White Rhinoceros – The Last Rung in My Big–Five Ladder

South Africa: 2007
Volume: 18.1

 

 

White Rhinoceros – The Last Rung in My Big–Five Ladder

For the past 45 minutes I’d crouched immobile behind a low thornbush on the edge of a 20–acre grass–covered meadow, watching five rhinos graze. Moving their enormous heads from side to side, they cut a swath through the field, ingesting an impressive amount of green groceries.

A slight wind was blowing in our direction; the quarry was completely unaware of our presence. When first spotted, they were approximately 70 yards off and had come no closer during their recent machinations. In the last three minutes, this situation changed. Two of the rhino, one with the largest horn, grazed in our direction moving from my left to right. The smaller one came to within 20 yards of us, while the larger was approximately 50 yards away.

After practicing with Barry's Ruger Model 77 .270 rifle, Greenfield's daughter Ruth Ann first bagged a Cape kudu bull and later this 'rock,' which was really a bushbuck with impressive horns.After practicing with Barry’s Ruger Model 77 .270 rifle, Greenfield’s daughter Ruth Ann first bagged a Cape kudu bull and later this “rock,” which was really a bushbuck with impressive horns.

For reasons known only to them, both rhino suddenly stopped not agitated, just frozen. The larger rhino was partially obscured by the closer. I held the dart gun on ‘ready.’ Carl had set the pressure for a distance of approximately 50 yards. Barry’s hands tightened on his .470 Krieghoff Classic double rifle just in case! Lady Luck smiled. After two to three minutes (it seemed a lot longer) the larger rhino walked forward, giving me an unobstructed view.

A moment of truth had arrived. I sighted the red dot on its right shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Following the whooshing sound as the dart flew, I could see the red tip impaled on the rhino’s shoulder. Startled by the sound, both rhino charged forward full speed luckily, not in our direction. They were joined by their companions and rapidly ran downhill. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt elated. Perhaps my final quest was over.

Six months prior this event, I had little interest in hunting a southern white rhinoceros. On two previous occasions I’d seen them in the wild and neither encounter had whetted my appetite to hunt these apparently docile behemoths. However, last fall I shot a very large male leopard in Namibia, and now had four of the African Big Five, all of record–book quality. I needed only a rhinoceros to complete SCI’s African Big Five Grand Slam.

Although Greenfield was armed with a dart gun, PH Barry Burchell carried a .470 Kreighoff Classic double rifle - just in case!  But Lady Luck smiled for Greenfield to complete his Africa Big Five.Although Greenfield was armed with a dart gun, PH Barry Burchell carried a .470 Kreighoff Classic double rifle – just in case! But Lady Luck smiled for Greenfield to complete his Africa Big Five.

The major impediment to my shooting a rhinoceros was the kill fee – at least $50,000… Out of the question. On the other hand, I could afford the substantially less cost of darting one of these ‘Pleistocene holdovers.’ Frank Cole of Cabela’s Outdoor Adventures arranged for me to hunt with Barry Burchell of Frontier Safaris. The hunt was to include darting a rhino, hunting caracal with Barry’s hounds, and introducing my daughter, Ruth Ann, to big–game hunting.

Accordingly, we arrived in Port Elizabeth in April after the obligatory 24–hour air travel. The facilities of the game ranch were very impressive. Approximately 50 miles inland from the Eastern Cape, the spectacular hilly terrain was sparsely covered with small bushes and short trees. The weather, early winter, was dry and the temperature ideal.

The first day, while getting over the jet lag, Ruth Ann practised shooting Barry’s Ruger Model 77 .270 calibre rifle. That afternoon she killed her first big–game trophy a very impressive Cape kudu bull.

The next morning, we drove 30 miles to the Lalibela Game Reserve through heavy fog and met PH Carl van Zyl, our primary guide. The veterinarian, a delightful individual, showed me the ins and outs of using his dart gun. This gun had a long, thin barrel and a red–dot sight. The maximum range was 50 yards. He made it very clear that, due to the parabolic trajectory of the dart, the precise distance to the quarry must to be known. (If the rhino was 20 yards away and the gun was set at 50 yards, the dart would go over its back. Conversely, if the rhino was 50 yards away and the gun was set at 20 yards, the dart would hit the dirt before reaching the rhino.) I practised several times, and managed to hit a small cardboard box.

Greenfield (R) sighted the dart gun's red dot on the rhino's right shoulder and squeezed the trigger, completing his Africa Big Five with PH Barry Burchell of Frontier Safaris (L) for a lot less than the usual $50,000 price tag.Greenfield (R) sighted the dart gun’s red dot on the rhino’s right shoulder and squeezed the trigger, completing his Africa Big Five with PH Barry Burchell of Frontier Safaris (L) for a lot less than the usual $50,000 price tag.

We piled into a Land Cruiser and went hunting for rhino, first encountering a female rhino with a young calf. She didn’t seem too perturbed at our presence, but it was obvious she expected us to move on which we did. After about an hour, we found five grown rhinos in a grassy meadow and crawled slowly to the edge. One rhino had a trophy–quality large horn. Frankly, at that juncture, I could have borrowed Barry’s .470 Krieghoff and killed the rhino without further ado not a particularly challenging event, to say the least. However, since I was on a darting mission, the next 45 minutes were filled with excitement and anticipation as I sat still and waited…

After the rhinos had left the field, they soon disappeared from our view. Carl whistled for the crew to bring the vehicle and pick up Ruth Ann and the vet who’d hidden behind a tree about 75 yards behind us to watch the spectacle. All boarded, we followed the path made by the rhinos as they ran downhill into a ravine and spotted the darted rhino in thick bush – about 750 yards in all.

We gingerly approached the downed behemoth, but it became clear that the animal couldn’t move. Its respiration was shallow and rapid and its skin felt quite hot. The vet quickly began taking horn measurements, drawing blood samples, administering antibiotics, etc. The rest of the crew chopped down the nearby brush so that the rhino could be photographed. The dart was still in place; it had been driven in exactly perpendicular to the surface. This is important so that the sedating agent was injected directly into the muscle and not into the very thick skin.

...And the view over spectacular hilly terrain was great, too.…And the view over spectacular hilly terrain was great, too.

After about 15 minutes, the dart was pulled out – we were ready to begin the final step. With all of us aboard, the vehicle was turned around and made ready to exit. The vet administered the antidote and hot–footed it back to the truck. The rhino seemed to shake itself somewhat and attempted to rise. We made a circle and returned higher up on the hill. By that time, approximately five minutes had elapsed. The rhino was up and walking around unsteadily, but headed in the direction of his departed buddies. Ten minutes later, we saw him grazing with the group as though nothing had happened.

Carl had told us that this was only the second rhino they’d darted, and that it had never been darted before. Also, they would not dart any animal more than once a year. He said that this darting episode had gone as smoothly as he’d experienced. (The next day, I received a certificate of the horn measurements for the SCI Record Book. A fibreglass replica of the horn using these measurements would be sent later.)

We drove back to Barry’s ranch. That afternoon, about 3 p.m., we rode in the high hills looking for smaller plains game. The scenery was absolutely spectacular, and we saw a number of different species. Just as the sun began to set, Barry decided to drive through an area of pines that looked much like Virginia spruce pine to look for a bushbuck with impressive horns.

Barry spotted the animal approximately 120 yards off. Ruth Ann put the rifle on the shooting sticks, but couldn’t see the bushbuck in spite of Barry’s directions. Finally, he said, “Do you see that brown rock?” She concurred. “Shoot the rock!” She did – and the bushbuck promptly fell.

The base camp accommodations in the Eastern Cape were perfect for Greenfield to introduce his daughter Ruth Ann to big-game hunting in Africa.The base camp accommodations in the Eastern Cape were perfect for Greenfield to introduce his daughter Ruth Ann to big-game hunting in Africa.

We had an early start the next morning to hunt caracal. The hounds were turned out close to the lodge where two caracals had been seen crossing the road the day before. The handlers released the hounds and walked with them in a brush–covered valley while we remained on the crest of the hill watching their progress. After about 30 minutes, we heard the dogs strike. It soon became quite clear they’d jumped a predator. They ran in full cry for about 30 minutes, finally baying a caracal within about 300 yards of us. When we arrived at the tree, a large male clung to a branch that was densely covered by leaves. Although it was quite visible when I was close, from more than 10 feet away the cat was totally obscured by the foliage. This created a difficult situation because the rifle had a telescopic sight mounted close to the receiver. If I moved far enough away to see clearly through the telescope, the caracal was obscured by the leaves. At a short range, when the cat was visible, the scope couldn’t be focused. In desperation, I sighted down the left side of the barrel and guessed where the bullet should travel.

By sheer luck I killed the caracal. The cat fell out of the tree and was immediately retrieved by one of the handlers so that the hounds couldn’t tear the hide.

That afternoon, we drove to the edge of the Karoo dry–lands, approximately 75 miles north–west, where the terrain was flatter and the vegetation sparse – where Rush Ann completed her goal to acquire three antelope with her springbok. Barry told us that when springboks run a lot or are excited, the hairs on the back exude a particular odour much like cotton candy.

After a day of rest we began the tiring, boring long flight home. In the air, I relived the experience and mulled over the future. I’ve hunted four African countries and taken the Big Five. This safari clearly was not as high a level of excitement as I’d experienced before, but it certainly was far more of a challenge than killing the rhino would have been. I’m certain that our rhino was happier regarding the chosen alternative. In any case, I’ve now climbed the final rung in the African Big Five ladder.


Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr. is Professor of Medicine at Duke University. After stepping down as Chairman of the Department of Medicine, he hunted dangerous game on 12 safaris to four African. A number of these are chronicled in ‘Bwana Babu,’ published in 2006 by Safari Press.

Last Chapter: Ninety Miles of Gravel

Cameroon: 2010
Volume : 18.1

 

 

Last Chapter : Ninety Miles of Gravel

I went out the last morning of hunting and, except for a few baboons and some oribi that I never did spot, it was pretty quiet. By this time it was no great surprise to me.

René dug up some more roots and cut off some more bark to be made into manly medicine to keep his three wives back at the village happy. Occasionally he would set a fire in the long grass and if he and the tracker took too long, I would get up when I thought that we had rested long enough, make a few dorky dance moves… They always took the hint and away we would march. We did track one more roan that day, but again the beast was never spotted and eventually we started the long walk back to camp.

When I got back to camp I spotted my buddy Phill, and I swear that poor guy looked like 90 miles of gravel. He was about done. Sadly, around 10.00 a.m. that morning they’d come across the fresh spoor of a herd of buffalo heading into the mountains. With eight hours of daylight remaining, there was a chance to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat. A buffalo bull is never to be despised and is certainly worth all the trouble and expense we had undergone to be there.

My great friend, totally worn out, declined to follow up the tracks and ended the hunt. I think that everyone involved was so disappointed. I sure in the hell was.

René digging up roots (natural Viagra) to keep his three wives happy.René digging up roots (natural Viagra) to keep his three wives happy.

That evening we had the men come up one at a time and gave them each a tip and a brand–new panga. Cam Grieg had suggested the amounts for the tips, and mentioned that if more money were given, the guys would buy guns and/or ammunition and shoot game.  I should have packed some clothes/watches or something to augment the tips, but I really didn’t have any room in my suitcases. And money is always good.

When we broke camp early the next day, we had to make almost a seven–hour detour to the north to pay for the buffalo at the office that was in charge of such things. It was nice to see some new country along the way, and we were in no great hurry to get to town anyway, as the train left at 6.00 p.m. the following day. One always leaves a lot of extra time to allow for breakdowns in that country. Even the train was not beyond such things.

Daniel set us up in a $33–a–night motel back in Ngoundéré and we both quite liked the place. Phill had been craving a cold beer a few days earlier so when he went to his room to shower and rest for a while I sent the local cook/waitress out for two cold beers for my friend.

Later:

Me: Phill, I got the girl who works here to go out and get you a cold beer!
Phill: It had better not be Guinness!
Me: No! No! I saw the two bottles. They’re not Guinness.
Phill: Well, O.K. I’ll have a little. But what I really want is cold milk or iced tea.

That night the lady made us up some tasty but rather tough chicken and chips for supper. The meal for the two of us cost 8,000 Cameroon francs – about $16.00. I was happy with that but did wonder if they whacked the chicken as it was running a marathon race past the restaurant.

I really wanted to contact my wife, Margaret, after the satellite phone fiasco so Daniel and I walked down town about 7.00 p.m. As we left the gated compound we had to walk by about 10 or 12 men yelling at each other in the dark. We were about three feet from them as we walked by. A few big rigs were parked there and obviously the men were not happy about something. I probably should have taken a few flash pictures of the angry guys, but I have yet to descend into total stupidity.
I had no luck getting into the hotmail account, but I did try. We came back with Coke and watermelon and some oranges. All this pleased Ol’ Sir Phull.

The next morning Phill did his very best to get the cook to make him some fried eggs, over easy. He explained verbally, he drew pictures, he had a tracker there that could speak some English and had that guy explain it in French to the lady. And then he followed her into her tiny restaurant, grabbed an egg, pantomimed putting it in a frying pan that was sitting there… paused… pretended that he took the egg out of the pan onto a plate.

Twenty minutes later, my delicious ordered omelette was handed to me. Phill got a couple of eggs fried together, flipped over as an omelette and handed to him. He was not at all happy, as fried eggs are of utmost importance in his universe.
A day later he was wanted to order Coke and bitters from a lady in a bar in the last hotel we stayed at.  Wasn’t going to happen, and he quickly realized that when I pointed out the absurdity of the wish.

We were told to drink at least a gallon of this boiled water each day.We were told to drink at least a gallon of this boiled water each day.

As a change of pace, we ordered fish and chips for lunch and were given a complete little fish on a plate. I’m happy to say that it was delicious. After that, our ride to the train depot showed up, and we grabbed our gear and drove away. Phill forgot to pay, I didn’t. I left my motel key in the room; Phill handed his to Daniel later that night a few hours into the train ride.
We did the long train ride, and again we had chicken for our evening meal. Hard to know how they kill them as they’re tough old birds. But tasty.

We told Daniel we were willing to pay more money for a hotel room as Phill was craving air–conditioning. As so often happened on this trip Daniel listened carefully, agreed totally, and then took us back to the old hotel where nothing worked including the air–conditioning.

It wasn’t all bad – Phill finally got his fried eggs the next morning. The waiter not only could speak English, but also knew enough not to bring the change back after the meal, so Phill ended up giving the chap about a four–dollar tip.

On the trip downtown I had the pleasure of watching a traffic cop in a traffic circle go nuts! Some dude in a car had offended him and he was shouting at the fellow, and then started kicking the front of his car, then kicked down on his hood denting it. From there he went around to the side of the rapidly depreciating automobile and started kicking in the side! Suddenly, from out of nowhere came the only jeep that I was to see in Cameroon. It was driven by another cop who rammed the car head on!

Later we drove by the poor shell–shocked fellow. He was having a very bad day. I think that he was in the wrong lane, but since most drivers in that city drive like they’re insane, I’m not exactly sure what set off the copper.

After a shopping trip that was mostly a fiasco, we spent the last six hours in Cameroon in Daniel’s house watching music videos. The Cameroon chicks sure like to shake their booty…

Pascal, our driver, did not show up to take us to the airport. Daniel got on the phone and yelled for a while. He then drove us to the main road and waited. Once again he got on his cell phone and did some more yelling.

Eventually, Pascal showed up with his little boy. He got behind the wheel and started shouting at Daniel as he drove. Daniel was now silent. Pascal next phoned some lady and hollered at her.

On Ol’ Phill and Richard’s self-guided safari in Cameroon, the staff did their best to make the hunters comfortable, boiling their drinking water and cooking “mealies” for the hunting team that included the local game guard who’d brought along his sleeping map.

The airport was about 10 miles away and we had five hours to get there. Pascal tried to do it in five minutes. About eight miles into the trip, and after just missing another head–on collision, I saw Phill putting on his seatbelt. My nerves might have been getting a bit frayed about then as I snarled at him, “Are you nuts? Now you’re putting on your seat belt?”

My big consolation in all this was that if I got killed in a head–on, Pascal was not going to be getting any tip from me! On that I was adamant.

At the airport we got our guns cleared for take–off … a nice lady wanted elephant meat but we had shot no jumbo. Daniel gave the official a bribe when all the paperwork was done.

Later, we went through security and the lady cop hit me for 5,000 francs. She pointed at her breast and said, “Pour moi.” I gave her the nasty bribe and, now that I think about it, being a man (and all men being pigs), if she’d taken off her blouse, I might have given her 10,000 francs and there would have been no hard feelings…

Phill was taken for 3,000 francs. He was sent to the same lady with the person doing the sending saying, “An American. They will take him.” Or some such comment of what was about to happen.

On the long flight to Zurich, Phill finally got his milk that he had wanted for so long.

It was warm.

Richard Powell is an average–looking, middle–aged (if he lives to be in his 120s) redneck from Alberta, Canada. The chap with the silver Fu Manchu moustache writes hunting books of assorted misadventures in Africa, and in North and South America. His tenth book, “Obsession” will be published this year.

I’d Druther Be Coddled – Chapter I

Cameroon : 2010
Volume : 17.4

I’d Druther Be Coddled – Chapter I

A couple of years ago my great friend, Ol’ Sir Phull (as the African staff during our Namibia safari addressed him), booked a self-guided walking hunting safari in Cameroon.

It sounded like a great, although a bit spooky, adventure and, as usual, I was green with envy when folks go off on exciting trips and I am back home trying to decide whether to lie on my left side or my right side on the sofa while watching endless hours of television.

Unfortunately for Phill, his wife became ill so he had to postpone his hunt. His partner went anyway and, the day before the hunt began, he snapped his Achilles tendon at the hotel in Yaoundé. I’ve been in that hotel since, and one could easily break their fool necks on the stairs – never mind some nasty tendon. This guy must be tougher than leather as he went hunting anyway, and ended up shooting both a buffalo and a roan. Both were illegal females but still, it was an amazing feat. I suspect that he dropped some money as a bribe and eventually left the bush a bit early to see a doctor. (Normal penalty for shooting a female is a double trophy fee – US$1,800 for the male buffalo and US$1,600 for the male roan.


The hunters’ hotel in Yaoundé , Cameroon cost them the grand total of US$55 a night , and there were good reasons for the bargain price.

A bit later I invited myself to go along with Phill when the proper time came. His wife got better; Phill went back to work up in the Northern Territories for another year to scoop up a bit of extra cash to pay for the Lord Derby eland that he needed to soothe his savage soul; and by-and-by we rendez-voused in Calgary to begin the long, tedious journey to remote northern Cameroon.

By that time, I’d read the 25 pages of warnings that outfitter Cam Greig had e-mailed me, and I had a serious case of the Dreads. I envied the lucky dudes that were going hunting in Afghanistan, but it was way too late to back down. I just had to remember what folks have been telling me for years when I start to whine about my upcoming misfortunes… “Suck it up, Princess!”

On the 7,474-mile trip (by GPS) there were a few things that happened that added to my accumulation of mental scars that I collect as a hobby.


Ol’ Phill hates omelettes, and yet that’s what he got each morning for breakfast, no matter what he ordered.

Calgary was enshrouded in fog that February, 2010 morning when I sauntered onto the jet that was to take us to Montreal. By then, the Air Canada folks had gouged Phill and me another $50 for bothering them with a gun each.

They de-iced the jet and we were on our way after a bit of a delay. Everyone was running late but we had ample time to make the connections, so it really didn’t matter all that much to us. As we were about to walk off the plane, I thanked the stewardess for the nice flight. Phill turned to me and told me not to bother – “You’re old, fat and ugly.” “My goodness,” I whimpered, “Now I have to spend 12 days in the bush with you.”


A great view from a hotel that must have been great – 50 years ago.

At Zurich we found, to our great joy, that we’d been bumped up to Business Class for our flight to Yaoundé. I sat down on one of those fine, fine seats, and the stewardess offered me my choice of Champagne or freshly squeezed orange juice. She seemed pleased when I informed her that she was my new best friend. The roast beef was superb. The mousse was just plain worth it! And with the extra leg room it made the trip to Africa so much easier than I can remember it ever being. Ahhhh, but it’s good to be a Class Act.

We landed near midnight. The Swiss Air pilot was a bit hard to understand. He mentioned Douala and I watched the plane on the television screen come to Douala and then go another 89 miles. Phill and I got up and grabbed our carry-ons. Just before we disembarked I started to chat with a Danish dude who was also getting off. He mentioned that he was going to a ship just off the coast. I asked the fellow how he was going to get to Douala? He informed me that we were in Douala! Aieeeeeee ! We’d damn near had gotten off in the wrong city late at night with no luggage. It would have been beyond grim and potentially catastrophic. Luckily, I have this habit of chatting up folks.


This expensive “brand-new” tire went flat during the three-hour drive to the village…

We sat back down and a 30-minute flight later we were finally in Yaoundé.

Our hunt organizer, Daniel, met us at the airport and got us through the gun people. Both sets, and a bribe or two. One of the workers admired my laminated stocked Ruger and wanted to buy it. As he caressed the gray stock I had to tell the fellow that the rifle was left-handed. He was shocked and gave up on the idea. Somehow I doubt if he could have afforded it. I know that I can’t and will eventually sell it to some lucky well-heeled left-hander.

We caught a taxi to the Xavier hotel which, about 50 years or so ago, must have been more than a grand hotel. It had not seen any upkeep since I was in grade school, but for $55 a night it was O.K. Sure, it was hot and sticky and noisy in the room that night, and the mozzies had their way with me. But then what says “African-big-city” more than chickens crowing and dogs barking?


Michel, the game scout, had two wives, a French army rifle from the 1930s, and at least one rifle shell that did not fire off, although the primer was dented.

Phill and I had breakfast the next morning. I ordered an omelette and Phill asked for two eggs over easy. We both got omelettes, and with his coffee and no hot chocolate for me – we did O.K. Phill told me that he didn’t find it all that hot. I told the chap that it was only 8.00 a.m.

Daniel was 45 minutes late, but it really didn’t matter. There would be no train to our jumping-off point until 6.00 p.m. He also ventured the information that there were plenty of buffalo. Now, that was good news.

We spent most of the afternoon in Daniel’s little apartment watching soccer in French or Spanish or some such silly language. From there, the taxi took us through some horridly congested traffic to the train depot where we hung around for a few hours. It was most interesting watching the folks wandering by selling merchandise. It seemed like they sold about anything and were not at all rude if one said that he was not the least bit interested in their frickin’ junk. Actually I never actually said or thought that, but occasionally I like to pretend that I am hard to please or to get along with instead of my well-earned reputation of being endearing Human Velcro.


To reach the Chasse Libre hunting area, the hunters first embarked on a 15 ½-hour train ride from Yaoundé.

They even brought us a bottle of Guinness each. So kind yet misguided. We each gave ½ of our bottle to some dudes playing some kind of gambling dice game close by. That is nasty stuff that Guinness. Gives froth a bad name.

The shoe salesmen were rather cute being that they all carried a shoe set on top of their heads to advertise as they walked along. We made sure that we got pictures of this entrepreneurial spirit. I asked if I could take a picture of a cute little girl and the momma declined. Being that we were rare white guys, she might have been spooked by my fair complexion, watery blue eyes and beery breath.

We got on the train about an hour early; the $50 15-hour sleeper train ride was very interesting. I had never been on a train before, as I spend most of my spare time on my sofa back home, so it was all good . Except maybe it was a bit noisy, a bit rough, and the lady who served us chicken and chips that night never smiled at me. As usual, while trying to win new friends I had my mouth and the rest of my face set in a huge smile and my bleary blue eyes never left her as she took our order and eventually delivered it.


The on-the-ground organizer, Daniel, took to his laptop during the long train ride.

The train arrived at our destination around 9.00 a.m. the next morning. I hadn’t slept all that well, but it was good enough. Our gear was carried to the green Toyota Hilux that Mr. Cam’s driver, Pascal, had waiting for us.


 

For Chapter II of Richard Powell’s 2010 Cameroon adventure, please go to African Hunting Gazette magazine, Vol. 17, Issue 4.

In Response to a Story About Animal Rightists Protesting Leather

2010
Volume: 17.4

 

 

In Response to a Story About Animal Rightists Protesting Leather

Animal Rightists sure got a shock. This is a lesson in how to deal with these people.

It’s rare to find such a gem of a story as this, which happened in January 2010. Google: Three Reported Missing After Animal Rights Activists Take “War on Leather” to Motorcycle Gang Rally, Johnstown, PA.

This reflects how I, at least, believe animal rightists should be treated when they demonstrate against the sustainable utilization of living resources. Very rarely are animal rights demonstrations treated with such admirable contempt – and hopefully it will encourage people to not be so timid in their rejection of this crazy and destructive ideology.

The American The Wildlife Society (TWS) recently published a “final statement” on wildlife management vis-a-vis the animal rights ideology. They concluded, inter alia, that “scientific-based wildlife management is incompatible with the animal rights philosophy.”

This, I believe, is the most important “conservation message” to be made public since the IUCN’s World Conservation Strategy in 1980. Hopefully, it will help stop the rot and get society to understand that, when the animal rightists are challenged they are not invincible.

Recently in the States, the two “military wings” of mainstream animal rights-ism (ALF: the Animal Liberation Front, and ELF: the Earth Liberation Front) were registered as “domestic terrorist organisations” by the FBI – this after a five-year spree of arson attacks on businesses that make money out of animals and the environment, and which caused damage valued at US$43 million.

We still have to learn two other things about animal rightists and their rabid and distorted philosophy:

  • Animal rightists cannot achieve their objectives without violating the legitimate rights of other people; and
  • There is no place in a responsible and civilised society for the animal rights doctrine.

Two Namibian Women Win the WFSA Ambassador Award 2011

2011
Volume: 17.3

Two Namibian Women Win the WFSA Ambassador Award 2011

The World Forum on the Future of Sport Shooting Activities presented their Sports Shooting Ambassadors Awards 2011 to Hon. Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah, the Namibian Minister of Environment and Tourism, and Ms. Marina Lamprecht of Hunters Namibia Safaris, who has also served on the executive committee of the Namibian Professional Hunting Association (NAPHA) for their achievements to conserve Namibia’s wildlife through hunting tourism.

This Sport Shooting Ambassador presentation is made to individuals selected for their contribution to the shooting sports. The award is presented in Nuremberg, Germany, at IWA, the International Trade Fair for Hunting and Sporting Arms, Outdoor Articles and Accessories, where the WFSA has its Annual General Meeting. The World Forum’s Sport Shooting Ambassador Award consists of a solid silver reproduction of a 16th century pistol with its powder flask.

Minister Nandi-Ndaitwah was lauded for her Ministry’s support and promotion of sustainable trophy hunting as a conservation tool, as well as for her keynote address at the WFSA symposium, “The Ecologic and Economic Benefits of Hunting” that was held in Windhoek.


The World Forum on the Future of Sport Shooting Activities presented their 2011 Sports Shooting Ambassadors Awards to Hon. Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah, the Namibian Minister of Environment and Tourism, (R), and Mrs. Marina Lamprecht of Hunters Namibia Safaris (L).

Marina Lamprecht was given recognition as an extremely effective spokesperson for the African trophy hunting industry, for her pro-hunting writing and seminars, as well as her WFSA symposium address, “The Development of Trophy Hunting in Namibia from the 60s to the Present Day.”

The World Forum on March 7th, 2002, granted the Inaugural Sport Shooting Ambassador Award to the best-selling African author Wilbur Smith. Other recipients of this prestigious international award include Scottish racing driver Sir Jackie Stewart, Italian gunmaker Ugo Gussalli Beretta, and US Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

The WFSA Image Sub-Committee believes that in most countries, the public-at-large is denied the opportunity to understand the value of sport shooting in the wider community. The Ambassador Award aims to redress this by making public recognition of the social contribution made by some of the many public figures who have a longstanding interest in the shooting sports.  This year the theme of the conference was “Hunting and Sport shooting in the 21st Century.”

The World Forum, now representing more than 30 associations, aims to raise global community awareness of the case for legitimate gun ownership. International governmental groups as well as institutions such as the United Nations have increasingly turned to the WFSA as it puts forward the views of the global gun owner. The WFSA represents over 100 million sport shooters from around the world.

Hunting Caracal with Hounds in the Eastern Cape

South Africa: 2011
Volume: 17.3

 

 

Hunting Caracal with Hounds in the Eastern Cape

Over the last few years I’ve throttled back and, as a more “mature” PH, traded chasing 100-pounder elephants, marauding lions, and lying for hours on riverbanks waiting to shoot that sly and elusive 15-foot crocodile for far more gentlemanly pursuits.

No more tsetse flies! No more malaria! Yes, sad as it may seem, I’ve replaced the hallowed hunting grounds of the Zambezi Valley, the Mnondo forests of Zambia, and the stark beauty of Mozambique’s Lugendainselbergs with a less stressful East Cape vista, one of rolling hills and the backdrop of the Indian Ocean.

I recently joined forces with Jeff Ford, a big but quiet-spoken man, native to the Eastern Cape, in an effort to provide clients with a unique hunting experience. Jeff, a cattle rancher until a few years ago, has run two packs of hunting dogs, inherited from his father, for almost 20 years. These specially trained hounds, a mixture of blue tick and foxhound, are controlled by two dedicated houndsmen, Tim Mbambosi and Maron Fihlani, and form an integral part of the Problem Animal Control program in the KowieKareiga Conservancy. Jeff is employed by the Conservancy to control predators such as caracal and jackal. He puts his vast knowledge of the area to test in the dense and often extremely rugged broken terrain that encompasses the area adjacent to and between the Kowie and Kareiga Rivers.

Jeff’s dogs are out with their handlers each morning before sunrise, ready to react to calls from local farmers who have lost livestock to predators. As a result of Jeff’s success in controlling these predators, small game species such as oribi, blue duiker, Cape grysbok and Cape bushbuck have flourished in the Conservancy, and a quota of these animals along with caracal is now available for trophy hunting.


PH Don Price (L) has exchanged chasing 100-pounder elephants for more gentlemanly pursuits, like hunting the indigenous species, like blue duiker, of the rolling hills of the Eastern Cape, in collaboration with former cattle rancher, Jeff Ford (R).

I first met Sean Scott, or as I call him, Scotty, a few years back when we traveled to Argentina as part of a group of guests invited by Alfonso Fabres to case out his new bird-shooting operation. We spent two weeks together and, having like interests – hunting, fishing, guns, good wine, women and song – immediately bonded and a great friendship was formed. Although my new friend hails from “Mud Island” he is definitely not the normal pompous “Pom” (Englishman)! Far from it, he is just the opposite, a rugged guy who thrives on the outdoors and who has hunted four continents, from the heat of Botswana to the freezing mountains of Kazakhstan. A booking agent, hunting consultant and shooting instructor, Scotty proved to be proficient with a both a rifle and shotgun, and his knowledge of diverse hunting species was even more impressive.

In mid October 2010 Scotty, accompanied by girlfriend Lauren, arrived in Port Alfred on a three-week working holiday. I had invited them to the Eastern Cape on a fact-finding mission to check out hunting opportunities I have on offer right on my doorstep. The emphasis was to be on the specialized species unique to the KowieKareiga Conservancy. And on top of Scotty’s wish list was the elusive caracal or African lynx, as it is commonly known.

Scotty and Lauren were happy to spend their first night in Africa unwinding at Gisa’s Beach House adjacent to Kelly’s Blue Flag beach in Port Alfred. As we relaxed with a glass of fine Stellenbosch Merlot in our hands recounting hunting stories, the fire crackling in preparation for the rack of Karoo lamb I was going to cook on the braai, my cell phone rang. It was Jeff, informing me that his old neighbor Rob Clayton had called to report that he’d lost two sheep to caracal. ”Are you and Scotty available early tomorrow morning?”


Hunting country here is rugged and broken, thickly vegetated with thorn scrub, euphorbia and spek-boom – and no game fences.

What a question! Wild horses couldn’t have held him back, and early the following morning Scotty, Jeff and I were out early to give it a bash. The big question on all our minds was: Would the dogs pick up scent? The country was rugged and broken, thickly vegetated with thorn scrub, euphorbia and spek-boom. There were no game fences. This was going to be tough, the real thing!

The houndsmen had deployed their two teams of dogs 10 km apart approximately 25 km inland on the Kowie River, and we were quick to position ourselves on top of a commanding feature in the middle so we could respond to either team. It was quite beautiful – the sun was just coming up with a blanket of early morning mist below us in the valleys and along the river off to the north.

While we waited, Jeff and I seized the opportunity to brief Scotty on what could possibly happen if the dogs picked up cat scent. ”Bwana, listen carefully for any giveaway noises and sounds – bushbuck barking, the alarm call of the tree hyrax, baboons, the screech of the crowned eagle – in fact anything out of the norm,” were our instructions.

Sure as God made little green apples, the words had just drifted away on the morning breeze when below us and to our right we heard a bushbuck bark! The noise, faint at first, grew louder, and we ignited into action. Off down the ravine at a run close on the heels of our leader, Jeff Ford. We slid, barely managing to stay on our feet, grabbing at branches that whacked us in our faces, as down the mountain we went, Scotty clutching my Browning over-and-under 12-gauge, and me with my camera slung around my neck. The pace quickened as we dodged and slid in an effort to keep up with our leader.

By now we could clearly hear the dogs barking, followed by a deep baying that sent blood-curdling chills up my spine!  Jeff’s radio crackled to life and breathlessly he answered Tim Mbambosi’s call in fluent Xhosa.  ”Scotty, they have a good-size cat on the run,” he reported. “He has treed twice already but has jumped again and is now heading towards the Kowie River!” And off he spurted again, down towards the baying and barking dogs. As the pace hotted up, Scotty’s shirt stuck to his back, wet with perspiration. There was no giving up now; we had to get to the cat as fast as possible as a caracal can only be treed a few times before he vanishes for good.


PH Don Price (R) and Jeff Ford (L) with their hounds, along with English hunter Sean Scott with his beautiful trophy caracal in the Eastern Cape’s KowieKareiga Conservancy.

The radio crackled back to life and this time all Jeff said was, “Inkosi!” (Thank-you). “The cat has jumped again …we don’t have much time …push guys, push!”

The noise from the dogs intensified into a crescendo, and I knew Tim had the cat treed again. We could make out the river by the belt of thick vegetation in front of us, and I prayed, “Please Lord, let it be a big cat and keep him in the tree!”

Then we were at the river’s edge. Tim and his dogs were holed up just 50 metres away in some really thick riverine vegetation that included a few taller trees. To our astonishment Jeff suddenly began to tear at his clothes, flinging off his shirt and trousers as he ran towards the dogs and the treed cat. What in the world was going on? Scotty and I didn’t realize that Jeff had spotted the caracal high in a tree overhanging the river and was preparing for any eventuality. He hastily signaled Scotty forward and together they crawled towards a big tree surrounded by the baying, barking dogs. Surrounded by the rest of the pack, Punch, the big black and white lead dog, was baying profusely, front paws as high as he could reach up the tree trunk, while out of the corner of my eye I saw Tim, the houndsman, waiting quietly to one side for the business to be completed.

I suppressed a chuckle as I watched Scotty and his semi-naked PH creep forward, quickly take aim, and pull the trigger. But Instead of the blast of the shotgun there was dead silence. Scotty anxiously pulled a second time, but still nothing happened! In a split second he broke the gun, examined the caps of the 12-gauge shells in the barrels and slammed the gun closed again. This time the gun bucked and a shot echoed in the valley. The cat came crashing down out of the tree but halfway down it caught in a limb, seemed to hang on for a brief second and then, in slow motion, fell to the ground.

The next few seconds were crucial as hunt-frenzied dogs can tear a trophy from limb to limb. In a flash Tim was with his dogs, shouting commands and swatting them on their heads, which gave Jeff the opportunity to snatch the caracal up and out of harm’s way. Scotty was ecstatic! What a beautiful specimen, truly a magnificent trophy, deep red in colour, the pointed ears fringed with black. “Don, look at this, mate… he is beautiful… what a cat! What an experience!”


Houndsman Tim Mbambosi (L) is in charge of Jeff Ford’s (R) specially trained hounds, a mixture of blue tick and foxhound, which form an integral part of the Conservancy’s Problem Animal Control program

We all regrouped and Jeff gathered his clothing. ”Sorry for the sudden strip-show, guys, but I’ve had a caracal drop into the river before and we never found it… so I was ready to dive in and retrieve your cat if necessary,” Jeff explained with a smile.

Caracal are incredible predators for their size and kill ad lib if not checked. And, contrary to popular belief, there are still thousands of caracal in Africa, especially in the coastal vegetation of South Africa’s Eastern Cape. Their population is strictly monitored by both Nature Conservation and private organizations such as the KowieKareiga Conservancy. As a result, this formerly elusive species that used to be collected by spotlighting can now be harvested with the aid of well-trained dogs. No longer a dream or a chance trophy, caracal is now very much a reality.

See you soon in South Africa!

0
    0
    Your Cart
    Your cart is emptyReturn to Shop