, proud and grateful that everything went
well. On the other hand I always have an empty feeling,
a pang of guilt. That for me is as much part of hunting as
the excitement of the chase. As we sat there waiting in the heat
of the day I could not stop my head from spinning. I had been
fortunate enough to be able to fulfill a year long
dream of hunting in the African bush. I had been allowed
to take one of the Big Five, and had done so without causing
danger to my partners. The buffalo had given me the dearest thing
he had, I knew I would never forget that. Just as I would never
forget the intensity of the hours I had just been through.
It would be less than accurate to say we had picked my buffalo
for any other reason than he was the best of the bunch. Yet, in
hindsight it was a good choice in more ways than one. When
Rogers and Mabonzo came back after 2 hours, we started butchering
the bull. We soon found the reason for the wound Adrian had noticed
while we were waiting for him to get up. Somebody had wounded
the buffalo and either left or lost him! He carried a .375 caliber
solid under the skin behind his left shoulder. The bullet had
penetrated from his left rear end and had lodged under the skin
without touching his vitals. It drove home to me the absolute
necessity of picking your shots with the utmost care. Sooner or
later most hunters have to live through the harrowing experience
of having wounded an animal - some never to be found again. In a
few cases it is pure bad judgment or even negligence, mostly it is
a mix of unfortunate circumstances leading to a situation which
nobody wants. I knew better than to pass judgment, but I was happy
that we could take the buffalo out of his misery.
As we progressed to butcher the bull, I was treated to a good
illustration of how narrow the limit is between a clean kill
and one which requires tracking. In addition I was treated to a
pretty sobering experience with regards to bullet performance. My
first shot - a 400 Grs Barnes' Solid from 50-70 m - hat entered
fairly far back, ranging forward through the lungs, breaking the
right shoulder and lodged under the skin. The bullet was in perfect
condition and could be reloaded and shot again. Yet the fact
that it did not exit was an unpleasant experience to me. First
because it meant, that had the bull decided to run after the
first shot, we would have had no exit wound to help us
with a clear blood spoor. Secondly, so much for believing that
solids would always exit! Fortunately I had gotten the chance
for a second shot - also a solid. It had cleanly entered in
front of the right shoulder, taken out the front of both lungs
and fractured both shoulder blades before exiting. The third
and the fourth shots were both 400 Grs Swift softpoints. They
are some of the best softpoint bullets on the market with
weight retention which is supposed to be 1'st class. A super
partition bullet with the front core bonded to the jacket.
The 3'rd shot broke the rear hip of the bull - ranged forward
but did not exit. The 4th shot was taken from less than
20 meters, broke his spine, ranged down into his chest and
also did not exit. We never managed to recover any of the
softpoint bullets . We tried, but a buffalo carcass is
awfully large. Besides, after having had the boys sort
through about 200 kg of stomach contents for a while I
quite honestly got a bit embarrassed that I had asked, and told
them to forget it. All in all the kill had been a pretty
workman like one. One does not stop shooting at a buffalo until
he lies down. If I ever get a chance to take another buffalo I know
I'll be loaded up with solids. Softs may be OK, but to my mind
only if you are sure you don't need an exit wound to help you
track, maybe for a finishing shot. Even solids don't always exit.
After a couple of hours of hard work, the bull had been
butchered. The head and the cape had been carried out
on a pole - a highly strange looking load! Finally we
all made our way out of the valley, heavily loaded with
meat, rifles, cameras and what-not. The temperature was now
pleasant for walking, but as we needed to get to the road
before dark we kept up a good pace. Loaded down with two
rifles and various other gear I was pretty sweaty as we reached
the car an hour later. What a nice sight! What a nice Coca-Cola!
We loaded the head and cape, the meat and all the people into the
Landrover and carefully wound our way through the bush until
we got to the road. The meat and bones - about 600 kg of it -
all went to the locals for their efforts. Normally we would
have taken some for camp meat, but the old bullet wound
would have rendered the meat less than attractive. Adrian figured
the drums would announce an all night party in the village
that evening.
As we drove home in the red rays of the sunset pictures kept
floating through my mind of what had surely been a unique
day in my life. I could only agree with Adrian as he said:
"boy this is hard, yet another 'shit' day in Africa!". I knew
that in the morning we would go to the burial place, Adrian
had shown me. There we would offer our thanks to the local
spirits for a successful and safe hunt. A hunt of quality.
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