The Little Thug is remarkably comfortable to shoot, with negligible muzzle jump, but puts forth a hard-hitting charge and a choking cloud of smoke that can be very handy in a defense situation.

The E.M. Reilly, made in the 1870s for the outposts of Empire.

The E.M. Reilly, now a 20-bore, began life as a .577 Snider double rifle.  Oh, to know where it’s been, and what it’s done!

I bought the gun off the “rust & dust” shelf at Puglisi’s in Duluth a few years ago.  It was dirty, damaged, needed a new forend tip, a horrible hot-blue job removed from its frame, the metal restored, and some wood refinishing.  Puglisi’s bought it from a local bartender, who’d acquired it in a trade with the mate off a Great Lakes freighter, and who knows how he came by it, or where it’s been for 140 years.  Guarding pack trains in the Khyber Pass?  Repelling boarders in the China Sea?  On a river boat up the Congo?  These are all genuine possibilities.

One thing I know for certain is that it was originally built for warlike purposes, not for hunting.  E.M. Reilly was a maker of fine guns of every type, catering mainly to officers and civil servants off to guard the Empire — the kind of man found on the Northwest Frontier, shooting it out with Pathans.

With its 2 1/2-inch chambers, I was a little limited, but my friend Bob Hayley (Hayley’s Custom Ammunition, 940-888-3352) conjured up some 20-bore brass cases as well as some old 20-gauge paper we could cut to length.  For the brass, we had both 20-gauge round balls and 20-gauge spire-point slugs, while the paper hulls were stuffed with shot.  All are powered by black powder, although it’s not really necessary.  The thug’s barrel walls are thick and heavy for a shotgun.  The little guy weighs 7 lbs., 3 oz., most of it in the barrels.  For my purposes, though, black powder serves a purpose.

Ballistically, the little thug will outdo a .45 Auto at close range.  Those 350-grain pumpkin balls leave the muzzle at around 800 fps, and with one from each barrel, the gun plants them about two inches apart at 15 yards.  The shot charge prints a pattern right over top.  That will most assuredly stop anyone barging through the office door.

The black powder adds further injury in the form of a choking cloud of smoke and wad fragments.  Since I would be expecting this gas attack, and an invader wouldn’t, it gives me a few precious seconds to get to the secondary armament — an AUG, a couple of P.38s, and…well, you get the idea.

Such a scenario opens up the field to all kinds of “what ifs…” and “yes, buts…”  Certainly, those are all things that might happen — the aforementioned unexpected and unthinkable — and you cannot prepare for every single eventuality.  No one can.  You just try to keep things from “gang agley.”  For that, the Little Thug is in his element.

Chapter Twelve

The Hunting of Leopards

A Conservation Perspective

Not enough is known about the leopard. Even though he is the most widely distributed member of the “big” cats, not many detailed studies of this fascinating animal have been completed. Even hunters, who are fascinated, sometimes even obsessed, by this prince of the forest, know little about him. What he really needs to survive, how many partners he needs in order to maintain his numbers, how large an area he needs in order to live a natural free life. Most of us know the basics but the rest is just guesswork. Many boffins maintain that there is no room for hunting when considering an animal like the leopard, which is endangered in much of its range. Others, who have conducted studies in areas where leopards still exist in healthy numbers, say that hunting can be part of an overall plan in conserving leopards.

Theodore Bailey is one of those. Toward the end of his fascinating book, The African Leopard Ecology and Behaviour of a Solitary Felid, Bailey wrote a chapter titled “The Conservation of Leopards” in which he covers hunting.

Here are some extracts from that chapter:

A controversial alternative that may provide economic incentives to conserve leopards outside of parks and preserves in some countries is a highly regulated hunting program that removes only a small proportion of a leopard population each year. A closely regulated take of leopards may be not only practical but necessary, as some claim (Myers 1974; Eaton 1977b; Myers 1981; Hamilton 1986; Martin and Meulenaer 1988). to promote leopard and other wildlife conservation in Africa. Although I believe it will be increasingly difficult in the long run to justify maintaining wildlife populations solely on economic criteria, because of livestock and agriculture needs and development, hunting may be an effective conservation alternative for the immediate future. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the ethics of hunting leopards outside parks and preserves, hunting can probably be managed to benefit some leopard populations. A closely regulated hunting program for leopards for trophy purposes should not be confused with hunting leopards commercially for the fur trade. To prevent unregulated hunting and poaching of leopards for skins in areas opened to trophy hunting will require increased enforcement of current restrictions on the international trade of Leopard skins – a difficult law enforcement task for most African countries.

Ideally, a hunting program for leopards should be only one part of a more comprehensive program designed to provide conservation-related economic benefits for local inhabitants. Properly managed, it could be combined with tourism or a game cropping operation where selected herbivores are also harvested on a sustained basis for protein or profit. Such programs are already conducted on some large game ranches in Namibia, Zimbabwe, and the Republic of South Africa and on concessioned lands in Botswana. The hunting of leopards will be best managed on large tracts of land that support ample populations of prey and leopards. After some preliminary surveys an estimate should be made of how many leopards could be removed annually without jeopardizing the population.

Smaller tracts or tracts with highly human-altered wildlife populations will be more difficult to manage because the leopard populations there are likely to be low, with unpredictable annual recruitment. If hunting of leopards from such areas occurs, it must be extremely conservative and accompanied by frequent surveys. All hunting programs should be based on accurate assessments of leopard numbers and annual recruitment.

Further on, he says “The region surrounding a proposed leopard hunting area should be carefully evaluated to determine whether a population is completely isolated or whether leopards in adjacent areas might immigrate into the hunting area to replace removed leopards. If isolated but large enough to support a viable population and sustained hunting, a conservative hunting strategy would be essential – to ensure that harvesting did not deplete individuals faster than they can be naturally recruited into the population. If an influx of males, which bring different genes into the population, is unlikely, problems associated with inbreeding may arise, especially with small populations.

Leopard populations probably should not be hunted unless a minimum effective population size of fifty breeding adults, or at least eighty to one hundred individuals, are present and a viable population of leopards exists in adjacent areas. Hunting smaller, isolated populations may only contribute to their eventual demise. The size of an area that can support eighty to one hundred leopards will vary with habitat quality and may range from three hundred kilometres square in high-quality habitats to five thousand square kilometres in low quality habitats. As a very crude estimate, most proposed hunting areas should be at least two thousand five hundred square kilometres if habitat appears average and is adjacent to other areas supporting leopards.

Many hunters – myself included – have been led to believe that some portion, or percent, of a leopard quota should be females, but Bailey says: Only male leopards should be taken by hunters until further information suggests otherwise. Males seem to be naturally replaced more rapidly than females; they have a higher natural mortality rate; and they are more apt to respond to baits for survey or hunting purposes. Because of their larger size and visible genitalia, they can be easily distinguished from females. Several options are available for estimating hunting rates of males, all of which result in relatively low hunting levels. One method assumes that all natural mortality is compensatory and replaced by hunting mortality. The other more realistic method assumes hunting and natural mortality may not be completely compensatory and may even be additive. One can also base hunting rates on the proportions and natural mortality rates of adult or sub adult males in the population.

Some leopard studies say that up to l0% of a leopard population can be hunted without damaging that population. But Bailey had this to say: Information from the Kruger National Park leopard study areas suggests a hunting rate of four percent to six per cent of a total population may be possible if one assumes complete compensatory mortality. When a hunting level of one-half the natural mortality rate is assumed, the hunting rate declines from two per cent to three per cent of the total population. A hypothetical population of one hundred leopards whose population composition and mortality patterns are similar to leopards in the Kruger National Park study areas are speculated to withstand a hunting kill of at least two, possibly as many as six, male leopards per year. Hunting rates will undoubtedly vary among populations. One computer model of leopard population dynamics predicted a five per cent safe and a ten per cent maximum sustainable harvest level for leopards (Martin and Meulenaer 1988). One factor to consider is whether other, perhaps significant, forms of human-related mortality, such as poaching and poisoning, are already impacting a leopard population. These additional forms of mortality would lower the legal hunting rate.

Hunted leopard populations should be closely monitored to ensure that hunting is not contributing to a population decline. Only selected locations within a hunting area should actually have leopards removed from them. Reduced hunting pressure should be enforced if hunted males are not rapidly replaced. Areas frequented by females, such as koppies and other rocky outcrops used as denning areas, should be avoided to prevent disrupting the females’ habits and their unintentional killing. Actual hunting sites should be specific places where males are periodically observed or attracted to baits. Only specific baiting locations should be hunted, and then only on a rotational basis. For example, if a male was taken at one bait location, the next male removed from the hunting area should be taken at least two to three male-home-range-distances away. This would prevent creating a large vacancy among males, which could prevent or reduce female productivity. Baiting should occur even after a male has been taken to ensure that his replacement has appeared. In healthy leopard populations, males taken by hunters should be replaced within one to six months. To help maintain genetic diversity within the population and reduce the possibility that infanticide will become a significant mortality factor among cubs, newly arriving males should be allowed to reproduce for at least one to two years before being taken by hunters.

This last paragraph illustrates how far we actually are from being able to practice ‘sustainable utilisation’ policies in hunting our leopards. What operator would ever consider only hunting “two to three male-home-range distances away” from where he took his last big Tom leopard? Not many.

So little is known about this animal, and so little is known about what we need to do in order to ensure his survival in good huntable numbers, that I fear if and when we do learn, it will be too late.

The sun slid into the thorn trees and the last evening cries of roosting francolin were suddenly joined by human voices! As they reached the back of the blind I stuck my head out and asked them to quieten down and move along. When I addressed these fellows in hushed tones, the nearest fell down in shock whilst the other back-pedalled about half a dozen yards, his red eyes bulging and his heavy old car-tyre sandals clap-clapping on the hard dirt. The fallen one scrabbled around furiously before he managed to balance himself enough to get upright, whereupon he made off as fast as he could walk. He said absolutely nothing, his rickety thin legs conveying him in a noisy zigzag manner as fast as they could go. I was choked with the urge to laugh. The backpedalling upright singer uttered only a loud “Hau!” before he, too, scuffled off down the road.

By Ken Moody

‘To take this old man into those reeds after those buffalo is a bad plan.’ I can still hear those words as clearly today as when they were first uttered so many months ago when my accompanying Zulu PH on this hunt, Musa, explained his trepidation in moving along the half-mile-long trek into the thick reeds which hid an unknown number of the black beasts we were pursuing. We could see with our binos the small flock of egrets which rode atop the backs of the buffalo, but we had no idea how many mature bulls were in the herd given the height and density of the reeds engulfing the landscape for miles in every direction along the river we were hunting. Musa was a cautious PH and prone to moving slowly while I have always been a bit of an aggressive hunter, quick to move in on our quarry when it’s buffalo we’re after. I knew the buffalo were there, and I wanted to get into the reeds after them, but Musa’s point did not fall on deaf ears. The client was older and very hard of hearing and maybe getting him into a tight spot with very limited visibility was not the best of plans. A cornered buffalo bull can quickly become agitated, and an agitated buffalo is not good under ideal conditions, let alone within the confines of those dense reeds. As Musa and I discussed an alternate plan, the decision was made for us as the wind shifted and blew our foul human scent in amongst the reeds and eventually to the buffalo.

Thundering from the cover of the reeds, we watched as a tremendous bull with accompanying cows moved away from the water’s edge and back towards the dense bush that surrounded the huge swath of reeds along the banks of the river. In a matter of minutes, they covered the long distance from the reeds to the bush and in a blink, they were gone from sight and any further attempt to stalk them. This hunt was not proving easy.

The above encounter occurred in the early morning on day six of our seven-day safari. We had hunted hard to this point, but the buffalo had proven to be both elusive and extremely wild. You could not make a mistake with these buffalo and hope to be successful. Every bit of skill and ability as an experienced buffalo hunter would need to be utilized to get close enough for a clean shot. We had two clients in camp hunting in two teams, both pursuing buffalo, and so far, we hadn’t got one of them onto the sticks. Time was running out and everyone knew it. On the way back to camp for lunch, I could see my client Barry was feeling a bit concerned as he too could count the days, we had been at it. Leaning over towards him, I alleviated his concerns a bit with some positive words and encouraged him not to give up. I’ve always believed that one attracts what they project. Projecting a positive, affirmative attitude will usually result in those receiving that projection feeling more positive and upbeat about the mission at hand. Negative energy is strong and to allow it to permeate within the team will never, ever result in a positive outcome. I reassured Barry that the opportunity would present itself and that he was a superb shot, so when the time came, we’d be celebrating a buff in the salt. After lunch, we were out and at it again.

The afternoon plan found us in higher elevations, looking for tracks and any other spoor that might indicate the presence of buffalo. Time and again we struck out on bagging a bull in these hills, so we decided to return to the river and reeds and search for some feeding buffalo as they moved towards the water. The hour was getting late, and the buffalo would be on the move. Patrolling slowly along the dusty trails that wove throughout the reedbeds, we were ever vigilant for any movement or sign of buffalo. Just before it became too dark to shoot and as we went around a bend in the road, Jabulani, our tracker, reached forward, took the shooting sticks from their resting place, and slipped silently off the back of the cruiser. Knowing what this meant, I signaled to Musa to stop the vehicle, which he did. Working within a team means knowing what to do and when to do it without having to say a word.

From previous experience, we knew that when Jabulani put his hands on the shooting sticks, he had spotted buffalo a few minutes earlier. He never alerted us when he saw them, preferring to keep us moving and away from the proximity of the buffalo as the sudden stop of a vehicle and movement from us would alert a suspicious bull. Jabulani was Zulu and one of the finest and smartest buffalo trackers I have ever worked with. Exiting the cruiser, I told Barry what was going on and that we would be quietly stalking back to where the buffalo was spotted. Quiet was called for now and only hand and arm signals would be used from this point forward. Creeping back along the route we had just taken, I followed Jabulani’s lead, with Barry on my heels. As we rounded the last bend, Jabulani pointed off to a small tree only about 50 yards from our location.

Scanning the area below the tree with my binos, I could see the old bull lying there completely unaware of our presence. Moving forward with the sticks, I placed them in position and motioned to Barry to put his rifle up and get ready. Whispering directly into his ear, I told him where the bull was in relation to the tree and for him to find it in his scope. Not to shoot, but just find it first before I gave him the shot placement. Struggling to find the buffalo in the growing darkness, Barry just looked at me and shook his head. He could not see the buffalo, which was just yards ahead facing us, laying down under that tree.

Once again, I instructed him to follow the trunk of the tree down to the ground and look to its right. There was a buffalo! Still, Barry could not see him. Finally, the buffalo sensed our presence and came to his feet in one fluid motion and in an instant, he was gone. I must admit that the frustration of the moment was nearly overwhelming, and I bit my tongue, turned, and walked away for a few paces. I glanced at Musa, who simply looked at me shaking his head. I have seen this affliction time and again as hunters not used to the bush seem to go ‘bush blind’ at the worst moments and not be able to see what the rest of us clearly can. Composing myself and regaining positivity, I told Barry, ‘no worries, tomorrow is another day. We will get your buffalo!’

We had taken Barry to the shooting range on the first day of the safari and his marksmanship skills were superb. I knew that we just needed to get him into position to see the right bull at the right time and he would finish this hunt with one deadly shot.

Realizing that Barry did not possess the best ‘bush eyes’, I figured that we really needed to get onto buffalo in the morning when there was ample light, as that would provide the best visibility for his seasoned eyes. So, on day seven of the seven-day safari, we set out with renewed confidence that success was just an opportunity away. Heading straight to the reeds, we began the morning as we had done every morning previous, glassing and looking for egrets. As we rounded a familiar bend, I saw the thin arm of Jabulani reaching for the sticks, and I knew that he had seen something that had eluded the rest of us.

With our routine now standardized, we exited the vehicle, took our positions, and followed Jabulani back down the winding two-track for about a quarter of a mile. As we moved off the bush trail and into the reeds, visibility took a turn for the worse. Fortunately, we had a good wind and as I strained to listen, I heard the distinct and unmistakable sound of buffalo feeding. Barry could hear nothing however, but I assured him that we were about to get into a lot of buffalo. Snaking our way deeper into the reeds and winding towards the river, we got our first glance at the herd about 300 yards in. There before us stood cows and calves but no visible bulls. As we crouched down and glassed, I prayed that the wind would hold steady, as we were only 30 to 40 yards away from the nearest buffalo. Finding a suitable bull in those tangles of reeds and amongst those cows and calves was impossible. We had a narrow field of view but could hear buffalo feeding all around us. At this stage, all we could do was sit and wait. If we pressed the herd, they would bolt and run, so waiting is exactly what we did.

About 15 minutes into our wait, an old cow caught sight of us, and the stare down began. Sitting motionless, it felt as if we were barely breathing as the old gal gazed and stared, willing us to move. Eventually, her actions were noticed by others in the herd and finally our presence was fully detected. In one swift snort and scoot, the little group in front of us trotted off towards the river, disappearing into the reeds. It was only good fortune that they did not smell us, as no alarm sound was uttered as the little group ran.

Standing up, we decided to pursue the herd a bit and see if we could get deeper into them. Just as we started to move, however, I heard more buffalo feeding coming from behind, where the original group we spotted had been standing. Raising my hand, I alerted our party to the sound and pointed to where it was coming from. We moved forward and set up the sticks facing a small gap in the reeds where I hoped the buffalo would move through. Magically, a few cows appeared at first and moved through the gap and towards the river. Then, there he was, a nice big-bodied bull following the cows. With Barry on the sticks, I let out a war whoop as the bull walked into the center of the gap. I have found that with buffalo, a loud, audible whoop will usually stop them, whereas a whistle might not be heard. The whoop stopped him broadside and as the crosshairs found the spot, a shot cracked off and the big bull sped away, not making it 100 yards before we heard the telltale death bellow of a dying buffalo. Our bull was on the ground! Barry was elated. We had hunted hard and fair and there before us lay the reward. As the word went out on the radio, our other team arrived to congratulate Barry and help load the buffalo.

Stephen, our other client, still hadn’t any opportunity and today was the last day of hunting. As we finished with the photos, his PH looked at me and said that he would carry on loading Barry’s buffalo and would I please take Stephen with me to find another bull. He knew that I had this area figured out, and that we were all there to do our best for our clients. As I had a good mojo, I agreed to this plan of action. In a flash, we loaded Stephen and his wife onto our cruiser and out we went for one last try at bagging a buffalo. We could not fail!

Working our way around the bends and narrows of the bush trails, we ran out of the reeds momentarily as we headed further down river. I am sure we had not been moving 10 or 15 minutes when I looked out onto the plain and spotted a decent sized herd of buffalo making their way from the river towards the dense bush behind us. Pointing them out to Jabulani, we continued driving for about a quarter mile before disembarking and heading back for the herd. The group of buffalo originally appeared to be all cows, but then we saw one outstanding bull in the mix as well. We wanted that bull.

Pressed for time and trying to beat the buffalo to the road before they crossed and got past us, we moved at a good pace to get back to the a where they were spotted. As we came around the last curve, we spotted the herd and headed out onto the fringe of the reeds in hopes of securing a good shooting position. The movement did not go unnoticed, however, and the buffalo quickly turned and sped away towards the river. Fortunately, they were moving over relatively open ground, so we could visually follow them all the way along their route as they ran into the reeds that were right along the water’s edge. At least we knew where they were.

Our final stalk of the safari began with a slow, half crouched steady march from the point where we were detected to that area where we had last seen the buffalo enter. If they ran from the reeds, we would likely see them as they were now between the river and us, in the only cover the immediate area offered. Slowly we progressed, trying to keep the fickle wind in our favor. Once we closed the gap to around 200 yards, we stopped and began to glass the reed patch for any sign. As if sent from the hunting gods, a lone egret flew down from the sky and landed on the back of one of the buffalo. Bingo! There they were. With the help of that one white bird, we could now just make out the horizontal lines of the backs of several buffalo as they milled around in that patch of reeds.

Fighting a poor wind, I looked at Stephen and asked him if he was  confident in taking a running shot as we would probably be winded by this herd and the buffalo would have to run one way or the other to escape. Stephen affirmed that he was very confident in taking a moving shot if such a shot was presented. Musa and I then decided that we would manipulate this finicky wind in our favor to see if we could make the buffalo do what we wanted them to do, providing us with a shooting opportunity.

The plan was simple. Jabulani would circle to our left and arc out about a half mile or so moving towards the river so that the wind would carry his scent into the reeds and to the buffalo who, once spooked by this scent, would run out of the reeds directly in front of us providing an open shot of around 150 yards. This plan had to work! Inching forward, I moved Stephen into a good location and placed the sticks directly in front of him. He crouched behind the sticks, and I crouched behind him. I told him that we would both stand up at the same time when the time came and that he was to get onto the sticks and await my instructions. I would tell him which buffalo to shoot once I identified the bull in the group.

Jabulani had been gone for about half an hour when Musa and I noticed the herd had become suspicious of something. We could just see the very tops of their backs, but they were no longer milling around, they were standing perfectly still, indicating that something had their attention. A moment later, they began to move to their right, picking up speed as they headed from the safety of the reeds. I told Stephen to stand, and I stood up directly behind him. As he got his rifle in place, I told him that they would break out of cover right at the point where the reeds met the open plain to our right and that I would tell him which one to engage as they would be in a single file. Just as planned, the herd broke out from the reeds, running directly to our right. They had no clue that we were there waiting on that very thing to happen and as they ran out in single file; I told Stephen that the bull was the third buffalo in line.

Once he confirmed that he was on the bull, I let out a long, loud, and continuous war whoop, which caused the bull to stop in his tracks and look in our direction. That moment of hesitation was all that Stephen needed and the big .416 spoke once, striking the buffalo perfectly. On impact of the shot the buffalo began to run and I told Stephen to hit him again which he did in perfect fashion and then a third time, which caused this big, black train of a bull to nosedive into the earth, his huge body somersaulting over his head as he expired on the spot. It was over! We had done it.

Two buffalo for two clients on the last morning of the safari. We were all elated as we had hunted very hard to get to this point. All the shooting preparation by the clients and all the buffalo hunting knowledge that we possessed were needed to secure this positive outcome.

As important as this preparation and experience is, the projection and belief in that positive outcome is paramount. To be rewarded with success, you must want to be successful and project that positive attitude to everyone in your sphere of influence. You must believe it and make your clients believe that persistence and positivity will yield positive results. Never fall victim to a negative attitude and never, ever allow negativity into your hunting camp. I firmly believe that our great success on that last day was a result of the positivity we projected. We made our luck!

By Ken Moody

Richard, our client, was cheerful as always, never doubting that we would persevere in the end, but those of us in the know were becoming a bit anxious. Day in and day out, we had spotted, tracked, crawled, snuck into, and engaged dozens of buffalo bulls within the large herds we were hunting. Still, no dice. Everything so far had been soft bossed and too young to consider. ‘Where are the big boys?’ I pondered as we pulled off another group of six bulls not up to snuff. Returning to camp that evening, I decided that we would implement a new plan and split up our resources to cover more ground and find more buffalo. It had been a hard hunt to this point. Five days into a 10-day safari and still not a quality bull spotted.

The following day I left camp at 4:30am with binos in hand, determined to locate a shootable bull. Richard and our PH Jannie would scout in the denseness of the northern portions of the property while I headed south to check out the larger waterholes in other areas known to hold buffalo. If I spotted anything, I would radio and relay to them my findings. If not, we would meet back at camp for lunch and discuss an afternoon plan. A fruitless morning ensued, with me scouring every haunt and hiding place I knew of, but no trace of the black beasts was found. My hours of searching proved to be a bust.

Returning to camp around noon, I spoke with Jannie, and we decided to continue in the areas we had hunted that morning. The property was huge with a few hundred buffalo, but they had to drink, and they had to feed. We would make contact with a big boy if we were persistent and kept to the bush as much as we could. At 2:00pm we were back at it, driving, checking for tracks, and climbing the little rocky hills, glassing for buffalo. A routine we had grown all too familiar with. With me this afternoon were my daughter and son-in-law, riding in the back, hoping to capture photos of the game. My daughter, a professional photographer, was fully equipped with her long-range lens Canon, which could provide some nice marketing material if I could find subjects for her camera. At around a half hour before dark, I decided to check an old, dirt airfield that was close to camp. The airfield was long and open terrain surrounded it. Many times, we had spotted herds of buffalo feeding adjacent to the field just at dark and if I could find them there now, we’d have a good place to start the hunt the following day.

I pointed the Toyota towards the airfield road and proceeded to drive upon it, searching the surrounding plains for any sign of movement. A quiet rap on the roof of my bakkie caused me to stop as I entered the airfield and as I looked up to see what had caused it, I saw my daughter pointing across the field and out onto an open flat. Her elevated vantage point had allowed her to spot what was impossible for me to see, buffalo! I quietly exited the truck and climbed into the bed where I too could see the ‘black river’ of a buffalo herd coursing through the bush, feeding as they snaked their way towards a large waterhole some 3 kilometers away. A rough estimate put the herd at around 100 beasts and I could see in the waning light of the day, several bulls within it. While we much prefer to go after the lone dagga boys or small groups of bachelor bulls, the large herds could also Cape Buffalo hold superb bulls. The obvious problem is getting to them with the many eyes and ears of the herd providing early warning of anything predatory. I hopped off the truck and left my companions to take photos and eased quietly across the airfield and began to glass the buffalo as they moved. As any experienced buffalo hunter will tell you, dusk is the best time to approach buffalo, as it’s the only time of the day when they seem to get ‘stupid’ and pay much less attention to those things that they should. I moved to within 150 yards of the line of buffalo and looked for a candidate. I saw about a dozen bulls and identified at least two that appeared to be hard bossed, but at that distance and with the lack of light, I was ‘best guessing.’ My Austrian glass was doing all it could and as the light faded to near darkness, I returned to the truck and headed back to camp. Little did I know that the superb optics of my daughter’s camera and the vantage point from which she was shooting would reveal a buffalo that I could not see from where I was glassing. A real buffalo. A once-in-a-lifetime beast that would make even the most seasoned buffalo hunter sit up and take notice.

Back in camp, Jannie and Richard told of finding spoor and tracking a group of buffalo, but fickle wind and alert noses proved too much to overcome. Yet another of many stalks stymied by mother nature. I relayed to all the encounter we’d just had less than an hour before and as my daughter powered up her laptop and began to download the photos, we all sat around the fire, sipping good bourbon, and waited on the results. In about fifteen minutes, the downloaded pics found their way to me and, after a bit of scrolling, I stopped and stared at the image now appearing on the screen.

There it was. A pic of a tremendous Cape Buffalo bull, pushing a hard bossed set of horns some 48” tip to tip. We had previously shot a few 45” bulls and one superb 44 incher a few months before on other safaris, but this one was bigger. I called Jannie over and we stared at the pic, both of us quite pleased. The only problem now was a plan. Finding that specific bull in such a large herd would be problematic, and then actually getting to him  would be another feat. Killing this buffalo would require a lot of luck. Jannie and I discussed a plan for the next day and given that this big bull was traveling with a herd of around 100, I thought the best option would be for Jannie and Richard to continue with the spoor of the small bachelor herd they’d found the day before while I went out and tried to sort out the big herd I’d found and see if I could determine where they might be. The odds of stalking into such a large herd and bagging that bull were slim. The only hope was to find the bull either in front or along the fringes of the herd so that a stalk from the flanks or ambush from the front might be executed. Jannie concurred and preferred to take his chances with the small group of bulls rather than risk another day of frustration pursuing the big herd. There were good bulls amongst those bachelors and Richard also liked his odds much better with them than with the prospect of pushing a huge herd around all day.

Around half an hour before daylight, we were off. I returned to the airfield and followed it to the end, walking out into the bush east of the field and going in the direction the buffalo would have likely crossed if they were heading towards the large, natural water pan a few kilometers away. There, I found the tracks of the herd, which had indeed crossed the dry riverbed and turned west a bit towards the water. Returning to my bakkie, I drove to the waterhole and found where they had entered the area, through a gap in the bush that led across the dam wall and out into the refreshment they sought. The entire perimeter of the little lake was saturated with buffalo spoor and unfortunately, it appeared that it was here the herd split up and broke down into smaller groups as they finished drinking and disappeared into the bush. The big bull could be anywhere now.

I sat in the truck and thought about what to do next. I knew that the herd had likely originated the night before from a terribly thick, inhospitable area we called ‘The Chad’ and that many would likely move back into it during the day. It was a huge block of bush that the buffalo loved, as it provided them great security during the bedding times of midday. This bull was fully mature and hadn’t grown to his size by accident. He would likely be one of the beasts that would seek out the Chad for rest. I started the truck with hope and a plan.

I drove to the northern end of the airfield and while I was searching for tracks to indicate that some buffalo had indeed headed back towards the safety of Chad, I spotted a glimpse of an approaching buffalo. As I crouched behind a small clump of grass, the young bull stepped out into the open and then back into the bush, heading away from me. With my binos, I could see that there was another bull with him but couldn’t determine anything more than that. Could this be the big bull?

I crawled back to my hidden truck and tried repeatedly to reach Jannie or his tracker on the radio. After minutes of calling, the base station at camp picked up my call and tried to relay my message, ‘Buffalo spotted, come to airfield.’ Jannie’s tracker responded and in about half an hour or so, the group burst onto the scene, a plumage of dust in their wake. I quickly apprised Jannie and Richard of the situation and told them that I could only verify that two buffalo bulls were slowly moving from the fringes of the airfield east of our position, staying in the bush along the side of the dirt road that ran perpendicular to the field.

Jannie got his team organized and, with his tracker to the front, led Richard slowly down the bush line, glassing the edges as he went. In less than a minute, a young bull appeared from the bush and walked out into the open. Shortly, another bull emerged from the thicket, it too a youngster. Jannie and the team froze and crouched behind some grass. I stayed back about 50 yards, not wanting to add to the noise and scent of those in front of me. Suddenly, the two bulls moved back into the bush and disappeared. They hadn’t been spooked, they had just moved into cover.

I watched as Jannie and the group moved further down towards the location that had once held the bulls and as they were moving, the monster bull from the night before appeared and walked directly out in front of the group, crossed the dirt road, and vanished into the bush on the far side.

No hesitation at all in his gait, just straight across and gone. A nervous pit began to grow inside my gut. Had we just blown our chance at this magnificent buffalo? Jannie and Richard lay prone in the grass while I held my breath and hoped.

Moments passed and then, as if summoned by the gods of luck, the big bull reappeared and crossed back towards the two youngsters. When he reached the perfect position, Jannie eased Richard into position and let out a grunt. I peered through my binos, manifesting success. BOOM barked Richard’s rifle and a feeling of peace entered my body. The bull was ours.

Kenny Jarrett built this .257 Weatherby Magnum on a post-’93 pre-’64 Winchester Model 70 action.  It has a 26-inch barrel — critical for achieving magnum ballistics from a cartridge like the .257.

By Terry Wieland

Forty years ago, give or take an eon, basking in a reawakened passion for rifles after a long sojourn pursuing journalism to the ends of the earth, I was leafing through Cartridges of the World and came upon the .257 Weatherby.

When I was a teenager, the very name ‘Weatherby’ was magical, denoting sexy cartridges with double-radiused shoulders, and rifles out of the Arabian Nights, carried by princes hunting Marco Polo sheep.  At least, that was the image, and something of that pixie dust lingered as my eye rested on the .257.

Five years later, I found myself in Montana with a safari-grade Weatherby Mark V — a lovely custom thing that, out of the box, grouped its first five shots of factory 100-grain into six-tenths of an inch.  Its first shot at big game accounted for the prettiest pronghorn I’ve ever seen, before or since, and it began a short but memorable career as my primary rifle for everything up to zebra.

Along about that time, the first practical chronographs for everyday shooters came along, and I quickly learned to differentiate between the stuff I’d read in the past and what I could now see with my own eyes.  Not that never the ‘twain did meet — there was some overlap — but considerable eye-opening did occur.

First, I learned that to get the most out of a cartridge like the .257 Weatherby, burning significant amounts of such as Norma’s MRP or, later, Reloder-22, you had to be using a 26-inch barrel.  At that time, Mark Vs were still available with 24-inch barrels, but using one of those with a .257 Weatherby essentially gave you an extremely loud .25-06.

The other thing was that, marvellous as the cartridge was with 100-grain bullets, launching them at around 3,500 feet per second (fps), it was even better with something heavier.

Heading for Tanzania and Botswana in 1990, I prevailed upon my good friend, Jack Carter, to make some of his early Trophy Bonded Bear Claws in .257.  These weighed 115 grains, I developed a gilt-edged load at an average of 3,387 fps, and the rifle acquitted itself in Africa like a pro.

The only problem was that, deadly as it might be on plains game like zebra and wildebeeste, it was too long, too heavy, and vastly too powerful for creeping around in the brush looking for duikers and such.

A divorce — no need to ask why — and a few other developments led to my parting with my beloved Mark V.  For the next ten years or so, most of my hunting was done with a Dakota 76 .30-06 with a 23-inch barrel.  This included hunting in, among other places, Botswana, South Africa, Texas, Colorado, Quebec, and Ontario, wherein I took everything from duikers to elk.  Given the virtues of the Dakota, which were many, I didn’t miss the .257 Weatherby all that much, but I never got rid of a hankering for another.  When Kenny Jarrett approached me with an offer to make one of his “beanfield” rifles, how could I refuse?

Thing was, Kenny liked to build rifles on Remington 700 actions, chambered for his own .300 Jarrett.  Promotional puffery aside, the .300 Jarrett is a .300 Weatherby with sharp shoulders.  No, said I, I want a .257 Weatherby.  I also wanted it built on one of the then-new post-’93, pre-’64 Winchester Model 70 actions.  Kenny was dismayed but cooperative.

The result was nothing like my beautiful custom Weatherby from years before, having an early Bell & Carlson fiberglass stock, circa 1996 and astonishingly homely, and an almost-Parkerized dull finish on the steel.  But could it shoot?  Man!  It was, and is, a shootin’ machine.  Long?  Yes.  Heavy?  Yes.  Does it demand a big, heavy, powerful scope?  Yes.  But with the right handloads it fulfills Kenny’s guarantee of three shots into a half inch, time after time.

Now, approaching 30 years later, that Jarrett — which was made to down whitetails at 400 yards plus, across a vast field of soybeans, hence the “beanfield” name — can still go shot for shot with any of the hotshot “long range” rifles I get sent to test, and usually beats them.  But then, we’re talking a custom rifle with handloads versus factory (albeit expensive) rifles with factory (albeit premium) ammunition.

As for all the other cartridges available, new and old, magnum, non-magnum, and magnum in name only, I would still take the .257 Weatherby for animals at a distance.  There’s not much it won’t do — with a 26-inch barrel, that is.  That’s the caveat.  It’s what makes a magnum a magnum.

By Terry Wieland

Across the Kalahari

Almost all of the really great hunting books are less about hunting than they are about journeys.  Sir Samuel Baker’s Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia, Theodore Roosevelt’s African Game Trails, even Ruark’s Horn of the Hunter — are less about being there than getting there.

This element has been largely removed from both modern hunting, and modern hunting writing.  Encounters with the TSA, late flights, cramped airline seats, and delays at Customs are hardly material for great literature.  Even within a country of any size, such as Tanzania, most movement between hunting areas is now done by small plane.  Gone are the long, hot, bumpy, dusty, interminable treks by Land Rover that see you pull out in the pre-dawn and only reach your new camp long after dark.

This may be more convenient, and it certainly saves money when a safari is costing you a few grand a day, but it also takes away that moment of sheer elation that only occurs when you round yet another bend in the dusty track and see the gleam of a campfire through the trees.  All of today’s finely furnished camp huts and elaborate fire pits can never replace the welcoming magic of a small campfire in the bush.

In 2001, my pal Clint Gielink and I finally undertook a trip we’d been talking about for five years:  We left Maun to traverse the Kalahari, with the ultimate goal of spending a night or two at Gemsbok National Park, near the South African border.  This all came about because of my curiosity about a dot on the map of Botswana called “Lone Tree.”  A map of Botswana is mostly blank space, but there was a line that connected Ghanzi to this dot, and this dot to the border post.  What exactly, I wondered, was at that dot?  Was there really a solitary tree standing in the middle of the Kalahari?  We decided to find out.

Clint is South African by birth, but was transplanted to Botswana where he now runs a photo-safari outfit.  This gave us access to a fully equipped Toyota Land Cruiser and such essentials of life as good sleeping bags for icy nights in the Kalahari.  It may be desert, but you can see your breath in the morning chill.  We didn’t bother with such amenities as a tent which, after sleeping under the stars, seems as confining as the 19th floor of the Hilton.

Aside from seeing Lone Tree, I also had a personal ambition to be the first person, at least as far as I knew, to grind my own coffee and make espresso to sip by the aforementioned tiny gleaming campfire.  This may seem a tad esoteric, but coffee fanatics will understand.  I’ll report on the results, and move on, very quickly:  The electrical inverter in Clint’s Land Cruiser handled the grinder with no problem, but blew a gasket the second I turned on the coffee maker.  Less than a day into the trip we were without electricity.  Ah, well.  Fortunately, I had my emergency supply of pre-ground coffee and a little drip device that could work with water heated in a pail over the fire, which we did henceforth.  Clint, not much of a coffee drinker, was somewhat bemused by all this.

We left Maun on the fine paved road to Ghanzi, where we stocked up on the one absolute nutritional necessity:  A goodly supply of mutton chops.  We also filled every water container, topped up the petrol, checked the tires (four on the truck and four spares) and bought what vegetables were available, which wasn’t much.  Some biltong and dry sausage rounded out the commissary.

Botswana halted sport hunting in the Kalahari in the late 1980s.  Up until that time, safari outfits like Safari South maintained camps there for hunting desert game, and transported their clients from the Okavango to the Kalahari and back.  There being little or no enforcement of the game laws, and none really being possible short of assigning a game scout to every safari, all kinds of abuse took place.  It finally got so bad they shut it down, or at least that was the reason given.  Aside from limiting the taking of such desert trophies as gemsbok, springbok, and various hartebeest, this ruling eliminated one of the most interesting side trips a hunter could make.

Although the Kalahari evokes images of sand dunes and salt pans, much of it has trees and rolling waves of grass.  It would be going too far to call it scenic, since it’s so flat you can never see very far anyway, but it’s a place of great beauty in its own way.  Scenery aside, you will never experience silence the way you will there.  Lying in your sleeping bag, looking up at the night sky, is a dark-velvety panorama of the Milky Way that is possible these days in very few places on earth.  With no air pollution, and no city lights to intrude, the vast Kalahari sky embraces you.

Each night, Clint would pull off the winding track through the sand, park under a convenient acacia, and set up camp.  This consisted of laying out our bedrolls next to the Toyota, dragging some dead logs into place, and starting a small fire.  The kettle would boil, we’d spread a little metal grill over the flames, and lay out some of our mutton chops and sausages.  The smell of sizzling meat and acacia smoke was intoxicating.  Later, I awakened during the night and listened, gazing up at the stars.  All was….silence.

Then it was crawl out before dawn, stir last night’s coals into flame, and huddle by the fire in the winter chill, waiting for coffee.  When the sun came up “like thunder…” we packed up, scattered the coals, and pulled back onto the track that wound — endlessly, it seemed, sometimes — through the Kalahari.

The trip was not without incident.  At one point, we pulled into a tiny village and all the inhabitants turned out to see us.  We stopped, conversed, with Clint doing the talking in his fluent Setswana.  We politely partook of the precious water they offered before continuing on.  Another time, we came upon a truck, broken down, with its three Tswana passengers wondering what to do.  This was before cell phones.  The three were all government officials on some sort of assignment in the interior.  Clint, being a professional hunter, was also a very competent mechanic.  It took him about an hour to get the vehicle running again, at which point we shook hands all around with big grins and protestations of undying gratitude and friendship.  They headed north and we continued south.

When we reached the park gates, Clint submitted to the checking of permits, paying of fees, and such like, while I read the long list of park regulations posted on the wall.  There was, I learned, a $10,000 fine for bringing firewood into the park, or for cutting your own firewood inside the park instead of using that which was provided, carefully cut to length and stacked.  There was a fine for straying more than a few yards from the marked tracks and paths, or for pitching a tent anywhere except on the concrete pads provided in each (marked) campsite.  We were assigned a campsite number, a map showing how to get there, and various other bits of paper essential to the modern experiencing of the great outdoors.  All the time, running through my head, was the Five Man Electrical Band:  “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign…”

After the wild Kalahari, prowling the park was like walking into the lobby of the Dorchester.  Our campsite was on a slope overlooking a salt pan with a herd of resident gemsbok, standing around the piped-in water, chatting.  We laid out lunch on the picnic table provided — sardines, crackers, smoked oysters, cheese, pickles — and munched in silence while we watched the gemsbok.  It was all very nice, all very civilized, all very organized.

I looked at Clint.  Clint looked at me.  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

In a matter of minutes, we were packed and driving out.  The guard at the gate was puzzled as Clint handed in our paperwork and we churned through the sand back out into the uncivilized, unorganized, and thoroughly wonderful Kalahari.  A troop of meercats, whose burrows opened out into the sides of the deep ruts, welcomed us back and watched us go.  A lone hartebeest stared from under an acacia.

Clint and I suddenly broke into song:  “Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?”  It was one of those great moments.