By Strang Middleton

SHOOTING FORM

Basically, to shoot long yardages, you need good form. This means your shooting technique must be solid and, with practice, should come to you like putting one foot in front of another. A bowhunter should shoot his bow often enough so that no matter what situation he finds himself in, he will react instinctively every time – kind of like driving. No matter where you stand, what the conditions are, or how excited you are, you come to the same anchor point – relax your front hand and squeeze your trigger.

I have a little saying I always run by myself as I prepare to shoot: FPS (Feet Per Second) achieved by adhering to the following important guide: Please see pictures to illustrate these points.

FINGERS – Both hands relaxed, grip and trigger hand (I am a firm believer in a good mechanical release aid) The only finger to move in a shot should be the trigger one with the squeeze. Every other finger and both your hands should be totally relaxed.

PEEP – Line your peep sight up with the ring frame of your pin sight. Most sight guards today are round. This gives you another anchor point as such. Also, pick a spot. (I visualize a beating heart).

SQUEEZE – Take a breath, expel the air, hold on your spot… and gently squeeze the shot off. If you cannot hold it totally steady on your target spot, do not panic! This creates the worst “target panic” out there! Just hold as best you can and squeeze the shot off. You will be amazed how well you do.

These few points along with plenty of practice should develop good form and very tight groups at 20 yards. Use five arrows. If you are worried about wrecking them by shooting arrows already in the target butt, move to 30 yards then 40 yards and so on. I practice at 60 yards all the time. I like to put all five arrows in a paper plate consistently from 60 to 100 yards. Always put a center spot the size of a golf ball on your paper plate to give you a spot to focus on the target.

I have converted many short-range shooters into some long-range hunters in this way. Remember you need a bow that carries the energy all the way down range. We must always be fair to the quarry we chase and use equipment that is more than capable of killing it cleanly and as quickly as possible. Today’s bows in the 310fps+ range are all capable of good energy.

Shoot, enjoy it, and be confident in your ability and the performance of your bow – this is critical to achieve a long shot. If none of this works, find someone who shoots long, ask their advice and to watch you shoot, and take it from there. There are a good many archers today shooting successfully at long ranges.

My preferred style of broadheads…
2 blade silver flame xl
3 blade shuttle T lock
2 blade Sevr titanium

Choose a broadhead that works for you that will get an arrow flying its best for your rig. You must be able to “thread the needle” which means shooting through any window you are given no matter how tight! Bear in mind that often the little antelopes are in heavy cover or grass, so be sure you are happy to shoot through some stuff with your arrow. This is very possible with a good broadhead, if what you are shooting through is up close to the animal, not 10 yards or more in front! If it is too far in front, your arrow will deflect to cause a miss or, worse still, wound the animal. I love using Silver Flame 2xls made by Alaska archery. They are strong, cut big holes and fly great. Whether grass or light shrub, my arrow gets through to my target.

A good sight with pins that are bright are essential – also pins from 20 to 60 yards are important. I use a pendulum sight which is better for the longer shots but can be tough when you have a little animal that won’t stay in one place. This is a personal choice.

I stick with one pin as it makes me focus better than having a mass of pins in my field of view. Like many hunters, if you find yourself tending to “flock shoot” your pins – in other words, put all the pins on the animal and let the arrow fly, change to a single pin sight, and eliminate that problem fast!

There are so many excellent bowhunting products out there so I will only cover what equipment I have found to work for me in a chapter later in the book. The archery manufacturers of the world have provided us with many wonderful gizmos and toys to last us a lifetime! We owe them a great deal for the great advances they have made in making our bowhunting adventures that much easier.

Most small antelopes live in thick cover, with scent, hearing and hiding being their top defense from predators. I hunted a Sharpe’s grysbok for five years before I took one. I never hunted waterholes for them but sat at their middens where they go and poop regularly to mark territory boundaries. Hunting them like this takes lots of time – days of evening and morning hunts. Everything must be perfect with the wind being the most important.

Getting into some scent kit and being as high in a tree as possible always helps. When I got my male, I had a tree stand imprint on my backside! When he finally came in, the buck fever was out of this world and a real job to control! The grysbok is a tiny animal and shooting down from a tree was tough, but practice made perfect, and my little buck did not go far! A good broadhead placed solidly anywhere in center mass of these small animals really works.

An easier way to hunt many of these little animals is at night with a light. Make sure it is legal where you do it and practice shooting at a target with a light – it is different! Aligning your peep is hard but vital at night. Sights with a glow-in-the-dark frame are a good idea. Always be sure to use a range finder too. Things always seem a lot further at night.

Alternative means of hunting are walk and stalk, blinds or stands at waterholes, and calling, which is amazing to experience if you have a caller that knows his stuff.

Your PH should know what works best in the area he is guiding you.

I once hunted thick riverine, coastal forest for blue duiker with a friend. We had a tracker with us who would set up, much like when elk hunting, and call these duikers in. So often the duikers would come in so fast that we only had a fleeting glance. Shots were really tough, and we ended up taking all the pins off his sight except one – set at 20 yards. When the duikers would come flitting through, he would judge, compensate, and let fly! Many vines, branches, logs and twigs were broken before he finally made contact with his little blue duiker. Those trackers who call have an amazing talent to bring in small antelope.

In contrast, species like oribi, steenbok and Vaal rhebok live mainly in vast open areas with sight and speed being their number one defense mechanisms. I know of very few hunters who have taken Vaal rhebok, found in South Africa, with a bow. Rhebok typically live in open, often hilly to mountainous areas. The few I am aware of have been shot on driven hunts and from using a pop-up blind and a decoy.

When I helped on one particular hunt, many of the mountains had flat tops where the rhebok lived. By positioning hunters on well-used routes on the top of a mountain and driving the length of the plateau with beaters, it offered shots to a few guys. Very often, the rhebok would stop as it was about to descend from the top. If a hunter was smart, ready, and aware, he would get his ram like this.

I sat with one guy and we set up behind a big rock. We heard the rhebok coming our way and prepared ourselves. I was filming. The females came past at a trot about 20 yards from us and, as we watched, the ram came flying over our rock and headed to a screeching halt 40 yards from us, and my hunter let fly! I think the excitement was too much – the arrow sailed over the animal’s back by about two feet! This was about our fifth drive, so a tough one to swallow. Sadly, he never got his rhebok.

Another hunter got a stuffed decoy and set it up in a ram’s territory. He set up a pop-up blind about 50 yards away and would get in there before sun-up and spend the day there. Sure enough, after a few days, the group of rhebok showed up and the dominant ram came straight in to check out the decoy. The hunter got his rhebok. Great plan, but access to decoys is very limited!

Oribi are always a great challenge and highly sought after. These little animals really like wide open spaces and are difficult to get. The best way to hunt them is by spot and stalk in the late evening and early mornings. Oribi love burnt areas, so start here if there are any around. I know one place where I hunt that sets up their oribi hunters well. Every year, they will control-burn strips of grass about 150 yards wide through areas of high grass. When the new, green shoots of the grass come through, the oribi go to these like bees to nectar. To hunt them, we simply cruise the edge of the burns until a good oribi is spotted in the distance. You can then set yourself up with the wind and use all the high unburnt grass to stalk your ram. Often shots are in the 40-yard range but prepare yourself to shoot out to 70 yards for the little guys, and really prepare for string jumping – they are fast! Not always, but when they do jump, you normally miss them.

The common duiker is probably the one little antelope that is seen most in Southern Africa. Because they are small, don’t underestimate little guys. I know of one hunter who shot a common duiker far back and high. The duiker collapsed and the hunter went to cut the little animal’s throat to finish him off. Before he knew it, the ram had swung round and sunk both his horns four inches into the man’s thigh! Had the duiker’s aim been higher and had he got the man’s femoral artery, it could have been a much worse story. There are several known cases of domesticated duiker having killed people by piercing the femoral.

Every Southern African country has its “own” specific tiny animals. They all offer fun hunting and a challenge for any hunter.

Next month, we’ll look at swamp antelope and medium-sized animals.

By Ken Moody

An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we made our final approach on the wounded buffalo.  We had pushed the old boy for hours and now, it seemed, the pushing was over.  I knew he was there, just in the distance holed up in a tangle of sickle bush, but I also knew that he was tired and ornery and all those things a buffalo can become when they’ve decided to make a stand.  As we crept closer, I also knew a decision point would be reached and that all hell was likely to come thundering towards us.  I knew all of this, but onward we pressed, as this, you see, is the essence of hunting buffalo. 

Bob had come to me the previous year, seeking out our booth at a trade show closest to his state of residence, hoping to discuss a possible buffalo hunt. The 13-hour drive the day before had a tiring effect, and I could see the weariness in his eyes as he sat down to talk.  After an hour of discussion and attending one of my seminars, Bob booked a 10-day buffalo adventure for the following season.  The actual booking of the hunt seemed to rejuvenate Bob, as after the show, he joined my wife and me for a few shots of bourbon and a perfectly cooked steak.  It was a great evening spent rehashing old buffalo hunting tales and going over the finer details of his upcoming safari.  When he departed our company, he was excited and determined, just the way we like our clients to be. 

The year passed quickly as Bob and I kept in contact, going over his bullet selection and practice regimen. He was past 50 but in good shape and had worked on his stamina all through the off season, something evident when he walked into camp, his slimmed physique not going unnoticed.  ‘Been doing some work, I see,’ I said laughing as he entered.  ‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘Can’t let myself be shown up by you.’ 

Going to the rifle range proved that his health wasn’t the only thing he’d been working on.  Bullet after bullet found its mark at various ranges off the shooting sticks.  ‘So, you’re a sniper now,’ I quipped. ‘On paper, I’m deadly,’ he replied, laughing as he said it.  ‘Let’s just hope I can keep it together on a big buff.’ 

The banter may have been jovial, but his words were all too true.  Many clients are marksmen on the range but completely fall apart when asked to deliver a good shot on a buffalo.  Some just imagine what could happen if they screw it up and pull their shots.  I’ve seen them hit everywhere imaginable.

Day one of the safari began, as most do, scouting for buff.  We scoured the river and other watering points for hours looking for that track that screamed, ‘come find me,’ but none were to be found. On one occasion we happened upon a small herd drinking and rolling about in the mud, a display all too common, but nothing shootable presented itself.  We continued our search until darkness made the endeavor no longer viable and returned to camp for our first campfire.  Much was discussed that first night.  Everything from the first day’s outing – the track deciphering and the trophy quality of the bulls discovered amongst that herd we had found.  Bob was excited, and rightfully so.  He was in the African bush hunting buffalo and for those of us who do it, absolutely nothing could be better. 

The second day of the hunt was a bit different.  While we were hunting the day prior, we had one of our other team members drag all the roads in the late afternoon that paralleled the river and national park on our border.  The buffalo moving out of the park and onto our concession for water would come out early, so today’s tactic was to put our tracker and PH, John, on the front of the truck and slowly drive these roads in search of good spoor.  Around mid-morning we hit pay dirt.  Entering our area from one of the densest parts of the park were the tracks of a small herd of old bachelor bulls, dugga boys, as we call them.  The tracks were fresh and so was the dung that confirmed it.  We were on to something now. 

‘Your bull is at the end of these tracks, Bob,’ I said as I loaded up the double.  ‘You think so?’ questioned Bob, a grin upon his sunburned face.  ‘I reckon so,’ was my response.  ‘I’d say these buffalo crossed here just at daylight, so we’re about four hours behind them.  They’ll go to the water and linger along the river for a while as they feed.  In about two hours from now, they’ll start to look for a shady place to bed, so we’ve got about that much time to close in on them.’  Bob looked a bit concerned as he replied, ‘How far is the river?’ ‘Oh, about two hours from here,’ I responded, chuckling as I said it.  ‘Did you lace ‘em tight this morning?’ Bob looked down at his boots. ‘So tight I can’t feel my feet.’  We both laughed and took to the track, our PH/tracker leading the way. 

The terrain sloped downhill a bit, and the initial tracking was easy, five buffalo bulls in all, making a direct line towards the river along a well-used trail.  John made short work of his job, our progress steady and at a good clip.  Bob showed no signs of fatigue as we finished the first mile, his work in the months before the safari evident.  I knew the area well and the stroll we were on would soon become more challenging with the thickets and thorns that lay ahead.  Buffalo don’t seem to mind such things, but it can become a slog for those burdened with rifles, ammo, and an accouterment of gear.  I’ve always traveled light in the bush, but even so, a heavy nitro express in hand along with a belt of heavy ammunition can take a toll. 

By mile two, we were into it.  The gradual slope we had initially enjoyed had increased significantly as we negotiated the winding trail at a near downward angle.  A gorge to our front had to be crossed and the only thing worse than getting down into it was the thought of having to climb skywards out of it.  Still, we pressed on, the rewards at the end hopefully worth it.  ‘How’s it, Bob?’ I asked as we finally hit the ground level at the bottom of the little canyon.  ‘Good to go,’ was his positive reply. 

Winding deeper into the gorge, the trail meandered along the level bottom for a few hundred yards before rising with an imposing incline to our front.  We took a break before the climb, each of us drinking water and catching our breath.  ‘Thought we were hunting buffalo, not mountain goats,’ Bob said.  ‘Don’t be fooled by their appearance, friend,’ I replied. ‘A buffalo is pure power and can climb the steepest mountains.  I’ve seen them go up hills that would make a goat envious.’  ‘Well, I’m still perfectly fine, but my rifle is worn out,’ said Bob. 

We all chuckled at the remark.

Once we had rested enough, we began the ascent from the depths of the gorge along the steep trail in front of us.  Huffing and puffing, one foot in front of the other, we pushed on, breaching the top and finding level ground after a 30-minute battle with fatigue.  We had about 45 minutes until we hit the river.

With good walking terrain ahead of us, we made up for lost time in the gorge with a quick pace.  Around noon, we entered the thickets that protected the river.  The track still followed the same path, so we stuck to it, the sickle thorns tearing at our clothes and gear.  When we were near to the banks of the water, John threw up his hand and the rest of us stopped instantly, bush statues barely breathing.  There in the distance, standing in the shallows of the river, was a big buffalo bull, the sunlight glistening brightly from his wet boss and horns.  What a brute. 

With a buffalo identified, I crept up to John. ‘That’s a superb buffalo,’ I said, ‘but there’s five more around him somewhere.’ John nodded and we formulated a plan to move on the bull while hoping we wouldn’t be ‘busted’ by the others.  There was a chance that this bull had stayed along the river as his mates wandered to a bedding area, but odds were, all of them were there.  We just couldn’t see the others yet. 

A cross wind from the water inland made our approach doable.  We would circle to our left and move just outside the thicket until we came online with the buffalo, then turn into him and approach directly.  We moved slowly and carefully, the sand beneath giving way with every step.  At a point we judged to be across from our target, John turned us right and we crept up a slight embankment, hoping to find a vantage point from which to discern our final stalk.  Cresting the little hill, we gazed upon the last known spot which held our quarry and saw nothing.  The big bull had moved, to where we knew not. 

‘He’s given us the slip,’ said Bob, a look of concern on his face.  ‘Maybe not,’ I replied. ‘He’s likely just moved back into the thicket along with the others.’  My words to Bob were for reassurance, but I too believed that possibly the old boy had sensed our approach and moved off.  Checking the wind and finding it still favorable, we crawled over the hill and towards the last known spot of our buffalo, everyone’s senses on high alert.  Catching a charge in these thickets wouldn’t be conducive to our continued good health, so we all kept diligent as we moved. 

As our approach brought us closer, I could hear the running waters of the mighty river and knew our proximity to the beach could be measured in mere meters.  Suddenly, John held up his hand and stopped, the rest of us in limbo as he appeared to be focused on a single point to our left.  John slowly motioned to come forward, and I moved a little closer as Bob tapped me on the boot, mouthing the words, ‘what’s going on,’ as I looked back.  I stuck my hand out towards Bob, fingers together pointing upwards, motioning him to stop.  An overanxious client who can’t hold his nerve has blown many stalks in the past and I wanted to let him know firmly to be still and keep quiet. 

When I reached John in front of me, a slow-moving finger pointing at ten o’clock met me when I arrived.  I pulled up my binos and cast a glance into the general direction of the finger.  I concentrated on the thickets and tried to make out anything resembling a buffalo, but only saw branches and foliage.  Then there it was, a movement indicating a leg.  Studying the area, I could begin to see the legs of more than one buffalo, tucked away deep in that tangle.  I looked at John and with a hand signal, he suggested that the buffalo were bedding down.  They would shuffle a bit in the thicket but eventually all lay down and bed for the afternoon.  We had gotten to the river a little too late. 

I knew we couldn’t hope to be successful by trying to move towards the bedding area, so we all backed out along the trail we had entered and moved to the vantage point we had staged at earlier.  ‘Why didn’t we move on them?’ Bob quipped. ‘They were only about 60 yards away.’ ‘Because you’re paying us to be smarter than you,’ I replied, smiling as I said it.  ‘Moving on a group of bedded dugga boys is a recipe for failure,’ I continued.  ‘Our best plan is to hold up here and wait until they get back up in a few hours.  Once we determine their movement, we’ll make a plan to intercept.  The wind will stay constant here along the river, so we have the advantage. This is our best course of action.’  ‘Ok, bwana,’ chuckled Bob, ‘I trust you and your team’s expertise on this.’  ‘That’ why we make the big bucks,’ I said, causing the group to laugh.  Settling down on the sandbank, we had a quick lunch and rested while John kept vigil, waiting for any movement from our little group of bulls. 

Around three hours into our respite, I was awakened by a pebble striking my chest.  I peered under the wide brim of my hat to see John motioning us to rise and ready.  The buffalo were on the move.  I climbed the shallow incline and joined John and we glassed off towards the river, finding six old dugga boys strolling long its banks, moving away from our position.  They were, as expected, all still together.  ‘I reckon they’ll follow the river and feed along the bank,’ I whispered.  ‘Let’s move parallel to them until we find terrain more suitable to an approach.’  The wind still proved favorable, and all agreed to the plan. 

With Bob in tow, we crept along the brush line, just keeping out of sight of our quarry.  Having given them all a good look, I surmised that at least five of the six were good bulls, any of which we’d take given the opportunity.  Bob was happy with a mature buffalo and, with these additional options, I felt confident we could deliver hunter and buffalo to the same general proximity.  A quick scan on my onX Hunt app showed a small hill about two hundred yards to our front along the riverbank. If we could get to it and gain a bit of elevation, we could see the bulls approaching and make a plan to intercept.  A hasty ambush setup is much more productive than trying to move to a target buffalo.  Having them come to you provides a great advantage in that the client can attain a dead rest position and wait for the best angle to execute the shot on an unsuspecting bull.  

We picked up the pace a bit and tried to outdistance our quarry.  I wasn’t concerned with the buffalo crossing the river as it was deep along this stretch and the lush grasses along the side holding them was plentiful.  When I spied the hill, I motioned that we should go around and come up from behind so that we weren’t spotted during our ascent.  It was a small hill just high enough to provide us with a visual advantage.  We climbed the mound and once we approached the peak, got to the ground and crawled to the crest.  Peering over the top, I glassed to see the oncoming buffalo, but saw nothing but a barren bank.  Had I made a blunder? 

‘Where they at, Chief?’ querried Bob, concerned.  ‘Patience my friend,’ I responded.  ‘These old bulls don’t get into a hurry.’ Outside I was calm and professional, but inside I was worried, hoping I hadn’t blown it with my ‘brilliant’ plan.  A minute or so passed and then I saw it, a winged cattle egret flying over the thickets and towards the river.  Following the bird, I watched as it glided effortlessly before descending and perching atop something.  That something I knew to be a buffalo.  ‘There!’ I exclaimed.  ‘There they are.’ Bob strained his eyes, peering through his binos.  ‘I don’t see them,’ he said.  ‘You don’t need to,’ I replied.  ‘That white bird you see there just off the bank is riding one now.’  Two of hunters’ best friends are the little oxpecker and the bright white egret.  Both of these winged messengers can signal the location of buffalo as they ride them and pick off the ticks clinging to their hides. 

The bird atop the bull was soon joined by others until all six buffalo had at least one egret on them.  Like a beacon, we could now follow their progress and get ourselves into position.  The buffalo seemed to just be mingling around a certain spot, a place I assumed where they had found some nice grass to feed on.  We observed the herd for a while until eventually, one of them left the cover along the bank and ventured out along the river for a drink.  Satisfying his thirst, he moved back to the others, and the wait continued.  We had a little over an hour before darkness set in, so if they didn’t move soon, we’d have to go in and take our chances. 

‘I think we need a new plan,’ whispered Bob, his lack of patience getting the better of him. ‘We already have one,’ I said.  ‘We’ll move from here and go to them if they don’t head this way soon.’  Smiling, Bob gave me a thumbs up as we went back to the binos.  The problem with moving on them now was the ‘scouts’ sitting on their backs.  The egrets would most likely spot us and take flight, alerting the herd to our presence, but soon, a decision would need to be made.  Another 15 minutes passed.  ‘Ok, let’s go.’  I had concluded that the old group of bachelors had become very content with the patch of grass they’d found and were in no hurry to leave it.  If we didn’t make our move now, darkness would catch us, and the day would be lost.  It was now or never. 

I gathered the group and, collectively, we made a plan of action.  We’d sneak off the side of the hill and follow it around to the riverbank where we’d approach from the water’s side towards the clump holding the buffalo.  It would be much quieter to creep along the sand than through the tangle of thickets.  We’d use the birds as reference and if we were lucky, they’d be more interested in eating ticks than staying alert.  We had to move slowly, but in a hurry.  Any experienced buffalo hunter knows exactly what that means.  Like snakes, we crept along that riverbank, inching our way closer to a hopeful paydirt.  Staying low, we ensured that we were beneath the birds’ line of sight while occasionally raising up a bit and reestablishing their position.  Time was not on our side, so we moved cautiously, but with purpose.  John led us forward, searching for just the right spot from which we could wheel inward and towards our prey. 

A slightly raised hand from our tracker signaled a stop.  As he pointed to his ear, I strained to hear the tell-tale sounds of a buffalo herd feeding, the grass being munched just faintly audible.  Then a grunt came from the thicket, followed by another.  The buffalo were fully engaged in feeding and the wind was perfect.  During our hunt briefing, which occurred the day Bob got to camp, we went over this type of scenario; where he was to be in line, what hand and arm signals meant, where to shoot based on the buffalo’s presentation, all of it.  There’s no time in the field to address these things, it must be understood prior to the hunt.  When signaled, we all turned into the thicket and began the tedious move, all of us on hands and knees.  The closer we crept, the louder the feeding sounds became.  I tapped Bob on the foot as we moved and smiled at him, hoping to calm the anxiety I knew was there.  It’s a big moment when closing in on a massive Cape Buffalo.  All the things that could go wrong and all the power they could bring to bear can be overwhelming to think about.  It takes a lot of experience to quell those thoughts and focus on the job at hand.  Just move into position and get it done.  That’s all you should concentrate on. 

As we crept closer, a trail appeared that seemed to go on a direct line to the buffalo.  Maybe this was a spot they knew well and used frequently enough to carve out a decent line of approach as they had moved back and forth to the river.  For whatever reason, I was happy we’d found it, as it would be much easier to negotiate than picking our way through the tangles.  We took the trail and closed the distance, the sounds of the buffalo now amplified by our close proximity.  Rounding a turn on the trail, John froze, causing us all to stop dead on the trail. The seconds seemed like forever as we lingered there, motionless and barely breathing.  I could see Bob kneading the sand with his right hand as his nerves were to the breaking point.  Suddenly, all was quiet.  The feeding sounds, the movement, all of it ceased.  They knew we were there. 

A single grunt emitted from one of the bulls signaled the stampede as all six of the dugga boys came thundering down the very trail which held our party.  Having little time to react, John rolled from the trail into the thicket as Bob and I rose up to our knees, rifle barrels in tow.  BOOM went the shot from Bob’s .416, the bullet seeming to strike the first buffalo in the chest, merely paces to our front.  BOOM came a second shot, my .470 responding to Bob’s initial round.  The stricken bull turned, crashing through the thicket not an arm’s length in front of us while the rest of the herd scattered behind him, the sand and dirt thrown into the air causing a cloud of unbreathable debris.  Chaos is the only description.

Seconds passed and I could hear the crashing of water as one or more of the buffalo made their way across the river.  Was our wounded bull amongst them?  I quickly checked on Bob and ensured his rifle was made safe before moving up to check on our valiant PH and tracker, John.  ‘How’s it, John?’ I queried as the old African got to his feet. ‘Close,’ he replied, brushing the sand and dirt from off his clothes and pulling the branches of thorns away.  John shook his head and checked his old bolt action .458 as all three of us took a few moments in silence to try and pull ourselves together.  I knew that had the impact of our bullets not turned the buffalo, both Bob and I would be dead or seriously injured, knowledge that was not lost on Bob.  ‘Do you think he’s down?’ Bob asked, a concerned look blanketing his face.  ‘Doubtful,’ I replied. ‘A buffalo is a bullet sponge, and my shot was somewhere in the black, that’s all I can say.  It happened too fast for any accurate shooting, and I basically pulled once the butt of the gun hit my shoulder.’  ‘Me too,’ sighed Bob.  ‘I think I might have actually shot from the hip.’ Bob’s demeanor had, understandably, changed dramatically.  I could see the fear engulfing him having just survived the shock of a buffalo charge and I knew that now, getting him onto this buffalo would be difficult.  I, too, was shaken as anyone would be.  All the bravado and hubris in the world can’t save you when it’s your time.  Fortunately, it wasn’t ours.

I had no reason to believe that bull was down from those two ‘Hail Mary’ shots, but at that range, maybe one or both of us hit something good and we would find him on the other sides of the water.  Once composure was reestablished, we moved onto the track, which took us straight to the river’s edge.  There, we found the spoor of all six buffalo entering the water and we could spy that they’d exited the other side, directly across from us.  The water was too deep for a crossing and with crocodiles ever present, we chose to find a more accommodating fording place for tomorrow’s track.  With the darkness approaching, we marked the spot and began the long, slow trek back to our truck and then to camp. Once there, we showered and got to the fire started for a nice, filling supper of loin and vegetables.

Bob was still visibly shaken.  His anxiousness had been replaced with doubt and his positive attitude with fear.  He was no longer the Bob we had started with.  ‘Chin up, Bob,’ I said firmly.  ‘We are obligated to sort this thing out and must finish the fight.  I fear we may be in for a long one tomorrow, so let’s get to bed early and rest up.  I know today was not what you expected, but every buffalo hunt is different and occasionally, we get a charge.  You did well not freezing up, and at least got a bullet into him.  Without your shot, the day may have ended differently.’ ‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘I’m certainly no hero.  I can’t even remember pulling the trigger. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do tomorrow,’ he lamented.  ‘I’m sure you’ll do your job, Bob.  John and I will be there and when the time comes, we’ll all flatten that buffalo if he’s still on his feet.’  After a couple of bourbons, we retired for the evening and awaited the morning’s arrival. 

The ride to the river was a quiet one, all of us feeling a bit of anxiety over what may be waiting for us once we crossed the water.  Bob seemed a bit melancholy and John, as usual, was steadfast.  I was feeling confident and figured with two bullets in him, our bull might be a bit sluggish and hold his ground rather than run away, a benefit to us once we caught up to him.  His five companions, however, gave me reason for pause.  They would be a different story and hopefully, not need too much convincing to leave their wounded comrade when the time for unleashing lead was at hand.  John knew the area well, so upon reaching the river, he found a nice fording spot and drove us across, the water lapping over the running boards on the side of our cruiser. We exited the truck just as the first rays of sunshine filtered over the hills and onto the riverbank.  It was time to go.

A brisk, chilly wind nipped at my exposed face once we sorted the track and began moving into the thickets.  I was cold but knew the rising sun would bring with it the warm rays of comfort before eventually turning the temperature up to the high 30s (Celsius).  With rifles loaded and mentally prepared, we pushed forward, the tracks of six fleeing buffalo easy to follow in the sandy terrain.  When we broke out of the thickets, the separation between the buffalo increased, so John was careful to ensure we followed our wounded bull.  Meticulously, he surveyed the ground and went along each track until the slightest trace of blood revealed itself.  With a light whistle, he pointed towards the ground, and we were off, the wounded bull heading on a straight line into the bush. 

The blood was sparse, but the track remained solid, all the bull’s spoor becoming intermingled from time to time before opening up again.  John had our bull’s track in his head so he could easily distinguish it from the others, making the tracking move at a nice pace.  Every so often we’d find a patch of blood indicating that the buffalo had lingered there momentarily before moving off.  The track had started as a running spoor but now was a steady walk, the wind still in our favor.  ‘What do you think?’ whispered Bob. ‘I think we’ll catch up to him before midday, but he’s not going down anytime soon.  We’ll need to convince him to surrender,’ I replied, trying to inject a bit of levity into a tense situation.  ‘Are you ready for that?’ I asked.  ‘Let’s hope,’ said Bob, still feeling a bit dejected by the entire scenario.  

Around 10:30am, the wind began to get ‘squirrely’ as it normally does that time of morning.  Back and forth, one side to the other it swirled.  I knew we’d be winded once we got close to the herd, but we had no choice, we had to follow where our wounded bull led.  An hour or so later we all heard it, the buffalo crashing to our front and right, branches breaking with a dust cloud rising through the thicket.  Busted!  We all stood motionless as the sounds of running buffalo dissipated in the distance.  ‘Was he with them?’ I pondered, staring at the thicket which had, seconds earlier, held the herd.  John and I conferred and both of us had the suspicion that possibly our buff was still there within the confines of thorns before us.  ‘Let’s proceed with caution,’ I whispered.  ‘I have a feeling he’s still in there,’ I continued while looking at Bob.  As quietly as we could, we moved slowly towards the clump ahead.  An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we made our final approach.  Just before we entered the thicket, I placed my hand on Bob’s shoulder just to remind him I was there and to also direct him if needed.  Into the dimming light we went, John in front, Bob and I on his heels.  There wouldn’t be much room to maneuver in the tangles, and I was happy to be carrying a double rifle as there would be little time for working a bolt action at the distance we might find ourselves at. 

On we went, slinking down into a small ravine, until we found the tracks of the herd.  Here we followed, but just before we broke out into the open again, an audible grunt broke the silence and a mass of black stormed from the cover of a thornbush towards us.  Bob raised his rifle and froze, standing motionless as my rifle came to shoulder.  BOOM went John’s .458 staggering the bull, which shook his head but plowed ahead. BOOM, BOOM came my report, both barrels unleashed at under 10 yards, but still he came, momentum undeterred. I reached over and grabbed Bob, who still hadn’t moved, and pulled him towards me, diving onto the bank of the little ravine. 

The bull passed us, flicking his massive horns to the left and catching Bob on his shoulder.  Turning, the bull charged back but was met with a volley from John’s Bruno and one of my barrels which had been hastily reloaded.  The buffalo staggered but didn’t fall, turning again and escaping on the trail we’d entered on.  Bob grasped his shoulder, which seemed bruised but was not bleeding.  ‘Are you ok?’ I asked, obviously concerned that our client might be injured.  ‘I think so,’ he replied.  ‘My arm is sore, but he didn’t hit me too hard, just grazed me as he ran by.’  ‘Can you function?’ I continued. ‘Maybe, but I’m not too sure I want any more of this.  It’s just not what I thought it would be.’ ‘I noticed you were having trouble getting a shot off,’ I said, hoping he could explain his lack of participation.  ‘I don’t know,’ Bob said, shaking his head.  ‘Just couldn’t seem to move or do anything.  I don’t know.’ 

I knew that this buffalo had to be taken down and knew it would be John and myself who did it.  Bob was a liability at this stage and frankly, scared shitless.  His proximity to John and me with a loaded rifle was far scarier than facing the wounded buffalo.  A few professionals have been shot by frightened clients, some killed.  Likely all of us have been shot at, me twice in desperate situations.  ‘Bob, as much I’d like to have you finish the job we’ve started, I fear you might cause us some anxiety now when we close in on this buffalo again.  If you’re not 100% up to it, I’d suggest you remain here in the ravine up on the side of the bank where it’s relatively safe while John and I go forward and sort this out.  It’s up to you.’ ‘Go for it,’ he said.  ‘I’ll feel much better about it if I’m not there.’  With those words, John and I turned and got to the track, the wounded bull surely close by.

John and moved with purpose, both of us knowing a reckoning was about to occur.  This buffalo couldn’t absorb that much punishment and be too far from us.  At least we hoped we’d find him quickly. 

When we got back to where we’d entered the ravine, we saw him, an old warrior with worn horns and shiny, smooth bosses, staggering as he stood, seeming to dare us into coming closer.  He wanted to go down but wouldn’t.  He just stood there, blood oozing from his mouth and wounds, head slumping, defiant to the end.  I whispered to John to go get Bob and bring him up, as we were only a hundred yards or less from the old bull.  Bob needed to administer the coup.  I stood there watching the buffalo, my grip on the rifle tight, ready to end it if necessary.  In minutes, John returned to us, Bob in tow.  I brought Bob up by my side and once John had set up the shooting sticks and Bob’s rifle was cradled within them, I looked at my client and simply said, ‘finish him.’  The .416 cracked once and the old bull buckled.  A second shot put him on the ground, and one more ended it.  We had done it.  As we closed on the downed buffalo, John looked at me an uttered one word… ‘Bulletproof.’  ‘Almost,’ I replied, ‘almost.’

By Terry Wieland

The Forest, the Trees, and Missing the Boat

A couple of years ago, I was part of a group pheasant hunting in North Dakota.  As with many of these gatherings, it was an eclectic crowd of writers, cameramen, and industry types.  One of the cameramen was a young guy, starting out in the business, and ecstatically happy to be invited anywhere at someone else’s expense.

Much of his time was spent quizzing one of the older writers about his time in Africa.  Now, this particular guy had been to Africa a half-dozen times, starting in the mid-1980s.  He’d been to Zambia early on, for about a week, and later spent time in Zimbabwe and South Africa.  I’ve known him for 20 years, and was interested to eavesdrop during dinner and see how he would present his experiences.

I should add that he’s from the Deep South, pushing 80, and retains some attitudes towards other races that most young people today would find highly questionable, if not downright repugnant.  More than that, though, was his eagerness to push his impressions from several once-over-lightly trips to Africa as being deep insights into the realities of the Dark Continent.  In fact, although he’d visited several countries, over about a 25-year period, he had spent no more than eight weeks total on the continent, and then had seen little more than airports and safari camps.

His loud view on Zimbabwe today was that it was, indeed, being mismanaged, but that conditions were not nearly as bad as were being presented.  He’d been there, after all, and hadn’t seen any shortages.

Well, naturally not.  Hunters being a serious source of very scarce foreign exchange, the authorities in Zimbabwe are anxious they not only be treated with some regard, but shielded from the realities of life in Harare and Bulawayo today.  After this particular discourse on modern African history, I asked him for particulars about his last trip.  How long?  Six days.  How much of Harare did you see?  Well, none.  My PH picked me up at the airport and we were in the bush that afternoon.  And after the hunting was over?  Straight back to the airport.

Obviously, modern life is different than life was 50 years ago.  Travel is faster.  Everyone makes a fetish of being constantly busy and unable to afford the time.  In 1908, a safari lasted six months to a year; by 1938, it was three months, and in the early 1950s, six weeks was a long time.  By then, though, air travel had already cut the time required to get there — and the early safaris were really long, not only because of the slowness of foot, or early motorized safaris, but because, having to spend three weeks or more on ships each way just getting to and from, it made no sense to spend less time actually in Africa than you spent on the ship.

In his 1967 book on big-game hunting, Jack O’Connor presented his credentials for writing about Africa, and calculated that, from his first safari in Kenya in 1953, he had spent a total of six and a half months in Africa, hunting in East Africa, Angola, and French Equatorial Africa.  Six months is a good long time.  I calculated my own total, starting from my first trip in 1971, and it added up to almost two years.  Granted, these were not all safaris.  The first ones were straight journalism — four months in Uganda and the Sudan, three months the following year in Kenya and Uganda, and two months in 1976 in South Africa and Rhodesia.  After that, whenever possible, if I was planning a trip to Africa I would build in as much activity as possible into as long a time as possible.  I became, to all intents and purposes, a temporary resident of South Africa, Botswana, or wherever.

Looking back on all that time, I find that my most prominent and vivid memories were less the hunting — although some certainly stand out! — than the time I spent living in grass huts, mud huts, in the old Indian quarter of Kampala, with the Masai in the Rift, or among the highway workers paving roads around the Okavango.  Two months on a remote farm in the wilds of the Orange Free State might not provide the most pleasant memories, but they are vivid none the less.

This is not to suggest that everyone should have the same experiences I have had.  Obviously, that’s not possible.  What bothers me, though, in the modern rush to “hunt Africa” is the common  desire to get in, shoot as much as possible in as little time as possible, and then get the hell out with a minimum of inconvenience, unpleasantness, or exposure to the actual people who live there.

From his first trip to Africa in 1951 until his death in 1965, Robert Ruark would spend months at a time in Kenya, or on safari in Mozambique, Uganda, or Tanganyika.  He developed a genuine love for many of the non-safari, non-hunting aspects of life in Africa, and it shimmers in his writing.  Although he was not here as much, and he was always limited to depicting his experiences in magazine articles, O’Connor had much the same attitude.  If he had been able to spend months at a time in Africa, I suspect his writing would have shown the same interest and insight as his many stories of hunting in Arizona and Sonora earlier in his life.

Obviously, modern life is not going to get any slower, but we all lead our own lives, and we all shape our own destinies.  Some shape them deliberately, others passively allow them to be shaped by others, which amounts to the same thing.  You can’t tell me that a man wealthy enough to fly to Africa for a two-week hunting trip cannot afford the time to build in an extra week to visit Stellenbosch and taste the wines, or take a few days in the beginning to visit Spion Kop.

Of course, to do that, you’d need to know about the attractions of sipping Pinotage, or the events that made Spion Kop a byword for military slaughter only eclipsed, 15 years later, by the Somme.  Too many people today make the trips, but the object of the game is not to see or learn anything, merely to show the people at home that they’ve been there, and to check it off their list.

More than any other single factor, it was reading Robert Ruark as a teenager that ignited my deep desire to see Africa and spend time there.  As I mentioned, my first three trips in 1971, ’72 and ‘76, which totalled nine months in six countries, I did not hunt a single thing.  When I was able to start hunting in Africa, in 1990, the focus became different, but then, so did the publications I was writing for.  Still, the hunting was an excuse to go back to Africa; it was not a case of being forced to make the distasteful and inconvenient trip to Africa in order to put a kudu head on the wall.

At dinner on the last night of the trip to North Dakota, with which I began this tale, my Deep-South acquaintance was holding forth yet again, this time on the quaint practices of the Masai.  He’d seen some at a distance on a four-day wingshooting trip to Kenya, and found them amusingly naive.  Can you imagine, he asked, when they get some money, what do they buy?  A cell phone!

Having spent some time among the Masai, it seems to me that a cell phone is a more useful acquisition than, say, a dress suit or an electric kettle.  Who are they going to call? he asked, to uproarious laughter.  Well, other Masai — like his brother, in his cluster of huts four miles away, who he could not talk to unless he walked over, and even then would have no idea if he was home.  Eminently useful, a cell phone.

Sitting there, listening to this, gritting my teeth, I could see where modern writers are largely failing modern readers.  In our anxiety to tell about the myriad kudu in this country, or the huge flights of sandgrouse in that one, or where the biggest elephants are found, we have forgotten the passion of seeing something new and exotic, and instilling that same passion in our readers.

Instead of writing about what it was like, we write about how long the horns were, which, when you think of it, hardly matters at all.  In an era when technology would allow us to see so much more, we choose to see and feel so much less.

Wieland with his Mount Longido bull – a Cape buffalo that proved the legends to be true.

By Terry Wieland

Years ago, I was told that professional hunters in East Africa wanted a young PH to have a close call with a Cape buffalo early in his career.  Why?  Because, they said, you could hunt and kill 500 buffalo without incident, become complacent, and number 501 would get you.  Better to learn a lesson early.

Recently, a writer I know and respect, who has hunted all over the world, including many Cape buffalo, wrote that he did not know, personally, anyone who had experienced a problem with a buffalo, much less an injury.  Nor, he wrote, did any of the professional hunters he canvassed on the subject.  Cape buffalo, he insisted, are over-rated.  (In fairness, he later told me it was semi-serious hyperbole.)

Well, I beg to differ, and I would like to point out that his statement about none of his acquaintances is patently untrue, because he knows me, and in March, 1993, high atop Mount Longido in the Great Rift Valley of Tanzania, I had a problem that ended only with a bullet in a buffalo’s skull at four feet.  Had that bullet — my third shot —  not found its mark, I would probably have ended up dead.

A brief explanation:  I was hunting with just my PH, Duff Gifford.  Our trackers were eating breakfast by the fire while we scouted in the early morning.  I found a big bull amid the brushy dongas on the mountainside, put a bullet into his lungs at 75 yards, and he dashed into a ravine.  From up on the edge, we could see nothing through the brush but we could hear his labored breathing.  If he did not come out in ten minutes, we decided, we’d go in after him.  At ten minutes almost to the second, the bull came out at a run and up the trail on our side.  He was hunting us.

At any time, he could have escaped down the ravine under cover.  Instead, he lay in wait, facing back the way he’d come, with one purpose in mind:  He was dying, I believe he knew it, and all he had left was revenge.  He soaked up three shots, never wavering, before the final bullet dropped him.

Before that incident, I had killed two Cape buffalo; I’ve killed four more since, and been in on the deaths of a dozen others.  Of them all, the Mount Longido bull was the only one that demonstrated mbogo’s legendary traits of vengefulness, determination, and cool ability to formulate a strategy and carry it out to the bitter end.  But one example was all I needed, and I’ve never since questioned the legends.

Unlike the other notably dangerous game of Africa — lion, leopard, elephant — the Cape buffalo is a decidedly Jekyll-and-Hyde character.  Most of the time, he’s a peaceful herd animal who just wishes to be left alone.  Let him be angered, or wounded, or caught in a snare, or have a toothache, however, and he can turn into an enemy as calculating and dangerous as Doc Holliday.

What’s more, he’s not content just to rough you up and move on.  Once the decision is made, he’s not happy until you are are reduced to a bloodstain in the dust.

In 2004, two men were killed by Cape buffalo, in separate incidents in the Rift Valley.  Neither was hunting buffalo.  In fact, Simon Combes, a wildlife artist of my acquaintance who had lived in Kenya his entire life, got out of his car to look at the view over the Rift when a bull came out of the bush and savaged him.

The other victim was a Canadian outfitter — an experienced hunter — looking for tracks around a waterhole.  He was carrying only a .270.  Again, a bull buffalo, and again, out of nowhere and for no known reason.  Neither bull was ever found.  Snare?  Toothache?  Old wound?  To this day, no one knows.

If, however, you read that Cape buffalo are over-rated, oversized cattle without a malicious bone in their bodies, please keep the above incidents in mind.  And when in buffalo country, carry a buffalo rifle.

By Bob Bixby

My wife Pam and I marked our 30th wedding anniversary not with a Caribbean cruise or a European tour, but with nearly five weeks in Southern Africa. It is a place that’s always meant more to us than just a destination. On our 20th anniversary, we renewed our wedding vows in a church overlooking the Indian Ocean. This time, we returned to make more memories.

The trip had three distinct phases. First, we spent time in the Victoria Falls/Livingstone region, exploring Chobe National Park in Botswana and visiting Victoria Falls from both the Zimbabwe and Zambia sides. Then came the heart of the trip, a 14-day hunt with Huntershill Safaris. We wrapped up the trip with a week in Cape Town and the surrounding wine country, a peaceful end to our adventure.

We flew into Victoria Falls then immediately traveled to Botswana. We settled into a quiet resort on the edge of Chobe National Park, right along the river. That first evening, we had dinner outdoors overlooking the water. The food was good, and the setting was unforgettable, hippos grunting in the distance, the sun melted into the river like gold into a fire.

The next morning, we boarded a boat for a game-viewing ride. It felt like stepping into a different world, untouched and raw. Elephants, hippos, crocodiles and buffalo, all going about their business and all indifferent to our presence. That evening, we switched to a land-based game drive and saw four of the Big Five – everything but the leopard. We got close enough to a male lion that we swore we could hear and feel its breath. It was one of those days that reminds you why we came – not just for the animals, but for the feeling of being part of something bigger.

Day two flipped the order: morning drive, evening boat ride. The bush doesn’t follow a schedule, and that’s part of the magic. Every outing revealed something new. We’d previously been to Kruger Park, and while it’s impressive, Chobe felt more personal. Less traffic, fewer tourists. There were moments when it felt like we had the whole park to ourselves.

After Chobe, we returned to Victoria Falls and spent five days exploring both sides. The Zambian side had more viewpoints; Zimbabwe had fewer, but arguably the better ones. The falls themselves? Nothing short of incredible. They call it Mosi-oa-Tunya – “The Smoke That Thunders” – and it’s not just a poetic name. It fits. We spent two full days exploring the falls. On our first evening in Victoria Falls, we had dinner at the Lookout Café, perched above the Zambezi near the falls.

On our last day we visited Livingstone, a bit less touristy than Victoria Falls with a lot more of the old-time safari-hunter feel. We had dinner on the Royal Livingstone Express, which travels to Victoria Falls Bridge. That was an amazing end to the first phase of our adventure.

Time in Africa is strange. The days fly by, but the moments seem to stretch. I always wish they’d last longer.

From Victoria Falls, we flew to Johannesburg for an overnight stay, then caught an early flight to East London. That’s where we met our professional hunter, Chris Kriel. Young, sharp, and easygoing, Chris helped us load our gear, which was more than his truck could comfortably hold, and drove us to Huntershill Safaris main camp.

After two days of travel, we were ready to rest. But Africa had other plans. The hunt was about to begin.

We’d spend the first week at Huntershill’s main property, chasing plains game across wide, varied terrain. The main property was split pretty much evenly between bottom flats and rugged mountains. Then we’d move to a more remote and mountainous camp for a different set of species. Each location promised its own challenges, its own stories, and its own rewards.

A few hours after arriving, Chris knocked on our door. “Want to check the rifle?” he asked. This was my fifth safari, but my first without my own rifle. It felt strange, like forgetting to wear my wedding ring. We drove to the range as the light began to fade. It would most likely be the last thing we did that night.

Chris handed me his Remington Model 700 chambered in .300 WSM. It had a Sig Sauer scope and a ballistic app that dialed in windage and distance. I usually bring my .300 Ultra Mag and 7mm Ultra Mag, both Remington and with Swarovski glass, so the setup felt extremely familiar.

One thing was new though, a suppressor. I’d never shot a suppressed rifle before. The first shot at the range told me everything I needed to know. The reduced noise, the softer recoil – it was smooth. Leaving my own rifle behind didn’t feel like a compromise at all.

The rifle was dialed. We were ready. The bush was waiting.

Huntershill has a resident rhino family that roams near the lodge. On the drive back, we took our time, snapping photos and watching the hills. On a previous trip, I’d walked out of my chalet and nearly walked into a group of rhinos. I had to shoo them off like oversized cattle. Africa doesn’t do fences like we do back home, animals here pretty much go where they want.

Dinner was excellent, hearty and simple. We turned in early, tired from travel but excited for what lay ahead. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin. Not just for trophies, but for stories. And that’s what we came for.

The Lechwe, Copper Elegance

The first morning of the hunt started the way it should, early, quiet, and full of possibility. The air was cool, the light just beginning to stretch across the hills, and the bush had that stillness that only comes before the first pursuit. Pam and I had a quick breakfast, and by first light, we were rolling out with Chris, in search of “something.”

My list for this trip was ambitious but flexible: kudu, bushbuck, lechwe, waterbuck, golden wildebeest, black impala, nyala, mountain reedbuck, bontebok, and warthog. I wasn’t chasing numbers, five or six would be my limit. I was going to let the trip play out as to which animals I went after. I wanted animals with stories, not just the best scores.

We spotted a herd of golden wildebeest almost immediately. Their color is something else, a rich copper tone with brindled highlights that shimmer in the sun. I’ve always had a soft spot for red tones, maybe because Pam’s hair carries that same fire. But none of the bulls stood out, so we moved on.

A small herd of blue wildebeest crested a hill toward us. One bull looked decent, but I wasn’t interested in another blue wildebeest. Watching wildebeest, the blues and blacks, is always entertaining. They’re the clowns of the savanna, bouncing and bucking for no reason at all. We watched for a while, then pressed on.

A short drive brought us to a herd of Cape buffalo. I wasn’t hunting buffalo on this trip, but I’ve dreamt of that day. There’s a gravity to buffalo, a presence that demands respect. We glassed the hillsides for an hour or so, hoping something else might show, but the bush stayed quiet. It was time to head back for lunch.

Just a few minutes into the drive, Chris stopped the truck, jumped out, and said one word: “Lechwe.” Across the valley, behind a small kopje, was a bachelor herd of three bulls. Two were shooters, one with the classic symmetry and sweeping hooks, the other with a twisted crooked horn that made him a trophy in his own right. We moved to the near side of the kopje, but the cover was thin. Two more younger bulls approached from behind, and if we moved too soon, they’d bust the whole setup.

We waited. The bulls shifted direction, meandering back the way they came. We circled low, hoping to intercept them. It worked. At about 150 yards, they came into view. Chris asked, “Unique or traditional beauty?” I chose the latter, the fourth bull in line, graceful and balanced.

Chris got a final range and dialed in the scope and had me set up perfectly. I settled behind the sticks and found the bull in the scope. I made sure it was the right lechwe, a mistake I’d make later in the trip. Once confirmed, I placed the reticle just above the front shoulder. Calm breath. Gentle squeeze. The shot broke.

What followed was a sound I’d never heard before in Africa: a soft “thwap,” courtesy of Chris’s suppressed rifle. The rifle felt great, dialed in and my confidence was high.

The bull ran no more than 30 yards. His hide was stunning, a deep chestnut color with a golden sheen, and horns that swept back like an impala’s but longer and more dramatic. One of my top animals, and it was already headed to the salt.

By the time we finished photos, it was well past lunch. We returned to camp for a quiet meal, just the three of us. After a short siesta, we went back out, not to shoot, but to scout. I didn’t want to take everything on my first day. Africa rewards patience, and the best stories are never rushed.

The Golden Wildebeest – the Chestnut Dream

The second day began much like the first. A quick breakfast and the anticipation of something extraordinary happening. We set out towards the area we’d scouted the night before, and almost immediately we were reminded why we were here. A mother rhino and her calf stood just off the road, framed by the morning light. Few things in the bush are more precious than a baby rhino. Maybe a sheep farmer’s newborn lambs.

We watched for nearly twenty minutes, taking photos and soaking in the moment. It’s surreal, really, two teachers from small towns in Iowa, sitting in silence, watching a rhino calf nuzzle its mother. Unbelievable.

We moved on, passing a few small waterbuck bulls just inside the tree line, but nothing worth pursuing. Chris led us to a semi-secluded flat that he knew was a good glassing spot with cover and a couple of flat rocks to sit on. He scanned the landscape with ease, calling out animals like a conductor reading sheet music. I had my Swarovski binoculars up trying to locate anything, but as usual, I couldn’t see a fraction of what he saw. It’s a skill that comes with time, and Chris had it in spades.

We glassed for a couple of hours before moving on to another vantage point. The goal was kudu, ever elusive and majestic, and now at the top of my list as the lechwe was in salt. Chris mentioned a particular bull that had been giving the other PHs a run for their money. Big horns, big body, definitely a shooter. We were after kudu, but if another opportunity presented itself, I wasn’t about to let it pass. There is an old saying, don’t pass up something great to get something good. The list was a guide, not something written in stone, and Africa has a way of offering surprises worth taking.

At the second spot, we saw a lot of game, but nothing extraordinary: giraffe, zebra, impala, springbok, blesbok, blue and black wildebeest. We didn’t see anything I was after until just before lunch. As Africa often does, it delivered at the last moment. A herd of golden wildebeest appeared, distant but promising, and clearly different from the one we’d seen the day before. Chris made a mental note, and we headed back for lunch.

Lunch was full of expectation. No siesta today, just an extra cold drink and a plan. Within 30 minutes of finishing lunch, we were back at it and headed towards a new vantage point, 400–500 yards from the herd of golden wildebeest. Chris broke out the spotting scope and studied the herd with the intensity of someone reading between the lines. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled away with a grin. “There’s a giant in there,” he said. “One that stands out so much bigger, it’s crazy.”

We packed up and began the stalk, weaving through trees and brush, always keeping something between us and the herd. At 250 yards, we hit a dry riverbed, more canyon than creek, and scrambled down and up the walls like two nearly 60-year-olds trying to be 30 again. More likely, two 58-year-olds acting like two 90-year-olds. We laughed, but not loud enough to spook the herd.

At 150 yards, we reached the edge of the field where the wildebeest were grazing. They were in the open, but we had good cover. Chris was right, one bull did stand out, even I could tell. His horns extended what seemed like 6 to 8 inches beyond his ears, a brindled chestnut dream in motion. Only one problem – he wouldn’t stand still.

Chris set up the sticks, and I got on the gun. For at least an hour, I tracked that bull through the scope as he wandered, meandered, and mingled with the herd. My reticle was on him the whole time, but he never gave me a clean shot. Until he did.

He made the one mistake: stepped just far enough from the herd. Chris had already ranged the herd and dialed in the scope for the distance, so all I had to do was to take a calm breath and gently squeeze the trigger. The rifle cracked, then the sound every hunter wants to hear, the thwap. The bull ran 75–100 yards and dropped.

The herd circled and returned to their original spot and watched us, never leaving. The bull, though, ended up much closer to us after he ran. We only had to walk about 50 yards. And the closer we got, the more beautiful he became; red-orange hide, vibrant brindle stripes, and horns that seemed sculpted.

The sun was setting as we took photos. Too late to continue, so we headed back to an excellent dinner and the firepit where I discovered European-style hard apple cider. Nothing like the American version. It is crisp, dry, and dangerously drinkable.

Chasing the Grey Ghost

The next morning, Chris told us we’d be heading to the other farm where we had two days left to chase the bull we’d been hearing about.

Huntershill spans some 60,000 acres, split between flat plains and rugged mountain terrain. We knew the bull wouldn’t be in the low country, so we headed into the hills. The plan was simple: drive to a lookout, glass for an hour or so, move on, and repeat. We saw plenty of game. The kudu were thick, but all too young or female. The only notable sighting was a herd of Watusi cattle winding their way up a mountain trail. Entertaining, but not what we were after.

After a quick lunch, we went back out. Not long into the afternoon hunt, Chris got a call from another PH, Nippy Bridger. He thought he’d seen the bull near where they were hunting warthog. We loaded up and met Nippy who slipped away with Chris to scout the area. Thirty minutes later, they returned; they’d seen the bull cresting the mountain on the far side. We left Nippy and drove around hoping to cut him off before we lost him.

We reached the other side and began glassing, but it seemed the kudu had given us the slip. We continued to scan the area for what seemed like hours but never saw him again. Chris suspected the bull had circled back toward where we’d started. We decided to return the next day.  

Morning came early and we headed back to the spot where we’d first met Nippy. Whether by luck or instinct, Chris spotted the bull not long after sunrise. He was moving up out of the shadows, into the warmth of the sun, but still too far for me to judge his size. Chris said he was the best bull seen on the property this year.

The bull moved directly toward us, to around 400 yards. Then he turned left and started moving along the mountain’s side. We quickly packed up and followed, trying to stay close enough for a shot but far enough to remain unseen. We moved three or four times, but never got within 300 yards, and he never gave us an opportunity for a clean shot.

As he neared the crest of a ridge that spilled into a valley, I could sense Chris felt that we were on the verge of losing the kudu.

“Can you run?” he asked.

“Not fast anymore, but yes.”

As soon as the bull crested the ridge, we took off, scrambling uphill, boots slipping on loose stones, hearts pounding not just from exertion but from urgency. Under normal circumstances, running after a kudu isn’t the best plan. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance. This was a chance at a great bull, and we weren’t about to let him vanish into the folds of the mountain without a fight.

When we reached the ridge, the terrain opened into a broad plateau to the left, while to the right it dropped into a deep valley against the mountainside. It could hide a kudu with ease. We glassed quickly, scanning everywhere, but saw no sign of the bull.

Just then, a herd of black wildebeest wandered onto the plateau and began their usual antics. They chased each other in circles, stopped, bolted, and repeated the cycle like children at recess. It was entertaining as they’ve earned their reputation as clowns, but our focus was elsewhere. We were hunting a ghost, and the clock was ticking.

We had to make a choice. The bull had crested the ridge, and now it was anyone’s guess – had he gone left toward the plateau or right into the valley? We chose left. Moving slowly and deliberately, we crept toward the plateau, using every bit of cover we could find. The wildebeest were still clowning in the open, but they hadn’t seen us. We reached the edge and glassed the area.

Just then, Chris caught movement behind us. A group of kudu cows had slipped in quietly, and miraculously, we hadn’t spooked them, considering we were focused entirely on staying hidden from the wildebeest to our left. Chris shifted his attention to the cows. He thought he saw horns. No idea on size, and at that point, we were pretty sure it couldn’t be our bull as we had earlier “decided” he’d gone the other way.

But Africa has a way of rewriting your assumptions, and this hunt was far from over.

The cows had settled into a quiet rhythm, feeding in a patch of brush that gave us clear views as they weaved in and out of one another. Then, almost casually, the bull eased his head out from behind the cover.

At first glance, it looked like a whitetail buck back home curling his lip in what a biologist would call the “Flehmen response”. I just call it curling their upper lip. It’s where an animal will flare his upper lip to better catch a scent. What I saw seemed relatively ordinary, but Chris was puzzled. He’d never seen a kudu behave that way. It wasn’t a scent test, it was something else. Something off. And while we didn’t yet know it, that odd moment would be the first clue to a bull unlike any we’d ever seen.

They had fed down to within 50 yards of us, drifting into a small clearing that gave us a perfect window to study each animal as they moved through the brush. Chris was able to gauge the size of the horns and confirm it was the bull we’d been chasing. He quietly set up the sticks. I got the rifle into position, and Chris dialed the scope for a 50-yard shot.

We were tucked just below an outcrop of the plateau, and the bull had moved ever so slightly down the slope. That small shift was enough to throw off the shot – my crosshairs were no longer on the kudu but instead locked onto the rocks in front of me. It was frustrating, but in Africa the terrain is as much a part of the hunt as the animal itself.

We had to move up onto the plateau, fully exposed to the wildebeest that, until now, hadn’t paid us any mind. As soon as we crested, they bolted across the open like a thunderclap, a thundering herd in full retreat. Thankfully, the kudu remained undisturbed, still feeding, still unaware.

Chris got the sticks up again, this time higher, and we were back to within 50 yards. I settled behind the rifle, and Chris confirmed the distance. I took a calm breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle let off a crack, and almost immediately, I heard the third thwap of the trip – that unmistakable sound of a bullet finding its mark.

The cows scattered in every direction, and the bull bolted, maybe 25, possibly 30 yards further down into the ravine before piling up. I’ve never claimed to be a great shot. If you asked my friends, I hope they’d say I’m at least a competent shot. In this case, I almost wish I’d been a little less competent. Where that kudu dropped was at least 200 yards from the nearest spot the truck could reach, and even that would require the trackers to cut a new trail through the brush just to get us that close. It’s one of those moments where the excitement of the shot is quickly tempered by the reality of terrain.

That side of the mountain was steep, brutally steep. It took everything Pam and I had to get down to where the bull lay. But we made it, and there he was. A truly magnificent animal. Kudu have always been my favorite African animal. On each trip, it had been the top priority  to hunt. This bull was special, but as we got closer, something wasn’t right.

When we first saw him curling his lip, I’d assumed it was the Flehmen response. But it wasn’t that at all. He’d been attacked, something had torn his upper and lower lips, splitting them into four distinct flaps. It gave him a rough, almost grotesque appearance. An ugly face, no doubt, but what an incredible hunt.

That kudu story was already one for the books, but the real spectacle was just beginning. Nippy and his crew had heard the shot and came over to see the bull everyone had been chasing. He was a fine animal, not a 60-inch Namibian giant, and not a top-ten record book entry either, but he had a beautiful curl, thick bases, and what stood out most to me: six-inch ivory tips. Not the torn lips; it was those tips that made him truly unique to me.

That side of the mountain was steep, and now it was time to pay the price. There was no way we were getting that kudu out intact. The crew didn’t want to skin and quarter him, so they made the call to cut him in half. Then, two trackers hoisted one half each onto their shoulders and started the climb. It was only 200 yards, but when it’s straight up, that distance feels like a mile. This bull was no lightweight either, easily in the five- to six-hundred pounds range. That meant each man was carrying close to 300 pounds uphill, through brush and loose rocks, without complaint.

Watching that kind of grit and strength made me grateful all over again, not just for the hunt, but for the people who make it possible. The whole hunt so far, from the first glassing session to this final shot here at the main property, had been unforgettable. It was lunchtime, and we were hungry, so we loaded up and headed back for our last meal at Huntershill.

After lunch, we made our way to the caves to see the rock art, a quiet detour. The path wasn’t easy, winding through brush and stone, but the reward was worth every step. The bushmen paintings, etched into rock thousands of years ago, stood as silent witnesses to a time long before rifles, before lodges and fire pits. We stood in awe, trying to imagine what life looked like when those figures were drawn. What were they hunting? What stories were they telling?

Africa has a way of making you feel small, and in that moment, we felt it deeply.

After the taxidermy was complete and the mount hung on the wall, the bull still bore the scars of that encounter. The taxidermist did a fine job making him look as normal as possible, but I’ll always remember the truth in his face — the war wounds, the chase, and the moments where he almost got away.

The Old Warrior Bushbuck

The drive to Rocklands was uneventful. The place was known for warthog, waterbuck, and bushbuck, animals from my wish list, and they were in abundance, as well as big herds of buffalo, pods of hippos in two lakes, hartebeest, eland, zebra, and especially giraffe in great numbers. But I wasn’t after any of those. The bushbuck would come from an adjacent farm, one with a river and thick tree cover, their perfect habitat.

The first morning at our new camp, we headed to one of Chris’s favorite lookouts, one of several elevated vantage points surrounding a lowland flat. Each gave a slightly angled view to below us. We set up at the first, overlooking a watering hole. The activity was constant. Several waterbuck came in to drink as the sun rose. A few were tempting, but it was day one, and we were going to be selective. Warthogs came and went, either a lot of them, or the same ones making repeated appearances.

A very nice warthog came in late that morning, and I was hoping Chris would give the nod. He didn’t. “We can do better,” he said. At the time, I wasn’t so sure. A bit of foreshadowing, that would end up being the warthog I would take, and yes, I know for a fact we could have done better.

The tusks were long and thick, at least to my eyes. They would’ve been longer if not for the worn tips, but they held their mass all the way to the blunt ends. He looked like a bruiser, and I was excited. When Chris passed, I was disappointed. He must’ve seen it on my face, because he followed up with a grin: “Don’t worry, he’ll be here every morning. Plan on this one if we’re down to the last day.”

I smiled. That was good enough for now.

That afternoon, we climbed a road up the side of a mountain. On the way, we spotted a proper kudu. He would have been worth chasing if I hadn’t already taken one. We chased him for a while, keeping note of his direction and where he was headed to pass along to the next group. Back on the road, we reached the first stop. More waterbuck. One stood out, horns that swept forward and curved together like a football perched atop his head. Unique, but again, we passed.

We moved from spot to spot, glassing at each before moving to the next. We saw plenty of animals, but nothing that was truly special. By this time it was getting late, so we headed back to camp. Chris prepared our first braai here at Rocklands, including a traditional Afrikaans treat, roosterbrood, on the grill. The meal was incredible.

The next morning, we headed to an adjacent property with a river running through it. Early light brought mist and fog to the lowlands. We walked along the river’s edge, staying on a road just beside the tree line. We spooked several bushbuck, never saw them, but heard them close. We saw others farther out, but nothing worth taking or nothing that presented a shot.

Lunch was a field affair. Chris brought a portable grill, a semi-sphere with a propane tank underneath. He cooked one of the best field lunches I’ve ever had. I do enjoy African game meat.

After lunch, we climbed out and onto the bank, more of a canyon than riverbank, with a 50-foot elevation change. We walked along the rim, glassing down into the trees. We continued walking and glassing until we reached the far end of the property. We considered moving on to a different farm, but Chris made the call to send our tracker, Moses, to the other end to walk back toward us through the bottom, pushing the game in our direction. We set up just above a large clearing about midway along the bank.

It worked. A good ram moved out of the trees, heading toward us. Two problems: he was walking fast, and he was moving toward the side of the canyon. By the time I got on the sticks and found him in the scope, he was almost beneath the bank and about to disappear. He kept moving quickly, almost perfectly parallel to the edge of the riverbank. To keep him in the scope, I had to get up on my toes and point the gun lower. I never felt comfortable enough to take the shot. He slipped away, and I felt that familiar ache of a missed opportunity.

Then, from the far side of the clearing, an old ram fed out into the open, slowly and deliberately. Chris got his spotting scope out. The ram didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere. Through the glass, you could see he was well past his prime. His horns weren’t terribly long, but they were as thick at the top as they were at the base. He was an old warrior. One eye had been gouged out, the truest definition of a perfect trophy. The only problem: he was feeding 400 yards away.

I’m not a great shot. I’ve made longer and missed shorter. Prone would’ve been ideal, but the terrain wasn’t right. Chris set the sticks, dialed the scope, and I settled in. Calm breath. Gentle squeeze. The rifle cracked. The fourth thwap. He dropped.

We celebrated the shot, though it wasn’t quite as good as I’d hoped. Moses walked over to where the bushbuck lay. When he got close, he started waving his arms like something was wrong. Crap. We made a mad rush to where the ram lay. He was mortally wounded, but not dead yet. He lay still, even with Moses just five paces away. A wounded bushbuck is known to be dangerous, so we approached cautiously.

For whatever reason, he didn’t care that Moses was so close. But when we got to 20 yards, he struggled to his feet and started to lumber away. Not a run or a walk, just a labored, painful effort to escape. Chris handed me his .44 Mag revolver. One shot at 15 yards finished the ram.

We took photos, and then I stepped on what looked like a dandelion in flower. It wasn’t. Thirty barbed spines embedded in my jeans, some through to my calf. It took vice grips to pull them from my boot. A few pierced the skin, painful, irritating. Thankfully, we had pain relief Neosporin to help with the pain… and those Savanna ciders back at the lodge.

Bushbuck now crossed off the list. Seven days remained, and I could be as selective as I wanted. I’d already seen suitable warthog and waterbuck. I was on cloud nine. We returned to the lodge for dinner and a celebratory cigar around the fire. We stayed up later than usual, enjoying the company and the warmth. We planned to sleep in a bit — waterbuck now became the number one priority, unless some incredibly massive warthog stepped up.

Halfway through the trip, four of my target animals were already in the salt. This hunt was shaping up to be one for the ages.

The Waterbuck: the Worst Day of the Trip… Then It Wasn’t

The morning started like the others but would end as one of the most emotionally charged days of the entire trip.

We set out for a new section of the farm, aiming to start high and glass the bottoms as animals fed upward. At the first vantage point, we had a commanding view, though there were still plenty of places for game to move unseen, although that tends to be true everywhere in Africa. We glassed for about an hour, spotting warthogs and a variety of other species, but nothing we were after. We slipped back to the truck and moved on.

The next spot offered even better visibility. Giraffes dotted the landscape, watching us as intently as we watched for game. We stood out to them, no question. They knew something was off.

After nearly two hours of glassing and being silently interrogated by giraffes, Chris spotted a lone waterbuck. Even at 1,000 yards, the spotting scope revealed a promising set of horns. That classic forward sweep, with mass carried all the way to the tips. Not a record-book bull, but exactly the kind I was hoping for.

We made a plan to intercept him. Driving down, we circled ahead, hoping to catch him as he moved up the mountain. We parked on a plateau and began walking with purpose, not rushed, but deliberate. After about 45 minutes, we spotted him again. He was elegant. I’ve always thought waterbuck were regal in the way they hold their heads when they walk. He moved parallel to us, roughly 400 yards away. We closed the distance some while trying to cut him off, but he disappeared over a small rise before we could get into a comfortable shooting distance.

It wasn’t much of a hill, but it was enough to help him vanish on the other side. We moved carefully to the crest, staying low to avoid skylining ourselves. At the top, we had good cover and began glassing. The terrain was a mix of bush and open patches, perfect for hiding. He had vanished.

After 15 minutes of glassing the area, a waterbuck poked his head out from behind a tree. The horns looked right. Chris set up the sticks, and I got into a seated position. He ranged the animal at 100 yards and dialed the scope. As always, he said, “Let me confirm.” After a long look, he said, “OK.”

As soon as I heard the “Oh,” I was already taking my calm breath and gently squeezing the trigger. The rifle cracked, and the now familiar thwap followed. Five for five now on hearing that sound — but instead of excitement, I was working out the “Wait” I’d heard as I finished squeezing the trigger.

Chris had said, “OK,” and then immediately, “Wait!” But it was too late.

The waterbuck dropped straight down at the base of the tree. It didn’t run at all. As we approached, the horns and body seemed to shrink more than usual. It was immediately clear that this wasn’t the bull we’d been chasing. Not a terrible trophy, but not the one we’d worked for.

Chris was mortified. He knew things had gone sideways. It had been too easy. We’d lost the original bull over the rise, then when we got to the top, this one stuck his head out. His body and horns were much smaller, but nearly identical in proportion. Through binoculars, you couldn’t tell the difference in scale. It had to be the same one. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. But the reality on the ground was unmistakable.

We still took photos. Pam and I were pleased, maybe not as excited as we could have been. It was still the biggest waterbuck I’d ever taken, and it was in salt. I had six days left and only one animal remaining, the warthog. I planned to be as selective as possible. That warthog would need dinosaur tusks to earn a shot.

After lunch, Chris left briefly to call Huntershill and explain the mix-up. He returned with good news. We could continue after the original waterbuck.

That afternoon, we returned to the same hill I’d shot from earlier. It didn’t take long to find the bull, farther down, about 250 yards out. We adjusted slightly for a standing shot. Chris ranged him at 225 yards and dialed the scope. I settled in, with the reticle just above the front shoulder.

Calm breath. Gentle squeeze. Crack. Then the sixth thwap.

The bull turned downhill, moved maybe 10 yards, and dropped. No shrinkage this time. He was big at 200 yards and even bigger up close. His horns swept back and hooked forward, with mass carried all the way to the top. Chris said that’s what set him apart.

We took a lot of photos, this time with real excitement. I was in awe. A kudu, lechwe, golden wildebeest, bushbuck, and now a waterbuck. All great trophies, not just in score, but in story as well.

With him loaded, we headed back to camp to enjoy another braai, a few more celebratory cigars, and definitely more ciders. The trip had already exceeded every expectation.

That night after dinner, we settled around the fire. The pit was on the elevated courtyard, about six feet above the ground. This was part of the lodge’s quiet charm. As the flames began to fade and the stories wound down, I noticed two small lights flickering in the bush, maybe 10 or 15 yards from the edge of the deck. They moved, not fixed like lanterns, and I realized it had to be eyes catching the light from the fire.

I quickly stepped into our room, grabbed my flashlight, and returned to the edge of the patio. I aimed the beam toward where I’d last seen the lights, and what I saw took a moment to register.

Standing there, staring back at me, was a mature Cape buffalo bull. Not just close, very close. Five yards away and six feet below me, locked in a silent stare. It wasn’t just the eye contact, it was his presence. He wasn’t looking at me; he was looking through me.

Then the rest came into focus. Behind him, a herd. Fifty, maybe sixty strong. My flashlight caught dozens, maybe hundreds of eyes reflecting back. It was unnerving. I stood there with a cigar in my mouth, a drink in one hand, and the flashlight in the other, sweeping the beam across the herd. The magnitude of it was staggering. And all I could think was: Could they charge the patio? Could they jump?

Time slowed. It might’ve lasted five minutes, but it felt like an hour. A silent standoff. Then, the cigar fell from my mouth. It hit the patio with a soft burst of red sparks, just enough to break the moment. The herd turned, thundered back toward the hills, the sound like a low tornado rolling away.

I’ll remember that forever.

The Warthog That Wasn’t, Then Was

With five full hunting days ahead and only the warthog left on my list, we knew we’d be working for the perfect pig. Chris brought chairs for Pam and me, knowing we’d be spending long hours at fewer spots. It could’ve ended quickly, if I’d done my part.

That next morning, we headed to the last section of the farm we hadn’t yet explored. High ground, good visibility. A big herd of eland greeted us and promptly spooked, running from one end of the property to the other, kicking up everything in between. Fortunately, the interior remained quiet.

We glassed across to the opposite mountain, scanning dense scrub and scattered clearings. For me, spotting game is like finding a needle in a haystack. I was proud when I spotted a few warthogs that usually Chris had already seen, studied, and moved on by the time I found anything. One pig I found looked massive, bigger than the one from day one. But Chris said, “Not big enough to shoot with all our time left.” That’s the hard part, passing on something good in hopes of finding something better.

Later, Chris spotted a true brute. His tusks stuck out and curled up like American football goalposts. Through the spotting scope, they looked like bodybuilder arms flexing from his face. Even with five days left, this one was worth going after.

He was 1,500 yards out. We worked our way down, gaining ground. As we moved closer, we found ourselves moving lower more than closer. At 600 yards, we hit a limit. If we got any closer, we’d lose sight of him. He was still high in the clearing, if we moved any closer, the trees would obstruct our line of sight.

We had to set up there. I laid out jackets and packs to lie on, trying to get comfortable on the decline. The warthog was uphill, and I was lying downhill, struggling to keep him in the scope. It was like trying to look at my eyebrows through the scope, I just couldn’t get comfortable.

My breathing was shallow, labored. Chris noticed. “Relax. Breathe. Squeeze the trigger.” I tried. I wish I could say it was because the pig moved, but the reality was that I never did feel comfortable with the shooting position. I knew it was a monster pig. I got the scope as best I could onto the warthog, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Missed.

Chris had been filming. The video showed the bullet passing just under the belly. I wasn’t upset about the miss, I was disappointed in myself for not being able to relax and go through the steps. The rifle and scope were perfect. I hadn’t done what was necessary to make the shot.

We kept after it. Returned to the same spot the remaining days, hoping for another chance. It never came, and I was okay with that. The hunter who came in after me ended up getting that pig. It was a monster, and I was happy for him.

One afternoon, we went for a walkabout, no rifles, just quiet steps. We got close to a herd of buffalo, probably the same one from the fire pit encounter. We found a warthog sow under a tree and filmed our approach. The wind was perfect. We got within five yards of Chris, with Pam in the middle and me at the back filming. Then the wind shifted. She bolted, one moment lying down, the next tail up and gone. So much fun.

On the final morning, we returned to the first vantage point. After a while, that old boar came into view. Chris knew his pattern and moved us to where he’d likely be in 30 minutes. We waited. Giraffes watched us, but the rest of the bush was unaware.

Right on time, the pig walked into the field. About 300 yards out. Chris asked if I was ready. I nodded. He set the sticks. I found the pig in the scope.

One last calm breath. Gentle squeeze. Crack. Then the final thwap.

He ran maybe 30 yards and dropped. We walked out for photos. He didn’t disappoint. Long tusks, worn down with age, but full of character. I was happy. We took plenty of pictures.  As the last pictures were being taken, a small amount of dejection crept in as I knew that this meant the hunt part of the trip was over. It is always a bit saddening when the reality hits that we are nearing the end of our time with new friends.

Back at camp, we had an early lunch and made a quick trip into Fort Beaufort and packed for the airport the next day. I’m never ready to stop hunting, but the next chapter was Pam’s, a week in Cape Town. Four nights in the wine region, Franschhoek to be specific, then four more on the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront in Cape Town.

The hunt was over, but the trip continued.

​

Cape Town, Our New Favorite Place

Franschhoek is a beautiful small town, nestled in the Cape Winelands and framed by the Drakenstein mountains. Its French Huguenot heritage is evident in the architecture and the town’s name. Franschhoek literally means “French Corner” in Dutch. The name honors the refugees who settled there in the late 1600s. The first Huguenots arrived around 1688, fleeing religious persecution and bringing with them their knowledge of winemaking. We visited the Huguenot Memorial Museum and Monument to learn more about their history.

The town’s main street is lined with boutiques and art galleries, and Pam thoroughly enjoyed exploring them. We spent our first day walking the street, slipping in and out of shops, enjoying the relaxed pace.

The next two days were dedicated to the Wine Tram experience, which took us to various vineyards throughout the region. Many trams and buses connect the estates, making it easy to spend full days tasting wines and enjoying meals at some truly remarkable locations. We especially enjoyed the Méthode Cap Classique, or MCC for short, really what most would simply call Champagne.

Though four days may seem long, they passed quickly. We returned to the main street each day, revisiting our favorite shops and soaking in the peaceful atmosphere. It was a welcome contrast to the more rugged and adventurous parts of our trip. Given the choice, we could have stayed forever, but our children and grandchildren were waiting for us back home. We left with far more than we arrived with, even needing to purchase an extra suitcase to carry everything home.

On our final night, we sat by the fire in the courtyard, reflecting on the experience and taking it all in. The next morning we headed to Cape Town to begin the last leg of our journey.

Our friend arrived mid-morning to pick us up. We stopped in Stellenbosch to visit another friend’s leather shop, Els & Co. The shop is a favorite of Pam’s for purses and bags. Coincidentally, they also carry a variety of hunting and safari-related items. We caught up over drinks, toured the workshop, and then visited the store. While Pam shopped, they kept our glasses full, wine for her, freshly brewed beer for me. I picked up a knife and a humidor, and Pam chose two beautiful bags. The owner offered to emboss the bags, giving us time for one more drink before we left in high spirits.

We had lunch at a nice spot in Stellenbosch before continuing to Cape Town. Once we arrived, we checked into our hotel near the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront, got settled, and headed out to explore. The V&A Waterfront includes the Victoria Wharf Shopping Centre and a large surrounding area filled with shops and restaurants. We spent the first day exploring the mall and nearby attractions, ending the evening with a champagne cruise around the bay, a perfect way to capture the moment.

The next day, we visited Table Mountain, perhaps the most iconic attraction in South Africa. We spent the morning hiking trails at the top. The weather was dramatic, strong winds and clouds sweeping up and over the mountain, creating a misty, surreal atmosphere.

That afternoon, Pam went paragliding off Signal Hill. Her flight lasted about 30 minutes, offering stunning views of Table Mountain before landing at the Sea Point Promenade, where we stayed for dinner. Afterward, we returned for another evening cruise.

We enjoyed our morning on Table Mountain so much that we repeated it the next day. It was our final full day in Cape Town, and we wanted to make the most of it. After another morning of hiking at the top, we spent the afternoon shopping at the Waterfront. One last late-night cruise marked the end of our journey, and we returned to pack for the flight home.

Departure from Cape Town International Airport offered one final, breathtaking view of the region, a fitting farewell to a journey that had been unforgettable from start to finish. As I looked out over the landscape, I found myself already thinking ahead, making quiet plans for a return in the summer of 2026.

The vista from the summit of Mount Stupid is vastly different from the view from the Valley of Despair

By Morgan Hauptfleisch – Namibia Nature Foundation, Oppenheimer Research Fellow in People and Wildlife

12 November 2025

Knowledge of wildlife behaviour, how animals care for their young, how they communicate with each other, and other cute and interesting facts are common in nature guidebooks, magazine articles, and safari guide rhetoric. The eco-tourism experience is about giving the animal a place in our hearts. Conversely, knowledge of ecosystem processes, energy flow, homeostasis, genetic bottlenecks, and carrying capacity is not well understood by the general public, as it is seldom explained outside of scientific writing and lecture halls. The last thing an avid tourist on safari wants to hear about is how a six-carbon sugar is converted into two molecules of pyruvate, allowing an elephant to locomote.

A love of animals, combined with a limited understanding of ecology, is possibly one of the root causes of many vitriolic debates about wildlife conservation. My teenager would call it a clap-back battle – a mud-slinging contest by camouflaged keyboard ninjas on social media. Some of the topics that incite these debates include elephant culling, trophy hunting, and alien invasive species extermination (especially if the species is a ‘cute’ mammal). I will attempt to unpack two of these topics affecting biodiversity conservation in southern Africa: trophy hunting and elephant management.

Trophy hunting and the Dunning-Kruger effect

The narrative around trophy hunting is driven by equally vociferous pro- and anti-hunting activists on social and traditional media. Meanwhile, economic and ecological statistics are hidden in scientific journals alongside thousands of unrelated writings.

A group of scientists from the University of Reading in the UK randomly selected 500 social media posts about the trophy hunting debate. They found that 350 of these opposed trophy hunting, and only 22 advocated for it. The other 128 either had a neutral view or their stance could not be determined. The general tone was unsurprisingly classified by the scientists as hostile, while 7% of the posts were classified as abusive. The posts were largely considered to be unproductive in terms of exchanging ideas and opinions. They further characterised four archetypes opposing trophy hunting: the activist, the condemner, the objector, and the scientist. Only the objector and the scientist allowed for any form of productive discussion.

The problem with social media is that information is provided in snippets of around 20 words, making it easy to retain in memory. If a reader were to digest the first 10 social media posts in the example above, it is quite likely that they would feel supremely confident about the “facts” presented, especially the persuasive ones. This leads them to steadily climb up “Mount Stupid”.

Let me explain what I mean by Mount Stupid. In 2011, two scholars of psychology – David Dunning and Justin Kruger – published their research on why people with little knowledge or competence in a particular subject are overconfident in their understanding of that subject. Their resulting graph (see below) is now known as the Dunning-Kruger effect.

The Dunning-Kruger model shows that as we move from no knowledge to a little knowledge, there is a dramatic rise in our confidence: we think that we have mastered the subject and therefore form a strong opinion. As we educate ourselves further, however, our confidence tumbles down the mountain, reaching the “Valley of Despair”. Here we discover the complexity and nuance of the subject and start to realise that we know very little. Often, the scientist is clawing his or her way out of the valley, somewhere towards the “Slope of Enlightenment”, but their confidence is nowhere near that of those left behind on the crest of Mount Stupid. Without trying to gain more knowledge on the subject, those on the mountain are seldom budged.

               © Wallstreet Mojo

From the anti-hunter’s mountaintop, it is overwhelmingly evident that the hunter poses a threat to the animal, and its demise will result in the loss of a sentient being to the earth, likely threatening the species with extinction. The act is savage and cruel, equal to murder. It is equally clear from the hunter’s mountain that hunting is a sport that is good for conservation and economics and that the opposing view is elitist, idealistic, and even neocolonial.

Upon further investigation, however, the complex context of communities coexisting with wildlife can be better understood. Hunting provides job opportunities, meat, and economic benefits, which increase tolerance for the species’ long-term existence. This comes at the cost of a living creature, which was wild and free until the trigger was pulled. But does the loss of that individual result in a weaker or stronger gene pool for the population? Does it affect the viability of the species? What roles do ethics, motivation, social and economic status, or other factors, play in the hunter’s actions to benefit or harm conservation? These are the questions that scientists grapple with in the Valley of Despair.

One way to test the effect of an action, such as hunting, is to compare “treatment” and “control” scenarios, where the thing being evaluated is either present (treatment) or absent (control). Namibia has allowed trophy hunting since 1967 on freehold lands and 1996 on communal lands, and is therefore our treatment. Kenya outlawed trophy hunting in 1977, making it a controlled activity. In Namibia, wildlife populations have increased substantially since the 1970s, particularly outside formally protected areas where hunting is permitted. In Kenya, wildlife populations declined by 68% between 1977 and 2016.

This prompts us to ask: Does Namibia have stable or growing populations because of hunting, or does hunting occur because there are healthy wildlife populations, or is it a coincidence? To further add to the complexity, Namibia and Kenya have changed in many ways besides just allowing or not allowing hunting – human population growth, changes in legislation on related matters (e.g., land ownership), and their years of independence are just a few of the many differences between the two countries. This comparison did not happen in a controlled laboratory setting!

Trophy hunting is clearly not a topic to be judged in the court of Instagram or Hello magazine. The complexities need to be translated into hypotheses, tested, and accepted or rejected, leading to new knowledge and further scientific advancement. This should move us a little further up the Slope of Enlightenment.

Too few or too many elephants? Another case for Dunning-Kruger

Returning to the first point made in this article, elephants are one of the major attractions for tourists visiting Africa. They are the main characters in storybooks, films, and commercials. They are indeed magnificent, gentle, wise, and intelligent creatures. Any thought of interfering with their existence or population numbers through lethal means is, therefore, horrifying and inhumane to a large proportion of humans. To compound matters, only a fragment of the savanna elephant’s historical range throughout Africa is still occupied by elephants today, and many subpopulations across the continent are in decline. It is, therefore, understandable that elephant-lovers on Mount Stupid believe that all elephants must be saved at all costs.

Proceeding to the opposite peak of Mount Stupid, a farmer in the Kalahari who wakes up one morning to a destroyed borehole and reservoir, flattened fences, and a stripped crop field sees a marauding herd of beasts that stole his livelihood. There may not have been elephants there in that farmer’s lifetime, so he imagines that there must be far too many of them.

A debate has been raging for decades about the need to reduce elephant populations in certain parks and reserves across southern Africa. Between the 1960s and 1990s, elephants were regularly culled in Namibian and South African parks if they were thought to have exceeded the park’s carrying capacity. As elephant numbers grow within parks and cause increasing conflict with humans outside the parks, culling is again becoming an option. There is, however, public sentiment that it is cruel and barbaric, and killing individuals of a species that is globally under threat goes against conservation principles.

To push the needle of knowledge and understanding of the elephant debate towards the Valley of Despair, we need to consider some complexity: if the African elephant population (see map) is considered by region or country, there are vastly different conservation management priorities in each. In many parts of West and Central Africa, elephant populations are small and isolated, with poaching for ivory being a common occurrence. Here, active preservation of each elephant, including protection against poaching, is critical.

In southern Africa, however, the situation is different. Elephant populations have increased, in some cases dramatically. In the Kavango Zambezi Transfrontier Conservation Area (KAZA), there are over 220,000 elephants, 62% of all savanna elephants. Human-elephant conflict and loss of tree diversity and structure are the major concerns in this area. A 35-year study of vegetation in Chobe National Park documented a steady decline in riparian forest and woodland vegetation. The riverine forest disappeared completely between 1985 and 1998. There seem to be far too many elephants to maintain that ecosystem.

The focus on too few or too many might be the wrong angle. Historically, elephants were seldom confined to one area for very long. In his 1934 book Mammals of South West Africa, Captain Shortridge noted that elephants were “tireless walkers” that “cover hundreds of miles trekking backwards and forwards from one drinking place or feeding ground to another”. They would gather in large numbers in areas where good rains had fallen, but only till the surface water dried up and they needed to move on. This resulted in a natural grazing rotation system, giving vegetation time to recover and reducing over-use.

In Namibia’s Kunene Region, Shortridge noted that “elephants were wet season migrants to southern Kunene”. Today, with borehole water available throughout the area, the Kunene elephant population has grown and become resident. Their permanent presence can be argued to be a man-made phenomenon. Increased human-elephant conflict across much of Kunene’s farmland has been widely reported, and damage to vegetation is being observed.

A long-term solution proposed by the renowned elephant scientist Rudi van Aarde and others is re-establishing space and corridors for elephants to move over long distances. This is easier said than done. Africa’s human population has grown from just under 285 million in 1960 to over 1.5 billion today. Is there enough space for elephants and us? Can we realistically make enough space for elephants to move as they would have historically? If there are clear overpopulations of elephants, why should culling and hunting be forbidden at the cost of biodiversity and ecosystem balance? In such cases, conservationists need to actively manage wildlife (including elephants), and all available options need to be considered, including lethal ones. In some cases, not acting quickly results in devastating habitat destruction and starvation of wildlife, including elephants.

One example is Madikwe National Park in South Africa, a 75,000-hectare fenced park surrounded by densely populated rural settlements. In 1992-93, the population of 219 elephants was thriving. Over the years, the negative effects of a growing elephant population became evident. A few were caught and relocated to other parks, but a government policy banning culling, largely driven by a fear of international uproar, meant the population continued to grow.

A drought in 2024 pushed Madikwe’s elephant-damaged vegetation over the edge. Pictures of skeletal, starving elephants hit the headlines. The NSPCA charged Provincial Park Management with animal cruelty for poor management. The elephant population has reached over 1,600 animals, which is one elephant every 43 hectares. Imagine the effect on the ecosystem. Finding a home for the excess elephants, or even the logistics of catching and relocating such a large number of animals, is impossible. It is clear that culling is needed in addition to translocations, contraception, feeding, and other options.

Conclusion

In an age where a buffet of information, opinion, facts, and lies is available, and sometimes even forced upon us, it’s easy to reach Mount Stupid rapidly and condemn the actions of conservationists. To truly understand issues such as hunting or culling and make positive contributions towards preserving our biodiversity and ecosystems, we need to leave the false clarity from the mountaintop and descend into the Valley of Despair with studious and critical thought. Ultimately, science needs to regain its popularity and importance to generate targeted and objective knowledge to drive management and public education.