The Last Dance

By Ken Moody

As the van carrying our clients arrived and parked, I joyfully moved forward, greeting our incoming hunters. I was particularly excited to meet Jake, who was bringing his double rifle for this buffalo safari. Jake and I had spent many phone calls prior, discussing ammo, rifle regulation, and all things buffalo hunting. He was an older gentleman who had hunted Africa a few times before, but this would be his first adventure with us and both he and I were looking forward to getting him afield with his .450/400 3” double. First out of the van, Jake stepped into the sunlight, bearing a huge smile. Upon seeing our staff performing their normal client greeting ritual, he joined right in, dancing and singing along as the trackers, skinners, and maids all burst out laughing at his attempts to replicate their rhythmic moves. It was quite a sight. When the dancing concluded, Jake made his way to each one of the greeters, shaking hands and introducing himself. It was obvious that he was happy to be back in Africa, and they all seemed genuinely touched by his earnest friendliness.

After moving Jake into his chalet and getting him settled in a bit, we took him to the range to check his rifle and make sure it was properly sighted. Looking at the antique, I queried Jake about its origin, age, etc. before getting him on the sticks to check out the old firestick. With a couple of adequate shots on the paper, we drove back to camp to talk about the hunt and what was expected in the upcoming days. Jake’s PH, Christoff, went over shot placement and the overall hunting plan and after a hardy supper, the rest of the evening was spent around the fire weaving stories of previous adventures with Black Death. All seemed well when Jake turned in for the night. The following morning Jake seemed excited to begin his quest, the hunting of not only one, but two Cape Buffalo bulls. Yes, the evening before he had confided in me his desire to try and bag two bulls on this one safari, a feat that could be a bit difficult to pull off. I told him to first concentrate on getting the first, and then we could ‘make a plan’ for a second. One needn’t put unnecessary pressure on themselves or one’s professional so the ‘one step at a time’ approach is best when it comes to buffalo. Jake agreed with the plan, and it was with much determination that he climbed aboard the cruiser to begin his hunt. That first day concluded with many buffalo sighted, but no shots fired.

Day two of the safari found Jake a bit weary and slow to move. I asked him how he’d slept, and he indicated that he had not slept well at all and that he couldn’t find his injectors for his insulin. A quick call to the guesthouse where he’d overnighted upon arrival, found that they hadn’t been left there, so we quickly went into town to try and locate some that would work with his medication while he went hunting. He hadn’t had his injections in about two days now, so we prioritized his needs. We all figured it was his lack of insulin plus jet lag and his age that were contributing to his sluggishness. Jake moved slowly but did manage to get into the cruiser ok, and I accompanied him and Christoff in case I was needed to backup on a wounded buffalo. Two hours later, my services were indeed needed as Jake shot a superb bull at about 40 yards, hitting the buff just a bit to the right of where it was intended. Fortunately for us, the bull dashed off into the thick bush, abandoning the herd he was protecting when hit. A lone wounded buffalo is much easier to track and find than one being pulled by the herd, so we were all grateful for that at least.

We listened intently for the death bellow and when it never occurred, I looked over at Christoff and we both silently acknowledged that this was going to be a long day. ‘Going to be a long one, Jake,’ I said to our clearly disappointed client. ‘Don’t worry, though, we’ll get him,’ I confidently continued. ‘I’ll do my best to go with you,’ he replied. Beginning the track, we covered about a half mile when we spotted the beast, lurking in a dense patch of thorns about 60 yards to our front. We began our move to get into position, but as we stepped closer, he bolted from the cover of the thorns and rushed out of sight, showing no signs of having earlier taken a direct hit with a 400-grain bullet. Now we all knew we had a job on our hands. Jake looked disappointed, and I reassured him that we’d give it our best and that he must remain positive.

We pressed onward, the minutes turning into hours and the yards turning to miles. About two hours into it, Jake began showing obvious signs of fatigue and finally had to be relieved from the track and taken back to camp. He had given all he had, but could no longer proceed. Once Jake was secure in the cruiser and on his way, we continued tracking the rest of the day until dark, only jumping our target once more before darkness called for an end to our day. We marked the spot, making plans to return in the morning to begin again.

Day three saw us back at it, the sluggish routine of snaking through the treacherous thornbush hampered by the snagging, pulling, and ripping of our clothes. Miles more we walked, our arms bleeding from the constant thorn abuse, until we again encountered the bull deep within the confines of this thorny fortress. ‘Woofing’ as he crashed away, I realized that we were going to have to walk hard on this track and press this bull until he finally decided to make a stand. We weren’t going to catch him unaware. He had to be made to stop, and only constant pressure from continuous pursuit would make that happen.

We broke for lunch on the track, and quickly choked down a sandwich each and quenched our parched throats with cool water from our bottles. Our trackers had this bull’s footprint imprinted in their heads, so I hoped it would only be a matter of time until we could sort this out. I wiped away the sweat from my forehead and signaled to Christoff that I was good to continue and once the trackers were again on the path, we marched away, picking up the pace and trying to press this buffalo into submission. Miles more we walked, a total of 13 of them, when we stopped and called the track for the day. We hadn’t caught up to the bull again but marked the spot and returned to camp, tomorrow being another day. Once back in camp we discussed the situation and with Jake wanting two buffalo, decided that I would continue with the wounded track with my tracker Robbie, and Christoff would continue hunting with Jake, on call to come assist me if needed.

Robbie and I spent the next few days sorting out the track and pushing it for up to 12 miles per day. Some days we would find the bull and some days we were just walking and trying to catch up. The old boy may have taken a bullet, but he wasn’t going to go easy. Finally, on the afternoon of day eight of the track and with 32 miles on my boots, we found where the bull had recently bedded, the evidence of ‘gut shot’ being everywhere. He was hurting now and could only walk a few hundred yards before having to bed again. My optimism for success grew, and I called in another of our professional hunters to assist as we closed in on what I hoped would be the final reckoning. With less than a half hour before darkness, we pressed  forward, everyone alert and on point. Three hundred yards later there he was, defiant and facing us, the dark body of the old warrior blending into the contrasting shadows of the fading rays of a sinking sun.

We moved a bit forward while the wounded buffalo remained motionless, staring a hole directly through me, it seemed. I circled to the right with Jannie, the backup PH, by my side. When we moved into shooting position, the target of our efforts spun 180 degrees and melted into the darkness. He had prolonged his agony a bit longer, and I felt badly for him in doing so. No one wanted to leave the suffering animal in the bush, but darkness prevailed, and we returned to camp, knowing that the next day would be THE day. But it was not to be.

While I slept in my chalet that night, I was abruptly awakened by the saddening sound of raindrops falling upon the roof. Directly, a full-blown storm erupted, wiping away any track or trace of our wounded bull. At first light, I jumped upon the wet cruiser, and we sloshed towards the last track we’d found the night before, only to find what I already knew. All spoor gone, washed away by the untimely storm. My heart sank. How the hunting gods could not have rewarded us for the time we spent and the efforts we exhibited was beyond me. I felt terrible for old Jake. He had managed to take another great buffalo while were searched for his first one, but this news would be hard on him.

I told Robbie that we would go into the block and check for any sign as I believed the buffalo may have died during the storm, given his state the last time we saw him, but hours of looking produced nothing. We left the block and then drove around it, looking for the track which would have indicated the buffalo had walked out of it after the rains, but every road was clean, devoid of any movement at all. If he had left the area, it would have been before the storm.

We returned to camp, and I broke the news to Jake, his eyes showing deep disappointment. Without a track, we could do very little other than drive the blocks and look for that specific track while concurrently flying the drone to see if we could locate the dead body of the buffalo. This we did for the time Jake was with us, but nothing positive was discovered. On the day of departure, Jake was in a bad state. He battled to walk and was displaying traits of exhaustion. I asked him if he’d like to go to the hospital, but he declined, stating that he was a doctor and felt good enough to travel. We contacted the airport to have a wheelchair waiting for him, gave him a hug, and sent him on his way. Two days later, we were contacted by his secretary, who told us that upon arriving back in the US, Jake was hospitalized for unknown complications.

A few days later, as I was driving the main road back to camp, I smelled the unmistakable odor that we as hunters all know. I gathered a search team from camp and, in about a half hour, found the old buffalo bull dead under a tree, just two hundred yards from the main road. He had died in a spot that we were sure to find. At the same time as we found the buffalo, my wife called me on the radio and told me that she had just received word that Jake had died that very day, a complication from terminal cancer being the culprit.

The elation of finding the buffalo for Jake was tempered with sadness at finding out about his death but I found it poetic that the two had expired basically together, hunter and prey, and that they likely joined again in the afterlife, the constant pursuit continuing into perpetuity. That’s as it should be, I believe, for a real buffalo hunter, and Jake was truly a real buffalo hunter. Until we meet again, my friend.