Buffalo Are Different

By Ken Moody

There are many species and places on our planet to hunt. Sheep reside in the snow-capped mountains of British Columbia or the arid Mexican desert. The elusive bongo can be found in the rain forests of central Africa and the whitetail deer just about anywhere in North America. All present their own challenges, but nothing stirs the soul and induces a higher level of anxiety than the pursuit of Cape Buffalo in the thick jess of southern Africa.

Having experienced hundreds of buffalo hunts myself, I can tell you that all the bourbon and testosterone induced rhetoric echoing around the African campfire prior to the pursuit of buffalo is reduced to mere whispers when on the track of a wounded dugga boy. These are the times when talk is, in fact, cheap and cool heads with quick, effective reflexes are required.

Sam was a friend of mine and a great client. Always ready to listen and follow instructions, we had experienced several quality adventures together prior to him bringing his son along on this hunt for buffalo. Josh was the opposite of his old man. Brash and arrogant to a fault, Josh thought himself to be quite the hunter and ballistics expert, often chastising me for shooting an old, slow .470 Nitro while he sported the faster .460 Weatherby. If talk were brain cells, Josh would have been the smartest man alive, but alas, talk from him was just that, mere noise generated from the combination of hot air and limited knowledge regurgitated from his pie hole like a continuous stream of gaseous bullshit. In short, he was a bit much. I could see that Sam had spoiled his son in the way that a father who had started with nothing and, through hard work, built himself into a rich man might do, but pursuing buffalo is a serious endeavor. You cannot talk the buffalo to death.

Prior to every buffalo hunt, I present a hunt brief to clients concerning the dangerous nature of the activity and what is expected from them. Place in line, shot placement, all of it is discussed. Mounting the sticks and facing your first shot on a buffalo is not the time to have questions. Josh listened intently, giving the impression that his verbal shenanigans might merely be youthful exuberance combined with nervous energy. But, of course, his true nature couldn’t control itself. ‘I’m going to be quite disappointed if we don’t get a charge out of my buffalo,’ he snapped as we headed towards the bakkie.

Stopping the procession immediately, I turned directly to Sam and told him that while I appreciated his business and liked him personally, I could not allow the hunt to go forward with a liability like Josh in tow. His son just didn’t seem to get it, and it simply wasn’t worth the risk to take someone so flippant out after buffalo. A quick father/son ‘come to Jesus’ ensued, followed by a contrite apology from the would-be buffalo

hunter.

After discussing the situation with my PH Jaco, we decided to proceed with the caveat that the hunt would be called if Josh showed anything other than a strict adherence to the way we hunt buffalo. I then turned to Josh and reinforced that position and told him he was embarrassing his father and that so far, he hadn’t impressed anyone. There’s a fine line between entertaining clients and allowing them to enjoy themselves and having to impose a reality check upon them when a potentially dangerous situation might occur. Our job is to offer them the protection they need even when they don’t realize they need it, and part of that protection is making sure their heads are right when buffalo is the quarry. Josh affirmed that he knew the gravity of the hunt and its potential danger and that he would fall in line as instructed and not become ‘that guy.’ I slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘then let’s go get your buffalo.’

Moving through the thick entanglements in our area, which bordered the Klaserie, was tiresome. We were heading to a known watering pan deep in the bush, hoping to find the spoor of thirsty buffalo. It was a few miles in from where we left the bakkie, but our pace was brisk as we wanted to get to the water as soon as possible to try and find fresh tracks to follow. Josh had no problems with the pace, youth having a few positive attributes it seemed. As we reached the edge of the brush line which bordered the large watering hole, our tracker held up his hand and pointed off towards the opposite side of the water. ‘Nyati,’ he murmured. We strained in our binos, glassing the areas adjacent to the water before I too heard the distinct sound of an approaching herd. ‘Let’s go,’ whispered Jaco.

We stealthily crept down closer to the water and took up a position which might allow for a shot if a good bull was presented. Jaco got Josh in position while I continued to glass, the slight haze of rising dust beginning to come into view as the herd progressed. Jaco whispered instructions to Josh, whose nervous demeanor became obvious. We weren’t around the campfire anymore. As the herd broke into view, we could see over 100  buffalo marching abreast towards us, their pace quickened by the need ofan early morning drink. Silence fell around us as we froze and waited for a possible encounter.

The low, hushed bellows and sounds of the herd, combined with their large numbers, began to work on the young hunter. I could see his clutch on the stock of the Weatherby tighten, the white knuckled grip unrelenting.  Getting his attention, I smiled at him and gestured with a slightly hidden thumbs up, trying to induce a bit of calm into his nervous disposition. The buffalo closed onto the water hole, most of the herd entering the water and moving out towards the middle. Before long, the water was alive with buffalo, all of them oblivious to our presence. All but one, it seemed. In the back of the herd, an old, lone bull hesitated to approach. Something bothered the elder and he lingered just out of range. We sat motionless as the ‘cat and mouse’ game continued, the bull pacing back and forth, reluctant to join the others. The wind was perfect for us, as we became statues within the copse of downed trees hiding our party.

Eventually, some of the herd began to move out of the water and feed along its edges, the inviting grasses a nice treat after a relaxing bath and drink. We held our position, determined to wait the old bull out, and after 30 minutes or so, he obliged us, sauntering down for his own drink. Jaco slowly placed his hand on Josh’s shoulder, and whispered instructions into his ear. I moved my .470 from a cradled position to the ready in case it was needed. On came the bull. He entered the water and seemed to become relaxed, his previous misgivings apparently gone. When he was at a range of about forty yards, he turned broadside and Jaco opened the sticks to allow Josh to get comfortable with them. I could hear the young hunter breathing, the moment beginning to overwhelm him. Again, Jaco whispered instructions and as the buffalo lowered his head for one last drink…BOOM went the .460.

The thunderous departure of the large buffalo herd was followed by silence as all contemplated the event. I was sure I’d seen the bullet impact low and back on the bull, and conferring with Jaco confirmed it. Gut shot! We strained our ears to listen for an improbable death bellow, which Jaco and I knew would never materialize, but still, one must listen for it as bullets can do strange things upon impact. Nothing was heard. Josh remained silent as I explained to him the difficulty in tracking the bull in such a large herd, especially as it was now amongst them. We moved from our hiding spot and cautiously circled the large pan to where the bull had lept from the water. We found his track and took it as it joined the herd, the bulk of them moving off in the direction from whence they entered. It was likely going to be a long day.

Our tracker excelled at keeping on the bull’s spoor, the indication of gut here and there proving the track. On we went, a pace mindful of the danger we were likely to face. One mile, two miles, on until lunch when we stopped for a quick bite and water replenishment. At this stage, I spoke again with both Sam and Josh and reiterated the procedures and what to possibly expect. Leading a client into danger without annotating expectations is a disaster waiting to happen. All must know where they are to be and how certain contingencies might be executed. A buffalo charge is controlled chaos. How much control is determined by how much preparation goes into readiness for it.

We took the track back up and found that the wounded bull had separated from the herd. This was a very good thing for a herd will draw a wounded buffalo along with them as they travel. An isolated, gut shot bull will do one of two things; walk aimlessly about until he decides to stop and wait or walk in a direct line to a place he knows and then wait. Once he’s waiting on you, he will again do one of two things; run a mile or so and wait again or charge immediately. Normally, a wounded bull will walk in a ‘fishhook’ fashion and position himself on the flank of his pursuers when he decides to stop. This buffalo didn’t do that.

We stayed on the track as we began to enter a shallow ravine, the tracks taking us directly into its center, forcing a single file approach. I had a bad feeling about not having a flanking gun as the terrain didn’t allow for it, but it was what it was, and we had to negotiate the ravine to get out of it, so onward we pressed. About halfway into the steep-sided ravine, we heard the distinct ‘woof’ which indicated a charge was coming. Through the far side bush, the buffalo burst, straight from the opposite side of the ravine on a line towards our tracker, who was in front. Instinctively, the tracker fell flat to the ground as Jaco raised his rifle to engage. I moved forward to join him as Josh fell to the side, unable to participate. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, went the double rifle duo, me and Jaco unleashing a wall of lead into the beast. BOOM, I fired my remaining barrel, dropping the determined bull with a neck breaking shot just below the chin as Jaco reloaded and put in one more insurance shot. I too, reloaded and, after helping Josh regain his composure, led him forward for one more shot from his .460. Always allow the client the coup if possible.

With the adrenaline subsided and calm restored, Josh sat still by his buffalo, just staring at it for a while before his father joined him in the moment. A muffled conversation was followed by a father’s arm over the shoulder of his son. Buffalo hunting is different. It’s a scary, nerve racking, adrenaline filled adventure that imprints the brain and body with every  known emotion, thus encapsulating every reason we do it. Most of all, buffalo hunting is humbling for that moment of trial exercised from Josh all his previous childish notions and replaced them with the makings of a grownup. In that moment of life and death uncertainty, he became a man. Cape Buffalo it, but it was what it was, and we had to negotiate the ravine to get out of it, so onward we pressed. About halfway into the steep-sided ravine, we heard the distinct ‘woof’ which indicated a charge was coming. Through the far side bush, the buffalo burst, straight from the opposite side of the ravine on a line towards our tracker, who was in front. Instinctively, the tracker fell flat to the ground as Jaco raised his rifle to engage. I moved forward to join him as Josh fell to the side, unable to participate. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, went the double rifle duo, me and Jaco unleashing a wall of lead into the beast. BOOM, I fired my remaining barrel, dropping the determined bull with a neck breaking shot just below the chin as Jaco reloaded and put in one more insurance shot. I too, reloaded and, after helping Josh regain his composure, led him forward for one more shot from his .460. Always allow the client the coup if possible.

With the adrenaline subsided and calm restored, Josh sat still by his buffalo, just staring at it for a while before his father joined him in the moment. A muffled conversation was followed by a father’s arm over the shoulder of his son. Buffalo hunting is different. It’s a scary, nerve racking, adrenaline filled adventure that imprints the brain and body with every known emotion, thus encapsulating every reason we do it. Most of all, buffalo hunting is humbling for that moment of trial exercised from Josh all his previous childish notions and replaced them with the makings of a grownup. In that moment of life and death uncertainty, he became a man.